#the mandalorian x oc

[livingemkayde]

strange

din djarin x f!reader | 3.1k

↳ warnings: this is rated for 18+ only! minors, please do not interact. smut, unprotected pinv, fingering f!recieving, mentions of oral m!recieving, fluff, no use of y/n. let me know if i forgot anything.

↳ a /n: hey everyone. taking a small break from my joel miller fics and coming back to my roots with this one. just needed a break and this was a super fun one shot to write. gonna post the final chapter to chaser really soon. thanks for all the support!! i love you all smsm.

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“Say it.”  You started breathing heavy. And you knew, when he tugged you around to look down at you, a hand coming to grasp your shoulder, the part where it meets your neck. You knew what he wanted, and you bit the bullet. “Teach me.”

It's honestly quite strange, if you really think about it—which oftentimes, you try not to. 

You wait for him, and he always comes back. Always. Maybe this was the dreaded exception that will turn his perfect ten times out of ten he always comes back, to nine times out of ten he always comes back. 

You sit there, in the hull, with the kid. Approaching the three week mark since your warrior left. 

You remember seeing him out of the Crest, several feet from where you sit now. 

“Be good,” he whispered to the little one, and placed him in your arms. 

“And be safe,” he said to you, almost in a stern voice, his hands brushing yours when he passed the child to your arms. 

“Be smart,” he emphasized, a little too serious for your liking. 

Be smart, above all else. You knew what it meant. Don’t be a hero, use your better judgment. He always does that. 

Be good… be safe…be smart. 

Then he always pats your waist, feeling the blaster’s outline through the fabric of your dress. And he always gives you a curt nod, and rubs a leather thumb over your hip. A small touch, in passing. Maybe most people wouldn’t even think twice about it. But you do. It’s the only thing getting you through sleepless nights. 

It is strange. You finally decide in your head. 

The small agreement between you two. 

The Crest is mostly quiet.

Besides when the fresher makes that gurgling sound, or the exhaust sends a violent huff of air through the hull, or when the small moans coming from your own mouth split through the silence. 

You guys don’t, under any circumstances, speak about it. 

You wouldn’t even know what to say, honestly. 

You remember the first time, when you had gotten a little too brave with your words and he was getting a little too comfortable around you.

“Teach me how,” you said. The hull was dark but not pitch black and the kid was locked in his pram in the cockpit. 

“You don’t know how to shoot a blaster?”

“No.” you reached over, grabbing his own from the crate between you. You held it up to the dim light and examined the markings. The rough edge of gunpowder. The shiny bits where his fingers lie. 

“Teach me,” you said again, pointing the blaster at an imaginary person to the left of him.

“You’re drunk,” he remarked. His gruff tone made your thighs shift closer together. 

“‘M not drunk,” you bit back. He shuffled in his crate until he was more comfortable. 

“You don’t know how to hold your liquor,” he pointed out. Resting his elbows on his thighs. You looked at him in the dark light. The yellow of the small bulb turned his helmet golden. 

You weren’t drunk. It was the truth. The spotchka only made your tongue loose, not your mind. 

“And I don’t know how to shoot a blaster,” you said, “what if someone broke in, and I needed to—”

“Don’t,” he said. Not mad, only scared of the possibility. You only know that now.

You stayed quiet, and continued to feel the weight of his weapon in your hand. He contemplated for a little, weighing the options in his mind, tossing the idea around inside the helmet. 

“What the hell,” he surrendered, standing and motioning towards the hull’s entrance, “C’mon.” 

You had followed him quickly, finding your place next to him on desert sands. 

“Hold it—” he said, pushing the blaster into your hands and raising your arms to the perfect distance, “—there.”

He stood behind you. You felt the cold bite of beskar brush against your back. Your breath hitched, so did his. 

“Don’t put your index finger on the trigger unless you want to shoot,” he said, moving your finger from the small flexed piece of metal and to the side of the blaster. 

“But I do want to shoot,” you said, tossing him a look over your shoulder. He grovels behind you. 

“Until the very second you want to shoot,” he muttered. “Got it?” 

“Yeah,” you said, looking at the weapon, almost transfixed by the way his hand holds yours. 

He reached down your body, by your waist, and touched you there, ever so gently. Your tense muscles made him hesitate. 

“‘S’okay,” you whispered, worried that if you said anything more it would scare him off forever. 

He didn’t say anything, just adjusted the angle of your hips and shifted the weight of your body. To your backfoot. 

“There,” he said, when he finally got you into the position he deemed fit. 

“Are you sure this thing’s not going to kick back and rip my arm off?” you whispered into the night sky. 

“It will—kick back. It was made for me, you’re too small. But I’ll—” he hesitated again. “I’ll hold you. If that’s okay.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, just nod. So he held you, wrapped his arm around your waist, and you tensed up all the same. And his breath picked up behind you. 

You shot, and missed the scrap by a few feet, the plasma went down into the sandy ground and burned a hole there. 

“Dammit,” you mumbled. He didn’t let go. 

“Try again,” he said, touching you again, touching you more, and wringing your arms back up to firing position. 

“Farming was easier,” you joked, thinking about your previous job. 

“I’m sure it was,” he quips back, “Relax.” 

You tried, you really did. But he could feel that you couldn’t relax. Your tense muscles were taut under the leather of his gloves. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, maybe it was the spotchka talking this time, or maybe you really were sorry but you let it slip into the dark, humid air—

“No one’s ever…” 

No one’s ever touched you. Not like that. You wanted to say. 

He stayed quiet for a bit, not moving your body to the perfect position or teasing you. You remember feeling sick. 

But then he surprised you, and it was like breathing in fresh air for the first time after months of hyperspace. 

“Really?” he asked behind you, into your ear. Your eyebrows staggered and a line of elevens appeared between them. 

“Yeah,” you said, in a breathless kind of way. “Guess I never really got around to learning that one,” you tried to tease but he remained so quiet, so still, you had to push out a forced laugh. 

“Do you want to learn?” he said. Almost like he was not even really offering but just inquiring. 

But that little part of his voice, maybe, under all the modulation, told you otherwise. And you knew this wasn’t the spotchka talking. You were fighting a losing battle because that was all you, and months of pining after a faceless man who smells like pinewood, and gets your favorite snacks from the market, and makes you caf in the mornings—

“Yes,” you breathed out. 

A pregnant, tense, silence enveloped you. He was still behind you, and he still had his arm wrapped around you. Even when the arm holding the blaster dropped, he still had his arm there, holding your waist, and slowly dragging the heaviness of his hand down, down, downward. 

“Say it.” 

You started breathing heavy.

And you knew, when he tugged you around to look down at you, a hand coming to grasp your shoulder, the part where it meets your neck.

You knew what he wanted, and you bit the bullet.

“Teach me.”

So you guys don’t ever talk about it. 

In fact, you don’t really talk at all. Your invitation meant he showed you—taught you—in silent actions. He doesn’t talk when you fuck. The only sounds filling the silence are your desperate moans and the occasional whimper when he’s being particularly withholding. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really make a sound. You’d be lying if the quiet, if the mask of him paired with his warmth didn’t make you dizzy, didn’t make you unravel in his hands. 

Because it did. 

But sometimes you’d wish he would say something, anything. Break the silence. Break up your wanton moans and just give you anything to work with. But you presume he doesn’t really do this often, and having him like that is better than having nothing at all. 

You shut the closure and push away the bassinet when you hear a clang! from outside the hull. 

You find your blaster under the fabric of your dress. You’ve never had to do this before. And you’re honestly scared. That night you begged him to teach you how to shoot, it was a secret hidden plea, maybe even flirting. You never thought you’d be the only thing separating the kid from possible danger. 

“C’mon, Mando,” you whisper to no one in particular. Maybe the maker. 

And then, suddenly, the ramp to the hull lowers and you raise the blaster, just like he taught you. 

The business end comes face to face with a shiny helmet and you let out a sigh of relief, dropping it to your side. 

His head cocks to the side like he’s saying, really?

You just stand, breathless, and push the kid’s pram up into the cockpit so Mando can get the bounty in safely. 

He’s dragging it behind him, deadweight and you gulp back an anxious breath. 

When he’s done, he turns to you. Looking at the blaster in your hands. 

His head tips again—really…?

“Yes, okay?” you say, throwing your hands up, shoving the blaster into his chest. It lands there with a small thunk!

“Three weeks, Mando. You were gone almost a month. I thought— I —,” you say, running your hands through your hair. 

“He knew how to hide,” is all he says, and that makes you laugh. The possibility of it all, the what if, leaving your body with a tense laughter at his sorry excuse of a joke. 

He grabs you then, suddenly, pulling you towards his chest. You know the routine. You both miss each other after longer hunts, even if you never say anything about it. Never say anything at all in fact. 

Din’s grabbing at your shirt, moving it up. And grabbing at your pants, moving them down. You pull at his chestplate, and his pauldrons, anything you can find. But he’s desperate. Way too desperate. This time, things feel different. 

You moan when his now ungloved fingers find wet cotton. He pulls them down too. 

He holds you, forcing you to look up at him while his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. You jump, yelp, whimper. He stays stoic. Though, this time, you can hear his heavy breathing. 

You both find the bunk, somehow. And instead of flipping you over, so you’re on your stomach, taking it like that and pushing your head down into the mattress, he leaves you on your back. You question him silently with your eyes but he doesn’t say anything—like always.

He just cups you again, feeling the growing wetness there, almost pushing a finger in, inching to the first knuckle but then he backs away and you whine. 

But he reaches down, pulls himself out of his pants and spreads your slick all over the velvety softness of his own length. It makes you gasp. 

You spread your legs for him, subconsciously. The red tip of his head looks at you menacingly. He’s big. He’s always been big, but you’re not afforded to look at his length often unless you go down on him, which is rare. 

Din climbs over you, a warm hand comes to grasp your tit and you swallow breathless moans in the back of your throat. His helmet shines golden, like all those nights before. The first night. Where he taught you that a man surrounded by beskar can be so soft, maybe even loving. 

When you start squirming, he notches his tip at your entrance, you freeze waiting for him to sink in, but he holds you there. You just whine in response. 

You grab at him, desperate. Pulling him in. To your surprise, he obliges. He sinks in, almost all the way, until you clench around him so tight he freezes. Your gasp at air. It feels like your brain is foggy and all you can see behind your blinking vision is his black visor. 

He sinks in more, you clench around him more. Three weeks is the longest you’ve gone without having him since the first night all those months ago. 

He stays there, while you try to relax around him. Just breathing under the modulation. You can hear him more clearly now, face to face. 

You have never fucked Din like this. 

Not face to face. Not with him waiting for you, not with such a tight fit. Aside from that fateful first time. 

You clench around him again. You moan again, into his space, into the small, tight, crampedness of the bunk. 

“Shit.”

You freeze. You don’t look into his visor, not right away. You lay there, frozen, with his hard cock notched halfway inside you. 

His hands tighten on your waist and you both wait there, with shallow panting breath. 

When you look up at him, he’s motionless. You might be worried that he’s turned to stone. But you plead him with your eyes—whatever you want to do, talk more, fuck me harder, stop right now and never speak of it, just — do it. 

And for a split second, it does cross your mind that he might pull out or maybe even kick you out. But that little part deep down inside you likes to think it might be different this time. That he really might utter another forbidden word or fuck you harder. 

The thought makes you clench around him again. 

To your surprise he moans a little. Something small, barely there. Almost like a — ngh from deep under modulation. But you hear it. And the sick part of you clenches around him again just to draw out something more. 

“Relax,” he huffs. It almost sounds loud, despite his whispering. But you know that’s just because he’s never done this. Never spoken when so close to you. Never spoken while he’s inside you.

You don’t even register the content of his words, just the sound of him making you tense up again. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, his helmet comes down to rest beside your head. He stays there, folded over your body. You’re still so tense it almost hurts. 

“Sorry,” you whisper out. Your voice is hoarse from lack of use the past couple of weeks combined with your panting breath. You don’t really know what else to say. 

He moves suddenly, bringing his hand down between your bodies and touches your inner thigh, inching up towards where his coarse hair almost meets your swollen clit. 

“I said relax,” he mumbles, his thumb touching your clit ever so slightly. Your hips buck and he pushes them down again. 

“Sorry,” you repeat. He just hums.

You don’t really know what to do. This is different. This is new. You wait for him to set the pace. Establish the rules. 

He starts circling your clit, he rubs through your lips to find wetness there. You try to relax into the mattress and as you do, he inches further into you. Breaking you open, splitting you in two. 

“C’mon,” he groans when you let him sink further, “Open up for me, baby,”

It eggs you on. He’s never done this, let alone call you anything besides your name. It sends a shooting pleasure to the point he keeps rubbing under his thumb and he can feel it. How you get impossibly wet and open around him until he finally sinks in to the hilt. 

“Fuck, Din,” you moan out, when he starts thursting. 

He’s groaning. You can hear it, under his breath. You feel lightheaded almost, though, it’s good to know being apart affects him in the same way. Makes him as desperate as you feel. 

You’re close then, his sounds inching you towards that white light dancing across your vision. You clench around him and he moans again. 

“You close?” he says, almost experimentally. You can barely get out your strangled yes. 

“I —” you want to say, but he’s picking up the pace, chasing after his own release. 

I missed you. You think to yourself. But maybe that’s too much, too soon. 

“What? Pretty girl — what…” he cuts himself off with a groan. Like he doesn’t know how to control his speech, his breathing. Himself. Not like this. Not when everything is new and so fucking good. 

“I mi—” you can’t say it with your staggered breathing. He’s brushing up against that spot that drives you crazy. You both know it. 

You come, without saying it. Your vision goes white and dark at the same time. A sheen of sweat covers your body. You don’t know what to do with your arms, becoming slightly limp. It sounds like he can’t hold on much longer when you get tighter around him, it spurs him on and you know he’s not far behind. 

He’s mumbling something in your ear. You really can’t hear it under the helmet. You turn your head, 

“Hm?” you mumble, he groans again. 

“Missed — ngh — missed you. Sweet girl,” he says, then he comes, hot and thick, notching himself into you, anchoring himself to you forever. 

You moan through it, so does he. 

He collapses down next to you, you can feel the remnants of him leaking out between your sticky thighs. 

You try to unscramble your thoughts. Din hasn’t come back new. Just unlocking a part of him that you’ve never seen. Or, that he’s never let himself show. 

He does something else new, something you’ve never seen him do, let alone do with anyone else. It makes your heart beat so fast you’re worried he might feel it through the armor. 

You gasp, when you hear the quiet hiss of his helmet unlock but he cuts you off when he pushes the lip of the mask up just enough so he can kiss you. 

_

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[beskarandblasters]

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

[redahlia-writes]

unwind. | din djarin x f!reader

Summary: mando comes back from a bounty gone astray and needs to wind down.

Words: 3K

Warnings: MINORS DNI, this is straight up smut, mando being a little mean but just for like 5 seconds, there’s a blindfold involved, dry humping/thigh riding, creampie, an excessive use of pet names, unedited (as always)

also on AO3  - masterlist

“Get out,” Mando’s voice was sharp, making you jump out of your seat and almost drop the screwdriver you were holding in your hand, teeth grinding down onto the flashlight pointed at the open panel.

“What?” you turned your head, quickly shutting off the flashlight to look up at the Mandalorian standing in the doorway of the cockpit, his armor dusted. There was a rigidity to his posture, something you’d grown to recognise as annoyance throughout all the time you’d been with him.

You knew he could be dangerous - you’d seen it, hunt after hunt, when he brought the fugitives back to the ship, put them in carbonite or knocked them out if they tried to talk their way out of it. You’d seen it in the fights he kept you away from, or tried to.

But you’d seen the gentleness, too. The appreciative nods as he was offered food he had to decline; the tilt of his head when someone spoke to him, making it clear he was listening; the soft hands clad in leather gloves as he handled gifts received in thanks when the prize didn’t seem enough to the people he’d helped.

Most of all, with you. He had been the first person to show you kindness after so many years, a quiet compassion that had convinced you to stay on the ship when he’d asked. Never did anything that would make you feel uncomfortable, never even raised his voice around you.

At times, when he lost his temper after a bounty went astray, he’d lock himself away so that you wouldn’t have to see that side of him. And it was eating him alive.

“Out,” Mando repeated, a sharp inhale filtered through his modulator. “Did something happen?” his hands twitched at his sides, head turned to the side as his shoulder shook lightly with tension. “Mando -”

“Just get out,” he snapped, and for just a moment you were taken aback, the outburst so unfamiliar directed towards you - then, you tipped your chin up. “No,” you said simply, voice controlled but low.

“What?” his head snapped towards you, resolve faltering for a moment, and you could almost hear the grind of his teeth.

“You always do this - when things don’t go the way you want them to you lock yourself away,” you spoke calmly, taking a tentative step forward. In return, he took one back. “I’m not leaving you to deal with it on your own - it’s crushing you.”

“I’m fine, you can go,” he bit out, attempting to keep his voice down. “I’m not going anywhere,” another step forward. This time, he didn’t bulk, chest heaving as he tilted his helmet to look at you. “Let me help you, Mando.”

“It’s a stupid bounty, just -” his breath was labored, voice hoarse. “Forget about it.”

“How can I help you?” voice gentle, you reached out for him, hand wrapping around his wrist - you pushed your thumb into his pulse point, his heart jumping under your touch.

“Please,” he’d lowered his voice, helmet bowed suggesting he wasn’t looking at you directly. “I just need to wind down, just -” he took a shuddering breath in, the modulator sharpening it further.

“Okay,” you hummed, stepping closer yet, fingers brushing down the back of his hand, the leather warm underneath your skin. “How? Tell me,” he scoffed, tipping his head back.

“Ah, mesh’la,” you frowned lightly at the unfamiliar word. You wished you could see his face as he inhaled deeply, turning his hand around to wrap it around yours. Was he smiling? Was there conflict? “Close your eyes,” voice lowered, he reached his free hand to your pocket, taking the handkerchief you had tucked in it.

“What?” you almost stammered, the sudden shift in his voice making you tilt your head.

There was something… alluring in his tone. Something you hadn’t heard before, that made your heart jump to your throat. Something welcomed.

“Close your eyes,” he repeated, letting go of your hand, “and keep them closed.”

You looked at him for a moment, his helmet so close you could see your reflection in the T of his visor before you let your eyes flutter shut, obliging. You heard the rustle of his gloves, leather creaking softly as he tugged them off.

“Mando?” you called with a little frown, then jolted back when you felt the fabric of the handkerchief brush your face. His hand came up behind your head, keeping you in place, warm fingers wrapped around the nape of your neck.

“You can stop me anytime,” he spoke slowly and softly, thumb rubbing small circles over the skin of your neck. “Just say the word and I’ll stop,” there was a slight tremble in his voice, quick puffs that fanned underneath the helmet.

“You won’t hurt me, Mando,” you whispered, and the breath hitched in his throat, hand shaking behind your head as you tilted your chin up. “Go ahead.”

The blindfold was soft over your eyes, cold, and Mando’s touch was oddly delicate tying it. When he stepped back there was a low hiss of released pressure, a shuffle, the noise of metal against metal. Without your sight available, you found yourself tilting your head towards the sounds, brows knitted in curiosity.

Then his hands were back on the side of your face, holding you as he leaned in - in the split second before his mouth came down against yours, you felt his sharp inhale, the heat from his skin before he crashed on you.

It was hungry, desperate, the tension of his body pouring directly into the kiss. You yelped into his mouth as he pushed you back, back, hands grasping blindly at his bent arms to balance yourself until your back hit the wall of the cockpit, as cold and firm as the beskar around Mando.

He let go of your face, hands roaming down your body, his touch scorching - he grabbed your hips, holding you against him as he bit your already bruised lip. You felt yourself rising onto your tiptoes, arms lifted to wrap around his shoulders and bring him closer, one hand reaching behind his head - underneath your palm, his hair was curled and soft, and you buried your hand in it.

Mando pulled back enough to let a quiet groan abandon his lips before he latched onto your neck, nudging your chin up to expose your throat furthermore to him. You licked your lips, and when he bit down onto your skin, a keen flew out of your mouth, hand raking through his curls.

“Wait,” you breathed out, and he all but tore himself away from you, his hands remaining on your sides only to hold you steady as you staggered a little. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice was hoarse, out of breath. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?” you quickly moved both your hands at the side of his head.

“Mando,” you called softly, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “It’s not that, breathe.” “What’s wrong, then? Are you okay?” you felt him try to slip back, and tightened your hold.

“I’m fine, it’s just -” you cleared your throat. “The armor.” “What about it?” little by little, his breath slowed down.

“It’s pushing on me,” you admitted softly, and dropped one of your hands to your shoulder, lowering the shirt a little to reveal the mark left by the beskar on your skin. “It’s cold,” you added with a whisper and a quick smile.

“Oh,” he mumbled - then you felt him lean in, his hair tingling your jaw as his hot breath fanned across your skin. After a moment, his lips pressed onto the mark, warm and soft. “Better?” he asked, the rumble of his voice raising goosebumps across your spine. “Better,” you nodded breathlessly, the word turning into a gasp as he kissed your skin again, hands leaving you long enough for you to hear the beskar hit the ground.

His leg pushed between your knees, nudging them apart as he left a trail of kisses and bites across your chest, up to your throat, jaw, fingers digging in your hips again and moving you until your core was pressed against the beskar on his thigh. Your arms flew around his shoulders for stability, a surprised moan muffled by his lips as he jostled your hips, rocking you back and forth slowly, making you grind down on him.

Had your eyes been open, they would’ve rolled to the back of your head, the sudden feeling so overwhelming it made the space spin - if not for Mando’s hands on you, yours on him, you couldn’t have been sure about the firm floor of the ship underneath you.

Each of your whimpers got a new reaction out of him - a quicker pace of your rocking hips; his leg riding up a little more, forcing you onto your tiptoes and to hang on his shoulders; a moan when your own leg brushed his crotch, muffled by his mouth hungrily busying itself on the skin of your neck - would there be marks, you wondered?

When you started trembling slightly under his touch, Mando slowed down, moving his head back from you - you could feel his gaze on your face, could imagine him grinning as your head fell back, lips parted and breath quickened. That had been all it had taken for you to melt for him, mouth dry and skin flushed as you felt it build up in the pit of your stomach.

“Mesh’la,” he tutted, moving one hand so that it reached underneath your shirt, palm splayed over the skin of your abdomen. You cried out softly, attempting to move against him once more, the pressure at the apex of your core almost unbearable. Mando forced you back, firm against the wall behind you. “Nuh-uh, you wait.” “Mando,” you protested as he leaned in, shushing you while his hands both moved to the tie of your trousers, fingers skimming the bare skin of your stomach.

“I want to feel you come undone around me, cyar’ika,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before he nibbled on your lobe almost tenderly, such a strong contrast with the heavy sough leaving your parted lips. He undid the tie of your trousers, dipping his fingers just slightly underneath the hem of it. “Can stop me anytime,” he repeated the same words from before.

You buried your hand through his hair, tugging on the locks a little, lips curling. “Don’t stop,” you uttered, arching from the wall and towards him. “Please, Mando,” you reached down with your other hand, blindly running your fingertips across his chest, lingering at the creases on his shirt until you skimmed over the waistband of his trousers, turning your wrist to palm him, making him hiss. “Please.”

He pushed your trousers down as he connected your lips again, desperately, cutting your breath off as one of his hands reached for the inside of your thighs as you kicked the clothing off hastily, working on his buttons.

Mando groaned, stilling for a moment when you stroked him without even pushing his clothes all the way off, hand wrapping around his hard length, hips rolling in an instinctive thrust. All but ripping the underwear from you, he took one hand off your body to push his own clothes down.

“If at any moment you don’t -” his words were cut off by a moan, hips stuttering in response to your jerk, the twist of your wrist as you arched to meet him. “Stop stalling, Mando,” you rasped, leaning in and managing to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Just take what you need.”

He picked you up urgently, both hands digging in your thighs as he guided your legs around him, pushing you flush against the wall and dropping one hand to reach for himself. You held onto his shoulders, leaving a trail of messy kisses across his face, his jaw, head tilted to fall in the crook of his neck as he pumped himself once, twice.

“It’s Din,” he murmured, thumb rubbing small circles on your inner thigh. “I want to hear you say my name,” he dragged the tip of his cock across your folds, drawing a loud gasp as he coated his length in your slick before aligning himself, pushing in just a little.

You threw your head back, mouth hanging open to draw in long breaths, the stretch both painful and blissful. He eased himself inside of you, slowly, inch by burning inch.

“Say it,” he repeated through erratic breaths, one hand on your hip to push you down on him, the other reaching up, thumb stroking your throat, ghosting your parted lips. “My name - say my name.” “Din,” breathlessly, you gripped his shoulders, rolling your hips slowly as you cried his name, familiar and unfamiliar on your tongue at the same time. “Oh, fuck - Din, please.”

“Please, what?” his mouth came down on your throat, a nip to your skin that made you keen while you tried to shift on him again, only his hand held you firmly - for someone who’d said he needed to wind down, he was showing an extreme amount of self-control, simply relishing in feeling and seeing you squirm.

The only indication that his name on your lips had any effect on him was the twitch of his length deep inside of you, the roughness of his voice as it caressed your skin, followed by his tongue, lingering on your pulse point.

And you didn’t have it in you to wait, the pressure in the pit of your stomach so deliciously warm it rose across your chest.

“Please, move,” a faint begging, digging your fingers into his shoulders - were you leaving markings of your own on him? You hoped so. You wanted to, sear yourself on him just like it felt he was doing with you.

“Like that, mesh’la?” his breath was hard, ragged, a slight tremble in his body as he pushed flush against you again, head turned to kiss your jaw instead. “Yes,” his hand not holding you was still roaming across your side, your chest, down the thin gap between your bodies as you breathed in and out. He shifted his hips, sliding half-way out of you before thrusting back in, groaning through the movement. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

It became a chant, as he picked up a relentless pace, each push seemingly stronger, harsher - don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop as the pain turned into a kind of pleasure so blinding you started to believe there was no need for a blindfold anymore.

