Summary: Your husband is adamant about the two of you flying to the Gullet, insisting the battle will be over before either of you has the chance to worry. You can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, but Jace promises everything will be fine.
The problem is that promises mean very little in the middle of a war.
Pairing: Husband! Jace x Wife! reader
WC: 3.7k
Warning: 18+, slight smut, s3 spoilers- ish, a few things were changed mentions of injuries, no deaths, fix it au!, targcest, reader rides Silverwing, slightly proofread, fade to black at the end.
As the war had continued to ramp up and tensions had rose, everyone was on edge. Lucerys was dead, Rhaenys and Meleys were dead, your father had spent an eternity at Harrenhall, and your mother wasn't listening to anyone.
It felt like the walls were closing in, like there was a chance that all of you would die— making the effort pointless.
Given the circumstances, your parents wanted to solidify things— leaving nothing to question. They had you and Jace get married, a small ceremony for just the two of you. Even in the midst of grief and fear, the two of you smiled with joy during the entire thing.
Your bubble of joy and time alone didn't last as both of you were always needed. Intimacy was rarely able to happen as the two of you would fall asleep when you were in the bed together. If the two of you didn't immediately fall asleep, then Jace was complaining to you about his mothers decisions or how he didn't trust the dragonseeds— which you agreed.
War was brutal and it always seemed like the price to pay was increasing daily, something no one had warned you about.
You wanted to keep your husband close to you at all times, a pit always in your stomach at the idea of something happening to him. He was always so eager to prove to his mother that he could fight for her, but you wanted him to be a coward. You didn't want him to get hurt or killed and truthfully, you couldn't imagine life without him.
Everytime he suggested that she should send him or the two of you, your fingers would grip his tighter and your stomach would twist. Even though he'd get angry when she would ignore his suggestions, you felt relieved.
Relived that he would be safe, that you would get another night with him, relieved that you would also be safe.
Rhaenyra had summoned everyone for a meeting, you and Jace getting to the room before everyone else.
You stood there, a sigh escaping your lips.
His head tilted as glanced at you, watching you twist the rings on your fingers.
"Are you alright?"
You shrugged, your eyes flickering over to him as he walked closer.
"I'm sure that she has summoned us here to only tell us more bad news. As of late, there has been nothing positive about these meetings."
He grabbed your hands, staring into your eyes as he closed the gap between the two of you.
"My love, we will get through this— that I know. You can't give up yet."
You gave a half smile, one that didn't reach your eyes all the way.
"I'm not giving up, husband. I am just scared."
He smiled, not because it was funny— but he found you to be so beautiful, even when you confessed that you were scared.
"I too am scared, but this war is necessary. Our future, our children's future, and theirs depends on it—"
"I never said that it wasn't necessary." You interrupted.
He brought one of his hands to your face, caressing it.
"I do not wish to upset you or argue, I just want you to know that I understand— everyone here does."
Your eyes locked onto his, silence taking in over the moment as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours in a gentle kiss.
Your moment was interrupted as Rhaenyra cleared her throat, walking into the room with everyone else walking in behind her.
"Mother, I'm glad you finally came." Jace spoke, turning to face her as she walked to the front of the room.
Baela came to the side of you with a smirk on her face.
"There is something that I must inform everyone about—" Rhaenyra spoke.
Jace glanced at you.
"I met with Alicent a few days ago, she came here to visit me."
Your brows furrowed in disbelief, "you did what?"
Jace had a scowl on his face, his hand resting on the table in front of him.
"Mother, you allowed Alicent to come here?—"
"Are you mad?"
Rhaenyra watched as everyone around the table shared a look, the sunlight making your disappointed looks even more obvious.
"She made an offer to surrender King's Landing." Rhaenyra added.
"And you believe her? You believe the woman that helped bring this mess about?" You question, your voice raising.
Jace absentmindedly grabbed your hand as he could tell that you were getting upset.
"I have to believe that Alicent's offer was genuine."
Jace scoffed, "it is a ruse, cloaked in stale friendship!"
"The risk that she took in coming here is beyond question." Rhaenyra pointed out.
"I too would risk my head, if it meant that I could kill off an entire side by using old, fond memories. It is a trap, mother." You chided.
"What about the risk that she now asks you take? To fly to the greens stronghold, based on her word alone?—"
"It is a trap, Mother, to lure you and Daemon into Vhagar's jaws." Jace countered.
Rhaenyra moved around the table.
"No! Vhagar and Aemond are gone, they've flown to Harrenhall and Aegon is bedridden."