He captured your moans with his own lips - messy, open mouthed, breathy kisses, pants cutting through as either of you moved away to catch a breath. His hand on your hip still helping you against him, each movement easier than the one before, each noise so lewd it made you burn from within.

When he started rubbing small, quick circles with his thumb over your clit, you felt yourself tip over the edge, a long whine muffled against his neck as you locked your shaky legs tightly around him, stomach fluttering through your climax.

“That’s it, ad’ika,” Din didn’t stop thrusting into you, though the movements became slower, stuttering as you clenched around him. “Think you can handle a little longer, mesh’la? Just a little longer?”

You hummed, nodding slowly as you buried one hand in his hair, guiding him back to your mouth. This kiss was slower, in tandem with his shallow pushes, less desperate, less famished. He reached up to cup your cheek, a tender touch that felt ironic with the tingling of his thrust still against your hipbone, inside you.

He stilled, a choked back cry as he came, hips jerking one last time involuntarily as he twitched inside you, leaving one last kiss - almost chaste - on your lips. 

He leaned against you, hands resting on your sides and kneading the exposed flesh of your stomach, small circles as if to soothe your already aching muscles as he rested his head in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders tiredly, leaning your head back and gently scratching his scalp.

“I promise I’ll bring you to bed next time,” he murmured, heavy breaths falling from his parted lips and dancing across your skin. He left a quick peck against your collarbone as you chuckled wearily, arms and legs heavy around him. “Next time?” you tilted your head, cheek resting against his temple. “Maker, Mando - won’t you buy a lady dinner first?” you teased, a lazy smile blossoming on your face.

He laughed, the rumble of it moving up your body and making you bite down on your lip.

“I will,” he nodded, setting his hands under your legs to support you. “Promise I will,” he shifted out of you, a slow, controlled movement that had you suffocate a cry. “As long as you keep calling me Din.” “I will, Din,” you responded, voice a mere whisper as you attempted to squeeze your thighs, the warmth of both your releases sticking to your skin. “I will.”

You felt him shift back, leaving you a little room while still keeping you up.

“I’m gonna take this off now,” he reached behind your head, gently starting to undo the knot of the blindfold. “Can you keep your eyes closed?” “Of course,” you gave a delicate smile, nodding briefly. “Just don’t drop me, I don’t think I can stand right now.”

He chuckled, pulling the blindfold fully off. He shifted forward, prying your thighs open again, running the cloth across your skin gently to clean you, stopping before reaching your still sensitive center.

“If you hold onto me I’ll bring you to get cleaned up,” all the tension in his voice had vanished, replaced by only gentleness - it felt strange, hearing it without the croaking of the modulator. “You don’t have to, I was joking,” you scoffed, easing the hold of your legs around him.

In return, he moved closer again, helping you up against him.

“I know, cyar’ika,” he hummed, lips brushing your jaw so sweetly it had you melt right into his arms. “But you took care of me - now let me help you.”

#din djarin x y/n #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x oc #din djarin imagine #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin smut #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x oc #redahlia

[dindjarindiaries]

Security - Chapter 56: The Waters

summary: The Djarin family and their ally make their way to the Living Waters to earn Din’s redemption once and for all.

warnings: drowning (incl. CPR descriptions), canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

rating: T

word count: 5.626k

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chapter 56: the waters

Having a guide to the Living Waters proves useful to Din now more than ever. He’s lost enough within his own mind, a haunting of shattered memories that makes the resounding ache within his bones grow more and more. They cast a shadow much like the isolated structures that surround them in the abandoned city of Sundari. It’s hard to make them out amidst the darkness and the mystery of it all stings like a nagging wound. Din wishes he could piece those painful glimpses of his memory together, but this isn’t the time. Astra will hold true to her promise to fill him in later on.

For now, he just needs to focus on doing what it takes to get his family back to safety.

Still, his lack of awareness doesn’t go unnoticed. Astra’s grip on his gloved hand tightens just before Din hears her speak in a soft voice. “Are you okay, Din?” She draws herself closer to his side, wrapping a hand around his arm. “You’ve been quiet.”

Din’s armored shoulders rise and fall in a heavy breath. He knows better than to try to hide from her. “I will be.” He looks at her and tightens his jaw at the sight of the crimson stain on her shoulder. There’s still so much he doesn’t know about what happened while he was out, but what he already knows threatens to tear his heart apart into relentless shreds. His family has already suffered so much because of his quest, and he couldn’t do anything to help them. “I just… need all this to be over.”

Astra takes a quick moment to rest her cheek against his arm. Her voice lowers to a murmur that’s just for them. “We’re almost there, my love.” She gives him a smile that convinces him everything’s going to be all right. “Safe and sound.”

Din’s visor lowers. With Grogu having healed Astra’s wound, she’s technically correct, but it still doesn’t feel true. The evidence is present in her torn tunic and in the ferocity with which Zora had clung to him once he woke. There are irreversible scars left imprinted on his family because of this quest that aren’t visible to the eye, and Din has to take responsibility for them.

Instead of drowning in these dismal thoughts, Din forces himself to look around and change the subject as he raises his voice enough for Bo-Katan to hear. “It’s hard to believe that this all was once filled with our kind,” Din observes. It’s true; This is the first time Din’s seen this civilization, one that’s much different than what once stood on Concordia. He wonders what the Mandalorians who lived here looked like. Did they all wear armor and take the Creed? Were any of them foundlings, like himself?

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Bo’s response cuts through Din’s musings. She pauses and observes their surroundings herself. “You’d never know it looking at all this destruction.”

Din shakes his helmet. “It looks like it’s been centuries.”

“The Empire set out to punish us. To wipe away our memory.”

Din tenses at that, especially when Astra’s grip tightens on him. He glances over at her and sees the faraway look in her gaze. He draws her closer as he responds to Bo. “It must pain you to see it like this after witnessing its beauty.”

“What pains me is seeing our own kind fight one another time and time again. Killing each other for reasons too confusing to explain. It made us weak. We had no hope to resist being smashed by the fist of the Empire.”

Din looks at Astra again. She seems even more distant now, her jaw set and her gaze watching her feet crush what remains of Mandalore’s old civilization. Din aches to comfort her, but Bo’s next words keep him from speaking.

“The entrance to the Mines of Mandalore,” she announces, carrying them ahead in silence.

Din exhales in relief. It’s as if they’re reaching the beginning of their forever. After this, he can finally make a home for his family. There won’t be any Jedi to seek or battles to fight. It’ll just be him, Astra, and their children enjoying a home that isn’t a cramped seat on an N-1 Starfighter. When he lets himself dream some more, he imagines what it might be like to cook a real meal together, or plant a garden of flowers he and Grogu can pick for Astra and Zora.

But then Bo-Katan lights the area around them and Din’s forced back to reality. He hasn’t done what he’s set out to accomplish yet. There’s no room for dreaming until Din’s redeemed himself once and for all.

“This area looks much older,” Din states, taking a cautious glance around.

“The mines have been here for thousands of years,” Bo informs him. “The Living Waters are in the chambers below.”

Din looks over at her. “Have you been there?”

“Yes,” Bo says with a breath, “when I was a child.”

Din raises his brow beneath his helmet. “Really?”

“I was part of the royal family,” Bo explains. “I took the Creed and was showered with gifts. But the rituals were all just theater for our subjects.” She glances over at Astra. “I’m sure you experienced something similar on Arilia, Astra.”

Din’s quick to look at his wife. She’s since painted an expression of strength and sweet nostalgia on her face as she nods. “Tradition is important all over the galaxy,” Astra agrees.

Bo nods to agree. “Mandalorians loved watching the princess recite the tenets as her father looked on proudly.” She utters her next words with harsh sarcasm. “Such a heartwarming spectacle.”

Silence sits amongst the group for a long moment. Din’s mind strays to memories of his own father and the assurances he was often offered as a child. His chest tightens and he wishes he was somewhere safer where he could hold his own children close. “Maybe he was proud,” Din speaks up to break the silence.

“I know he was. I didn’t embarrass him in front of everyone.”

Din tilts his helmet at that. The description she provides isn’t unlike the Mandalorians who helped to raise Din on Concordia. His tribe was strong under the Armorer’s careful watch, but he wonders what it would’ve been like to be united under someone such as her father. “Your father sounds like an interesting man. I would’ve liked to have known him.”

“My parents spoke of him with the highest praises,” Astra adds. Din looks at her and straightens his helmet. Astra offers a reassuring smile and squeezes his hand. Bid dral. So strong.

“He was a great man,” Bo agrees. She pauses before continuing. “He died defending Mandalore.”

Din stops in his tracks, causing Astra to do the same alongside him. It’s like he’s a little boy again, watching his father close the bunker door on him. Bo-Katan slows her movements a few steps ahead of them, turning to face Din with a confused raise of her brow. Din lowers his head in respect and speaks through a tightened throat. “This is the Way.”

Astra rests her head upon Din’s arm, a gesture of comfort that surpasses what Din could ever need. She brings him back to reality and frees him from the haunting memory, allowing him to move his feet forward again and head deeper into the mines.

Din hears the waters before he sees them. The light on his helmet catches them and Din’s very chest loosens with a relief he can’t quite describe. Bo nods alongside him and speaks. “Here you go. The Living Waters.” She takes them further inside, down the stone stairs and into the wide open expanse of the cave. Bo continues to speak, but Din doesn’t hear a word she says. He’s set on walking ahead and getting as close to the water as he can. Astra’s confused at his side, but in his desire to end this as quickly as he can, he can’t even stop to appease her. Din looks over the Living Waters and brings himself back to that moment when he was a child staring down his very first helmet and swearing upon the words he’s held to his heart ever since.

“Din?” Astra’s voice calls for him. It sounds millions of parsecs away.

“Are you all right?” Bo-Katan adds.

Din still doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for his cowl, unfastening his cape and setting it on the ground beside him. He does the same with his blaster and the Darksaber. Grogu coos with confusion and Zora remains silent, likely asleep from the action of the day. The last thing Din removes is his jetpack as he stands to his full height with a determined breath.

There’s only one thing left to do, now, before Din ends this nightmare: Thanking the person who’s stood alongside him through it all.

Din walks up to Astra and raises the lip of his helmet for the last time in front of someone who isn’t his family. It’s only high enough for him to take a hold of Astra’s face and pull her to him for a kiss that says more than he ever could, especially in a moment like this. He minds their audience and forces himself to part from her only to be gifted with her breathtaking smile of pride and affection. Din lowers his helmet and nods at her.

With her sweet love fresh on his lips and in his heart, Din focuses back on the Living Waters. The light attached to his helmet stays on as he steps down the stairs and enters the water with open hands, reciting the words he could never forget.

“I swear on my name,” Din begins, each word loosening the tense knots that have been tied deep within him, “and the names of the Ancestors, that I shall walk the way of the Mand’alor, and the words of the Creed shall be forever forged in my heart.”

Din finishes the vow and experiences a wave of freedom like no other. He’s about to take another step into the life he’s been wanting before he even knew it when the ground beneath him suddenly vanishes. With no time to pressurize his helmet and no jetpack to lift his heavy beskar above the water, all Din can do is watch the chasm pass him by and fight his hardest to experience the life he’s only just earned.

Astra’s tear-brimmed eyes of joy and pride for Din quickly turn to panic when his helmet vanishes beneath the water. Given the hardships they’ve already experienced on this journey, she doesn’t hold herself back anymore. She won’t let him slip through her fingers again.

“Din!” Astra cries out his name, her voice barely recognizable in her horror. She starts to follow him inside the waters, but her body’s only halfway submerged when Bo-Katan pushes her back and dives in after him.

Instantly, Astra’s brought back to that moment on Trask, when she was forced to watch Din be drowned while all she could do was sit there helplessly at the mercy of the Quarren. Zora’s sharp cry from behind her tears Astra from the dark memory and she snaps her head back to look at her daughter. Grogu’s trying to ease his sister, but his efforts are to no avail. He glances at Astra for help, his ears lowered in his own distress.

“It’s all right,” Astra says to them before she’s even made it out of the water. She kneels in front of the pram and takes her children’s heads in each hand, pressing a kiss to both of them with her eyes closed. “He’ll be back to the surface any moment, now.”

Her words are just as much for her own reassurance as they are for her children’s.

Astra lifts her head and glances over her shoulder. There’s still no sign of Bo-Katan or Din. Zora’s cries echo throughout the cavernous space, and even Grogu lets out a few worried whimpers. Astra’s heart tightens with a prominent ache at the thought of Din hearing his children cry for him yet again. She struggles not to join in their panicked grief.

With a sound that makes Astra jump and turn around, Bo emerges from the water with Din clutched in her arms. She’s forced to practically throw him to the ground at the top of the stairs, his beskar hitting the stone with an unceremonious clang. Astra all but runs to his side as Din coughs and wheezes before going silent.

“Din,” Astra breathes, unable to raise her voice for fear of breaking apart. She holds his helmet between her trembling hands, though her focus goes to his cuirass. It’s not moving. He’s not breathing. “Din!”

Nothing. Astra glances up for a moment and sees that Bo’s frozen where she is, her visor looking out upon the Living Waters. Despite Bo’s lack of focus on the two of them, Astra can’t remove Din’s helmet to make sure he’s okay. She refuses to make everything he’s just gone through be for nothing.

Astra tears Din’s cuirass off and presses one hand over the other on his chest. One. Two. Three. She won’t stop counting until thirty. Astra’s aware of Zora crying behind her, but it’s drowned out by the emptiness of her shared panic and focus. She can’t do rescue breaths and she can only hope that the compressions will be enough. “Come on, Din!” Astra pleads behind gritted teeth. “Come on, riduur! Come back to us!”

Astra’s almost to thirty and he hasn’t moved yet. She’s desperate, pressing hard to expel the water from his lungs. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

“Come on!”

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

Then, at long last, the galaxy does Astra a favor.

Din gasps before he starts to cough. Astra turns him on his side, letting the water escape him as she releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She leaves one hand on his helmet as the other stays on his arm, keeping him steady on his side. Zora’s wailing gets louder as Astra’s awareness of her surroundings returns, but she can’t bring herself to leave her husband’s side. Astra glances back at her children and sees Grogu setting a hand on his sister’s head to ease her to sleep just as he did with the rancor.

Din rolls on his back and makes the move to sit up. Astra helps him, her hands still trembling with adrenaline as she grabs his cuirass and puts it back on for him. He grunts in his effort and leans his arm against his knee while Astra sits back on her heels and watches him take a few deep breaths. She never thought she’d be so happy to see him do something as simple as breathing before.

Astra’s eyes flood with tears just at the thought of it.

“I am redeemed,” Din says, his voice hoarse and broken.

“We witnessed it,” Bo-Katan assures him. She glances over at the two of them. “For better or for worse.”

Din’s visor snaps over at Astra upon hearing her words. Astra nods at him and hopes he can’t see the way her vision’s started to blur. Din tilts his helmet at her and she struggles to find the words to say. “I’m proud of you,” Astra finally says, cursing to herself when her voice starts to break.

Din sets a gloved hand on her thigh. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

“And I’m… relieved.” Astra tightens her lips and looks down at his hand. She sets one of hers over his. Her next words are barely even a whisper. “I was scared.”

Din’s hand on Astra’s thigh tightens. His voice is almost just as broken as her own. “My cuirass was removed when I woke.”

Astra nods, her lips starting to tremble as she curses to herself for it. Din’s all right and his quest has been completed. But she can’t stop seeing the lifelessness in him as she fought her hardest to keep him alive.

“Astra… ner kar’ta…” Din can’t go on and he doesn’t need to. He moves closer to Astra and takes her in his arms as best as he can. She wraps her arms tight around his middle, burying her face in his cloth-covered neck. Din’s hand keeps her head held there while the other runs over her back. Astra’s relieved that her tears fall silently while Din speaks to her in a low and broken voice. “I’m so sorry. I know how much I’ve scared you today. You’ve been so, so strong and you shouldn’t have had to be.” He pulls her in tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

Astra shakes her head and gains the faith to raise it from his neck. “Don’t be.” She manages a smile as she holds his helmet between her hands. “I agreed to come on this journey with you, and despite the hardships we’ve faced…” her smile widens and she pulls his helmet against her forehead, “you’ve finally done it.” She runs her thumb along the curve of his beskar cheek. “Like I said before, I’m proud of you. So proud.” Astra pauses, swallowing back her fears once and for all as she looks into his visor with severity. “This is the Way.”

Din lifts a hand to her cheek in hardly concealed amazement. “This is the Way.” He exhales as if he’s releasing the weight of the entire galaxy from his shoulders. “I love you.”

Astra beams at him. “I love you, too.”

“I’ll make all of this up to you,” Din goes on, his voice low enough to keep his words between them. “I promise.”

“I know you will.” Astra glances past Din to see Bo-Katan standing restlessly to her feet, and when she looks at Grogu, he’s also quite anxious alongside his sleeping sister in their pod. “For now, I think it’s best that we get going.”

Din looks around the area for himself and nods. “Agreed.” He struggles to his feet and Astra helps him, causing him to thank her with another Keldabe kiss. She stays by the pod while he steps forward to fill the container on his belt with the Living Waters. Once it’s secured in place, he joins their family, his gloved hand petting Grogu’s ear as the little one coos with delight.

“Can I ask you a question?” says Bo suddenly from behind them.

Din doesn’t turn his helmet to face her as he responds. “What is it?”

Astra watches Bo adjust her vambraces as she hesitates before going on. “You see anything down there?”

Din reaches for his cape and Astra helps him put it back on. “I saw the chasm passing me as I fell.” Astra tries not to grimace at his words as she reaches for his weapons. “I didn’t realize it was so deep.”

“It wasn’t.” Bo looks over the waters again. “The bombings from the Purge must have triggered seismic activities.” Astra can see her walking away from them out of the corner of her eye, though she stops to ask another question. “Did you see anything alive?”

Din pauses what he’s doing and looks at Astra with confusion. “Alive?” He turns to face Bo. “Like what?”

Bo shakes her helmet. “Nothing.” Astra furrows her brow, but when Din shrugs it off, she also dismisses the matter. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” Astra remarks, drawing a huff from Din as he sets his hand upon her back and eases their family forward.

Their journey back to the surface of Mandalore is much smoother this time around. Most of it is spent in silence with everyone lost inside their own thoughts amidst the aftermath of such a tumultuous excursion. Din stays as close to Astra’s side as he can manage, something she appreciates, and he asks only one question about the Living Waters. “Did Zora sleep through all of it?”

Astra grimaces, unable to hide it when the memory returns to her. “No. I accidentally woke her up.” She glances at the pod, where Grogu remains alert alongside a sleeping Zora. “Grogu eased her to sleep after I helped you…” She’s not sure how to finish.

Din nods in understanding. His visor also focuses on the pod that trails alongside him. “So, they both saw what happened.”

“They did.” Astra looks at their hands and entwines hers with his own. “But they also saw that you’re okay.” She gives his hand a squeeze. “That you’re strong enough to go on.”

Din squeezes her hand in return, but says nothing. Astra tries not to tighten her jaw at the thought of how he’ll react to everything else she still has to fill him in on. Instead, she rejoices in the true beginning of their forever, the completion of their quests with the redemption that’s been weighing heavily on his heart ever since Morak.

On the surface awaits Bo-Katan’s ship, a Kom’rk-class fighter transport. The Gauntlet has much more space for their family than the N-1, which allows for safe and quick travel back to where the starfighter awaits on Kalevala. Din sits in the co-pilot seat across from Astra with a drowsy Zora resting upon his armored shoulder while Grogu remains in his pod, leaving Astra to admire her husband and daughter with a faint smile.

Silence blankets the hull as they exchange Mandalore’s broken surface for the stars. Astra watches the atmosphere slam against the transparisteel of the viewport until the peace of what lies beyond falls over them. It’s the first time she can truly breathe since they first landed on the planet. To have made it out alive and well is nothing short of a miracle, especially given everything that happened in the mines.

Both Astra’s musing and the silence are broken by Din. “Bring us to our ship and we’ll be on our way,” he tells Bo-Katan. He never once looks away from Zora as her little hand tugs on his cowl. “You’ll forever have my gratitude.”

“I would invite you all in for a feast,” Bo remarks with a hint of amusement before she glances back at him, “but I’m guessing that helmet isn’t coming off again.”

Din nods and looks out the viewport. “This is the Way.”

Bo-Katan returns the gesture. “This is the Way.”

Astra’s about to add her own utterance of the phrase when Grogu suddenly cuts her off. He babbles in a pattern that’s similar to what Din and Bo have both just said. Din eases his grasp on Zora to turn his body in his chair as he looks back at Grogu while Astra does the same. They share a gaze of disbelief. “Is he trying to—?” Astra begins.

She doesn’t get a chance to finish. An explosion from outside the viewport rocks the entire ship, causing Bo, Din, and Astra to brace themselves where they sit. Zora whines in Din’s arms as he assesses the situation. “We took a hit,” he announces, his voice tightened in focus. He hands Astra off to Zora and she takes her without hesitation, allowing Din to focus on the systems at his side. Zora fusses in Astra’s arms and she tries to soothe her.

“Something’s coming up on us fast,” Bo informs them. She tilts her helmet. “It looks like a squadron of TIE interceptors.”

Astra’s heart plummets into her stomach. “Interceptors?” she echoes. She hasn’t seen any since the Empire was at its peak.

“How close are we to Kalevala?” Din questions.

“Not far,” Bo answers.

“Get us back there and I’ll reinforce from the N-1.” Din fixes whatever systems he can. “Can you evade them?”

“Our shields aren’t gonna hold,” Bo insists. “I need you to back them off.”

“I can help,” Astra chimes in. She stands when Din does to set Zora inside the pram alongside Grogu. An explosion rocks the ship and Din instantly wraps his hands tight around Astra’s arms to keep her steady. Once they’ve regained their balance, they nod and sit at their respective weapons stations. Astra glances at her joystick and wastes no time joining Din in blasting whatever she can.

“Where’d they come from?” Din asks Bo.

“I’ve scugged off a lot of Imperial warlords,” she offers.

Din takes a quick glance back at her. “They tend to get mad when you hijack their ships.”

“And steal their weapons,” adds Astra.

“Now you tell me,” Bo mutters with slight amusement.

Astra listens for Zora and Grogu as Bo pilots the Gauntlet into Kalevala’s atmosphere. Her daughter’s whines have now turned to giggles, causing Astra to shake her head with a fond smile. Zora’s love of chaos is no doubt something learned from her father, who had already passed it on to Grogu before she came along. Even Astra herself has grown somewhat fond of the action they often find themselves in.

“Get ready,” Bo announces to Din. “We’re comin’ in hot. I won’t be able to slow down for the drop.”

Astra frowns at that. Perhaps she’d spoken too soon about loving action.

“Interceptors are a lot tougher than TIE fighters,” Din observes. Astra had been thinking the same thing, seeing as she’s only just damaged one of the interceptors.

Bo looks back at Din. “Are you still up for the transfer?”

Din stands and braces himself on his chair. “I don’t see any other choice.” He stops beside Astra and sets a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here with Bo and the kids. I’ll be right behind you.”

Astra sets her hand over his own. She looks at him with the corner of her mouth tugged up in a sly smile. “Give them no mercy, riduur.”

He tilts his helmet at her. “That was the plan, cyar’ika.”

Din steps forward to make his way out of the cockpit. Astra forces herself to take a deep breath and focus back on the vidscreen in front of her. Din can take care of himself. It’s up to Astra to take care of herself, their children, and their ally.

Astra can see Din join the TIE interceptors on the radar for just a quick moment. She grits her teeth at how close they get, though she makes herself aim and fire at her targets regardless. Astra gets one and she celebrates to herself, though she’s aware that it’s only one small victory in a sea of threats. Bo weaves the Gauntlet through the landscape and Astra does what she can to take more interceptors out.

Astra’s body only floods with relief when she hears Din’s voice come through the comms. “I made it to the N-1,” he informs Bo. “Heading to you.”

Bo weaves through the cliffs and Astra grits her teeth at the tight fit, despite how she trusts Bo’s piloting. Still, her tension must be somewhat evident, as the Mandalorian soon raises her voice to speak to her. “Don’t worry,” Bo reassures her. “I grew up flying these cliffs.”

“I wasn’t too worried,” Astra responds. “I know you have it under—,” she cuts herself off when they scrape against one of the cliffs, only continuing once they’ve observed the TIE interceptor that explodes just behind them, “control.”

“It’s been a while,” Bo jokes.

Astra chuckles and continues to do what she can on the weapons. It’s difficult between Bo’s skilled evasion and the craftiness of the TIE interceptors. Most of her shots only serve as distractions, but Astra takes whatever she can get. She can only hope that the Gauntlet’s shields are holding up.

Then, another ship appears on Astra’s vidscreen. She grins as the N-1 swoops in and easily takes out one of the interceptors, in true Din Djarin fashion. “Thanks for the backup,” Bo says through the comms.

“Always a showoff,” Astra insists with a fond smile.

“Two more to go,” Din reminds them.

They weave through more of the cliffs. The angles make it nearly impossible for Astra to get a good shot in. She tries anyway, some of her blasts hitting either the cliffs or the surface of the water. “Go right,” Bo instructs Din. “We’ll meet you on the other side.”

Din does as she says, quickly disappearing off Astra’s vidscreen. When he reappears, another one of the TIE interceptors disappears. “One down, one more to go.” Astra’s grin only widens at his words. She’ll never get tired of how he makes even the most difficult task look easy.

Astra tries to claim the last interceptor, but Bo relieves her of such pressure. “I’ve got this one,” Bo tells her. Astra turns in her seat and watches Bo power down the engines and pull hard on one of the joysticks, letting the ship freefall and turn to face the TIE. Once they’re head-on with the interceptor, Bo launches her own blasts, demolishing it into a final ball of fire. Astra braces herself as the ship continues to fall, her jaw hardened until Bo restarts the engines and pulls up on the joysticks. Both of them bounce a few times in their seats when gravity returns and Astra heaves a breath of relief.

“Everyone okay in there?” Din questions through the comms.

“Couldn’t be better,” Bo assures him. Astra nods to agree with her, taking advantage of the calmness to sit back in the copilot seat and check up on the kids. Zora and Grogu are both smiling as they look out the viewport and see the N-1 flying alongside them. Astra joins them as Bo continues to speak to Din. “Not bad for an antique.”

“You take any damage?”

“Just shields. Astra covered the rest.” Astra smiles at her subtle praise. “You?”

“Not a scratch.”

Astra huffs at that. Bo holds back a chuckle of her own as she responds. “Let’s take ‘em in just to be sure.”

Astra watches as Bo looks through the viewport and nods at Din, who returns the gesture. Din’s visor meets Astra’s gaze even from a distance and fills her with a strong wave of warmth. Even after all the tribulations of the day, here they are, able to enjoy a moment of peace that remains suspended in time. For the first time since Astra’s known Din, it feels like they have what they’ve always wanted: time.

Then comes the alarm from Din’s comms. “Hang on,” he warns. “I’m seeing something on the scope.”

When Astra hears the explosions from a distance, her heart sinks, her stomach hollowing like a deep and dark pit. Bo-Katan gasps and Astra watches her grasp on the joysticks tighten. “No!” she exclaims through a tightened throat, pushing the Gauntlet ahead to watch as more TIE interceptors destroy her castle.

The feeling is all too familiar for Astra. She looks over at the closed pram beside her and sets her hand on it, seeking comfort without putting her children at risk.

“Those mudscuffers bombed my home!” Bo seethes. Astra lifts her gaze to watch as Bo launches the Gauntlet in close pursuit of the fleeing interceptors. Unease sticks like tar to Astra’s chest watching Bo’s composure lessen and lessen. The Mandalorian even fires a torpedo at one of the TIEs, causing it to burst into a cloud of flames similar to the ones that hung over her home.

“Bo, we’ve got company,” Din informs her. Bo remains unaffected, still in pursuit of the interceptors. Astra tightens her jaw and tries to think of a way to soothe her before she flies Astra and her children into danger. “Bo, listen to me. You have to get out of there.”

Astra watches through the viewport as Din pilots the N-1 in front of the Gauntlet to gain Bo’s attention.

“There’s too many of them.” He doesn’t waste a single breath, though his voice strained as he goes on. “You have my family with you. Don’t let these attackers take even more from us.” Astra doesn’t miss the desperation in his voice as he pleads with her one last time. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Bo pilots them into the storm of TIE interceptors before she finally pulls up on the joysticks to follow Din towards the atmosphere. The interceptors pursue them, but the N-1 and the Gauntlet are faster in their escape. Bo speaks amidst the chaos as if she’s thinking out loud. “That’s a lot of ships for an Imperial warlord.”

“I’m sending jump coordinates,” Din informs her.

“To where?” Bo questions.

“Someplace they won’t find us.” Astra wrinkles her brow at first when she hears Din’s words, but then it hits her: the covert. It’s well-hidden, and once Din gets his redemption recognized by them, they’ll be able to finish their quest once and for all.

Astra releases a breath once the blue lights of hyperspace are passing them by, her eyes closing in relief. She’d been too stunned to say anything to Bo after the weariness of the day, despite how close they were to being at risk. From their initial descent on Mandalore to this close call on Kalevala, the toils of this journey have felt almost just as intense as their last one. All Astra wants is to rest safely in the arms of her husband with her children nearby, finally at peace and in a place they can call home.

That’s a future that’s, at long last, just in reach.

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#these two deserve a break. and it's coming... perhaps #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x oc #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fic #security #dindjarindiaries

[amiedala]

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.” 

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.” 

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. 

*

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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

#something holy #something holy fanfic #something more series #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x oc #din djarin smut #din djarin x novalise djarin #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian smut #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #amiedala

[hydrangaces]

din djarin you're poetic god.

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x oc #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x oc #character ai

[winniethewife]

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

[hunnythebee]

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

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian x original female character #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original female character #din djarin x original character #din djarin smut #mando smut #mando fanfiction #mando fanfic #mando x oc #mando x ofc #mando x original female character #mando x original character #stow away #hunnythebee

[az-cain]

Di’kutla Kar’ta - Foolish Heart

chapter two

din djarin x reader ≈ 1.3k words masterlist

sorry this took an absolute age yall. i lost motivation. BUT IM BACK BABYY

SERIES TW: mentions of sexual assault, religious trauma, loss of family members, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, slowburn, smut

CHAPTER TW: descriptions of injuries, one (1) mention of blood, mention of loss of friend

—

Your head was aching and your broken fingers were throbbing, but you were warm. It was an odd feeling— waking up warm— as you’d lived on Hoth for nearly 10 years, using only enough fuel to keep your frame from locking up entirely. Usually, you awoke to the feeling of cold creeping its way through your body nerve by nerve, your fingertips and toes stiff. Now, you moved them freely as you locked your helmet onto your head and opened the small latch on your cubby, slipping off of the hard bed.

You made your way to the center of the ship, not ten feet away, and wondered at what you should do in such an unfamiliar situation, in another Mandalorian’s ship.

Suddenly remembering that Din had mentioned a few blaster shots to his ship, you scurried back to your bunk to grab your armor and heavy fur coat, writing a quick message before opening the bay to inspect the damage.

Din,

I’m outside checking damage, don’t shoot me down or leave without me

Thanks,

Y/n

The snow was familiar under your boots as you trekked around the big ship to locate the damage. It was on the side, and had shot right through the front. You guessed that the shots had only hit the front deflector shield generator and projector, but you needed to pull open the durasteel side to be sure. And for that, you’d have to go back to your shop nestled in the snow dunes on the other side of town. You were about to leave to trudge through the snow, but something called you back into the ship. Reentering the bay, you spotted the other hunk of metal climbing out of his small bedspace.

“Din, hey.”

His head whipped towards you, shoulders back and feet in a fighting position, his posture relaxing after recognition. Still, he kept his body turned to his bed as though defending or hiding something. “Oh. Hello.”

“Look, I know you just woke up, but I need to get some supplies from my shop,” you paused, tilting your head and considering your next words while you peered nosily towards his bunk, “and it would be nice to pack a few things.”

“Yes, of course.” He pushed something with his foot as you continued to approach. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“Yes please.”

Din, struggling, groaned audibly as a green creature slipped past him and came barreling towards you. The small thing was wearing a little potato sack, and you assumed it to be Din’s pet. As you stooped to pick it up, you didn’t think about why the other Mandalorian would be hiding the creature: the only thought on your mind was how adorable and childlike it was. Its huge black eyes stared at you in wonder, oversized ears twitching eagerly as you made cooing noises and pointlessly contorted your face. You questioned for a moment its consciousness, and eventually decided that the creature seemed to be intelligent.

The baby fervently garbled its response to your coos, engaging in conversation with you. You pulled your head back in the best expression of shock you could and whisper-shouted “Really? He wouldn’t possibly!” before turning to Din and waiting for a response. The baby turned its head as well.

Din, excitingly, just stood there. He was stock-still for a few moments before clearing his throat. “He… He likes you.”

You smiled and laughed quietly. “I think so.”

You watched him clench his fists again before he approached, extending his hands for the green ball of joy. “His name is Grogu,” he tossed you as you handed him the child. “He’s my foundling.”

It was your turn to stand shock-still, eyes rooted to the man in front of you. Suddenly you understood why Din was trying to hide him, sequester him away. Foundlings were rare, even more so since the Great Purge. Many will try to kill the foundlings and their buirs simply out of tradition, or as may be the case with this oddly-shaped one, for a trophy on their wall.

You knew Din had no reason to believe you’d harm Grogu, but many Mandalorians were traitorous to their own kind especially in times of need. You trusted him just the same, if not more, for his attempt to hide the child.

“I see. My knowledge of him will stay within this ship.” Din nodded in thanks as he headed to grab his satchel, stuffing the child in it carefully before slipping it on, murmuring some words to him as he shut and buttoned the bag.

“Thank you. He’ll be coming with us, now that you know about him. It’s safer anyway.”

You nodded as well, watching him approach you and gesture to the exit, taking long strides down the ramp beside you. As the two of you exited the Razor Crest, he clicked a few buttons on his vambrace to seal the ship safely.

“Lead the way.”

The icy landscape was as familiar as your armor, but the man and the foundling by your side were anything but. The three of you treaded in the direction of your home, boots leaving two sets of prints in the blinding white.

Silent as the town was, you could hear the creaking of a door from the rarely inhabited pub. “Mandalorian!” The coarse, familiar voice of one of your only friends shouted, to which you turned. “Mandalorian-seh!” He laughed loudly at his correction, Din’s hand drawing up to his weapon as the two of you approached. “Planning to leave without a goodbye, metalhead?” The swaggering man smiled and extended his arms as you approached, his hands gesturing for a hug.

“Yes, Caith,” you chuckled lightly, “you knew this day would come.” Obliging his gesture, you squeezed him tightly before pulling back.

“Did I?” He murmured, searching the blank reflective visor of your helmet.

With a sigh, you nodded. “Yes. It’s not safe for me here anymore. I’m headed off-world with him,” you tilted your head back at Din, “and I’ll probably not be back. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I’ll miss you. Leave me some of that sauce of yours, yeah? Or the recipe.”

“Of course,” a rough noise made its way from your chest and through your modulator as you cleared your throat, “let me get it for you. I’ll see you in a few, then in the afterlife, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded to him before turning around, Din on your heels and then beside you. You felt the other Mandalorian’s eyes on you, though his visor remained fixed on the small building just outside of the main town.

“What?” You finally asked him, keying in your code and shoving the stubborn door open with a huff.

“He’s nice.” Another thing you had never missed about the company of Mandalorians: they all seemed to either speak in riddles or use the minimal required words, and both methods worked equally well to evade the need for a true answer. You loved your people, but you knew that their communication was poor, and the elders encouraged that. However, this was no time to piss off the man who’d offered you a ride off-world, regardless of your common Creed and his obligation to follow through.

“Yes, he is.” You replied, deciding not to confront him, but now feeling that you needed to establish a baseline for your behavior and his reactions, simply to ask, “Does that bother you?”

“He reminds me of a long-gone friend.”

Deciding that his response seemed direct enough and his body language hadn’t changed to give any indication of anger, you nodded and accepted his answer, so you headed to the trapdoor under your dining table.

Shoving the heavy table, you wondered, for a moment, if you should warn him; ultimately, your curiosity got the better of you, and you yanked back the door to reveal the meticulously stacked piles of bent, bloodied beskar’gam.

masterlist

taglist: @tizylish @theslytherinwriter and u aren’t on it but i want you to see it @amchapel

#din djarin x reader #din djarin/reader #din djarin x mandalorian reader #din djarin/mandalorian reader #din djarin x oc #din djarin/oc #din djarin x mandalorian oc #din djarin/mandalorian oc #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian/reader #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian/oc #mandalorian #the mandalorian #din djarin

[galacticwildfire]

Found | Din Djarin

Din Djarin x Original Kenobi Female Character

Past Boba Fett x oc

Satine and Obi-wans' daughter fought in the war against the Empire and lost her faith when she lost Mandalore. Until she found him. A lone Mandalorian who was searching for a Jedi.

~

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

#din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando #the mandalorian smut #the mandolarian #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original character #galacticwildflower #found. #the mandalorian x original character #Din djarin smut #Din djarin fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #boba fett x oc

[livingemkayde]

Twin Moons - Chapter Seven: The Song

Series Summary: 

when you meet a Mandalorian on the sands of Tatooine, for some reason you both can't stay away. even through all the pain—you keep coming back to each other. it's all you know how to do.

Chapter Seven: The Song

Notes: Ummmmm. No notes for this chapter other than ur not fucking ready. PLEASE ENJOY.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive f!reader

Series warnings: *Although this chapter may not contain graphic content, this story is rated 18+ due to graphic depictions of violence and sexual scenarios.*

Warnings: This chapter is rated mature (18+) for graphic sexual content (Fingering, f!receiving). Not much else.

Summary: He trails his hand up your leg, bunching the fabric along with it, his touch soft on your skin. He reaches further, passing by your knee and you close your eyes, bite your lip and involuntarily let out a small whimper. His head snaps up to meet yours when your soft sounds echo through the room, but it only spurs his hand up.

Masterlist  Chapter Five  Chapter Six

Some months later. 

Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

Be–

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath as you slam your hand down on your alarm clock. 

You sit up from your bed in the dark room. It's late. You can tell. You see the strewn clothes around your room and your blaster and viroblade sitting at the foot of the bed on a chest. You rub your tired eyes and move to use the refresher. 

As you wash your hands the bite of cold water shocks your system. Fuck. You groan, finish drying your hands quickly and move towards the bedroom to put a sweater on. As you move to the closet, you see it in the corner of your eye. The black fabric seems to glow to your sight in the darkness of the room. You push it to the back of your mind. 

You get dressed quickly, and step out into the dark night sky and make your way to the cantina. You pull your hair into a small bun at the base of your neck—baby hairs falling loosely down your neck and around your face. It's a cold night, the wind rips through your skin and you brace your jacket further around your body. 

You enter the cantina, travel to the back and put your apron on to begin the night shift. 

Bartending—what a fucking joke. 

But you needed credits. 

After Davin—his followers seemed to scatter in the wind when someone tipped the New Republic he was dead. They raided the place, ransacked the spice, released the prostitutes working, freed the prisoners you didn’t even know he was harboring in the dungeons. 

After that, you fled to the upper levels, looking for work in a much more approachable cantina. A cantina hired you for bartending. He said you were pretty enough that he would let it slide if you didn’t have any experience. 

You met someone who worked with the New Republic and made friends with him—a regular at the bar. Just to get them off your back until everything died down. And it did die down. No one ever sought to question you—to the New Republic, you were some lowly servant girl looking for work after escaping her home planet. No one would know and you would keep it that way. 

The man you befriended, Leo, offered you housing for cheap, in a complex near his. 

He was okay—you guess. 

He was some pilot for the New Republic but was decommissioned after an injury to his brain. He kept you company—no—kept you busy. 

He was okay—until his touches turned lingering when he began inviting you out to late night drinks and parties going on till the early mornings. 

But he was harmless. 

The two of you have never talked about whatever is going on between you. There was never any need to—you felt nothing. And he was harmless. He let you push out of his hugs that lasted too long and squeezed you too tight. 

But he was nice—he was fine. 

His friendship allowed you to be invisible to the New Republic records and in turn the Empire. If it meant slipping through the cracks, you would put up with much worse. 

He does make you laugh—not in the way the Mandalorian did. 

But he certainly doesn’t make you cry. 

He also never brought a flush to your face, never gave you butterflies, never asked more than you let on, never excited you. Not the way the Mandalorian did. 

You think back to his shirt you saw this morning in the closet. You haven’t put it back on since Sorgan, all those months ago. You wonder if it still smells like him, or if he’s truly lost forever. It makes your heart ache, even after all this time—you wonder if it will ever stop. 

You tie your apron around your waist and make your way to the bar. It should be a slow night. You know Leo will come in for a drink soon, and to talk to you. 

As you watch the time pass, he enters the cantina doors and finds your eyes almost immediately. He smiles. Really smiles. That’s something you like about him—you can always tell what he’s thinking. You smile back, tight lipped and continue to make a drink for a patron seated at the bar. 

When Leo approaches the counter, you excuse yourself from the other customer, and begin to prepare his usual—some spotchka the cantina gets from a backwater town. You made fun of him when he revealed it was his favorite, but he only told you it reminded him of the glory days. 

Whatever that meant. 

When you set the drink in front of him and place your hands on the bar, he smiles at you again. 

“Hey doll.” He winks at you. The nickname seemed like overkill in the beginning—but you barely notice it now—many people have had many nicknames for you your whole life. His flirting was getting tiresome—but you always put on a fake smile in response. He’s none the wiser to your apparent lack of blush. 

“Hey Leo. The usual.” You gesture to the drink in front of him and he takes it while raising the glass to you. 

“What are you doing tonight?” He asks while pulling the glass from his lips. 

“Just working.” You respond and start polishing glasses for more drinks. “Why?” You peer at him, he has a devilish smile on his face. 

“Two tickets. Tonight. You and me,” he says coolly. More declaring the plans rather than asking.

“Where to?” You ask while prepping another glass. 

“You can’t say no. I gambled away next month’s rent for these tickets.”

“C’mon just tell me,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes—a small smile on your face. 

“We’re going to the Opera.” 

_

He convinces you to go—somehow. Maybe you feel bad for him or maybe you want to get out of your room. You feel trapped in this life. Stuck in a place you were seeking to leave. It feels different even 1000 levels up, but you still feel uneasy being in one place for so long. You told yourself you should go see Ahsoka, go do anything. So you go. 

He convinces you to break out an old dress, do your hair for once, put on some makeup—telling you he would be in his best suit. You dig through your closet to find a black dress that comes down to your ankles. You had bought it to attend a ball Davin made you go to. It makes your skin shiver at the thought and when it pools at your ankles, the feeling doesn’t dissipate. 

You smooth the dress over your body and grab a small shawl to go over your shoulders. He knocks on your door as you grab your clutch, pinning a few fallen pieces of hair back, and make your way to the entryway. 

“Hey,” he greets you. “You look really nice,” he adds, wrapping your body in a small hug and looks down at you with a smile.

You don’t feel nice. The heels you’re wearing digs at your toes and the dress keeps surfacing old memories you fought so hard to bury. But you don’t tell him that. You don’t tell him anything. 

“Thanks. You too,” you reply shortly. 

You enter the speeder first, he opens the door for you. He’s a gentleman. He’s sweet, nice, everything you should be settling for, but you can’t help but think about a certain beskar covered man. He floods your thoughts constantly when you’re with Leo—you don’t know why and you don’t care to think about that particular notion further. 

On the way to the opera house he talks your ear off about the show, saying something about how it’s his favorite since he was a kid and wanted to take you there. It’s fucked up, but you stop listening half way through. Just absentmindedly nodding your head and look at him smiling every so often. The ride feels like it lasts forever. 

When you reach the platform of the house, he holds his hand out to you, taking your silken gloves in his hand to lift you out of the speeder. You remember the Mandalorian. His hands. The way it felt to touch his gloves in your bare ones—feeling the heat of his palms sear into yours. 

He leads you to your seats, the lights dim, the show begins. He claps enthusiastically throughout the show. You like it too—when you’re not fighting to keep your head from slumping to the side. It’s too long for you, too domestic, too…boring. 

The lights slowly lift when the show ends, Leo jumps to his feet to clap, you join him slowly, while stealing a glance at him through the corner of your eye. 

You smooth your dress over your thighs and adjust your shawl over your shoulders. The room is cold, you can feel the chill go up your spine. As you clap and look around the room, people begin to exit. You can see them filing out through the aisles. Leo got seats in the mezzanine so you place your hands on the balcony ledge and peer down into the audience below you. You watch as the people move towards the exit. 

But something shiny catches your eye and momentarily blinds your vision. 

No. 

It can’t be. 

It…can be—but surely it can’t be because what are the odds?

He’s moving against the flow of traffic. Going towards the stage, and peering around—looking left then right. When his helmet moves towards up, you duck behind Leo and let out a small squeal. You aren’t sure why. You’ve been thinking about him for months and he’s here. In the flesh. Your heart skips a beat at the thought that he might be here for you—looking for you.  

Leo guides you down towards the exit, holding your hand as you make your way down the grand steps which lead out to the main entrance. 

You keep looking around you, curious about his arrival at the show. Leo notices your sudden uneasy energy and asks you about it—but you simply brush it off as being tired. 

He appears then, in front of you. You can see the top of his helmet as he sticks up slightly from the crowd. You continued down the staircase, vision remained locked on his T visor looking around the room and at the people passing him as they make their way towards the exit. 

He looks past you, further up the staircase and when his vision finally lands on you, you stumble. Holding onto Leo’s arm for dear life, you look down, your dress getting caught on the toe of your heel. You frantically look back at him, curious as to his reaction to everything. Seeing you here. Seeing you alive. With another man—in some outfit playing dress up. You pick your dress off the toe of your shoe and quickly descend from the last staircase. 

Leo follows your hasty figure. His gaze coming up to meet your eye line. 

“Is that a Mandalorian? Wait—hold on—he’s dangerous.” He grabs your bicep and attempts to hold you back gently. Your pace towards the Mandalorian doesn’t falter. 

You meet him in the middle of the room. He stalks towards you, the crowd parting for him as you push through. Leo follows fast after you, breaking into a small jog.

It feels like time stands still—you push and push—rude, you know. But he’s here. And he sees you. And you want to explain everything before it’s too late. Before he leaves you like you left him. 

You finally reach him. He stands still before you. He looks the same. Sans a small green child at his hip. Good. You note. He’s probably with Luke. 

You’re breathless as you stare at him. You move to open your mouth and say something—anything, but Leo finally catches up to your side and pulls at your waist. You notice how the Mandalorian’s helmet looks down at Leo’s hand on your body. 

“Geez. You move quickly. I–” He pauses when he looks up to who you’re standing in front of. Leo suddenly straightens his posture, though he’s still not taller than the Mandalorian. His voice appears in your ear, whispering lowly as if the Mandalorian can’t hear him. 

“Do you know this guy or something?” 

You ignore him and his touches. Only the man in front of you matters. You step toward him. Leo’s hand falls from your waist—he’s speechless, you can tell. 

“Hi,” you say dumbly. He doesn’t respond. Only nods his head back at you. 

Fuck. Maybe he’s mad—pissed even. But you can make it up to him, right? Explain everything?

“What are you doing here?” You ask, still breathless. 

“Bounty work.” He replies. Your heart drops for a split second. He wasn’t here for you. It was all a coincidence. But maybe it was meant to be because, Maker. His voice. It sounds the same as you remember, richer even if that’s possible. It sends you into a trance. “What are you doing here?” He continues. Your face blushes embarrassingly. 

“I—” You start but Leo’s touch on your body causes you to spin to look at him. He’s ruining everything. 

“We should get going.” Leo says, hand coming to find your hip now, pulling back slightly towards his own body.

You look around and suddenly realize a small crowd has formed, watching you and the Mandalorian. 

Fuck. 

He’s right—too much attention. 

But you can’t bring yourself to walk away from him. He’s right there, and you look pretty, and seeing his helmet in the flesh makes you feel lightheaded after so many nights of imagining his image. 

“Go,” he says through modulation. Almost knowing. Like he understands everything—because for some reason, he does. 

“I—” you start again before Leo’s hand drags you away, and the Mandalorian continues through the crowd and disappears from your vision. 

_

“What the fuck was that?”

Leo drags you to some back alley away from the opera house. Maybe you should be scared in this situation, but like you said before, he’s harmless. 

“Just someone I knew okay? Can we just drop it?” 

“You just know a Mandalorian?” He places one hand on his hip and questions you with furrowed brows. 

“Yes, it was a while ago—look can we just go back?” You don’t meet his eye. 

“No, what business do you have with a Mandalorian? They’re dangerous. You know that right?” 

“Yes. I know. Just drop it okay? He—I have no business with him—he’s no one.” The sentence coming from your mouth stings at its blatant lie. 

“I’ve never seen you like that. You were—flushed—or—I don’t know. Can you just tell me what’s going on?” 

“He’s—just—Maker, can we just go? He’s nothing.” You say with a slightly more threatening tone. Leo’s eyes sink to shock and he turns around, hands coming up to his head.

“You don’t tell me anything. I give you everything. And you can’t even tell me who that was. You’re awfully flustered for him being nothing.”  He says, you look at him with pity. 

“He’s someone from home. Okay? Just someone I used to know. I didn’t expect to see him here.” You say while not meeting his eye. You feel bad that you’re still searching for him even in this dark alley. 

Leo looks at you. Really looks at you, and you finally meet his gaze. Fuck. He looks hurt. This isn’t what you meant to happen tonight. The Mandalorain pulled you against your wishes and this is you dealing with the consequences. 

“Leo stop c’mon. I promise you. He—he’s no one. ” 

Another lie to add to the pile. 

“Maker I—you don’t get it. Do you?” He asks, his head hanging to the side. 

You stare at him shocked. You’ve never seen him worked up, let alone mad at you. 

“Get what? Leo I—” 

He cuts you off, bringing his lips to yours. You don’t kiss him back, but you don’t push him off. He stays pushed against your lips for a couple seconds. Then he releases his hold on you—panting against your lips. 

You pull back your head slightly, trying to find his eyes. You probably look like a deer in headlights right now. 

“And now you look like that.” He says, breathless, defeated. 

“Like what?” 

“Scared.” He replies. 

“I—Leo, I-I don’t know if I wan—” “I know. I just…I just had to try.” He drops your body from his hands and steps back. You don’t know what to say. 

When you don't respond, he gestures towards the street and lets out a soft, “Let’s go back.” 

_

He walks you back to your room, eventually. He leaves with his head down. You should feel bad—for lying. But all you can think about is the Mandalorian. 

Fuck. 

He was right there. You wanted to fall into his arms and tell him everything. Confess everything. But you couldn’t—and now you don’t know if you will ever be able to. 

You reach into your clutch for the keycard to your room, and shuffle through some spare makeup to find it. You swipe it through the sensor and your door flushes open. You look in the mirror beside the front door—you’re unrecognizable to yourself after so many years in hiding. 

You feel awful. You’re distraught and devastated—now it’s the appropriate feeling to use the word. He was right there. And even worse, you can’t shake the feeling of Leo’s lips on yours. You tried to wipe it off, but to no avail. 

You slump down into a chair and begin to take your heels off. You unclasp them and drop them to the ground while reaching into your dress to take off the holster you had strapped to your thigh with your blaster and blade—just in case. You struggle with the clasp and begin to yank on it, the movement rustling your dress. You feel your blade cut into the skin on your pointer finger. 