All of you stood there silently, everyone deeply frustrated that she's unwilling to listen to reason.
"I could take Aegon and the throne.. in a single stroke."
"No, you cannot. Please, do not trust her." Baela interjected.
"Surely, you're not considering this." Ser Lorent muttered.
"The greens know already that their defeat is written. Aemond flies on Vhagar to join Cole in the Riverlands. With him gone Alicent will open the gates to the Red Keep and surrender Aegon to me—"
"I will then take his head and the throne."
You scratched your brow, trying to come up with any explanation as to why she'd consider such nonsense. It was wildly unlike her and unexpected.
Mysaria tillted her head, her lips parting to speak but shutting quickly afterwards.
"What are her terms, your grace?”
"That she, Helaena, and Jaehaera are spared and that this war ends without further bloodshed."
"That is a very low price." Mysaria stressed.
Rhaenyra nodded and turned to Baela, "please get word to Corlys in the gullet. I require ships with fighting men enough to secure the city."
Jace sighed.
"Your grace, I protest this action with all my po-"
"And Daemon must return with haste, write to him." Rhaenyra demanded, cutting Jace off and ignoring his remark.
"We will fly to King's Landing in two days time and take the city." She smiled.
You stared a Jace, his cheeks reddened and his jaw tight with frustration.
Jace stormed off and you followed behind him.
"Jace." You spoke, chasing after him.
He continued to walk ahead of you.
"Jacaerys!" You yelled.
He stopped in his tracks, turning back to you. He grabbed your hand, bringing you into your shared chambers and shutting the door.
"Has she lost her senses?—"
"This is fucking.. nonsense." He stammered.
He paced around the room, his curls hanging in front of his face.
"I do not understand what's gotten into her, father needs to be here— maybe she'd listen to him." You suggested.
"I fear that she has gone past listening to reason." Jace mumbled.
You walked over to him, a smile on your face. His feet stopped and his mind began to clear.
You pushed the curl from in front of his face.
"We will figure this out, remember?"
He nodded, getting lost in your gentle eyes.
He kissed you, completely taking your mind off what you were talking about — wrapping his hands around your waist.
"I know, darling." He muttered against your lips.
Your kiss deepened, his tongue sliding into your mouth and a whine escaping yours.
"Jace, you didn't lock the door."
He smirked, "no one will come in, everyone will be focused on mother."
His lips traveled to your face leaving kisses, your hand rubbing over his growing bulge.
"I have missed this." He confessed.
He left soft, open mouthed kisses against your neck — causing you to moan.
"Fuck." You breathed.
"You're alway so sensitive here." He teased, licking the vein on the side of your neck.
His fingers moved to undo the laces of your gown as yours simultaneously undid the laces on his trousers.
His trousers loosened, your fingers sliding under the waistband— rubbing his hard cock.
He groaned, losing his focus.
"It's been too long.. since I've been able to have a moment with you like this."
You brought your lips back to his with a hum.
The two of you stumbled back towards the desk near the corner, his hand on the small of your back and guiding you.
Your body bumped against the desk, Jace's hand going under your ass— lifting you onto it.
"I love you, my sweet wife."
"I love you more." You breathed, gliding your tongue against his bottom lip.
He pulled at your corset, his hands groping your breasts.
"I want you." You whined.
He caressed your face, "you already have me and you always will."
You pulled up your gown, while he adjusted his trousers.
He lined himself up with your entrance, "don't get too loud, remember the door isn't locked."
You rolled your eyes, "I wonder why?"
He kissed you, a laugh escaping his throat.
The taste of his lips on yours was a taste that you could never get used to.
Jace slowly and gently pushed his cock inside you, making you gasp.
"Gods, you are so wet and tight." He groaned.
Jace was never a rough lover, he was always gentle and went slow making sure that you were okay. He wanted you to feel good, making your pleasure his top priority.
His fingers gripped your thighs as he thrusted into you, his cock stretching like it was the first time.
You brought your hand to the nape of his neck, your fingers curled around it— with pieces of his hair intertwined.
"That feels very good." You whimpered.
"Good, good. I want you to feel so good." He moaned.
His cock was deep inside you, your cunt clenching around him as his head dragged along your sensitive spot.
"Jace." You gasped.
It felt so good, being close with again— even despite the stress.
He brought his hand down, his finger circling your sensitive clit as he got closer to finishing.
Your chest rose and fell fast, moans falling from your lips— music to Jace's ears.
"Oh, oh." You cried out, clenching even harder around his cock.
"That's it my love, finish for me. I know you want to." He coached, his breath mingling with yours. Both of you on the edge and so close to going over together.
His name fell from your lips over and over, your eyes rolling back in your head and you reached you peak— Jace following you immediately after.
He pressed his head against yours, both of you reeling from the intense pleasure.
"I wasn't too rough, was I?" He breathed.
You shook your head, kissing his cheek.
"Not at all, my gentle prince."
A loud knock rang from the door, startling both of you— your eyes wide.
"Jace.. the door." You mumbled.
"Who is it?" Jace asked, his voice raised.
"It's Baela! I need to talk to both of you, there's a problem." She spoke from the hall.
Both of you rushed to get proper before opening the door, "one moment!" Jace shouted.
He tied the laces to your gown, hiding his smirk.
"I would say that was very good, maybe we can do it again tonight."
You laughed, "if you play your cards right."
Jace raced to open the door, an awkward look on his face— Baela eyeing both of you.
"What has happened?" Jace questioned.
"There have been an armada of ships spotted, a war in the gullet."
Jace looked back at you, "they have sprung their trap."
He left out of the room, Baela following him— but you stayed behind in the room.
The once sweet moment between you and your husband, now leaving and you instead are filled with dread.
Jace returned to the room a few minutes later, slamming the door behind him.
"What did she say?" You asked, a panicked look on your face.
"I had Ser Lorent lock her up in her room, with orders to not let her out—"
Your mouth dropped in shock, "you did what?"
"I will not let her get herself killed! She is not thinking rationally. If she gets killed then this was for nothing, we have nothing!"
He walked over to you in two strides, grabbing your hands.
"My love, we can do this for her—"
"We can give her this victory without her risking her life. We have Vermax and you have Silverwing, they won't see us coming."
You gently pulled your hands from his with a look of uncertainty, "Jace.."
He nodded, with that wild smile on his face — the one that he'd always have when he was determined.
"I promise that we can do this, just trust me— okay?"
Your heart thrummed in your chest, a feeling of nausea creeping up your throat.
You trusted your husband, more than anyone else. You just hope that he was right.
You gave him a kiss, letting out a deep sigh.
"Is Baela joining us?"
He nodded, grabbing his gloves from the table.
The three of you made your way to the dragonpit and prepared to leave.
You climbed onto Silverwing, unable to shake the feeling of doing this— worried about what could happen.
You rubbed her back.
"Please, obey me, Silverwing. It is crucial that you do, old girl."
She shrieked in agreement like she always does when you speak.
The three of you took off, flying to give aid.
ꕀ
That day the skies were clear and the wind was calm, the best thing that you could hope for.
"Dracarys, Silverwing." You yelled, flying low so that she could burn a ship.
The three of you seperated, all taking three different areas— burning the enemy ships as effectively as you could.
Unbeknownst to any of you, the bitchfist had a scorpion and with that scorpion they had a large rope attached.
Jace circled around while you and Baela burnt two ships together, Lohar firing the scorpion.
You heard the roar of Vermax, which cause you to look to their direction. Your stomach sank as you noticed the rope and Vermax inching lower towards the water.
"Defend Vermax!" You shouted in High Valyrian.
Silverwing immediately changed course, flying his direction as fast as she could. Baela and Moondancer trailing behind you.
You could hear Jace giving Vermax commands as you inched closer.
Thankfully, there was enough room below them for Silverwing to fly under and let you slice the rope— freeing them.
You felt like you could breathe again.
Your relief was cut short when you saw a different dragon had joined the three of you, burning Rhaenyra's ships.
"Kill the rider, Silverwing."
She flew towards the dragon, a dragon that looked rougher than any you had seen— it also seemed older.
That dragon breathed fire at you as you got closer, causing you to to adjust.
Silverwing circled back around, chomping her jaws.
You got a closer look at the rider, Silverwing scratching the dragon — making him bellow in pain.
"No, Silverwing!" You pulled the reigns, directing her away.
It was Rhaena. How did Rhaena get a dragon? and why wasn't her dragon listening? Why was she burning our ships?
Jace flew closer to you as he also evaded the dragon, the dragon now chasing Moondancer.
"That's Rhaena!" You yelled.
You were at a loss, trying to get away from her dragon and also trying to keep from being hurt by the scorpion.
You burned a few more ships.
They fired the scorpion again, hitting Vermax.
Vermax was going down a lot quicker that time and he seemed very injured.
"Oh, Gods." You mumbled.
Rhaena's dragon had not given up on Baela and Moondancer yet, so she couldn't help.