“Fuck.” You curse to yourself and bring your hand to your eye to inspect the damage. 

“Need help?” A thick voice peels through the air of your small room. You yelp out of instinct, jump out of your seat, grab your blaster, and spin to face your bedroom. 

Fuck are you dreaming?

He stands there. Just like a few hours before. In front of you—head tilting to the side. You don’t know whether or not to drop your blaster. Maybe he’s here to kill you. 

“H–how–I–I…” You start breathless but can’t find the words. 

“C’mon. Put that down.” He says while nodding his head to the blaster you still have raised at him. You lower it slowly while he steps toward you. 

“H–how did you g–ge—” “Your lock is easy to pick.” He states—still approaching your shaken form. 

“You—the opera. I—” you start, but he comes close to you. His body crowds your senses and you move your head to stare up at him. 

“I got the guy.” He says. “And you live here now.” He looks around the room in reference. “And you’re with…him.” He says the last part and his voice raises at the end like it’s almost a question, but he’s trying to convince himself it’s a statement. 

“Yes. I—well no—I-I live here. But we’re—he’s not—I’m not—we’re not together.” You stutter over your words. You can’t believe he’s here, in your home, crowding your senses like all the weeks before. 

“Sure looked like it,” is all he says in reply. Fuck. Was he talking about the kiss? 

You don’t know what to say to that—nevermind what he’s doing in your bedroom. 

You choose to shake your head in response. You break your gaze, your eyes falling to your feet. 

A few moments pass until he begins to move in front of you. He slowly kneels at your feet, mimicking the first time you met him, in the cantina. His hand finds your ankle and your breath hitches in response. You say nothing. Partially because you’re scared your erratic words will cause him to leave forever and the other half because you truly do not know what to say. 

He trails his hand up your leg, bunching the fabric along with it, his touch soft on your skin. He reaches further, passing by your knee and you close your eyes, bite your lip and involuntarily let out a small whimper. His head snaps up to meet yours when your soft sounds echo through the room, but only trails his hand higher. It reaches the holster on your thigh. He slowly begins to unbuckle it and lingers there slightly longer than necessary, kneading the flesh of your leg while the holster falls to the ground. 

He drops his hand from under your dress when you let out a small moan. 

The Mandalorian stands and comes face to face with you again. 

A thousand years could pass by but you would still be stuck in this moment. You look into his visor—you find his eyes immediately. 

“You left,” he breaks the silence first. He sounds—mad. Or maybe hurt. You can’t tell under the modulation.

“I know. I–I’m sorry. I…” You don’t want to make excuses, so you settle for that. 

“Why?” He asks anyway. 

“Davin. He—I needed to be done.” You state, breaking your haze on his visor and looking to the side. 

“You killed him?” He asks. 

“Yes. I—the New Republic was all over the club after. I had to come up here to get away from it.” Your eyebrows furrow at the memories. “Leo is just…I don’t know. He worked with the NR. Takes the heat off me,” you confess. 

“I see.” He notes in reply. 

Silence surrounds both of you. You look back to his visor. 

“I’m sorry. About everything.” You say. You want to reach out and touch him. Hold his hands in yours while you speak. And you do, before you even realize you’re moving. His hands feel rigid in yours while you mold with them. 

You feel connected with him at your touch. Even through gloves you can feel every nerve ending in your body. 

You feel the attachment that led you to him all those months ago—what kept you dreaming about him, what kept you coming back over and over again. 

And maybe whenever you thought about him, it was because he was trying to find you. Searching the galaxy for your white eyes—dreaming about them behind his eyelids. 

His hands pull back in your grip but you don’t let them go. 

You’re done letting go. 

But he’s angry with you. You can tell. Maybe it’s Leo, or maybe it’s just you. He was looking for you while you sat here pretty—leading on the guy next door. 

“I should be going now. I…wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

“I–” He lets out a breathy laugh. “I saw him drag you into that alley.” 

“You followed me?” Your eyes widen in shock. 

“I guess. But you’re fine. You got out of there when it started looking…intimate,” you wince at his words. So he saw everything. 

“Yeah. He-he just kissed me. I don’t know what happened.” You reply softly. His hand drops from yours and comes up—much like all those months ago, to touch your waist but he falters. Din remembers the man who was with you. His hands were all over your body. The way he glared at Din from behind your shoulder—threatened. Din silently shakes his head, this isn’t what he was here for. 

But he isn’t sure what he was here for. He saw you, walking into the opera house. He rounded up the bounty quickly, dragging him back to the ship and sought after you when the show ended. It was supposed to be nothing more than following closely behind you—to steal a couple glances at you in that dress again before he got off world. But you had spotted him through the crowd—and then he knew there was no turning back. 

Going to see you after the opera turned into following you to the alley, then to your complex, and picking the back door silently when you bid Leo goodnight. 

Now he was—he wasn’t sure. But he knows getting involved with you again was dangerous—and he should treat it as such.

His arm drops and he balls his fist at his side. He feels your hand in his other one. 

“Please,” you say with white eyes while you look at him through your lashes. All that was looking back was a black T.

“Don’t go.” 

“You left. You left me.” He says with a certain bite that registers in the back of your throat and shoots down to create a pit in your stomach.  

“I didn't know you were looking for me. In your dreams, you were looking for me,” you say while your head hangs and you drop his reluctant hand. 

“I’m always looking for you.”

Tears well your eyes at his words. You stifle your cries for soft sobs but feel like dropping to the floor and staying there forever. 

“Don’t cry,” he says. He brings his hand to your face—his thumb rubbing away fast falling tears from your eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” you plead through tears.

“I know,” his hand remains on your face. 

You push your cheek into it. 

_

You stayed like that for a long time. He pulled you into his chest and gripped the back of your neck as he held you. 

When you both settle to the table in the kitchen, you tell him about Davin—everything about him. You don’t miss how his hand tightens its fist at the mention he was your first kiss.

He tells you he took the kid to the seeing stone, lost him for a bit, then Luke swooped in and saved them all. Typical. Luke is so much like his father and yet, not at all. 

“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?” You say, making your way to the kitchen cabinets. Your bare feet patter into the floors—you’re still in your dress, the shawl wrapped around your body. 

“I’m okay. Thank you,” he responds while looking around your home. 

“Can I?” He gestures to the expanse of the big room—your living room, bedroom, and kitchen stand undivided, your space looking more like a large loft rather than a house. 

“Go for it,” you prepare some berries in a bowl for him anyways. Although you aren’t sure how he will eat them in front of you—a reminder of the rift between you. 

You watch him from the kitchen as he stalks around your small space. He looks at the books on your side table, inspects the small trinkets lining the shelves above your bed, touches the headboard with an open palm. It sends a heat to your lower stomach. He’s here. He’s in your room—your bedroom. 

It's late. You both left the light switch turned off—blanketed in darkness, the only light coming from the glow of the moon through your windows. 

You sit on the counter in your dress, next to the bowl of berries. You nibble at one while watching him look around your open closet. 

“You like it here?” He asks, making his way back to you slowly while looking around. 

“It’s cheap. It’s…fine. I guess.” you smile slightly at him. He meets your gaze and continues through the small space. 

 “Leo got it for me. Says he knows the landlord or something,” you concede—heart beat picking up slightly at the mention of his name. 

“Leo.” He echos. 

“Yeah. The guy from the Opera,” you note quietly, staring down to your swinging feet. 

His figure stops a couple feet away from you, hip popped out, leaning on the side of the table with his arms crossed. 

“He–y–he treating you right?” He asks, his stance looks ridgid. 

“I guess. He’s…nice…fine. I told him I didn’t want anything though.” 

“Before or after he kissed you?” 

Your eyes widen at the statement. You try to find your words, lips parting. 

“I–a-after. You weren’t supposed to see that.” 

“No?” 

You shake your head in response. 

“Why not?” He steps towards you again, you find yourself parting your thighs, a quiet invitation for him to settle between your legs. 

“B-because…” you trail off when his hands come to rest on both thighs, massaging them gently while he separates them more, his hips resting in between your legs. 

The only contact you feel is the sides of his body on the inside of your knee. You look down, flustered, and when you see his hands on your legs it makes your breath hitch. 

“Because?” 

You close your eyes momentarily while he rubs your legs. You hesitate in your confession, but find your voice, maybe this is your proposal for him to stay here between your legs forever. 

“Because everytime I'm with him I can only think about you.” 

His hands stop moving on your thighs and your eyes snap up to meet his visor. 

A long silence passes between you. His chest plate rises and falls with every breath. You count them. You’re worried your confession has upset him in some way. 

“Fuck. You’re killing me,” he finally mutters. His hands begin to move again, wrapping around your waist—feeling your ribs under the dress. “You look…good. In this dress,” you let out a sigh of relief. You relish the feeling of his hands on your body. You want so desperately to tell him to rip it off you—do anything he wants with you. 

“You wear this dress for him?” His words break your trance. 

“No,” you shake your head furrowing your eyebrows, leaning into his touch, and arching your back slightly. You start breathing heavily, you can see it fogging his visor. 

He crowds your senses, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. You can feel his cock—hard and wanting under his flight suit push into your core. It makes you gasp and see stars. Your hands instinctively come up to his chest plate. You feel the cold beskar bite your hot skin—it makes you shiver. 

“You fuck him?” He says, his crude language mixed with the feeling of his body pressed to yours runs laps in your mind. He pulls the shawl off your shoulders and toys with the strap of your dress. You can’t breathe, let alone see straight. You are drunk at the feeling of his hands on you—his body so close to yours. 

“No…no no. Definitely not,” you shake your head while leaning up to his helmet. If things were different you would reach up to kiss him. 

“No? Would you have let him?” He pulls the straps of your dress off your shoulder, the fabric falls down your chest, exposing your breasts to the air—your nipples pebble at the cold. 

“No—I…no. P-please,” You aren’t sure what you’re asking for, but you need him to do something, anything. 

“Fuck, angel. Please what? What do you want from me?” The nickname burns your skin—unlike anything you’ve ever felt. 

“Anything. A–anything. Whatever you want,” you plead. There’s almost tears in your eyes from your whining. The pool forming in your underwear is ever growing as he runs his hands along your bare chest, coming to grasp your tits in his hands, thumbing your nipples slowly. 

“Anything I want?” His hand pulls back, travels under your dress, and toys with the hem of your underwear. “You’re just for me?” He continues.

“Yes. Y-yes—just for you. Only for you. Mandalori—” 

He dips into your underwear, the pad of his gloved finger touches your aching clit lightly, you gasp and your head falls to rest against his chest plate. 

“Mandalorian.” He chuckles. “I’ve got my hand up your dress and you don’t even wanna call me Mando?” His head tilts down to the side to see your face. He suddenly pulls his hand out, and starts to undo the fastens on the wrists. Fuck. Is he going to show you his hands? His real hands? You look up to him, and back down to his wrists. You can’t take your eyes away from his hands. 

“Mandal—” 

“Bite.” He cuts you off, his fingers appearing in front of your mouth, you bite down on the tips of his fingers and feel him pull back—his hand slipping out of his glove. He undoes the other glove. You see his skin. Decidedly human, and tan. You figure his skin never sees the sun, so it must be his natural color. Tan. Human. 

“Do you want to know?” He returns his hands back under your dress, inching up your thighs again. The skin to skin contact makes your head spin and you feel lightheaded. Maybe he’s no good for you—something so simple isn’t supposed to feel so good. 

“Know what?” His fingertips dip back into your underwear, feeling your wetness. He groans slowly. He begins to push his right middle finger into your aching hole, but pulls back out so only the tip remains.  

“My name.” 

That snaps you out of it. He can tell. His fingers stop working on you. 

“I–only if you want…or you can just be Mandalorian to me.” You say and try to find his eyes beneath the visor. You whimper at the feeling of his fingertip in you. He pushes in—twisting his palm up so he can fill you till his knuckle. Maker, he causes you to see stars.

“I want you to know. ‘Cause you’re not just an assassin to me. Can I tell you?” He starts to pump slowly, finding a steady but achingly slow rhythm that has you whining into his chest. He brings his other hand to your chin, forcing it up to look at his visor. His head cocks—maker, he’s really asking you this question when he’s got his finger deep inside you? 

You nod your head frantically and shut your eyes. You feel close just from his slow movements—the pressure building from months of dreaming about him is about to explode. 

“Maker, I can feel you. You gonna come already angel? If I tell you, will you say it when you come? ” 

“Yes—yes fuck—please, please, f–anything for you.” 

He pumps more, adding a second finger, leaning down so his helmet’s forehead touches your own. That makes you want to cry. You bite your lip to soften your whimpers. 

“Din. Din Djarin.” He mumbles under his breath and starts pumping faster. 

Din. Din. Din. Din. Din. 

Maker, you can barely breathe. When you feel the heat in your belly begin to spill over, you clutch onto his bicep so tight you’re afraid it’ll hurt him. 

“Alright—alright. C’mon pretty girl. Give it to me,” he says—and you do. You come all over his fingers with a whine, louder than you expected, but then again it feels better than you ever expected. You say his name, his real name. Kriff. Your heart could explode.

When you come down from your high, he leaves his fingers inside you while he holds you in his arms, yours strewn over his shoulders, hanging from his body to keep upright. 

You drift to sleep in his arms, your mind only chanting one thing until you see darkness. 

Din. Din. Din. Din. Din.

_

Chapter Eight: The Resurgence

Taglist: Let me know if you want to be added!!

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#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x oc #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x f!reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #mando x you #mandalorian x you #mando x oc #mando x original female character #mando x y/n #din djarin x original female character #force sensitive reader #din djarin fan fiction #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine

[beskarandblasters]

Stonecatcher

Chapter Two: It's Strange What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do

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: The Mandalorian returns, leaving with more than just a blaster, of course.

Word count: 2.7k

Chapter warnings: finger sucking, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve seen the Mandalorian. You remember that night fondly but not because of the sex. No, you remember that night fondly because of the sale you made. It was your first sale to someone not local to here. While it was only an eight-credit sale, you had to start somewhere. 

Business has been doing good, though. For some strange reason, Casia has seen an influx of travelers lately. The inn has no vacancy and the cantina is busier than ever. Sheva’s been working more hours to accommodate the boom in customers, which leaves you to your own devices. And while you do miss spending time with her you also haven’t had much to think about it. With the amount of people passing through you’ve been able to make even more sales, and gain more inventory. Mando was just the beginning. 

To capitalize on all of the business Casia has been seeing, the cantina is having an event tonight. String lights hang from the roof and tables are set outside. It’s a bit of a risk having the outside by the river instead of inside the cantina. But it was all intentional. 

You’re helping Sheva put wildflowers in vases for the party, sitting at a table by the water's edge. It’s golden hour and the party is set to begin at sundown. It’s the first quality time you’ve had with Sheva in a while and she’s catching you up on her escapades over the past few weeks. 

“I told him to meet me out back after my shift was done,” she says, putting together another vase. 

“Well, did he?”

“He did,” she says suggestively. 

“You never told me what he looked like.”

“What does it matter? He’s long gone now.”

“Was he a Twi’lek?”

“Maybe…”

Maybe it’s the scenery and or the fact that you’re reconnecting with her, but either way, you’re feeling grateful about where you are for once. It almost feels like everything is falling into place on its own time. 

“You and your Twi’leks,” you joke, getting up and setting a vase on each table. 

“Oh yeah?? How about you and your Mandalorians,” she retorts. 

“That was one time.”

“You never told me how that was by the way,” standing up from her seat and placing a hand on her hip.

“I didn’t?”

“No, you just told me that he bought a scope and then you had sex.”

“That’s basically what happened.”

“…But how was it?” she says.

“Hot… but also kind of awkward. That’s usually how one-night stands tend to go,” you say, setting a vase on the last table. 

“And you’re okay with that? I didn’t take you for a one-night stand type of gal.”

“I mean… I’ll never see him again.”

She’s standing in front of you, the river behind her and the wind catching her hair. She doesn’t respond to you right away, looking past your head and wearing a smirk. 

“What is it?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Sure about what?”

“Turn around.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him, walking towards you. The sunset reflects off his helmet and the scene is almost… surreal. You were just talking about him and all of a sudden he appears. It’s like a scene straight out of a romance novel. 

Until he opens his mouth. 

“I went to your house and I couldn’t find you. I need something else.”

“…Okay? What is it that you need?”

“A blaster.”

“Alright…” you say, turning back to Sheva, “I’ll be back later, I guess.”

“Have so much fun,” she says smugly, waving at Mando. 

You walk back to your house side by side, silence hanging in the air which leaves you with your thoughts. 

Why is he here?

Dantooine is on a trade route but the planet itself is out of the way and so is Casia. 

“Why are you here?” you ask. 

“I already told you. I need a blaster.”

“You can’t get that anywhere else?”

“Are you saying you don’t want my business?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just wondering why you came here specifically. Where are you from?”

“Currently I’m on Nevarro.”

Maker, that’s far. It doesn’t make sense for him to come all this way for a blaster. 

…Unless he came here for other reasons. 

You think back to the one-night stand and while it was a little awkward it was still hot. Maybe he feels the same way. 

“That’s quite a ways away from here, Mando,” you point out. 

“Your prices are fair.”

“Right…” you say, opening your front door. 

Luckily, the smell of gas has dissipated over the past few weeks. Not that it mattered to him. But if this encounter is going to end like the last one, it’s nice to not have to smell that while Mando’s pounding the living daylights out of you. 

Your front room is crowded, filled with boxes and all sorts of weapons lining the walls. He looks all around the room, not sure what to focus on first. 

“I’ve… accumulated a lot more stuff since you’ve been here.”

“I see that,” he says. 

“What kind of blaster are you looking for?”

“Standard pistol.”

“Gotcha,” you say, searching one of your shelves. You find one he might like– black with a tiny amount of silver. You grab it off the shelf and turn around to show him. 

“How’s this one?”

“Perfect. How much.”

“Four hundred credits.”

“Not a bad deal,” he says, taking it in his hands. He examines the blaster carefully, the orange fingertips of his gloves running up and down the barrel. His hand wraps around the grip with his finger ghosting the trigger. He aims it at the wall, and for some reason, this is doing something for you. Is this how he felt when he watched you clean his rifle?

“Feels good?”

“Feels good,” he affirms. 

“Okay…” you start as he attaches it to his belt, “Do you need anything else?”

“Actually,” he says, helmet snapping back to you, “Do you have any of that… oil you used on my rifle?”

“Wow. Are you actually going to clean your shit?”

“…Yes.”

“You don’t want me to do it for you?”

He shifts his weight between both feet just like he did the last time he was here, fidgeting while he thinks of a comeback. But his mind draws a blank. Instead, he sighs and says, “Just get on your back already.”

Your mouth falls open but you can’t let him know of your bewilderment. So you quickly say, “Thought you’d never ask.”

You turn on your heel and lead him to your bedroom, swaying your hips as you walk. He wastes no time, grabbing you by the waist and pushing you down on the bed. You help him out, pulling off your underwear for him. He hesitates for a moment and you just assume it’ll be the same as last time, you spit into your hand and he shoves his cock inside you. 

But this time he stands by the bed, hands on his hips, and says, “Get up.”

“…Okay?” you say, wondering where he’s going with this. 

He grabs your waist again and turns you around so your back is towards him. 

“Bend over,” he growls in your ear. 

So that’s how this is going to go. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you say, bending over your bed for him and turning your head to the side, cheek resting against the mattress. 

He hikes up your skirt and caresses your ass with his gloved hand. Just when you think you know how this is going to shake out, he surprises you. 

He tosses his glove beside your head and it takes a second for you to register that he took his glove off. Your mouth falls open and he mutters, “Good girl.”

He leans forward, bending over you, and says, “Close your eyes.”

You do as you’re told, closing your eyes while his gloved hand grips your chin, keeping your mouth open while he places two fingers inside. 

“Suck,” he commands, closing your mouth shut around his fingers. 

Kriff, that’s hot. 

You swirl your tongue around his fingers, putting on an obscene performance. And although you can’t see it, he cocks his helmet to the side, watching you act like such a good girl for him. Once he decides you’ve done enough, he pulls his fingers from your mouth. You make sure to keep your eyes closed as you anticipate what he’s going to do next. 

His fingers tease your entrance, softly playing with you until he slides both of them inside you. You gasp at the sudden girth, taking a second to get adjusted.

“If you can take my cock, you can take two of my fingers,” he reminds you, curling his fingers against your walls. 

“I-I know,” you breathe out, voice high pitched. 

He’s incredibly skilled with his fingers. You’re already on your way to your first orgasm. It makes sense since he can’t take his helmet off. And you’re certainly not complaining.

The tension built up in your core spills over and your release gushes out of you, running down your thighs. Waves of pleasure course throughout your body and you’re shocked at how soon he got you there. 

He pulls his fingers from you, grabbing your shoulder with his other hand. You feel his cock enter you, splitting you open and leaving you writhing. His other hand grabs your waist as he fucks you like you’re nothing but a toy to him, an object made for his pleasure. Except the way he fingered you tells you otherwise. 

You’re too cock drunk to formulate a coherent thought about that. Instead, you focus on the immense pleasure you’re feeling. Everything from the tips of your ears to your toes feels like they’re set aflame, mind going fuzzy with nothing but thoughts of him. 

“That’s right. Take my cock like a good girl,” he says, voice all sultry and modulated.

You whimper in response, the words you were going to say caught in your throat and coming out as mangled sobs. His grip on your shoulder tightens, holding you in place as he rails you. Stars dance in the black backdrop of your closed eyes, tears would surely spill over if you opened them. But he said to keep your eyes closed and you intend to listen to him. He didn’t ask you to do that last time. Could it be because his glove came off? Because he revealed his skin? You’ve seen his cock but for some reason his hand is off-limits. How strange. The added element of anonymity during a time so intimate excites you. It only makes you grow wetter; more aroused. 

Before you know it, you’re coming again. This orgasm is deeper and stronger than the first one, all thanks to his impressive size. Your cunt clenches and releases his cock in a way that triggers his orgasm too. He holds you steady as he spills his cum inside you, a feeling you didn’t know you missed in his absence, a feeling you didn’t know you’d ever experience again. 

He pulls out of you when he’s done and it isn’t until you feel him sit on the bed beside you that you open your eyes. His glove is back on his hand and he sits with his thighs spread wide, a space that looks so inviting to sit. He takes a moment to rest after the energy he just exerted before rising, waiting for you to pull yourself together.

You stand before him, smoothing down your skirt while looking at anything but the visor of his helmet. He stands stiff as a board, hands balled up into fists at his sides. A thought crosses your mind. You could ask him to join you at the party at the cantina. It seems kind of pointless considering he can’t eat or drink in front of others. And he doesn’t seem like one for dancing. 

But you want to ask him just so you can be seen out in public with him, other than bringing him to your house. That feels a little insane, a little possessive even. You’re not in any sort of relationship. You’ve only had sex twice now. And you’re developing an inkling of feelings. This can’t be good. 

Come on, Athalia. You can ask him. 

“What are you doing now?”

“Probably heading out soon.”

“I was just wondering if…” you trail off. 

He tilts his helmet, looking directly at you. You finally meet his visor, taking a deep breath and asking, “Do you want to come to the party at the cantina tonight?”

“That’s a nice offer. But no thanks.”

“That’s okay…”

He turns to leave but you can’t let him go just yet. 

“Wait! Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“Why did you come all the way here? You could’ve gotten that blaster anywhere.”

“Your prices seemed fair. It looks like it was worth it, too. Your inventory has grown.”

“Right… Let me get you that cleansing oil before you go.”

You slide past him in the door frame, heart fluttering at being so close to him yet again. His visor watches you the whole time and you imagine it’s still fixated on you as you lead him to the front room. You open the cabinet and grab the cleansing oil while he fishes for the credits in his pocket.

“How much?”

“Ten for the oil.”

You turn around and hand it to him. He places the credits for both the blaster and the oil in your hand, nodding at you with the slight tip of his helmet before walking to the door. 

But he stops himself before he leaves. He turns around and says, “I never got your name.”

“Athalia.”

“Thanks. I’ve got some contacts looking to come this way but I wasn’t sure who they should be asking for.”

New customers.

“That’s nice of you!” you say, fiddling with your hands, “I guess you could call it… Athalia’s Arms.”

“Athalia’s Arms… Got it. I’m sure we’ll meet again,” he says, before opening the door and setting off into the night, cape billowing in the wind. 

He claims he was just here to buy something but… Could that be a lie? Is he feeling an inkling of something more like you are? He did turn down your offer to go to the party tonight but if it were really just about the blasters, wouldn’t he have gotten that literally anywhere else? Coming here must’ve cost him so much in fuel. 

Maybe just maybe there’s something there, crossing the line between a business owner and customer relationship, turning into something deeper and more meaningful. 

That’s exactly what’s happening. Because deep down you’re a little butthurt that he didn’t say yes to the party, that he didn’t even stay with you for a little bit after the sex. 

You shouldn’t care. He’s just a client, just a customer… Right? 

Wrong, he was never just a customer. He was always something more and he’ll remain something more if you don’t put a stop to it before you only get yourself hurt. 

You need to talk to Sheva about this, so you decide to pop back into the party alone. It’s well past sundown now and it makes you wonder how long you were with Mando. There’s a breeze in the air that leaves goosebumps on your skin and there’s not a single soul around. 

As you get closer to the cantina you see that… the party’s over. Everyone has left. 

For once, you don’t want to be alone and yet it’s like the universe is forcing you to. Sheva’s either at home sleeping or hooking up with someone from the party. And Sulee has been in bed for hours at this point. 

You sigh and turn around to head home, head hanging low while you’re left to reflect. He crossed the galaxy to buy a standard blaster and to bury his cock inside you. And that just has to mean something. 

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

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

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

[redahlia-writes]

when you hold me. | din djarin x reader

Prompt: when you hold me, I can feel your heart beating.