Vermax was almost touching the water, so you couldn't cut the rope. Silverwing has flown close to water to help before and she always followed your lead.
You watched as your husband struggled, giving commands and Vermax now flapped his wings in the water.
You flew as close as you could, unclipped your belt that held you in and jumped into the water.
The water was ice cold, sending a shock to your body.
You swam as fast as you ever have, pulling the knife from your belt and cutting Vermax's rope— almost cutting yourself in the process.
Cutting his rope was difficult, because he kept trying to move and break free on his— but you did it.
You watched as it seemed like he wouldn't be coming up, but within a second he flew from the water— a roar coming from his lungs.
The water thrashed against you as you came up, gasping for air. You wiped you eyes, staring at all the carnage around you.
You whistled for Silverwing, hoping that she could hear you in the water with all the chaos.
Rhaena was finally able to get her dragon to leave, giving Baela the ability to return her focus to the ships and the two of you.
Jace urged Vermax to turn back towards you to help, Silverwing creeping behind them as she heard your whistle
You grabbed onto a broken board, a sharp pain radiating in your back— making you wheeze.
"No!" Jace yelled, watching it happen as he couldn't get close enough fast enough.
You turned, somewhat disoriented— not understanding that you'd just been shot by an arrow.
Another one was fired off, hitting you in the stomach.
Silverwing screeched in agony as if she herself were being wounded, burning the ship on the way to you.
Your blood spilled out into the water, Vermax unwilling to fly low enough to get you.
Baela couldn't get Moondancer to either.
Silverwing flew near, her wings flapping against the water as she waited for you to climb on.
You winced in pain, raising your arm to climb on her back.
"Help me.. I can't." You wheezed.
She shook, helping your weak body onto her. You crawled into your seat, feeling like your body was on fire.
"Take me home, old girl."
ꕀ
When you got into the dragon pit, Rhaenyra was preparing to leave on Syrax as the three of you arrived. Ser Lorent released her as he began to worry that three of you could get hurt.
Jace rushed to get off of Vermax, running to Silverwing to help you.
You were limp and your breaths were ragged.
"Have you lost your fucking senses?—"
"Why would you ever disobey my orders that way?" Rhaenyra yelled.
Her anger immediately died in her throat when she saw jace running towards her with you in his arms.
"God's what happened?"
Jace cried, "she saved me and Vermax. Please, help her."
Rhaenyra's eyes flickered over the two arrows sticking out of you.
"Baela, get the Maester!" Rhaenyra demanded.
Baela raced out of the dragonpit.
Jace carried you into your shared chambers, commotion ensuing around you as the Maester rushed in to take care of you.
Tears welled in his eyes, seeing you in this state. He almost lost you and very well still could, he could’ve lost you because you had to save him.
Rhaenyra walked in, placing her hand on Jace’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?—“
“Look at me.”
Jace wiped his eyes, staring at his mother and feeling like a little boy all over again— feeling the same way when he heard about Lucerys.
Rhaenyra pulled him into a hug.
“The Maester will do everything that he can to save her, do not fret. She is strong, she is blood of the dragon and she will be okay.”
She took Jace out in to the hall, getting him out of the way while you were worked on. Although she was angry, she would save her scolding for another time.
The arrows did a number on you, the Maesters hoping for your sake that they didn't hit any internal organs.
Luckily, they didn't.
Hours had passed by before they came out of your chambers, Jace still pacing the hall alongside Baela and biting his nails.
The door to your room opened, the servants stepping out with bloodied bandages and bowls of dirty water.
They rushed over, the Maester standing in the doorway.
"My prince—"
"Is she alright? Is my wife alright?" Jace interrupted.
"Yes, she is doing well." He replied.
Jace sighed, the weight on his chest feeling lifted.
He was so glad that you were okay, he needed you to be okay.
"We removed the arrows and handled the bleeding. As of now, we do not suspect that they hit any internal organs. She was given some milk of the poppy and might be out of it for a while, but we expect a full recovery."
Jace hugged Baela in a moment of joy, both of them happy to hear the news.
Jace entered the room, shutting the door behind him.
You laid in the bed, bandaged up— still sleeping.
Jace pulled off his doublet and his boots before crawling into bed beside you.
He gently pulled you closer to him, his head pressed against yours.
"Ow." You mumbled.
He kissed your forehead, "I was worried about you.. so worried."
"I'm okay.. I just hurt, everywhere." You hissed.
He pushed your hair away from your face.
"I could've lost you." He admitted, his voice shaky.
He sniffled, wiping his tears.
"I cannot lose you too.. please, never leave me—"
"I won't. I will be yours until the day that I die, just like I promised." You reassured him, still trying to sleep.
He chuckled, his thumb rubbing against your shoulder.
"You make me feel like the luckiest man alive, my brave wife."
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summary — while combing the beach for treasures, you stumble upon the unconscious, grievously injured body of a soldier. you decide to help him, but in doing so find love in a man that may never be able to return it. (11.4k)
featured — jacaerys velaryon / fem!reader
content — spoilers! tread carefully, fluff and ANGST, angst w/ a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergent, jace lives, light medical descriptions, reader cares a lot for jace, dual pov!!!, inexplicit mental health struggles (reader’s deceased father), dead vermax ☹, 18+ MDNI implied sexual content/fade-to-black, tw there is a baby
a/n — am i anywhere near caught up with hotd? no. did i write this in spite of that? yes. i'm sorry if things don't make sense or are not in line with canon. the wiki and i did our best!
(cross-posted on ao3)
The cerulean waves lap at the silver beach, ebbing and flowing with the morrow’s breeze. Quiet has finally settled on the shores after a night of war and destruction. A battle beyond these argent sands occurred out in the gullet. All night, the savagery had kept you awake. This morrow, you collect treasures from your fish nets.
You step carefully across the sands, adjusting your silk scarf tighter around your mouth and nose. You bend the knee at the first net.
You heave it onto the shore. Nothing except too-small pieces of fabric and inedible shelled fish are in this one. You empty it and release the fish back to the embrace of the sea.
You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.
Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.
You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.
When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.
A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.
If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.
You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.
You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.
His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.
“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.
A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.
The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.
Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off.
The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.
After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many.
You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.
You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.
“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”
Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.
You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.
But even Gods can be killed.
Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.
You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.
You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.
There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer.
The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.
It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.
You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.
You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.
You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.
By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.
The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.
“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”
You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.
“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”
Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.
“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”
The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands.
“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”
You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.
But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.
You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.
Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.
You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.
You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly.
“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”
He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.
That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets.
You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.
You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.
His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.
You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.
And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.
You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful.
You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.
Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?
Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.
You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane.
You take quick steps to the bedroom.
You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part.
You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now.
A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.
“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”
Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.
“Waaa-ter.”
You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.
He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”
You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations.
You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.
The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.
When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.
“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.
You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”
He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.
He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.
Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room.
The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.
Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.
Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.
The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.
“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.
Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—
“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…
But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut.
He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.
He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.
He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.
But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin.
His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room.
The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner.
Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire.
There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.
His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.
All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips.
Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.
Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.
Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.
He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.
He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.
The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively.
But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell?
She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.
He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving.
“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.
“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”
She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”
He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.
“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”
“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…”
A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.
She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.
Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat.
When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.
He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.
“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”
Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.
She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?”
He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.
She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.
“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”
Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.
He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”
Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.
She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.
The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.
“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”
It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he—
He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.
“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”
He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply.
She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.
“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”
Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.
She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.
She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.
He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”
He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”
She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”
An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.
“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.
He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.
“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”
She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”
One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.
A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on.
It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.
You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.
Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.
You turn your head, body tense.
“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.
He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.
“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.
He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?
His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?”
It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.
“A bracelet.”
Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”
You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”
“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.
“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”
You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.
“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”
Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.
“And your father—“
“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”
You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart.
Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”
Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.
Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.
You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”
Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”
He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.
“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”
You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“
“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”
To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.
Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.
The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.
His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms.
“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”
Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.
He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.
The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.
He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.
“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”
Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.
“Shall we go?”
Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.
The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.
She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.
Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.
Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure.
She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.
He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.
“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.
Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.
He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”
“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”
Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook.
“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”
He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”
She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.
Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.
“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.
“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation.
Another pause.
He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”
Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.
“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.”
She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.
“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”
He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water.
“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”
She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”
“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”
He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.
Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own.
“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”
Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.
“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”
The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel.
The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.
“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”
Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”
She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.
Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.
His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes.
“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.
“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”
Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.
“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”
“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”
She nods.
Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”
“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them.
“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”
She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”
“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”
She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”
The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.
“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening.
In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears.
You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.
“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin.
Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”
You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.
You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.
Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.
You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.
But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it.
You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.
You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray.
“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts.
You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.
“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.
You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.
“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”
You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”
Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.
“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road.
Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”
You nod. “That would be easiest.”
You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.
He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.
Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.
You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.
“Who taught you this?”
You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color.
“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.
“Was he hurt often?”
You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”
“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”
“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”
You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”
“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“
“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”
You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”
“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“
You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”
Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.
“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”
“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“
“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.