Words: 800ca

Content: fluff, comfort, established relationship, din being a little disaster, riduurok, implied smut but nothing explicit

A/N: prompt has been used for matt murdock as well

also on AO3  - masterlist

Din’s arms have grown familiar around you.

The weight and shape of it, his hands resting underneath your shirt, skin on skin in the dark.

He holds you in the dark of his bunk - your bunk for a few months now. His head rests in the crook of your neck, curls tingling your skin.

With the walls of his room protecting him - protecting you both - he sleeps soundly, holding you, warm and solid, his chest flush against your back, legs tangled with yours and the covers.

“Din?” you can never tell when he’s actually asleep - even when he’s so relaxed, his breathing even, kissing your skin from his parted lips, his hands don’t stop roaming across your skin, mindless patterns drawn with the tip of his fingers.

“What is it?” he mumbles tiredly, nuzzling into your neck.

You hadn’t expected the Mandalorian to be this affectionate - this physical. When his armor comes off he’s constantly searching for you, constantly searching for closeness.

“Are you alright?” you turn your head just a little - you cannot see him, but with the new angle the corner of your lips brushes his forehead.

“Of course,” he leans into you. “Why?”

“Your heart,” your hand rests on his when he stops tracing circles. “When you hold me I can feel your heart beating,” he eases his hold, allowing you room to turn and face him.

“You can?” you can almost picture the frown across his brow, how you’d reach to smooth it away. Slowly, you nod, shifting closer until you’re chest to chest, and his arms tighten around you once more, hands splayed on your back.

“It’s beating really fast,” it’s a whispered secret between the two of you, the tip of your nose brushing his. “It always does when something’s on your mind.”

“You can just tell that?” he chuckles, somewhat bewildered, tipping his chin up to brush his lips on yours.

The gentle touches are the ones you adore the most - for someone whose life is so fast, violent most of the time, it’s easy to lose oneself in tenderness. Din does just so, with lingering slow kisses and soft caresses, with embraces that last all night long and sweet touches in the morning.

“Even though I don’t know your face,” you murmur, soft-voiced, bringing your hand to his chest to press it where his pulse jumps, “I know your heart, Din.”

His breathing shifts - it’s almost imperceptible, but he’s so close and so familiar you couldn’t miss it even if you wanted to.

“There is something I’ve been thinking about,” he admits carefully, slowly, and the movement of his hands starts again, soothing mostly for himself. “For a while, now.”

“Wanna talk about it?” you offer, scratching his skin lightly. Din shifts a little, clearing his throat.

“Ah, haar’chak,” he mutters with a little scoff. “I wanted to do this properly, I wanted to do it right, this is -”

“Din, slow down,” you call, tapping his chest to the rhythm of his now racing heart. “What are you talking about?”

“Riduurok,” you know the sounds of Mando’a, but the uttered word is unfamiliar.

“What’s that?” Din inhales, shifting again, and you fight off the urge to take his face in your hands, kiss him back to calm.

“It’s a Mandalorian ceremony - a bond,” he clears his throat, voice hoarse. “A love bond.”

It’s your turn to shift, pulling back as if to look at him better, the frown forming on your face.

“What?” you shift your torso up a little, resting the weight on your arm. “Are you talking about marriage?”

“And as my riduur, I wouldn’t have to hide from you,” he exhales slowly, his hand sliding up your side lifted from the bed, following the curve of your body up to your shoulder, neck, until he’s cupping your cheek. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t do it anyway - I’d wake up tomorrow and not wear the helmet just to let you see me, but -”

“Din,” you lean into his touch, tap his chest again. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Yes,” he blurts out, and you can’t help the smile pulling at your mouth. “Although maybe you should be the one to say that - or not, I’ll understand, I just -”

You lean in - after months it’s easy to find his lips with your blindly, cutting him off with a quick kiss that leaves him gasping against your mouth.

“Take a breather,” you scold in a hum. “Your heart’s still running.”

“Of course it is,” he complains, the hand still on your side giving it a quick squeeze.

“Yes, Din,” you brush the arch of his nose with your lips, and he exhales at your words, hand shifting to your back to pull you closer. “Now breathe.”

“Now I kiss you,” he retorted, a smile in his words, unabashed happiness seeping through. “Breathing can wait.” 

And he did, heart jumping in his chest as if to reach you.

#redahlia #din djarin #din djarin x oc #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x gn!reader #din djarin x gender neutral reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian imagine

[morpborp]

Chapter One: He's Not So Bad

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC

Warnings: Blood, suspense

Summary: The Mandalorian meets a strange wolf-like girl who seems to know the child.

The child grumbled angrily as the mandalorian dismounted from the sand speeder. He chewed on his clothes, growing more irritable by the second. The mandalorian sighs heavily and readjusts the child in his hand. He slings the giant slab of Krayt Dragon meat over his shoulder and marches into the hangar. Peli is more excited about the meat than he and the child are. As the meat cooks over the fire, the mandalorian realizes he may need to find something easier for the child to eat. Even with an exhausted mind and body, Mando treks out towards the town. The shops are closing one by one as the end of the day grows nearer. The food is all picked over except for a few pieces of less desirable bitter fruits and odd meats. The child squirms and the mandalorian hears his stomach grumble, but he does not seem drawn to anything. It isn’t often that the child is this fussy and the mandalorian struggles to keep him in his arms. He sets the little green alien in the sand, which doesn’t make the child any happier. He sits down in the sand defeatedly. 

“Really?” Mando asks grumpily. “I don’t know what you want.” 

The child coos and tilts his head at the armored man. His three-fingered hands dig through the sand, creating little piles. They take a moment, the two of them. The mandalorian stands in the fading sun, watching the little boy play in the sand. Although there is still hustle and bustle, the streets are mostly quiet. But it doesn’t last. 

Shouts echoed around the corner along with the twang of blaster shots. The crowds leaped out of the way of a rampaging hooded figure. The stranger dodged several bullets flying down the alleyway. Their cape billowed in the breeze as they slid through the sandy streets. The figure barreled forward, not noticing the heavily armored man before them. Mando’s thoughts raced as he, the child, and the stranger fell to the ground. Even with all of this skill, he couldn’t avoid someone so fast. He quickly scooped up the child and pulled his blaster from its holster. The figure rose shakily, hood falling to their back. Mando widened his eyes as wolf ears rose high on the figure’s head. Glowing yellow eyes pierced through his helmet. Wearily, the figure shook her head and stumbled forward. Blood gushed down her furry white leg, pooling in the sand below. However, the Candorian’s eyes widened at the sight of the child. Her ears folded back slightly and her tail slowly wagged back and forth. 

“Y-you,” she whispered, staring at the child. “You’re the one who called me. I heard you, even in my sleep.” The child cooed and reached his tiny hands out to her. The longer Mando held him, the harder he squirmed, even beginning to cry. The Candorian stepped forward, but the Mandalorian raised his blaster closer to her. 

“Who are you?” he asked sharply. The child squirmed harder, but Mando tightened his grip. The Candorian remained silent, just staring at the child. 

“I-” The Candorian stopped as cries rang out in the streets again. Her ears stood upright and before the Mandalorian could even blink, she was gone, racing through the streets once again. The child screamed, wailing like the Mandalorian never heard before. 

“Wait!” he cried, but she was already too far away. The child screamed more, his fists balled with tiny fury. “Easy kid,” Mando whispered harshly. No amount of consoling quieted the child. Several men in strange black suits resembling storm troopers whipped around the corner. With blasters raised, they stalked down the streets. Civilians ducked their heads, hid behind stalls, or ran into shops. The Mandalorian stood still, keeping his blaster in hand as the armored men came closer. At first, the men ignored him, intently focused on tracking the pawprints and blood in the sand, but as they saw the tracks lead to the Mandalorian they surrounded him. 

“Where’s the girl?” 

The Mandalorian remained quiet, watching them carefully as they stalked around him. 

“She went this way,” one of the troopers said, pointing at the obvious path of blood and pawprints. All but one of the troopers followed the path. The remaining one continued to stare at Mando, keeping his blaster trained on him. 

“She’s ours, bounty hunter,” he growled. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mando replied blankly. The trooper scoffed and moved on, following the rest of his men. As he walked through the sand, the whole street let out a hefty sigh. Civilians emerged from their hiding places and business began to resume. The child, who was momentarily quiet, now sniffled as he reached out. His little hands grabbed at the air where she ran. Mando let out a heavy sigh. Getting involved was the last thing he wanted, but she knew the child. Or she knew of him. The Mandalorian did not believe in coincidences, but he believed in the child. That girl claimed he called out to her and he was clearly seeking her now. Mando had no idea how he “called out” to her, but the child did all kinds of mysterious things. What was one more? 

The Mandalorian followed the trail left by the Candorian. The pawprints and bloody droplets left a purely defined tracking beacon in the sand. The child cooed gently, still trying to calm down from his fit earlier. Thoughts raced through Din’s mind. Why was the child so upset? What does this Candorian mean to him? Does she know him? Does he know her? His thoughts came to a halt when the child started squirming again. As the Mandalorian looked to the ground, he noticed the trail stopped oddly in the middle of the sand. There was not much on the Mos Eisley outskirts, but it would still be unlikely for the Candorian to just disappear. The child squirmed harder, almost thrashing in Din’s arms.

“Easy kid,” he grunted again. Setting the child down, Mando watched as the child scuttled over to some rubble wedged into the sand. He slowly scraped the sand away, cooing as he made small amounts of progress. The Mandalorian kneeled beside him, starting to help him scoop sand away. Light spilled into the rubble, illuminating a white paw stained with blood and the tip of a white tail. Mando jumped back, but the child reached out for the tail. Before Din could grab him, the white paw twitched and pulled back. 

“So,” came a weak, faint voice, “you found me.” Even from the few moments he heard her voice, Din recognized the Candorian. Besides, what other species is half wolf, half human? 

“You managed to get away,” Mando said evenly.

“For the time being.” Silence hung heavy in the air as the child continued to grab at the Candorian’s tail. As he listened closely, Din heard ragged breathing coming from inside the rubble. Her heat signature was colder than normal. 

“Who are you?” The Mandalorian asks. “How…do you know this child?” 

“I don’t know him.” 

“You said he called you. You said you heard him.”

“I did.”

“How?” Din growled. Frustration crept up at her vague answers. 

“I heard him through the Force. He called for my help.”

“The Force?” he said, confused. “You mean his powers?”

The Candorian groaned and shifted in the sand. Her voice sounded closer. “Has he ever done things you can’t explain? Things that should seem impossible?” 

“Yes. He’s stopped fire. He’s moved things without touching them. He’s healed serious injuries. Is that the ‘Force?’”

“Yes,” she replied. 

“Are you a Jedi?” 

For a moment, there was no response. “No,” she said softly. “I am a wielder of the Force, but I am no Jedi.” 

At this, the child looked up at the Mandalorian, wiggling his ears slightly. Thoughts ran through the Mandalorian’s head again. However, they felt less and less rational by the second. She claimed not to be a Jedi, but if she studied their powers maybe she knew some. 

“I’m tasked with returning him to his own kind. Do you know any Jedi?” 

“I did,” the Candorian muttered, “but there aren’t any around here?”

“There’s none? Not one Jedi?” 

“I don’t know,” the Candorian whispered sadly. “I don’t sense their presence.”

“You can sense them?” 

“In a way. I feel them through the Force. That is how I found the child.” The mandalorian’s mind races. A question wells up in his throat. He pushes it down. He remembers the reputation of the Candorians being wild. Even though they are both human and wolf, many claimed that the wolf always took over. You could never trust a Candorian because they might snap and the last thing you wanted was to be in their way. However, the question still bubbled in his throat and it escaped before he could stop it. 

“Can you teach him?” 

There was more silence, but it was interrupted by a slight chuckle.

“Teach him what, exactly?” 

“How to use his powers; at least until I am able to return him to his kind.” 

“Why?” the Candorian asked. 

The Mandalorian grew quiet. It was a question he really did not know the answer to. Returning the child to his own kind was his duty, not teaching him to use his powers. Even if he was returned to the Jedi, would they make him learn? Why? What purpose did his powers serve? Not knowing what else to say, Din said the only thing he knew:

“This is the way.” 

He heard grunting from under the rubble and the Candorian’s voice was suddenly louder, clearer. He could see her hand, armed with long, sharp claws, in the small pool of light. 

“You saw what life is like for me. I am wanted.”

“By who?”

“I am not entirely sure.” 

“Then why do they want you?” 

“Probably because I am a Candorian. I don’t sense any Candorians either,” she uttered. 

“There are no Candorians anymore,” Din replies plainly. 

“N-no?” The Candorian laughs facetiously. “Where did they go?”

The Mandalorian scratches underneath the back of his helmet in confusion. She is a Candorian, how can she not know? He thinks.  

“They were all wiped out by the Empire, remember?” Silence fell between them again. Mando shifts uncomfortably, watching the child play with the Candorian’s tail. What am I doing? He thinks. It isn’t easy for people to bond with the child. He is extraverted and charming. Her being able to connect with him doesn’t mean anything, but it is less common for the child to reach out for someone so much. 

“If you keep me from getting taken, I’ll help you. I’ll teach the child everything I know, which isn’t much to be honest. Until we find a real Jedi, I’ll help you.” 

“I’m a bounty hunter,” the Mandalorian declared. “That shouldn’t be too hard.” 

There was no response from underneath the rubble, but the sound of shifting sand echoed through the alley. The child coughed as dust flew towards his little face. Mando scooped him up and stepped back as the hooded girl emerged from the broken roof. He took in her pale skin and jaded eyes. His gaze shifted to the gash on her leg, still trickling a little bit of blood. The fur all down her leg was no longer white like the rest of her. She swayed slightly on her feet and her tail hung lifelessly in the direction of her limp. The child stretched out his arms, asking to be held by her. She held out a hand gently and very cautiously. Mando passed the child along to her. Immediately, the child beamed wider than Din ever saw. He pulled at the wolf girl’s hair and pressed his three-fingered hands to her face. She smiled softly at him. 

“Yes,” she whispered, “I’m glad I’m here too.” 

“You can understand him?” 

“Yes,” she chuckles. “I told you. Many Force users are able to sense each other’s thoughts. It’s not word for word, but I get the message.” She smiled again and giggled slightly. “He’s excited. He likes meeting new people.” 

The Candorian’s smile dropped slightly and she handed the child back to the Mandalorian. Her ears drooped beneath her hood, causing the extra fabric to fall over her eyes. Her hand clutched her thigh. Blood spilled between her fingers. 

“I’d prefer not to bleed out on this hunk of sand. You have a ship?” 

Mando nodded and clutched the child close to his chest as he leaned forward. The Candorian wrapped her arm around his shoulder. However, she leaned against him as little as possible, still putting quite a bit of weight on her leg. The walk back to the hangar was long. He did not think she could keep it up the whole walk. Once situated, the wolf girl nodded and the three began the long trek back. 

There are many times Mando is thankful his face is covered. Especially now where he could hardly hide his shocked expression at the Candorian’s endurance. For miles they walked under the blistering heat. This is rarely an issue for Din and he imagined it likely isn’t an issue for the Candorian either under normal circumstances. However, she limped on, pressing her hand against the wound as she walked. The child was mostly quiet, just cooing every once in a while and reaching back towards the girl. 

At the hanger, Peli’s pit droids ran through the sand. They squabble with each other, letting out frustrated squeaks and beeps. The Candorian watched them curiously, but her eyes widened at the sight of the Razor Crest if she’d never seen one before. She stopped momentarily, gazing up at the metal beast. Something gleamed in her eyes as the ship reflected back in them. However, the growing argument of the pit droids broke her concentration. The Mandalorian ignored them, continuing to hold a bit of the Candorian’s weight. As he sat her down on a tipped over crate, Peli emerged from her office. 

“Hey you three!” she cried to the pit droids. “Knock it off!” With glee and a bit of force, she took the child from Din. He let her without hesitation, which the Candorian noted. She still chewed on a hunk of meat from the dragon. 

“Who’s this? And what happened to you?” Peli asks with a mouthful, observing the Candorian up and down. 

“Long story. Where is the med kit?” Din asked seriously. 

“In the office under the desk,” Peli replied casually and pointed back towards the office with her thumb. “So, you a friend of Mando’s?” 

“Not exactly. We just met.”

“Wow, you must be extra special then.”

“There’s nothing special about me,” sighed the wolf girl. As she said this, the child reached back out to her. The girl took the child and he rested calmly in her arms. 

“Oh, I see,” Peli smiled. “Let me tell ya, anything this kid wants, he gets. Mando spoils him rotten.” 

“I can tell he cares for him. I’m curious to know how they wound up together in the first place.” 

“He’s not such a bad guy, that Mando. Just gotta get through all that armor,” Peli said and sat down by the Candorian. She remained silent, waiting for the Mandalorian to return. The Candorian stared up at the sky, realizing that soon she’ll be up in it again. Only this time she won’t be blind or bound. The endless black void of space and the glistening stars will again be within her line of sight. Maybe then, she’ll feel more Jedi. She’ll feel someone, anyone, besides this child. Until we find a real Jedi, she said. But where are they? Why can’t she sense them? 

The Mandalorian plunked down on the ground next to her, immediately whipping the medkit open. The Candorian winced as he sprayed Bacta onto the wound. She rolled her neck uncomfortably, causing the child to look up at her. She forced a smile back at him. Although efficient, the Mandalorian is gentle. Even as he wraps gauze tightly around the wound, the Candorian only lets out a tired breath.

“Oh, hey Mando, I’ve got someone here for you!” Both the Mandalorian and Candorian looked up as a frog-like person walked through the sand. She had a strange tank strapped to her back filled with water and orange blobs. “She knows where some Mandalorians are!” 

“Where?” Mando asks and ties off the gauze. 

After croaking to the frog lady, who then croaked back, Peli said: “Trask.” 

“I thought we were looking for Jedi,” the Candorian girl remarks. The mandalorian doesn’t reply, but scoffs and falls into an argument with Peli and the frog-lady. 

The Candorian touched her leg gingerly. Already, it started to ache less. The child reached a hand down towards it curiously. She gently tickled his face, causing him to giggle. The Mandalorian spared a glance their way. His hands were on his hips as he argued back and forth with Peli and the frog lady. Eventually, Din sighed heavily and reached for the child. 

“Alright, let’s go,” he grumbled. 

The frog lady situated herself in the cockpit with her tank held close to her chest. Din laid the child in his crib and turned toward the Candorian. She dropped the hood of her cloak, revealing her towering wolf ears and golden eyes in full glory. Her face held more color than before and her eyes were no longer as murky. Her white hair tumbled down her shoulders like a mane. The top half of her body looked so human aside from the ears and eyes, but Mando couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the intense fixture of her gaze. They tracked his every movement, scanning for any moment he might move too quickly. However, her soft and smoky voice felt comforting in a way he couldn’t describe. 

“I don’t think I can climb the ladder,” she said and gestured to the cockpit. 

“That’s fine,” Din said and turned away. He pressed a button on the wall, revealing a small cot. She limped towards the small room and sat down on the ledge. 

“Thank you,” she sighed and rested her leg. The Mandalorian nodded and began to walk away. “By the way,” she called out to stop him. “I don’t expect you to tell me your name; I know many Mandalorians prefer their privacy, but I didn’t tell you mine.” The Mandalorian waited silently. “My name is Aurelia, but you can call me Aure.” The armored man did not respond for a moment, just stared at Aure intently. His fingers flexed slightly and he nodded, turning away. 

“It’ll take a while to get to Trask. Rest while you can.” 

“I will.”

#din djarin x oc #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #oc

[dindjarindiaries]

Security - Chapter 71: Home

summary: The Djarin family goes home, and Din and Astra find a perfect way to celebrate.

warnings: non-descriptive sexual content, alcohol, fluff

rating: M

word count: 8.620k

previous ⟸ masterlist ⟹ next

chapter 71: home

“The people of Nevarro appreciate all you’ve done, Mando.”

Greef’s words don’t help to pull Din out of the dreamlike state he’s stuck in. Astra’s gaze on him only worsens it in the most wonderful way. Today, he’s like a Wookiee youngling on Life Day, the happiest he’s ever been.

“I want to personally give you this deed to the cabin just outside of town,” Greef goes on, smiling from ear-to-ear as he hands the deed to Din, “where you can lay low with your family.” He leans in close and adds one more thing with an inflection of amusement. “Between adventures.”

Din clutches the deed tight in his left hand. When he speaks, his voice is strained with a gratitude he can’t quite bring to words. “Thank you.” Din reaches his free hand forward to give Greef’s a firm shake, holding it a moment longer than usual.

As soon as they pull away from each other, Astra steps up to Greef, going for an embrace rather than a handshake. Greef lets out a laugh of mixed surprise and joy, patting Astra’s back as she speaks. “Thank you, Greef.” Astra steps back to her place at Din’s side, close enough now for her arm to brush against his. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

Greef smiles and bows his head in respect. “Please, there’s no need to thank me. You deserve it.” Greef bends down to get closer to Grogu, who’s standing just beside him on the stairs. “And that goes for you too, Din Grogu.”

“Geef?” Zora’s voice asks next from her place in the floating pod.

Greef chuckles and leans towards Zora next. “You too, Miss Mando.”

Zora giggles and claps her hands together in joy. Din shakes his helmet and stares at the deed in his hand for a moment. He won’t be able to fully believe it until he sees it, so for now, he forces himself to stick to the present. “We have a gift for you as well,” Din announces, looking up at Greef once again. He then looks to the side and nods at the Anzellans, giving them the cue.

IG-11 clanks his way onto the scene, refurbished with the red of Greef’s Magistrate robes as he waves at the people he passes. “Greetings, citizens,” IG’s voice announces. “I am IG-11, your new Marshal.” Greef steps down from the stairs in disbelief as he watches IG-11 enter. “Your new Marshal of Nevarro.”

Din watches Greef continue making his way towards IG-11. He shares a look with Astra, who’s beaming just as much as he is underneath his helmet. Neither one of them would have been able to serve as marshal and remain tied down to Nevarro, but bringing back their old friend fulfills the job perfectly - and hopefully serves as a proper thank-you for Greef’s generous provision of the cabin.

“I am here to serve and protect the citizenry,” IG-11 continues to the gathering crowd. Greef works his way into the group to start applauding the new marshal’s arrival. The volume of their cheers drowns out the rest of whatever IG-11 has to say.

Din continues to watch until Astra’s head rests against his arm, drawing his attention back to her. Her gloved fingers weave through his own as she smiles at him, her gaze brighter than ever as she asks the question that’s been hanging in the air between them. “Is it time to go home?”

Her words, as simple as they are, nearly knock the breath from Din’s lungs entirely. He glances at Greef and IG-11 one last time, just to see their friends as busy as ever. “Yeah, cyar’ika.” Din squeezes his wife’s hand and turns to face her, resting his helmet against her forehead. “Let’s go home.”

Astra smiles as wide as her lips allow her, but she also closes her eyes, taking Din’s helmet between her hands. Din’s brow furrows beneath his beskar in slight concern. When he starts to tilt his head, Astra’s eyes reopen, her gaze quickly considering him. “I’m okay.” She laughs and nods for further reassurance. “I’m more than okay. I’m just trying to memorize this moment.”

Din holds her arms and gives them a gentle squeeze. “This is the first of many more.” He aches at the idea of separating himself from her, but he forces himself to do so to get his family home. Din bends down to pick up Grogu and sets him in the pod beside his sister, who all but screeches when her father comes close.

“Papa!” Zora cheers, taking a few excited breaths. “Go ‘ome!”

“That’s right, Zozo!” Din matches her energy the best he can, running a gloved hand over her curly head. “We’re going home.”

Even Grogu coos excitedly with them, his ears rising high on his head as he does so. Din closes his eyes underneath his helmet and steadies himself with a quick breath. Their homecoming may not feel real yet, but it certainly feels good. Happiness was once a luxury Din could never afford, but because of his family, it’s now become a sweet simplicity.

Din takes Astra’s hand once again when he stands to his full height and leads the way back to the N-1. They stop on the way only to pick up a few necessities from the bazaar, with Din handling their tools, food, and other supplies while Astra selects some much-needed clothing for their children. The rest of their trip to the starfighter is made in comfortable silence, something their eagerness to get home is surely responsible for.

Grogu stays with Din in the N-1 while Astra takes Zora, though their trip home is much shorter than any other they’ve taken before. Like Greef had said, the cabin is just outside of town, giving them enough privacy for Din to go outside without his helmet but also a close enough distance for them to walk to town. It may be isolated, but it’s not desolate; Instead, it’s lush with flora in its place near the hot springs, and there’s even a small pond where Grogu can play with frogs if he so desires.

Din loses his breath when he sees the cabin—their cabin. There’s only one thought that pierces through the joyful haze of his mind: It’s perfect.

Din’s reaction is shared by Astra, who lets out a small gasp of delight at the sight of their cabin. He smiles to himself and lands the starfighter just beside it, only tearing his gaze from their home to make sure he gets his family and the N-1 on the ground safely. As soon as the starfighter’s powered down, Din slides his canopy open, hopping down from the N-1 and setting Grogu on the ground beside him before he reaches up to do the same with Zora and Astra.

Astra presses a hand upon his cuirass as soon as her boots hit the dirt, her gaze never once leaving their home. She smiles as wide as she ever has and offers Din an excited glance. “That’s our home,” she reminds him, breathless in her joy. She laughs in sweet disbelief and reaches her hands up to lower his helmet against her forehead. “Our home!”

Din’s smile matches her own as he runs his thumbs over the sides of her face. “Our home!” He takes a moment to admire his true home before he acknowledges their physical one. “What do you think?”

Astra’s gaze looks upon the cabin again as she beams and rests her head beside her hand upon his cuirass. “It’s perfect.”

Din rests the lip of his helmet upon her head. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Din’s voice remains as soft as his touch is upon her back. “Should we take a closer look?”