“You cannot stay,” you tell him.
“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”
Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.
You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.
“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”
He leans forward. “What stopped you?”
Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”
His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.
You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.
The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.
You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.
You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.
You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.
“Are you alright, Jace?”
“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”
You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.
“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.
“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”
You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”
Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.
You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.
“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.
Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.
You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.
Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.
“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,
“I will return to you one day.”
You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”
He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no.
Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.
You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters.
A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.
He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.
ONE YEAR LATER…
The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea.
You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand.
“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.”
You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.
You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.
“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”
He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.
He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.
“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”
He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.
The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.
“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”
The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.
However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.
It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.
You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.
He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.
His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind.
“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”
“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”
Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”
“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.
The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.
He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”
You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.
You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.
Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”
Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.
“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”
He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”
He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.
“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”
Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement.
“I would stay forever if you would have me.”
You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”
He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.
“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”
“And you?”
His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.
The singers would have made lies of it, if singers had been allowed near the truth.
They would have said the sea opened for love. They would have said the copper dragon descended like some god out of old Valyria, claws bright with sunset, wings beating the smoke away, and that Princess Y/N Targaryen reached through flame and storm because no prince promised to her could ever be claimed by water while she still had breath left in her body. They would have given the moment beauty, because singers were paid to take the ugliest parts of war and polish them until fools mistook blood for rubies. They would not have spoken of the smell. They would not have remembered the burned pitch, the torn sailcloth, the wet choking stink of men drowning under armor, the groan of hulls split open by dragonfire and ram alike. They would not have known how the Narrow Sea looked when it was full of splinters, corpses, burning oil, broken oars, dead horses, and screaming sailors from Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Driftmark, Hull, Dragonstone, and every miserable corner of the world that had been dragged into the Dance because Targaryens had never learned to break a crown without breaking everything beneath it first.
You remembered all of it.
You remembered the morning before the ravens came, too, which was worse in some ways, because the morning had pretended to be ordinary.
Dragonstone had been grey under a low sky, the sea restless below the cliffs, the castle crouched in its black volcanic bones like a beast refusing sleep. Queen Rhaenyra had held the painted table with a face gone thin from grief and command, surrounded by men who called her Your Grace and then watched her sons with the careful fear of men who knew heirs were more fragile than banners. Lord Corlys Velaryon had stood with both hands braced upon the table, silver hair bound back, eyes fixed upon the carved channels of Blackwater Bay and the Gullet as if he could hold the sea itself by staring hard enough. Your father, Prince Daemon, had not been there. He was away with Caraxes, away with his own war, his own rage, his own secrets, because that was what Daemon Targaryen did best. He left scorch marks in history, then expected those left behind to warm themselves by the ashes.
Jacaerys stood near his mother, taller than he had been when you were first told you would marry him, though still not yet broad in the way older men became after years of command, wine, and arrogance. He had grown harder since Lucerys died. Not crueler, not yet, but the soft places in him had gone guarded. His dark curls were tied at the nape because he had taken to wearing them so when he meant to look older. It never worked on you. You had known him when his voice still cracked during arguments and when he tried to look solemn at betrothal feasts while Baela kicked him under the table and you nearly choked on laughter into your cup. You had known him before war made everyone speak in titles first and names only when afraid.
He felt your stare and looked toward you across the chamber.
For a moment, all the lords and captains and maesters between you seemed to blur into the smoke from the braziers. He gave you the smallest nod, almost nothing, a prince acknowledging a princess in council. But his hand shifted against the edge of the table, fingers closing once, and you knew him well enough to understand the rest.
Stay.
Do not follow.
Do not make this worse by loving me where everyone can see it.
You almost laughed at him for it. Quietly, viciously, in your own throat. Men were unbelievable creatures. Give one a dragon, a claim to the Iron Throne, and the affection of a woman who had spent her life among Targaryens and Velaryons, and somehow he would still imagine he could protect her by standing three paces farther away in a council chamber. Absolute strategic genius. The Citadel would probably write six dull scrolls about it.
“Lysene galleys have been sighted near the Gullet before,” one of Corlys’s captains was saying. “The Triarchy has not forgotten the Stepstones, my lord. Nor Prince Daemon.”
“No one has forgotten my father,” you said.