Astra lifts her head and nods, her happiness bubbling over with another laugh that sends Din’s chest aflame. She takes him by the hand and leads him to their front door, the children following at their heels. Grogu keeps Zora from toppling over, earning a nod of approval from Din. Astra stops just in front of the door, her armored chest rising and falling in a breath before she turns to look at Din.

“Here.” Din takes the deed from his belt and hands it to Astra. “You deserve to do it first, rid’ika.”

Astra beams at him and keeps his hand with her own. “Let’s do it together, riduur.”

Din tilts his helmet in amazement of her. He watches as Astra takes the lead, lifting their credentials to the touchpad on the right side of the threshold and hearing it beep in the affirmative. It lights up green and slides the door open, and Din releases Astra’s hand only to urge her forward with a soft touch upon her back.

Din and Astra are both left in sweet awe as they observe the new space they get to call home. Greef already has it fully furnished for them, with crates sitting in the foyer just in front of them for storage along with couches, stools, and whatever else they could possibly ask for all set up in the living area. There’s a kitchen directly attached to the sitting room, with a place for them to make a fire if the Nevarro nights get too cold.

Din notices two doors on either side of the divide the foyer creates, no doubt each leading to a bedroom that are well-separated from one another. Astra must come to the same realization, as she’s soon bending down to pick up Zora in her arms and nodding at Grogu. “Ready to go see your room?” Astra’s voice hides none of her sheer joy and enthusiasm as she smiles at their children.

Zora and Grogu coo in the affirmative, with their daughter clapping her hands in the excited way she often does. Din tightens his fist in adoration of his family as he follows them to the bedroom on their right, the one that’s detached from the rest of the living area. Astra, by the Force or the stars, somehow has chosen correctly, as Greef’s already had this particular room furnished with two smaller beds for Grogu and Zora amongst many storage options for clothing, toys, and more.

“Look at this, adike!” Astra exclaims, beaming as she observes the space. “This is your room!”

Grogu looks up at Astra, glancing between her and Din while managing an Eh? for clarity. “Yeah, buddy,” Din speaks up, kneeling down at Grogu’s side and patting his head. “It’s all ours.” Din points at the beds as Grogu’s ears rise in delight. “You and Zora get to have this space all to yourselves, until you’re both old enough for us to add another room.”

Grogu coos and presses himself against Din’s side the best he can, smiling with gratitude at his father. Din just cups the side of his tiny head with his gloved hand and takes a deep breath, watching as Astra takes Zora through the room. She’s babbling to her mother and pointing more than she ever has, making Din chuckle and earn Astra’s attention. “I think she likes it,” Astra confirms with a soft laugh.

Din gives Grogu’s back a gentle pat before he stands to his full height. He starts to make his way over to Astra and Zora. “And what about you?”

Astra’s gaze meets Din’s visor, and he doesn’t miss the tearful glaze over her eyes as she smiles at him and shakes her head in disbelief. Din takes Zora from Astra and gives one of her tiny hands a squeeze before he sets her down on the floor near Grogu. He then takes Astra’s hands in his and gestures with his helmet to the threshold of the room.

“May I take you to our room?”

Astra nods, words still failing her in a way that makes Din’s heart constrict with an unprecedented sweet joy. He keeps one of her hands in his own as he guides her out of the room, entrusting Zora with Grogu for now as he leads Astra through the living area. Din takes a quick glance at her to see that she’s beaming at the part of the cabin they’ll no doubt spend most of their time in, her gaze only returning to the way ahead when Din opens the door to their bedroom.

It’s perfect for them. With a bed nearly as large as the one at Boba’s palace and a full refresher attached through another door, Din and Astra have more domestic luxury here than they could have ever wished for. There’s also plenty of storage along with enough wall space for Din to build exactly what he had promised Astra he would back in their stone-cast home to hang up their armor.

Astra’s the one who takes the lead enough for them to stand near the foot of their bed. She turns to Din and her gaze is even more tearful than before, but her smile is somehow even wider. Astra lifts her hands to remove Din’s helmet for him, kissing the top of it before she sets it on the bed. The action creates a warm flame within Din’s chest so ardent that he’s certain nothing could ever snuff it out. Astra wraps her arms around his neck, bringing their armor flush against each other as her lips start to tremble.

Her words are so quiet that Din almost misses them over the sound of his own rapid heartbeat. “Thank you.” A tear manages to escape her eye that Din’s quick to wipe away. “You’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted.” Astra urges Din’s head to lower and presses her forehead against his own. “Because you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’re the one to be thanked here,” Din insists, his voice just as soft as her own. He raises his brow and brushes his thumb over another one of her fallen tears. “If you hadn’t been so brave in urging the covert to rescue me, then things would be much different.” Din lifts his head from her own to press his lips to her forehead. “But that’s just who you are, Astra. Brave, strong, loyal, beautiful…”

Astra releases a sound that’s half a laugh and half a sob as she buries her face in Din’s cowl. “I love you, Din,” her muffled voice declares. Her boots lift off the floor and Din urges them the rest of the way up, his gloved hands holding her legs in place around his waist as Astra embraces him for dear life. “Thank you.”

Din rests his head against her own and smiles wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Thank you.” He turns his face to press a kiss against her head. “Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, ner cyar’ika. Ner rid’ika. Ner oyay.” Din steadies himself with a deep breath and adds one more. “Ner yaim.”

Astra lifts her head and holds Din’s face between her hands. “Does that word mean what I think it means?”

Din’s smile remains as he nods. “It does.” He manages to hold Astra’s weight with one arm as the other quickly reaches back to take the item from his belt. He shows her the Mando’a booklet that’s certainly earned some intense wear and tear over the years. “I still have it.”

Astra stares at it for a long moment in sweet astonishment. Her gaze only returns to Din’s own when he lowers the booklet back to his belt and focuses on holding her again.

“You’ll always be my home, Astra.”

Astra’s smile starts to widen as she brushes it against his own. “And you’ll be mine.” Her lips press even more upon his, making his breath her own. “Take me home.”

Din would never deny his wife, his home, and so he becomes the one to fully close any gaps left between them. Din’s been blessed by the galaxy enough to to experience many moments like these with her, but even this somehow makes his mind, heart, and body feel a way he never has before. It’s the lightness of their freedom, the clarity of their future that allows Din to be at home with Astra without them having to check over their shoulders.

With their children still in the other room, Din and Astra let this moment last just a bit longer than usual, waiting until their shared breath fully loses oxygen to pull away. Astra’s hands have no doubt only added to the muss of Din’s helmet hair as she lets out a soft laugh and cups the back of his neck. Din becomes the one to hide his face in his wife’s neck as he exhales an affectionate breath.

Once they’ve sat in the moment long enough, Din lifts his face again and starts to ease Astra’s boots back to the floor. “So,” he begins, his voice now a rasp from his lack of air, “what would you like to do first in our home?”

Astra takes a deep breath and presses her hands upon his cuirass. She watches her fingers drum against the beskar in thought before she nods to herself and meets Din’s gaze again. “Let’s get married again.”

Din’s eyes widen at that. He spots the sweet severity in her eyes and furrows his brow. “Are you sure? I mean, I… that’s what I want, too, but I didn’t know if you’d want more time to prepare.” He gestures with his head to the open threshold behind them. “Grogu and I haven’t even grown or gathered the flowers yet.”

“I saw some flowers out there when we landed.” Astra continues to beam at him as she goes on. “And I may or may not have made some secret purchases of my own when we were at the bazaar.”

Din raises an eyebrow at her. “Is that so?” Din chuckles and cups the side of her face. “And here I was thinking nothing could get past me.”

Astra laughs and shrugs. “It was easy to hide it all with the kids’ clothes.” She turns her face to give his palm a kiss. “What about you? Are you prepared?”

Din huffs with amusement. “Well, I thought I was.” He runs his thumb along the end of her scar. “Will I have enough time to prepare for the sight of you?”

Astra considers his words with a deep breath. “Based on how you reacted to my armor…” she tries to bite back her amused smile, “no, you won’t.”

“I figured as much.” Din smiles when Astra giggles to herself. He can’t keep himself from kissing her forehead again. “Let’s at least have dinner first. I’d like to break open that bottle of wine from Coruscant once our ceremony’s over.”

“Right after we put the kids to bed.” Astra pushes herself up to kiss him again, more briefly this time. “Perfect.” She gives him one more kiss and pulls away. “Let’s finish bringing our supplies in, then.”

Astra takes Din’s helmet for him and slides it on over his head. She pats his beskar cheek before leading the way out of their bedroom, though Din’s visor lingers on the sight of it. He can’t help grinning to himself yet again. This is their new sacred space, their safe haven, and he’s determined to not only make it but keep it that way. Din couldn’t have asked for a better first moment to have shared here.

His eagerness to help Astra with the supplies wins out and he hurries to join her out by the N-1. There’s a tidal wave of joy that overcomes Din when he sees Astra again, and he can’t keep himself from closing the gap between them and wrapping his arms around her from behind. She squeals, half in surprise and half in delight, before she crumbles into laughter. Din keeps Astra between the N-1 and himself, his helmet pressed against her forehead as he watches the light dance in her eyes.

This is exactly what Din’s always wanted to feel with his wife. Moff Gideon is dead, Mandalore belongs to their people once again, and Din and Astra are the ones hunting the Empire instead of the other way around. This is what it’s like to feel safe.

Din gives Astra’s waist a gentle squeeze before he climbs up and retrieves their bags of supplies. He and Astra both take them inside, their sides brushing against each other before Din secures the door of their home closed behind them. Din takes everything Astra’s holding to let her get the kids from their room while he starts to prepare dinner. It’s not anything complicated, as Din had planned for them to be too excited to whip up something complex for their first meal in their new home, but it’s certainly nicer than the meals they’ve been used to.

Din smiles wider to himself as he sets his helmet down on the counter and starts to get the necessary supplies from their compartments and cabinets. Even just thinking the words our home makes his heart flip over and over inside his armored chest. After everything he’s been through, after the solitary way he’s lived his life for so many years, he never even considered this to be a possibility.

Yet as Astra joins him again with a Djarin child on each hip, Din has to shake his head in disbelief. Here he is, and here they are, the better parts of himself who he gets to call his family.

Astra sets Zora and Grogu on the stools at the counter as she walks around to stand at Din’s side and help him with dinner. The hardest part is keeping Grogu from lifting the ingredients with the Force, though after a few laughs and Din’s stern yet gentle warning, Grogu stops to instead focus on entertaining his sister. For this being their first meal together in their home, it’s already as familiar as a sacred routine, and that’s what makes Din’s cheeks ache with a smile he can’t get rid of.

When dinner’s complete, Din and Astra move their children and the meal to the table just beyond their counter, where they let Zora attempt to recount the excitement of the day with babbles she manages between bites. Astra helps to feed her as she nods with understanding, reminding Din of how she conversed with the Frog lady on the Razor Crest so long ago. Grogu’s the first to finish as always, and by the time everyone’s done, the Nevarro sun is already starting to set.

“I should get ready,” Astra says, rising from her place at the table and taking Zora on her hip.

Din starts to stand with her. “Will you need help?” His words are laced with the same genuine concern that’s woven into the knit in his brow.

Astra tilts her head at him with an amused smile. “Nice try.” She presses her free hand upon Din’s shoulder to gently set him back down in his chair. “There’s no peeking until we start our ceremony.” She gestures with her head to the viewport in their kitchen. “Zora and I will meet you outside.”

Din nods, words failing him for some reason as he watches the Djarin girls enter his and Astra’s bedroom. The door slides closed behind them and Din releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’ll have even less composure when that door opens up again.

Grogu catches his father’s attention by waving a tiny hand in front of Din’s line of vision. Din turns his head to see Grogu standing where Din’s dish has previously been, his ears rising with a coo as he points at the viewport.

Din chuckles at his son. “I know.” He stands and takes Grogu with him, setting him in the corner of his arm. “We have a job to do before they join us again.” Din places Grogu on the counter. “But first, let’s clean up.”

Grogu helps Din as best as he can with the cleaning of the table and their dinner dishes before Din takes his helmet and slides it on once again. The two of them make their way out of the cabin and Din sets Grogu on the ground, pointing towards a nearby patch of lush grass.

“Gather whatever flowers you can,” Din instructs his son and apprentice. He picks a nearby flower as an example. “Like this.” Din shows Grogu the length of the stem.

Grogu nods with a determined huff and waddles off in search of flowers. Din gathers the ones closest to him, stopping every now and then to keep an eye on Grogu. They’re safe here, but Din’s protective instinct will never stop, especially after the lifestyle they’ve had ever since he gained this beautiful family of his.

By the time Grogu makes his way back over to Din, he’s gathered as many flowers as his tiny hands can keep together, which make for a perfect final addition to those in Din’s own grasp. Din kneels down to take them from Grogu and pats his son’s head. “Good job, buddy.” He inspects the makeshift bouquet in his gloved hand and nods in satisfaction. “You did very well.”

Grogu’s ears rise up high on his head as he coos in gratitude. He tries to get words out, but it’s more of a squeaking sound. Din still praises him for it with another pat on his head.

“Let’s head out back.” Din lifts Grogu and walks around the back of the cabin. When Grogu offers a confused coo in response, Din elaborates. “Your mother gestured back here.” Din stops and looks around, realizing the view of the town is completely hidden by the structure of the cabin. “Must be for privacy.” He glances at the horizon and watches the Nevarro sky stretch out in bold shades of orange and pink. “And the view.”

Grogu coos to agree. Din sets him on the ground once again and tilts his helmet.

“Will you serve as our witness, Grogu?” Grogu nods with an excited breath, making Din smile to himself as he returns the gesture. “Thank you.”

Din stands with his back to the sunset, instead staring at the cabin as he waits for Astra and Zora to join them. His gloved hands remain folded over his middle as he shifts his weight, the cluster of flowers tucked into his belt. Grogu releases an Eh? and Din gives his son a quick glance.

“Yes, I’m still nervous.” Din tilts his helmet when Grogu snickers at him. “Maybe you’ll understand it one day, kid. I…”

Din stops when a flash of white from around the corner of the cabin proves the two of them aren’t alone anymore. His breath catches in his throat when he sees Astra in a dress that’s much different from the tactical clothes and armor she’s had to sport in their years together. It’s the same shade of white as the snow on the planet Din once took Astra to the first time they had to leave Sorgan, just after they had confessed they’d found a home in one another.

Astra sets Zora next to Grogu and continues towards Din. He reaches for the flowers on his belt, surprised to find that his gloved hands are shaking enough for him to notice—though his gaze never once breaks away from Astra’s. Din holds the flowers out for her to take, which she does with a soft smile of gratitude and affection. She stops just in front of him, her free hand finding one of Din’s and holding it tight.

“I know the color is different.” Astra’s voice is as soft as her grasp on his hand as Din gives her a once-over. “A white dress is an Arilian tradition. It symbolizes the new beginning of a marriage, like a fresh snowfall.” Astra runs her thumb over the back of his hand, and Din’s visor meets her gaze again. “Do you like it?”

Din uses all his strength to push past the lump in his throat and force the words out. “Cyar’ika.” He steadies himself with a deep breath. “You look so…” he lowers his voice for just them to hear, “fucking…” Din brings his voice back to a normal volume, “beautiful.”

Astra laughs and gives his hand a squeeze, her gaze falling from his for a moment in her shyness. “Thank you.” She finds his visor and raises her brow at him. “I thought the same thing when I saw you.” Astra gestures with her eyes to the view behind him. “Especially with the sunset at your back.”

Din huffs, shifting his weight between his feet in his own shyness. He takes another breath and holds tight to her hand, allowing the other to hold onto her waist. Din’s visor never once leaves her gaze. “Astra.” He squeezes her waist, earning an even brighter smile from her. “Thank you for standing by me ever since the day we met, even during the times I was misguided. Having you has…” Din pauses, shaking his head in amazement, “it’s saved me. Mhi solus tome.” We are one when together.

Astra’s thumb runs over his hand again. “Din, thank you for never once failing to fight your way back to me. You’ve always given every part of yourself just to make sure I’m safe, and you’ve done the same with the rest of our family.” Her gaze shines at him as she goes on. “No one’s ever fought for me like that before.” She squeezes his hand. “Mhi solus dar'tome.” We are one when parted.

Din summons the strength of his Mandalorian ancestors to go on. “I’m endlessly grateful to have this home with you.” Astra grins widely at that, making Din chuckle and give her waist another squeeze. “Everything I have, everything I am, is yours. That’s something that will never change.” Din nods to emphasize his words. “Mhi me'dinui an.” We share all.

Astra beams at him, looking as if she’s about to burst with pure joy. “But the best thing we share is our family.” She only breaks her gaze with Din to look at their children. “First Grogu, then Zora Arilia…” Astra looks at Din and raises an eyebrow, “and whoever comes after.” Din smiles with his wife and he hopes she can at least sense it. She lifts the hand holding the flowers and presses it against his helmet, urging it to meet her forehead. “Mhi ba'juri verde.” We will raise warriors.

Din gives her hand a gentle yet firm squeeze. “Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, rid’ika.”

Astra lifts her hand from his only to take a tighter grasp on his helmet. “I love you too, riduur.” She raises the beskar of his helmet just enough to reveal his mouth, adding one more promise upon his lips. “Always.”

They seal their vows now just as they had the very first time, with a kiss full of such love and deep affection that Din has no choice but to exchange a sigh with Astra that only brings them closer together. They don’t make too much of a spectacle for their children to see, instead forcing themselves to separate with the loveliest of smiles left behind on their stinging lips.

Din raises one hand to the back of Astra’s head and urges it to rest against his cuirass. She holds her there for a while, letting her wrap her arms around him as they both stare at the Nevarro sunset. When Din steals a look at their children, he sees them mimicking their parents’ embrace, though both their eyes are partially closed in exhaustion. Din chuckles to himself, the sound rumbling through his chest enough to make Astra lift her head.

“What?” Astra’s question is nothing but a soft and sweet breath.

Din gestures with his helmet to their children. “Look.”

Astra turns her head towards Grogu and Zora and lets out a sweet laugh. She holds tight to the material of Din’s cape in one of her hands and looks up at him with such reverence that it threatens to make his knees buckle beneath him. “It must be time for bed and breaking open that bottle of wine.”

Din nods, gaining the faith to step away from her as he tends to their children. He takes one child in each arm, letting them rest their weary heads upon his armored shoulders as he leads the way back inside their home. Din enters their children’s bedroom with Astra trailing him and sets Grogu and Zora on their respective beds. Astra helps him to tuck them in and say goodnight with a kiss to each of their heads.

After they both linger for a moment, Din and Astra let the door to the bedroom close and make their way to the kitchen. Din sets his helmet on the counter and turns to Astra, holding her waist and taking the time to observe her and her dress without the filter of his visor. Astra’s happiness bubbles over with giggles as she wraps her arms around his neck and brings him close enough for a kiss. It’s deeper than the one they shared before, though it’s just as brief, even as they pull away and go back to each other over and over again.

Eventually, Din stops the cycle to reach for the bottle of wine from Coruscant that Greef had gifted them. He draws his vibroblade from his boot to open it, making Astra gasp and squeeze his free arm before she laughs at him.

“There has to be a better way of doing this!” Astra insists just as Din manages to earn the satisfying pop! sound of the seal being broken.

“Sure.” Din sets the cork aside and offers the bottle to his wife. “But it’s probably not as exciting.”

Astra shakes her head, though the admiration she holds for him is evident in her sparkling gaze. She takes the bottle and considers its weight in her hand. “We should probably serve this in something nicer, but…” Astra grins and lifts the neck of the bottle towards her lips, “sharing it like this is also more exciting.”

Din openly admires his wife as she draws the first sip from the bottle. “That’s one way to put it.”

Astra huffs as she passes the bottle back to Din, letting him take the second sip. The wine is a smooth and soothing warmth that flows down his throat, engulfing his chest in a sensation much like that which Astra always brings him. Din raises his brow in sweet surprise.

“This tastes amazing.” Din glances at the bottle and chuckles in disbelief. “Greef wasn’t lying about the quality.”

“Well,” Astra starts, taking the bottle from Din when he offers it to her again and wrapping her free hand around the back of his neck, “I know something that tastes even better.”

Astra kisses Din in a way that makes even the knees of a great Mandalorian warrior go weak before she pulls away to take her next sip. They continue to go back-and-forth with the bottle, not needing any entertainment other than each other as they talk, laugh, and kiss between their shared sips. Din couldn’t have possibly imagined a better way to ring in their vow renewal, as well as their first evening together in their home—even if he has some other ideas.

By the time the bottle’s nearly empty, Astra’s sitting on top of the counter with Din’s arms wrapped around her. He rests his head against her chest as she takes another sip from the bottle. Even with the comfortable fogginess he’s earned from the wine, Din’s still acutely aware of their surroundings, and for the first time since they met, he’s positively certain about their safety.

Astra also seems to be thinking of their surroundings, as she releases a light gasp that makes Din snap his head up from her chest. Her gaze leaves whatever she’s observed to meet his own, the warm lights of the cabin dancing in her eyes. Din never wants to stop staring at them, at her. “I have an idea.”

Din can smell the wine on her breath, but she somehow makes it even sweeter. He’s sure the wine’s had the same effect on him in return. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Astra smiles from ear-to-ear, though her expression becomes more serious as she holds his face between her hands. “But if you find it to be uncomfortable or disrespectful in any way, you stop me right away. ‘Kay?”

Din wrinkles his brow and flattens his palms upon her back. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, ner kar’ta.”

Astra perks up again at that. “Good.” She giggles and lifts her fingers towards his eyes, delicately closing the lids. “Keep your eyes closed until I say so.”

“Yes, ma’am—Your Highness.”

Astra laughs and gives his armored shoulder a light swat. His hands are forced away from her when she leans for something, almost having to crawl around on the countertop before he senses the warmth of her legs against his hips and thighs once again. She can’t help letting out giggles at whatever she’s doing, making Din’s own chest rumble fondly at the mere idea of it all.

Astra taps Din’s cuirass a few times with her finger, but Din still keeps his eyes closed. “Is that my cue?”

“Yes!” Astra’s tone is purely amused, but the sound of her voice is different somehow, as if mumbled or even modulated.

Sure enough, when Din opens his eyes, he’s staring right into his own visor. He has to blink a few times through the fogginess the wine’s brought him to understand what’s happening, and once he does, he can’t keep himself from laughing the hardest he has in a long time. Astra’s reached for his helmet and slid it on over her own head, and now Din gets to be the one who holds the beskar cheeks and pulls her close enough for a Keldabe kiss. “What in the great galaxy gave you this idea, cyar’ika?”

“I just wanted to see you the way you always see me,” Astra insists, setting her hands upon his cuirass. “There’s a lot more to it than I thought.” She lifts a hand to Din’s hair and brushes it back from his forehead. “It smells like you.”

Din furrows his brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means it smells nice, riduur. Don’t worry.” Astra giggles and continues to run her hand through his hair. “You’re a clean guy. This armor never has a smudge, if you can help it.”

Din ignores the warmth in his face and huffs. “You wear it well, rid’ika.”

Astra gives Din a once-over that’s obvious with the movement of the helmet. He tries not to worry about whether his observations of her have always been so clear, too. “You wear it even better.”

“You think so?”

Astra holds the lip of Din’s helmet with one hand and lifts it high enough to show her mouth. “I do.” She closes the gap between them, putting Din on the other side of this helmet kiss for the first time. His smile against her lips is never-ending at the thought, even as they pull away from one another. Astra slides the helmet off and sets it beside her on the counter. “I’m sure you prefer something more comfortable, though.”

Din shrugs. “Sometimes.” He takes the bottle and draws his last sip from it, handing it to Astra for her to finish off.

Astra waits a moment to do so. “I’m definitely ready to get into something more comfortable.” She empties the bottle and places it where it had been before. Her eyes are wide and pleading as she wraps her arm around his neck. “I think I need some help getting out of this, though.”

Din can’t stop his sly grin from growing. “You didn’t seem to have a problem putting it on by yourself.”

Astra lets out a dramatic breath. “That was different!” She urges Din closer and furrows her brow in a pitiful manner. “Please?”

Din chuckles and kisses her forehead. “You never have to plead for my help, cyar’ika. Of course I will.” He urges her to tighten her legs around him as he lifts her the same way he had earlier that day. “C’mon. Let’s get you comfortable.”

Astra’s cheek presses against the unarmored part of his shoulder as she exhales in relief. “Thank you, my love.”

Din rests his head against hers and makes his way to their bedroom. “You don’t have to thank me, rid’ika.”

“You’re really strong, you know.”

Din has to huff with amusement to keep the flush out of his face. “It’s nothing compared to your strength.”

The door to their bedroom slides open for them and closes once Din walks through the threshold. He eases Astra back onto her feet and meets her expression of doubt. “First of all, not true. Second of all…” she pauses, as if she’s lost the thought within her mind and exchanged it for another, “you’re very beautiful.”

Din forces himself not to look away, despite his shyness. “That means a lot coming from you.” He kisses each end of her scar and takes a deep breath. “All right, can I help you get comfortable, now?”

Astra nods, beaming as she turns around to allow Din to complete his work. He removes his gloves first, using his teeth and tucking them into his belt. The daze of his slight drunkenness doesn’t affect his ability to work as nimbly as possible, attending to each button and clasp on the material of the dress with diligence. Astra’s holding it up against her front, waiting for Din to confirm he’s finished before she lets it slide off.

As it turns out, it’s what’s hidden underneath that’s been her true surprise all along.

Din doesn’t have to look at Astra’s face to know she’s taking delight in his pleasant shock, every part of his body going rigid except for his eyes. His gaze finally meets her own, and the look she gives Din makes him forget whether it’s her or the wine that's made his galaxy feel so hazy.

Din shifts his weight and gestures to Astra’s image before him. “You never mentioned…” he pauses, but there’s no word good enough to describe what he’s seeing, “this.”

“Actually, I did.” Astra grins and bends down to set her dress aside. Din has to force himself to glance away from her to maintain his self control, his jaw tightening in his effort. “I told you I made purchas-es in the marketplace.”