The room quieted just enough to prove that everyone had been thinking the same thing and no one had wanted to be the fool who gave it voice. You stood beside Baela, with Rhaena behind you near the carved wall, your sisters silent in different ways. Baela’s silence always had teeth. Rhaena’s had sorrow in it, deeper and more private than people understood because they mistook gentleness for weakness. You were the eldest of Laena Velaryon’s daughters, born before the twins, raised between tide and flame, and people had been watching your face since you were old enough to sit beside your mother without fidgeting. They had watched for Daemon in you. They had watched for Laena. They had watched for Velaryon salt and Targaryen madness, as if blood was a cup they could peer into and judge its contents.
Corlys looked at you, and the grief that crossed his face was gone so quickly a careless person would have missed it. You were Laena’s daughter before you were Daemon’s, at least to him. “Your father’s enemies have long memories.”
“So do his daughters.”
Baela’s mouth twitched.
Jace’s did not. He was watching you too closely now, his eyes warning you away from whatever he thought was building in you. He had always known when you were about to do something inconvenient. It was one of the reasons you loved him and one of the reasons you occasionally wanted to shake him until his princely restraint fell out of his ears.
Rhaenyra’s voice drew the room back. “Our fleet holds the Gullet. The Sea Snake has made that plain. If the Triarchy comes, they will find Velaryon sails waiting.”
“And dragons,” Jace said.
He spoke calmly, but something moved through the hall when he did. He had gone to the Eyrie and to Winterfell and returned with promises, with oaths, with men speaking well of him. He had found dragonseeds for his mother, bastards and lowborn and doubtful blood made mighty by fire: Addam of Hull on Seasmoke, Hugh Hammer on Vermithor, Ulf White on Silverwing, Nettles on Sheepstealer. A pretty harvest of desperation, plucked from Dragonstone’s shadow and handed weapons that could unmake cities. You did not despise them for it. You would have mounted anything with wings too, had the world given you hunger instead of a title.
But dragons were not swords. Dragons had moods, memories, tempers. Dragons chose. Dragons grieved. Anyone who thought otherwise had never looked into a dragon’s eye and seen something older than language looking back.
Your own dragon had chosen you before your tenth nameday.
Rhovagon was copper from snout to tail, not the bright useless shine of a new coin, but the deeper color of hammered metal held near flame. Along his neck and shoulders, his scales darkened into bronze, and under his wings ran thin veins of green like old patina spreading through a statue left too long in sea air. He was not as monstrous as Vhagar, not as famed as Caraxes, not as beautiful as Sunfyre was said to be, but he was clever. He listened more than other dragons. He watched the water with particular hatred, as if he personally resented anything that swallowed heat. Your father had once said Rhovagon had the temperament of a suspicious old admiral trapped inside a young dragon’s body. Your mother had laughed and told him that was why he suited you.
You had not thought of that in years without pain catching under your ribs.
“Dragons, yes,” Rhaenyra said, and her gaze moved from Jace to you with the careful heaviness of a mother and queen trying not to let either part of herself win too completely. “But dragons must be sent with purpose, not pride.”
Jace lowered his head. “I know that, Mother.”
“Do you?”
The words landed harder than a shout. Jace’s jaw tightened. He bowed, but the hurt showed because he was not as good as hiding it from you as he wished. Rhaenyra saw Lucerys whenever she looked at danger now. She saw Arrax ripped apart above Shipbreaker Bay. She saw one son lost to Aemond’s monster and another standing before her, offering himself to war with all the earnest courage that made boys die and old men write about valor afterward.
Your hand curled around the back of a chair. You wanted to speak, but this was not your mother. This was not your council. This was not your place, though you had been promised to its heir and would one day, if any of you survived this family’s talent for catastrophe, stand beside him as queen. Wonderful institution, monarchy. Everyone bled for rules no one could keep straight once the dragons started eating each other.
After the council, Jace found you on the windy path below the castle, where black stone steps led toward the dragonmont and the air tasted of sulfur, salt, and ash. You had gone there because Rhovagon was restless and because you did not want to sit in chambers while women embroidered fear into silence. He came without guards. That alone told you his mood.
“You should not speak so sharply in council,” he said.
You turned from the cliff edge. Below, waves struck the rocks hard enough to burst white. “There he is. My promised husband, brave heir to Dragonstone, terror of Lysene sailors, corrector of women’s manners.”
His brows drew together. “That is not what I meant.”
“It never is.”
“Y/N.”
Your name in his mouth softened something you had meant to keep difficult. Annoying, really. Affection had no discipline. It just wandered into arguments and ruined perfectly good anger.
Jace stepped closer. He wore black and red, not Velaryon sea colors, and he had a sword at his hip though he still looked more like a prince than a killer. His face had changed since Lucerys died. There was a line between his brows now that did not leave easily, and grief had taught him to hold still. Before, he had burned brighter, laughed faster. You missed that boy with an ache you did not know where to put. You loved the young man before you too, but that love was more frightening. It had teeth around the edges.