Din’s gaze finds her again and he has to run a hand over his head to hide the way his chest inflates so quickly at the mere sight of her. “Well, you gave me no warning.”

“You’re a Mandalorian, Din.” Astra approaches him and watches her hands as they press upon his cuirass and spread out to his armored shoulders. “You don’t need a warning to be ready.” Her grasp finds his arms as she gives them a gentle squeeze. “And you’re strong enough to handle anything.”

Din wants to respond, but he can’t. His mind’s gone blank, and his mouth is drier than the Dune Sea. He’s face-to-face with the greatest wonder of the galaxy, yet she’s the one complimenting him.

“Plus, you knew I’d be getting the dress, so I still wanted to give you a gift.” Astra begins to take Din’s armor off for him, setting the pieces of beskar aside with as much care as he would. “No matter how much you might try to say otherwise, it was you who provided this home for us, and I want to thank you properly for that.” Astra smiles at Din, her eyes kind as she takes his right pauldron off and presses a kiss to the mudhorn. “So, what do you think?”

Din takes a breath for composure, even if the effort’s futile. “Honestly?” Astra raises her brow, inviting him to go on. “I’m incapable of having any thoughts right now.”

Astra laughs at that, burying her face against his arm for a moment in her tell of shyness before she sets his last piece of armor and weaponry aside. She starts to look almost guilty as she rests her arms upon his shoulders. “Is it too much?”

Din shakes his head. “No, rid’ika, not at all. It’s just…” he exhales a dreamy sigh and cups the side of her face, “you’re always a gift to me, no matter what.” Astra starts to smile again at that. Din runs his thumb under her shining eye. “And you’ve really spoiled me tonight.”

Astra giggles at that. “Well, the wine is helping with the courage.”

Din raises an eyebrow. “Courage?”

Astra’s fingers play with the ends of his hair as she answers. “It’s never easy surprising a Mandalorian, Din.” She presses her palm against his neck, the cool metal of her beskar ring making its presence known. “Even if you’re married to them.”

Din’s gaze follows his hands as they trace the outline of her figure all the way down to her waist. “Just say the word, and I’ll make it worth it.”

Astra lifts a hand to Din’s chin, tilting his face up to meet her own. She urges his forehead to meet hers as she smiles in a dizzying way. “You already have.”

Din returns her smile and brushes his lips over hers. “In that case, I’d like to thank you properly for your gift.”

Astra’s eyelids begin to flutter as she brings herself as close to him as possible. “Take me home.���

Their lips meet and everything after that is a blur, mostly in the sweet haze that still clouds Din’s awareness from both his wife and the wine. It’s only the smoothness of Astra’s skin along with her sweet sighs that bring him back to the galaxy in some capacity, the softness of her against him rivaling that of the sheets on their brand-new bed. He wants her as close to him as possible, he needs it, his reminder that he no longer has to imagine what a home without her would ever look like.

They’re finally in their own home, now, but Din knows no place would ever hold that title if Astra wasn’t there with him.

So, Din holds her right up against him, their hands entwined on the warmth of her middle as he wraps himself around her from behind. He’s more than content to bury his face in her neck and shoulder, breathing and exclaiming praises Astra deserves to hear not just now, but always. It’s times like these where he’s at his best because it’s when she truly and fully becomes his better half, his guiding star in a galaxy of darkness.

Astra frees a hand to grasp the side of Din’s head, tangling her fingers in his hair in a way that forces him to gently bite her skin. “Din,” she tries, her voice coming as a mere and pleased breath, “can I…” she pauses to curse, “can I look at you?”

Din obliges without hesitation, though he’s aware of how beautifully dangerous her gaze can be for him. He helps Astra move until they’re chest-to-chest, and though she pauses their perfect rhythm, she keeps herself in place as she holds his face between her hands. It almost drives Din crazier than the alternative would have.

“You’ve been praising me for my beauty, which I appreciate more than you could ever know.” Astra smiles as she gets the words out between her heavy breaths and even presses a kiss to his forehead. “But you have to know the same about yourself.” She rests her forehead against his own, her sweet severity striking Din deep within his chest. “Because you, my love, are so, so fucking beautiful.” Once she begins to move again, she repeats the curse, burying her face in his neck and her nails into his back. “I can feel it.”

Din huffs, kissing her head as he speaks around his own struggling breaths. “Are you sure you can feel it?”

Astra begins her artwork upon his back and Din can sense her fighting to say her response. “Yeah, Din, I can fucking feel it.” She sighs with a reverence that Din wants to memorize. “And I don’t want to ever stop feeling it.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” Din’s now an endless stream of these words between whispers, growls, and whimpers of her name, unable to stop focusing on pleasing her the way she’s always done for him. “You’ve always been so good for me, and so good to everyone.” Din inhales sharply, overcome with emotion and pleasure. “And so loving…” he holds her waist even tighter, “and that’s all I want to feel, Astra.” Din buries himself and his adoring curses into her skin the best he can. “You.”

From there, the declarations of love between them are endless, the phrase being exchanged within their beautifully shattered poems created only for one another. The evidence is present in marks, scratches, and forming bruises meant for their eyes only, the physical remnants of this pure love and affection Din can grasp to long after this moment’s passed.

When he and Astra have officially made their home here, Din keeps her close, letting her lay with her head upon his chest as he becomes the one to scratch her back—but only in the most soothing and gentle way possible.

It’s only when Astra’s chest begins to slow once again that she finds her voice and speaks through their sweet silence. “It’s a good thing this cabin is big enough for a fifth member of the family, isn’t it?”

Din laughs, careful not to bounce Astra’s head too much on his rumbling chest. “We’ll just let the Force or whatever work that one out.” He leans forward enough to kiss her head. “For now, how about we test out the refresher?”

Astra lifts her hand and supports her chin with her hands. Her brow is wrinkled with amusement. “Barely giving me any time to recover?”

Din huffs and runs his hand over her head. “All I want to do is help you get settled for bed, honestly.” He shrugs. “You did say I was a clean guy earlier, didn’t you?”

“You’re right.” Astra giggles and rests her head against Din again. “But I think you’re gonna have to carry me there.”

Din starts to take her more firmly in his grasp. “I was already planning on it.”

With that, Din gets to do his greatest honor, taking care of his wife by helping her wash up and prepare for bed. The entire time, he dwells on the utter peace of it all, the realization that he doesn’t have to constantly glance over his shoulder for threats. They still exist, and Din would never doubt that, but it’s much different than before. Mandalore and its people weren’t the only things they worked to free. At long last, they earned their own freedom, from Moff Gideon and anyone else tied to him.

But as Din watches Astra fall asleep on him and follows suit for the first time in this beautiful home of theirs, he can’t possibly be aware of every phantom threat—especially the one who’s just about to return to the galaxy with an unprecedented vengeance.

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#the ending they so greatly deserve. but don't worry s4 still incoming!!! #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x oc #din djarin x female oc #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x female oc #security #dindjarindiaries

[amiedala]

SOMETHING HOLY

CHAPTER 7: No Mercy

WARNINGS: angst, explicit content, LOTS of blood

SUMMARY: No mercy, Nova had said. 

He takes the helmet off. A grin spreads across Din’s face, sickened and bloody, as he rips limb from limb. 

At the end, there’s just silence. He stands, covered in crimson and guts, with the blade of the Darksaber flickering in the same pulse as his heartbeat. It is monstrous and wonderful and he feels nothing but adrenaline, coursing through his veins. The helmet hisses back into place like a rattlesnake striking its prey.

Din turns around, wipes the blood marring his visor, and runs back to Nova. 

He sheathes the Darksaber. He tries to sink back into his skin, to put the monster back into its cage. 

It goes, angrily, snarling, all the way back to her.                    

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY SOMETHING HOLY SATURDAY!!! i had such a wicked and exciting time writing this one ;) ENJOY! leave me a comment at the end if you did <3

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

Everything is hollowed. Fucked out. The rest of the world filters away, vanishing. 

Nova drops to her knees, then crashes against the ground. Din’s not quick enough. Maker, it’s like he’s been trapped in amber. He’s fast, but he’s not fast enough. He cries out, the sound high and panicked through the modulator. Din sounds wounded, but he’s not the one that’s been stabbed. Nova’s white-faced, all the color leached out. She is held together with whispers and prayers, with nothing but him. 

She keeps fucking bleeding. His hands are doing nothing to staunch it all, leaving out of her like an oil spill. Something terrible is flashing in the back of his mind. Something that feels an awful lot like deja vu. 

This is how it must have felt, he realizes, horrified, frozen, when he got knifed with Sparmau’s poison dagger, and Nova had to keep him alive and pilot the shattered Mand’alor vessel away from enemy territory. The weight of the world, she holds it up. It slams into him like a Star Destroyer.

Din feels—bowled over. Scraped raw.

“Novalise,” he hisses. Her eyes flutter, rolling back in her skull. “Nova. Wake up.” It’s senseless. She is out entirely, on a different plane of existence, on a different reality. She’s so cold. Her blood pools around his gloved hands. She got hit deep. Somewhere critical. Fear leapfrogs up his throat. It tastes like bile. 

This is a fucking disaster. They should have never come here—to Corellia. To the Unknown Regions at all. Everything that’s happened since that damn distress call.They should have stayed in the stars, out there in the darkness, before any of this was real. If he could go back—he would pin her down back on Mandalore, before Nova decided to do this, to run headfirst into a rescue mission where she is within the line of fire. 

But that’s not who she is, his Nova. She cannot be caged. So he will be a monster for her. But this time… this time, he wasn’t fast enough. 

Din swallows, tries again. “Can you hear me?” 

It’s senseless. It doesn’t work. She’s passed out, which is likely a terrible sign, Din’s only passed out—clean, full out—a few times, and each instance, it was when he almost died. He keeps reliving Novalise falling to her knees, on repeat. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, trying to dislodge the memory. He hooks his fingers under the rim of his helmet, exposing his face. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He’s going to burn this entire planet to the ground. “Nova,” he whispers again. 

A miracle happens. Her eyes open. Blearily, pained, but they’re open. 

There’s something in his eyes. Din wipes the back of his bloodied glove across his face, realizing what it is when it comes back wet and clear. Tears. “Hey. Can you hear me?” 

“Ouch,” she whispers, voice croaking. Din almost laughs—laughs—in sheer relief. 

“Hold on for me,” he whispers, compounding the wound with his gloves. Maker, they’re dirty. Filthy. But he can’t worry about infection. Not now. Keeping Nova alive is mission number one. Hera will have bacta, needles, compounds—all of it, back on the ship. He’s seen her use up her dwindling supply on Nova already. He just needs to get her okay enough to get her back to the Ghost, then he can go save Bo-Katan and Wedge. He can do that. He can carry that weight. He won’t collapse. “Stay awake, baby.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. Nova coughs up blood spatter. Her pink lips are a ghastly shade of white, stained on the insides. “‘M trying,” she slurs. “What—what happened?” 

“That lowlife hunter,” Din snarls. His voice is a blade. He increases the pressure of his hands against her wound, and Nova whimpers. He has to steel himself, gritting his teeth down to refuse to rip his hands away. “Stabbed you. Deep. I’m gonna kill him.” 

“No,” Nova manages. Her hair is haloed out around her on the ground. Din bites down on his lower lip, fetid wind blowing over the both of them. It’s cold. Corellia’s temperate until it isn’t, but right now, it’s freezing. They’re not far from the makeshift battlefield—they’ve run a couple of klicks into the center of Coronet City, but the remaining forces of their enemy could very easily be on their six. “No need. Already did.” 

Love floods him. Din bites out a quick laugh. “Of course.” He shudders in a shaky breath. “Course you did, sweet girl.” 

Nova blinks up at him. “It hurts,” she manages, and her voice cracks down the middle. She’s putting on a brave face, his Novalise, but she’s in bad shape. “How much blood have I lost?”

Din leans down, presses a quick kiss to her clammy forehead. He’s deflecting, and he knows it’s apparent. He knows that Nova could see it written across his untrained face, but it doesn’t matter. Not more than evacuating her, now. He’s not answering that question. “I’m getting you out of here,” he promises, putting his helmet back on. “We’re jetting back to the ship. Gonna compress your wound, okay—” 

“No.” It cuts clean through. The airlocks hiss as he snaps his helmet back into place. Din stops, blinking at her through the visor. It’s been running her metrics in the absence of when it was last on his head. She’s lost so much blood. That fact keeps cycling through, entirely unhelpful, bringing him back to reality. This is—unfair. Royally so. She was saving him, chasing him, fighting his battles for him. Anger is aerating through his bloodstream, and Din swallows a growl in the back of his throat. Losing it won’t help anything. Won’t keep Nova safe from slaughter.

Maker, he really, really wishes it would. He wants to feel blood pouring out on his own hands. He wants to unleash vengeance. He wants to call revenge by name. 

“Nova. I need to bring you back to the ship.” 

“Not happening.” Her eyes flutter again, pupils unfocused. “‘M coming with you.” 

Din stares. “You can’t—” 

“They’re coming.” 

It’s so quiet. He doesn’t realize what she’s said at first—and then he hears it. The sound of footsteps. They’re not concealed. Not under the helmet. He could hear the bloodstream of a rodent with the combination of the Mandalorian mask and his fine-tuned senses. And that’s exactly what’s coming towards them right now—fucking vermin. He stands. A blade. His body becomes a blade. 

“Here.” Nova’s hand clenches at her side. “Take this—” 

“I am not,” Din enunciates, cold and flat through the modulator, “leaving you.” 

Nova holds his concealed eyes, just for a second, before she shutters hers in pain. “Take it, Din.” Her hand wraps around the shaft of it, and then she’s unclipping the Darksaber from her belt. 

He stares. “It’s not mine anymore—”

“Not the time,” Nova manages, breath uneven, “for saber-wielding semantics.” She wheezes, spitting out more blood, and Din’s panic flares again, a heat-spike, red-hot. “Do it.” 

He blinks at her. “I can’t.” 

“You can. Cut them down,” Nova whispers. Then she shoves at him—with so much more strength than he would have been able to muster—and it propels him to his feet. “No mercy.” She cracks a wan, exhausted smile. It curves up, half-scarlet, and fuck if it isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Then you come back to me.” 

Din Djarin disappears. The Mandalorian takes over. It whistles through his bloodstream, the strength of it. He is a weapon, a blade, the thing that lives in the darkness. He hasn’t been this—the beskar bullet, the metallic monstrosity—for years long past. Before Nova. He can still don the mask and pretend, but this is different. Troopers and hunters alike surge around the corner, and he flexes, breathes, unloads.

No living thing stands a chance. 

*

Pain. 

That’s the only word that registers, the only feeling Nova knows. It comes on like a lava surge, white-hot and deafening. She looks down, blurry-eyed, at the gash in her stomach, a knife wedged tight into the muscle of her pre-existing scar. It’s almost laughable, the irony of it all. 

“Okay,” she whispers. The world shifts around the edges, elastic. The knife squelches in her abdomen, and Nova winces. “You,” she chastises herself, “can do the hard thing.” 

She can. Novalise is very good at doing the hard thing. The problem is—she knows the blade is plunged into something bad. Her liver, maybe. Her spleen. In a divine comedy, this knife sliced through her sinew in the same place Sparmau’s poison dagger did to Din, back on Hinari, back what feels like a lifetime ago and is only a handful of months. Nova felt stronger then, but in all reality, she’s stronger now. 

It’s facing death for what seems like the umpteenth time, stuck with a relentless blade. She’s here again. She’s always here, it seems. 

Novalise has seen so much hurt. This same scar has been carved into her skin like an awful melody, muscle memory. She’s suddenly transported—back to when she was still a teenager, back when she ran right into the hornet’s nest, a viper’s den, danger that didn’t give way to goodness. She’s nineteen and haunted again, chained down in iron to a ship that was a sucking pit of despair, with a man whose kisses were venom and whose hands were made of terror. 

She is not there. She is not Andromeda. Not anymore.

And the last time Novalise got stabbed in the stomach, she pulled light from the sky itself. She doesn’t need to do that this time, but she will. 

Because she can. 

Distantly, very distantly, Nova can hear Din cutting through the rat’s nest of troopers and hunters. Flaying them alive. She knows he will be a pit of a man for her, an interlude of darkness and terror, and he will come back on his knees. He will pray for forgiveness. 

He doesn’t need to, though. He’s already gotten hers. 

She’s the holy thing granting it. 

“You,” Nova levels with herself, “can do this.” There’s no room left but to face it. Nova has spent enough time anthropomorphizing the past, pulling it in layers over her skin. There is nothing another timeline can do for her now. There is nothing that can save her back in her memory. 

Nova has spent months fighting against her intuition to do things alone. But this time, she isn’t running away. She’s ripping the blade out of her skin, and she is facing the light, and she is going to save her friends—her family. No more running. Just fighting back. 

She does the hard thing. She pulls the dagger out, inch by sickening inch. 

Biting into the heel of her hand to staunch the screaming, Nova props herself half-up against the wall. She utters a string of curse words under her breath—ones in Basic, Mando’a , Huttese, and a few more that she picked up along the way. She’s the daughter of a collector of linguistics, and Nova knows how to cuss her way through at least twenty languages. “Okay,” she says, wiping the sheen of sweat from her face, “okay.” She utters the word over and over again, until she’s convinced herself that she is. 

The Darksaber is being wielded by her Mandalorian, so Nova unclips her own lightsaber from her belt. It’s covered in crusted blood, the silver handle tinged crimson. She bites down on her swollen lip as she ignites it, feeling power spark to life in her exhausted bloodstream. The blade flickers and trips, but it doesn’t falter. Nova stares into the golden abyss. Her lightsaber gazes back. 

“You can do this,” she whispers, calling on the strength of all her past and future selves. They flick through her shuttered eyes like a hologram, like fortification. She sees her parents’ faces. That’s likely not a good sign—stars, she’s really bleeding—but Nova takes that as a good omen. That’s what she does. Takes a black hole and pulls a supernova out of it. She is her own exploding star. 

She cauterizes this wound with her lightsaber. Maybe it’s a metaphor for something, but Nova can’t think of anything else but stardust right now. She is not forged by the darkness. It cannot call her by name. 

Only Nova can do that.

It’s not the first time Novalise has forged her own scar into her skin, but this one is different. The last time, she was on the brink of death out in the crush of space. This time, she’s planted on the ground. There’s still something cosmic in that, though. Something holy. 

Novalise is the only star on Corellia. She detracts her lightsaber’s blade, and the world still glows yellow. 

*

Din Djarin isn’t here. He is hiding, far underneath the mask that he wears and the Creed that he once swore by. He is not bleeding crimson rivers, but if he did, there would be no wound that could cut him down. At this moment, he has ceased to be a man. He is all Mandalorian—all fighter. No, that’s not correct. Even soldier is too small of a word. The definition is closer to warrior, but even that is far below what he is. 

He is an oil spill, vantablack in movement, silver in makeup. He is tungsten and steel, a weapon forged from beskar. The Darksaber—decidedly not his—flickers in his hand, pulsing the people he cuts down into grayscale. It’s heavy. So heavy. It is the weapon of something stronger than he is, but that something is laying on the ground behind him. And Din wants them all to pay for it. 

He does not know the Empire. Not intimately like the people that surround them. Not personally like Novalise. He does not care. It doesn’t matter who they are. If the troopers are being called upon by the mysterious First Order. If the bounty hunters are reporting to a shadowy figure. Those are not questions he is equipped to know the answers to. The truth is that it doesn’t matter. None of it matters except wielding the weapon in his hands. 

No mercy. That’s what Novalise said back there, blood staining his gloves scarlet, pooling over her perfect mouth. She gave him permission. No mercy. 

Din Djarin is not answering to his name. He is not taking prisoners. He does not care about life. Every single person in front of him is responsible for the attack on Novalise, crumpled and bloody on the ground. He will stomp the light out of their eyes. He will massacre the evil from the ground around them. 

He cuts through the army surrounding him like paper. Not humans. Not anything, not anymore. Nova would mourn their half-lives—because she is good, because she has not become a sucking wound, even in the face of so much horror. 

But Novalise is not the Djarin in front of this swarm of evil. They have Din to answer to. And he’s not listening. 

He does not stop. He is relentless. He is a warrior, a weapon, the darkest version of himself, and for the first time in years, Din can switch his humanity off. He doesn’t care. He cannot care. Every single one of these people—stormtroopers and bounty hunters alike—were responsible for his heart laying half-dead in the back of a filthy alleyway, stuck with a knife so big it could have cleaved her in half. 

No mercy, Nova had said. 

He takes the helmet off. A grin spreads across Din’s face, sickened and bloody, as he rips limb from limb. 

At the end, there’s just silence. He stands, covered in crimson and guts, with the blade of the Darksaber flickering in the same pulse as his heartbeat. It is monstrous and wonderful and he feels nothing but adrenaline, coursing through his veins. The helmet hisses back into place like a rattlesnake striking its prey. Din turns around, wipes the blood marring his visor, and runs back to Nova. 

He sheathes the Darksaber. He tries to sink back into his skin, to put the monster back into its cage. 

It goes, angrily, snarling, all the way back to her.                                                                               

*

When Din returns, Nova isn’t where he left her. She did that on purpose. She’s propped against the steel of the building behind her, but she’s standing. Her top hangs in shreds around her midriff. She spits a mouthful of blood onto the filthy ground, disappearing into the dust. Her hands are braced on either side of the wall, slung low like an assassin, face grimed with sweat and blood alike. 

“What the hell,” Din asks, low and angry, “did you do?” 

Nova musters a smile, wincing as another round of pain rips through her. “You were busy.” 

There’s silence. Then a low, quiet hiss as he removes the helmet. Her heart catches in her throat when she realizes that Din ran off into battle with it removed, at least partially. That signifies no survivors. He is bloody, crimson splashed across his beautiful, tortured face. Heat runs through her, even amidst all that pain, and Nova inhales, staggering, staring into the silhouette of the man she loves. He is not the darkness he just swallowed and spat back out. He is in front of her in armor, but the face her Mandalorian is wearing is not the Mandalorian’s at all. 

“Nova—” His voice is low, flagellating. Another thrill runs through her. “You—” 

“Had a problem,” she says, gesturing at her now-exposed midriff, the curve of her belly sucked in and carved with a new scar. “And I fixed it.” 

He steps forward. Those footsteps could shake the ground beneath them. They have. They will again. Nova sighs as he catches her swaying, exhausted body and pins it between him and the wall. Safety. She hums, endorphins overriding all the hurt still coursing through her bloodstream. “Fuck,” Din says. No—he snarls it, right into her open mouth, and Nova maps his brown, deep eyes on her own. “You—cauterized your o-own wound?” 

Nova offers him a grin, cocking her head to the side, curls blowing in the acrid wind. His hand curls up around her cheek. She knows it comes off bloody. “Not the first time I’ve had to,” she whispers, and then the reality of the situation sets in. She swallows, blinking back sudden, desperate tears. “I’m fine,” she says, damage control. Maker, Din’s eyes are almost black. “I’m okay, Din. I promise. I—well, I’m holding it together.” Then, the real version of the truth: “I’m safe.” She looks up at him. “Now.”

He’s staring into her soul. It feels like a heart attack. Nova’s stuttered breath catches in her throat. “I am doing a very dangerous thing,” he grits out, “letting you stay out here. Do you understand me?” His hand grips her chin, lifting it to meet his. He’s only inches away, and Nova’s newly cauterized stomach flips over—in hunger. Want. Need.

“Yes,” she breathes. 

“Should’ve you slung over my shoulder.” He’s muttering. Nova leans closer. “Should take you b-back to the ship. Shouldn’t let you stay out here.” This rambling, forged together of half-sentences and clipped words, sounds like the Din she knew before she knew he was Din at all—when he was just the Mandalorian and she was barely Novalise yet. 

“I slaughtered them,” Din whispers into the hollow of her open mouth. “I slaughtered them.” It sounds like a vow. No—a prayer. 

“It’s okay,” Nova manages. “You were—” 

“Protecting you,” Din growls. “No—avenging you. You said no mercy.” 

Nova doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t look away. “And I meant it.” 

His head is slung so, so low. His forehead—rife with gore—is pressed up against hers. “I killed them all, cyar’ika.” 

Past-Nova would have been heavy with grief—thankful, but uncomfortable. Not now. She is not a murderer, but there are some forces in this galaxy that cannot be saved. That need to be cut down, cut away from the festering, invading wound of unfixable evil. She saw it back with the cloning tanks. She saw it in Sparmau’s teeth. She saw it in Gideon’s stare. She felt it in the blue, even face of Thrawn. Even just in nightmares, she’s known the evil coming out of them—leaching, bleeding, like an oil spill. She doesn’t need to be her own avenging angel. 

She has her Mandalorian for that. 

“They would have killed me,” she whispers. “They tried to. They would have gotten to Bo and Wedge, too.” Nova swallows. Two words—what a weight they hold: “I’m glad.” 

His mouth slots against hers—timid at first, then coaxing, then a fucking wildfire. He kisses like he’s starving, like he’s been whetting himself on danger and adrenaline while her lips were away from hers. Nova sighs as Din holds her face flush against hers, tongue licking into her mouth like a viper. She wants to get drunk on his particular brand of venom. She needs him inside her like a demon. She wants to be possessed by Din Djarin. Getting fucked isn’t enough. 

A moan unfurls from behind her teeth, spilling over into his, and Din freezes. With the strength of something holy, he wrenches himself free. “I am doing a very dangerous thing,” he murmurs again, “letting you stay out here. With me. Rather than bringing you back to safety.” 

“Din,” Nova whispers, and a small whimper leaves his lips at the sound of his name, “if you tried to put me back on the Ghost, now, when we still have our friends to save, I would fight you.” 

A wicked smile curls across his mouth. “You would, hm?” 

She nods, looking up into his eyes like a siren. She reaches forward, for his belt, and his knees sag when she finds it—and then Nova yanks the Darksaber off of it, igniting the slick, spitting blade. Both of them shutter into black and white, and Nova sees Din’s pupils flare so large his whole iris is almost black. “This,” she breathes, “belongs to me.”

He groans. “That’s not the only thing that does,” he murmurs, and then, with a Herculean effort, he pulls away. Nova sheathes the blade, flaring back to the blue-grey dampness of Corellia’s atmosphere. “You tell me,” he warns, “if you feel worse, if you feel anything—” 

“I will.” 

Holding her gaze for what feels like an eternity, Din nods. When he turns to put the helmet back on, Nova winces, falters, then forces her way through. She is fortified by her Mandalorian and from her own light. Both forged by stardust. 

They soldier on. 

*

“Anything?”

Bo-Katan throws Wedge a glare over her shoulder. “If I had the signal back by now,” she says, sourly, “I would have told you.” 

Wedge sighs, dragging a hand over his face. His stubble is longer than she’s ever seen it. Wedge’s age doesn’t often show—the four of them are scattered across their late forties and early thirties, now—but it does now. “Okay.” 

Bo-Katan softens. A little. “I’m working on it,” she whispers, a shade lighter than the voice she usually uses. “They must have crossed over into the inner rung of the city by now, though.” 

Wedge’s eyes are fixed on a hollow point behind her. They’re in what looks like an old shipping container. Bo-Katan didn’t happen to look before she threw both of their bodies inside and locked the door. The troopers were close—too close. Internally, she muses over this as she fiddles with their damaged radio, held together with little more than hope. These troopers—they were far from incompetent, slung onto the field with blunt force and a desire to shoot blaster rounds. They seemed…organized. With older armor. Of the Empire, not of its scattered remains. She swallows, flipping from station to station, trying to root out the static. 

“This is bad,” Wedge admits, his head hung heavy. And then, quieter, “I’m scared.” 

Bo-Katan catches his eye. He looks exhausted. Neither of them have slept much over the last few days, especially since the cheap, thieving Mon Cala they hitched a ride with sold them out to the troopers. “I know.” She doesn’t try to push the feeling away. 

Hell, she’s scared too. Thrawn, back in this galaxy. Thrawn, in his massive Star Destroyer, heading towards Hoth. Bo-Katan hates Hoth. Thinks an ice planet is a waste of space. But she knows how much it means to Wedge. And Nova. They’ve both been displaced out of a home—since the Alliance moved to Hoth, it’s the home Wedge has lived in when not out in the stars. And Nova… it’s one of the last untouched places where her parents once lived. 

“How bad?” Wedge’s voice snaps her back to the present. Bo-Katan fiddles with the radio again for something to do with her hands. If she doesn’t, they’ll be curled into fists. 

“How bad, what?” She’s deflecting. 

“Thrawn.” 

Bo-Katan sighs, pinching the bridge of her swollen nose. One of the troopers broke it with the butt of his blaster. Consequently, she ripped off his chestplate and fired the remaining rounds straight into his heart. “Bad.” 

Wedge swallows. “I was afraid,” he muses, crossing his arms over his chest, “of that.” 

Bo-Katan inhales, exhales. “Wedge,” she manages, “...I’m sorry.” 

He holds her eyes, a small smile captured on his lips. He knows what she means—sorry for being this way, sorry for getting him in this situation, sorry that they’re stuck together again, sorry that she wasn’t strong enough to get them out of this mess, sorry that Din and Nova are rushing here and putting their lives on the line for the two of them again, sorry that his home is about to be pulverized. She’s sorry for it all. Even the stuff she doesn’t have control over. 

“I know.” A beat. “I’m sorry, too.” 

The radio flares to life. “Bo-Katan?” 

It’s a female voice. Not Nova’s, though. Bo-Katan blinks, sitting up a little straighter. “Hera?” 

“I told Din and Nova to be back here with you both an hour ago,” she says, voice staccato from the static. “I’m assuming something has gone horribly wrong, right?” 

Bo-Katan exhales through her sore nostrils, wincing. “It’s likely.” 

Hera’s quiet. “Should I wait?” 

Her eyes flick to Wedge. He nods. Imperceptibly, but Bo-Katan can read his expressions by now. “Yes.” 

“We’re running—”

“Out of time,” Wedge cuts in, moving closer to the radio. “But—” 

Hera’s voice comes through again. “I’ll wait.” 

Bo-Katan smiles up at the rusty ceiling of the shipping container. Something nasty is dripping off in the corner, and the smell in here is rank, musty, but she can see a tiny glimpse of the night sky, and there’s a star. Bo-Katan Kryze doesn’t usually do signs, but she does do stars. 

“What are the odds,” Hera continues, “that the four of you will end up back on the Ghost alive?” 

At this, Bo-Katan cracks a wide, true smile. Nova would be thrilled. “General Syndulla,” she says, proudly, “I sure as hell wouldn’t bet against us.” 

Hera sighs. “I have their location,” she says. “Maybe, if they couldn’t get to you—”

“We’ll get to them,” Wedge says firmly. 

“We don’t have time,” Hera reminds them. Bo-Katan can sense the fear in her voice. It’s the same fear she’s kept close to her own chest. “Be safe. But—” 

“We’ll be quick,” Bo-Katan promises. She looks over at Wedge, mustering up all the energy she can. “Ready?” 

He gets to his feet—gingerly, carefully, but when he stands all the way up, he’s locked in. Hardcore. All Rebel. “As I’ll ever be.” 

Bo-Katan musters up one more true smile. One for her friend Wedge. After all they’ve been through, he deserves it. “Run.” 

And they unleash hell on the center of Coronet City. 

*

Nova winces. She recovers, quick enough to hope against hope that Din didn’t catch it—but he is nothing if not observant, especially in that helmet, and he whips around. “Stop.” 

She fixes him with a sour look. “I,” Nova proclaims, “am fine.” 

Din sighs. “You were stabbed and cauterized your own wound, Novalise,” he says, “you are certainly not fine.” 

She exhales and then relents, sagging back against the wall. They’re in another alleyway, now, and this one is considerably cleaner than the last. Less bloody. She hisses out a breath between her clenched teeth, dragging the shredded remains of her tank top up over her bellybutton. She can hear Din’s breath through the helmet, and it fogs her clarity. 

“Let me see.” 

She does. 

They’ve been here before. They’ve been here before multiple times. Blood dripping, the other person silencing it, stifling it. Din rips one glove off with the other—his hands, topographic and so much softer than anything else on his body—are unbloodied. The only thing on his entire suit of armor that isn’t dripping scarlet. That makes love flare up in her chest, suddenly, completely. Nova watches him, carefully, lovingly, as he lifts her shirt higher, breath catching somewhere between his throat and the modulator. “Looks okay.” 

Nova looks at him through half-lidded eyes. “Only okay?” 

He tilts his head to the side, affixing her with a tired look. She can tell, even through the visor. It’s the only part of his helmet that isn’t sticky, gored with dead stormtroopers. The blood, for once, does not bother her. Want sings low in her injured stomach, and Nova bites down on her bottom lip.

“Novalise.” 

“What?” 

He sighs again, and then Din bends lower, sinking down on his haunches until he’s level with her on the ground. Nova grabs onto his clean, ungloved hand, needing to feel his warmth. It coils around her with comfort, and she relaxes. Just a little. “You,” he says, irritably, “are distracting me.” 

She laughs—the sound is melodic as bells in such a hellish atmosphere. Din’s bare hand finds her cheek, stroking over her cheekbone, her bottom lip. They both melt, a little, into each other. Entwining like roots of the same gnarled tree. Nova feels uncalled tears stinging at the bridge of her nose, flooding in at the corners of her eyes. The air is heavy, thick. Tensioned. She’s suspended here by her Mandalorian. “What?”

“C’mere.”

Nova feels air leave her lungs, air she didn’t have the capacity to give. “I’m here,” she whispers, the sound barely a sound at all.

“This is going to hurt,” Din says gruffly, and fear drops in Nova’s chest like an anvil.

“Nope.” 

“Novalise—”

“No needles.” 

He looks at her head-on. In the low light of the quickening dark around them, Nova can almost see the outline of his eyes. Maybe she’s just memorized them—the depth of them, where they sit on his face. “You pulled a blade out of the muscle of your stomach,” Din says, shortly, “and the cauterized it.” 

“Yes.” 

“But a bacta needle is where you draw the line?” 

Nova hisses in a breath between her teeth. She can see her reflection in the silver of his helmet. “Yes,” she repeats. 

Din sighs. This time, it is wearily. “It’ll be a pinch.” 

“I don’t want it—” 

“You take everything else, my good girl,” he murmurs, “why not this?”

Nova points a finger in his face, stabbing the nail against the visor. “Hey. You’re not playing fair—” 

“Novalise,” he interrupts, holding her cheek in one gloved hand, “just—do this for me, okay?” 

She swallows. Relents. Din lifts her chin with one hand and sinks the needle into the lip of her exposed belly with the other. She yelps, a little one, and then the antibiotic seeps in, and Nova relaxes. The needle hurts—but the rush of the medicine helps soothe the sting. And Din’s touch—well, that soothes it, too. She wipes a single pearl of blood away from where the point went in. Din brushes one gloved finger over it, feather-light, and it disappears into the leather. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Din murmurs, “was it, cyar’ika?” 

“You distracted me,” she says, haughtily, expecting Din to laugh again. But his grip tightens, his knees sag, and both of them sink back against the wall. Nova blinks up again, grimey forehead almost pressed flush against his metal one. “Din—?”

“You scared me,” Din says quietly. “Terrified me. If I had gotten back there and you were—” he chokes, and the tears spill to the forefront of her eyes. “Fuck, Novalise. I don’t—I don’t know what I would have done.” 

She swallows. She wants to touch his face, to ground him against her. To push the fear away. “I’m alive,” Nova breathes. “I’m here.”

Something changes in his body language, although she can’t quite put a finger on what. Tightens. Shifts. Like silver mercury, becoming rigid. “What if—” 

“No what ifs,” Nova says, much more decisive than she feels. “I am right here.” And it’s true, she realizes. For the first time since they left Mandalore on this gods-damned failed mission, she feels like herself. Whatever was inhabiting her—the darkness—has quieted. Put on mute. Not gone. She can feel it, still. But for right now—now, the fight has flooded back into her veins—she is starlight, golden, herself. Nova tightens her grip on Din’s hand, still silhouetting her face. “You pulled me back,” she whispers. “Every time, you pull me back.” 

It conjures a memory. Not one that’s passed—one that’s waiting for her. Nova feels herself stutter over timelines, lost between what’s happened and what’s to come, and then it’s all drowned out as her husband moves closer. Din’s helmet rests against her forehead, anchoring her in place. Nova can feel the steel of the wall through the protective curtain of her hair—and it isn’t even half as strong as the man on his knees in front of her. She breathes, the cloud of air fogging up the bloodied visor, and then Din’s hand is leaving her, and Nova makes a disappointed noise, low in her throat like an animal. 

He chuckles. His laugh could launch a thousand birds out of the sky. “Need to give you something.” 

Nova rears back. “Nope.” 

Din laughs again. Her heart clenches against the sweet, sweet sound. “It’s not another bacta shot.” 

Nova’s eyes narrow. “Don’t know if I believe you,” she says. 

Din sighs. Din’s always sighing. But this time, it’s not out of exasperation. “Will you just—” 

“No needles,” Nova says. She’s trying to sound brave. She really is. But bravery left with the golden light of her lightsaber, and she has to really muster up the conviction. “Mean it.” 

“Novalise.” 

“Mm.” It’s noncommittal, that noise, her hands held up, braced against his pauldrons. “If you’re lying to me—” 

“Relax,” Din hisses, and for some reason, some untold signal in his voice, she does.

His hand isn’t in the pocket on his belt that was hiding the bacta. No, he’s reaching into a hidden one, tucked in the inner workings of his beskar, and the protest dies in her throat. Nova’s breath evaporates into the air around them. In his one, ungloved hand, Din is holding a ring. It’s silver, but lighter than the beskar he shines in, lighter than the beskar of his ring she’s worn proudly on her left hand since he first dropped to his knees in Nevarro. But in the middle, mercurial, shifting, is a marbled, swirling grey stone. It looks—alive. Almost like the Kyber that ignites her lightsaber, but not really. Almost like her mother’s pearls that hung around her neck, but not quite. It’s unlike anything Nova has ever seen before, and yet, it calls to her. It sings. Like calls to like. 

“Found this,” Din says gruffly, like he’s trying to keep emotion out of his voice, and Nova’s heart swells. “It’s for you.” 

She shakes her head imperceptibly, blinking up at him. “Where?” 

“I’ve almost lost you so many times.” It’s not an answer to her question. Nova doesn’t care. “I know we’ve been…” he swallows. “Fighting. Arguing. Like we haven’t… been on the same…wavelength.” It’s her word, coming out of Din’s mouth, and Nova’s never loved it more. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat, and then, huskily: “I’m trying. I love you.”

“I love you,” she echoes, reaching out to touch him, to take the ring. Din moves, stacking it on top of her engagement ring, and it hisses into place. It swirls in front of her eyes, the metal cool to the touch, the stone a pool for her to fall into—swallowing. Consuming. It slots onto Nova’s finger like it was made for her. Like it’s been missing this whole time. It pulses. It glows. It’s obsidian and ivory. It’s silver and not. It is hers. It sings out to her. Nova responds.

“Do you like it?” Din cuts back in, slices through her reverie. His voice is so low, slung deep. Hungry. 

Fuck, Nova’s hungry, too. “Yes.” So much weight is thrown behind that one word. She swallows. Need is coursing through her veins, holding her heart hostage. “Come here.” 

“Nova—” 

“I know, and I don’t care,” she breathes, grabbing the back of his neck, anchoring him lower, closer. “Kiss me.” 

He is fighting an unspoken battle, her Mandalorian. Nova can hear his breath deepen, intensify, can feel the heat radiating off him like magma. “You—” 

“Kiss me,” she breathes, emboldened, brazen. Desire slams into her, an entire ocean. “Please.” She’ll beg. She’s not above begging. But it doesn’t matter, because Din curls his fingers underneath the rim of his helmet, pulling it clean off, and he blinks at her, brown eyes almost black. 

“Fuck it,” he snarls, and then his mouth, hot and wanting, is on hers.

This is selfish. His touch, molded against her skin—that’s selfish. Devouring hers in a dirty back alley, that’s selfish. Spending time, sweet precious time, with their bodies melded together like metal, when their friends are out there fighting—that’s selfish. Nova feels the darkness flood in, take over her body like a superbloom. She sighs out against the lock of Din’s mouth against her. 

“Din,” she whispers.

He stiffens like it takes all of his control, all that silver now rigid and unyielding. “What?” 

Nova looks up at him, wetting her lips with her tongue. He groans out, the sound choked in the low light of the alley, and want pulses again between her legs. Hungrily. Snarling. “Don’t take it easy on me.” 

His eyes are so dark. Maker, she could drown in them. Nova shudders, wanting to, needing to. “That’s not how this works.” He swallows, the sound thick. “Especially now.” 

She pushes at him, clawing her fingers into the untouched skin at the back of his neck. Din whimpers—full on, loudly—and a thrill runs through Nova’s entire body. Fire, sparked to life. “It is today.” 

He looks at her. “Nova—” 

“Fuck it away,” she breathes into the hollow of his open mouth. “Please. Please. You want me to beg? Fine, I’m begging. You want me on my knees? You’ll have to make me.” Din’s mouth falls open wider. Nova wants to shove her tongue into it, make his lips take away all of the pain. “Yeah, it hurts. It hurts.” And it does. But what’s a little charred flesh worth in battle against her Mandalorian? Nothing. “Make me ache. Fuck the pain away.” 

Din grips the back of her head, a halo of hair in his ungloved, unbloodied hand. There’s a metaphor in it, in the way he’s clutching at her like his unbecoming. Nova sighs into the space between them—just armor and skin, nothing more. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

Nova does not flinch. “Yes. I do.” 

She’s calling Din on his bluff. He’s holding himself back. Right now, it’s not Din she’s speaking to. She wants the monster underneath his skin, licking and pulsing like flames. It’s barely contained. It is snarling at her, screaming. He is a tar pit. He is blackened steel. He is all beskar, all blade. Nova knows what she’s asking.

She loves Din. But right now, she needs the Mandalorian.

When he breaks, when he crashes his mouth against hers, it’s not reassuring. It doesn’t taste like empathy, like sweetness. He’s not trying to take away the pain. Din’s doing exactly what she asked for. He’s going to fuck it all away. 

Din’s tongue, leaden, is heavy inside Nova’s mouth. It pulses, rolling over her own, desperate. Cloying. Needy. He is all teeth and bone. He growls—really, truly growls—and it’s not a mockery. It’s not anything but desire, coiled so deep it needs to strike. Like a pit viper. Like a rattlesnake. Like venom and honey. She wants to drink it down. 

“Novalise—”

“Tear me apart,” she enunciates, the words barely a whisper, already off on Corellia’s fetid wind. “I give you permission.” Then, louder, emboldened, for only him to hear: “No mercy.” 

Din’s mouth returns and leaves like a furious tide, biting down on her lips, cascading down her neck, licking tides to her collarbone, over and over. He is rhythmic in his domination. Unyielding. This is not the man she married. This is the Mandalorian she loved first. He takes instruction well, the weapon of a man in front of her. And then he takes control.

Din’s hands—cloying, desperate—rip at the seam of her pants. It burns so bright, his fingers wrenching her clothes away. Nova’s eyes are blackening at the edges, sweet, sweet sensation. “Don’t rip them,” she mewls, and his hand stills. Shame and need war inside of her, and Nova reels back against the metal wall. Her knees—all that’s left standing, at this point, the rest of her body slumped against Din’s metal one—shake on the cold ground.

“So bold,” he croons, and the hair on the back of Nova’s neck stands straight up. His hands dip lower, lower than her belt, low enough to hook around the waistband of her panties, and flame licks at the very core of her. “You’re not in charge,” he whispers, and every word is electric, a live wire, a lightning bolt. Nova isn’t cold, but she shivers. “You gave that up, sweet girl. You don’t get to make demands. But fuck, you sounds so good when you try.” 

“Still have—” she pants, “a mission to f-finish—” 

“Then shut your pretty mouth,” Din snarls, “and let me finish you first.”

That does it. Nova hums out as he digs low. His fingers are filthy. Not with blood or grime—no, not from the men he felled back on the impromptu Corellian battlefield. No, he kept his gloves on for that. But with her—slick, wet, wanting. Nova’s eyes roll back in her head as Din sinks two fingers inside of her, to the hilt, and curls. He presses, and she feels it building, the crushing crescendo of an orgasm, already, yes, already—but then there’s an absence of where his fingers once were, and her eyes open fully, eyebrows furrowed in frustration—

He’s sinking the same two fingers into his mouth. The moan he emits could fell a nation. An army. Nova’s not sure. She would die on the battlefield if this were her enemy, silver-clad and dangerous. Electric. She blinks at him, eyes half-lidded. “Oh,” she says, distantly, distantly because there’s something buzzing in her ears. “Oh—” 

“Taste so fucking good,” he grits out, and Nova shudders, going limp. And then his fingers are back inside of her. “Clench around me. Good girl.” He takes a fistful of her hair in the other bare hand and yanks back. Hard. Nova’s ears are still ringing. “Harder.” It’s rhapsodic, that voice. An echo chamber of filth shudders back at her. 

“Tell me,” she whispers. To cum is the rest of that sentence, but stars above, Nova can’t finish it. She’s limp. Undone. And all he’s done is touch her—and then Din’s fingers, that ecstasy, is gone again. “Fuck—” she cries, frustrated, and Din chuckles. The sound is so bright, so perfect, that it dulls the ache of his absence. A little. And then it floods back in and Nova grabs at his wrist. But it doesn’t budge. It trails up from the sucking seam of her pussy, wet with her own slick. 

“Stop leaving me,” she whines. 

Din chuckles again. Lower this time. It feels like a vibration. Nova hums, and then he’s gripping her face. Hard. Her lips pucker out as he clenches down on her cheeks. It hurts, pain singing out in the best way. “Open.” 

Nova tries to comply, she really does, but her mouth is being held captive by the massive plain of Din’s flexed fist. He shoves his fingers inside, wet and dripping. “This is how you taste,” he hisses, licking a line of it off the cleft of her split bottom lip. “Before you’ve even cum for me.” He clicks his tongue. Nova’s thighs clench together. It’s involuntary, truly. “Wanna taste how sweet you are when you have?” 

She stutters out a breath, lips puckered in a perfect O, and the way Din grins at her is sinful. Criminal. Dark and lecherous, if it were any other mouth wearing that smile, but he looks at her like he worships her, even now, and Nova’s heart flips. 

“Need you,” she manages, through the painful part of her mouth, “please—” 

“Who am I to deny my sweet girl,” Din breathes, “when she begs for me?” 

Nova can barely keep her eyes open. Din’s grip lessens, just a little. The other hand, previously anchoring her hip in place—which is likely going to be sporting purpled bruises tomorrow, but Nova doesn’t care—leaves the curve of her waist to shove something at her. It’s her shawl. Nova blinks at it. “What—?” 

“Cover your stomach,” Din says, brushing the mess of ringlets out of her face. “Don’t get it dirty.” 

“It’s—” Nova’s breath catches as he pushes her back against the wall, dragging her body up against the durasteel of the abandoned building they’re up against—fuck, she can’t think straight. “Not a wound anymore—” 

“Don’t care,” Din grits out, shoving it against her skin. Nova feels the pain of the contact, just a little. Faintly. Maker. She’s losing it. “No cover, no cock.” Hearing him say it so crudely sparks something bright and devastating in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t argue with me. You won’t win.” 

Nova nods. Din’s hand finds her chin again—still slick—and she sighs out into the air around them. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he rasps out. 

Nova looks down—he is still, so regrettably, clothed. She pouts. “Wanna see you.” 

Din grins again. Devilish. Dark. Her stomach curls. That softness, there just a minute ago, is gone. He is a blade, the pit of a man called into battle. “Then look down,” he simpers, and then his hand slips down to her throat, pushing just hard enough to make her beloved stars explode. 

Nova cries out into the open air, stifled by the warrior’s hand clenching around her airway. Just how she likes it. She tries to look down. To see his cock, thick and wanting, pierce her, cleave her in two. She wants to watch—really watch—to see how the Mandalorian moves inside of her—but Nova can’t. She’s trapped in the staccato rhythm of pleasure and pain, equally enticing. 

“Look at me.” 

Nova hears it, dully. She’s too far gone, already almost on the edge again. Din’s grunting, animalistic, and it’s the sweetest, sickest sound she’s ever heard. She is undone. This is sacrosanct. This is divine. She was standing on holy ground, and her Mandalorian is desecrating it. 

“Novalise.” Her name cuts through, and Nova abandons sweet disconnect to look him in the eye. Din’s not here right now. He is the version of himself that kills, that slaughters. She wants him. She needs him. “Look at me.” 

“Maker,” she manages, strangled, and Din hoists her higher against the wall to fuck into her harder, deeper, so much deeper, sheathing himself inside her like he would a blade into safety, except nothing about this feels safe. She’s craved danger before. But Nova has never craved danger more. 

“No,” Din snarls. “No Maker is here right now. No, cyar’ika. You pray to me.” 

Her orgasm rips through her—bluntly. Unyielding. Unfettered, like the pulse of her Mandalorian. He cries out, grunting, fingers curling in her hair. 

“Who do you belong to?” Din asks, and the sound is ringing from somewhere far, far away. Nova is a universe of exploding stars. She is slick and sweaty, dangling from the wall like an animal while the man in front of her rips her to shreds in the sweetest, holiest way. 

“Mmm,” Nova manages. She is gone. She is over in another galaxy, her body hanging limp in Din’s hands. “You.” 

He fists a hand in her hair, dragging her gaze up to his. “I’m not finished with you yet.” And—fuck—he’s not. He snaps his hips into hers. An unending rhythm. Time stops. There is nothing here—nothing on this plane of existence. There’s Din, and there’s Nova, and there’s the want, the heavy thrum of sex, desire pumping amorphous, silty blood through their veins. This is a darkened star, this is the only thing in the world. The divine feeling of her Mandalorian, fucking with abandon, bisecting her. Din tips Nova over the edge, once, twice, three more times. She is a mewling, destroyed mess. 

“Mine,” Din is whispering. Chanting. Then, in Mando’a: “ibac’ner.” 

It’s a prayer. Or something close to it. Nova’s eyes open, watching her Mandalorian’s face as he comes undone. 

“Yours,” she whispers, into the open hollow of his mouth, and then everything contracts. He slams into her, once, twice, three times—and then he’s undone, spurting into her, hot and wet and warm, and Nova feels something settle and crack inside of her all at once. She can hear his heartbeat. Through the armor. Through everything, They stay there, panting, foreheads locked together, and when Din pulls out of her, Nova mourns. He licks his lips as he tucks his cock back in his pants. He wipes the cum leaking out of her away with his bare hands. Nova watches, half-lidded, as he lifts his fingers to her mouth. Nova takes it like communion. She feels wrecked. A ship hurled against rock. Undone. And fortified. That sweet, sweet darkness licks at her edges. 

“What do you taste?” His voice is low. Guttural. Whatever Din let out of its cage is not fully back in. 

Nova hums, licking it off her lips. “You.” 

He smiles, wicked and low, before pulling his helmet back over his head. “Not quite.” Then, modulated, voice duo-toned, flickering like the Darksaber, double-sided like the vessel of his armor and the stature of the man within it, with one finger hooked under her chin: “Us.” 

Nova doesn’t have time to contemplate what that means. Two things happen.

One: She just feels the vantablack obsidian curling low in her stomach—seeping back in. 

Two: The hologram in Din’s hands flares to life. 

*

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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!! the filth was FILTHY this time around lmao, but it was such an exciting chapter to write! please let me know what you think <3

CHAPTER 8 WILL BE UP AT 7:30 PM EST ON MARCH 9TH!

xoxo, amelie

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