“I do not want you in the first flight if the Triarchy comes,” he said.
“There it is.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
His nostrils flared. “Rhovagon is swift, but he is not so large as Vermithor or Silverwing. If the galleys carry scorpions, if they have learned from the Stepstones, if they loose enough bolts at once, a smaller dragon is no small risk.”
“And Vermax is made of Valyrian steel now?”
“Do not twist my words.”
“Then stop giving me such useful ones.”
He looked away, toward the water. Gulls screamed beyond the cliffs. Somewhere deep under the mountain, a dragon answered with a low, irritated rumble that seemed to pass through the soles of your boots. “You are Laena’s daughter.”
“I had noticed.”
“She died trying to reach Vhagar.”
Cold passed through you. Not the air. Not the sea. Something older and more personal. Your mother’s death was a wound people handled either too gently or not gently enough. Jace knew better. Usually. The fact that he had said it told you how afraid he was.
Your voice lowered. “Finish that thought carefully.”
He turned back, regret already in his eyes. “I only meant that I cannot watch you fly into certain death because pride demands it.”
“Pride?” you repeated. “You think this is pride?”
“I think you would rather burn than be left behind.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you would rather drown than admit you need anyone beside you.”
His mouth shut.
The wind pulled loose strands of your silver hair across your face. You did not brush them back. You let him look at you half-obscured, half-wild, not because you planned it, but because you were tired of standing neatly inside everyone else’s fear. “I am not Baela. I am not Rhaena. I am not your mother’s ward to be placed behind walls until the realm becomes polite again. I am Daemon Targaryen’s daughter, yes, and Laena Velaryon’s. I am promised to you, not owned by you. Rhovagon answers to me, and if ships come through the Gullet to burn my grandfather’s seat and take my kin, I will not sit in my rooms with my hands folded because you have decided love means locking me away from danger.”
Jace stared at you for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “I do not know how to lose another person.”
The anger went from you as if someone had opened a vein.
He looked ashamed of having said it. That was Jace. He could stand in council before Corlys Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and half the proud fools on Dragonstone without faltering, but one honest sentence to the girl he was meant to marry and he looked as if he had stripped himself bare in winter.
You crossed the space between you and took his face between your hands. He shut his eyes when your thumbs brushed his cheekbones. His skin was warm despite the wind.
“You do not get to choose that,” you said, less harshly now. “None of us do.”
“I know.”
“No. You command. You plan. You make yourself useful until people forget you are frightened. That is not the same as knowing.”
His eyes opened. Brown, not violet. Familiar, stubborn, alive. People whispered about that too. They whispered about him and his brothers as if hair color mattered more than courage, as if blood was only true when it performed prettily for witnesses. You had hated those whispers long before you loved him. Jace had carried them since childhood, and instead of making him smaller, they had made him determined to earn every room he entered. It was noble. It was exhausting. It was also likely to get him killed one day if no one dragged him back by the collar.
He covered one of your hands with his. “And what do you do when you are frightened?”
“Become unpleasant.”
“That is not only when you are frightened.”
“Careful, my prince.”
For the first time that day, he smiled. Barely. Enough.
You leaned in and kissed him before the smile could fade. It was not soft at first. Neither of you had been raised in softness, and war had stolen whatever patience courtship might have taught you. His hand went to your waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of your gown. You felt him inhale like he had been struck. You had kissed before, in corners and corridors and once in a storage chamber that had smelled strongly of apples and old wine, which Baela had found so funny she nearly told half the castle out of spite. But since Lucerys, since Blood and Cheese, since rookery messages came in black ribbons and everyone began measuring life by which raven arrived next, each touch had changed. It had become a claim against loss. Not ownership. Never that. More like proof. Here. Warm. Breathing. Mine because I choose and am chosen.
When you drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
“If I ask you again to stay behind?” he murmured.
“I will pretend not to hear you.”
“That sounds like you.”
“If you try to command me?”
“I would not.”
“If you try?”
His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, lighter now, almost sad. “Then you will become unpleasant.”
“Violently.”
His laugh was short and unsteady, but it was there.
Later, you would think of that laugh. You would think of it when the sky turned black with smoke and the sea took Vermax beneath its burning skin.
The ravens came before dawn.
Not one. Many. Their wings beat at the rookery windows until servants ran half-dressed through the corridors and bells began to sound across Dragonstone. The Gay Abandon had been taken. Aegon and Viserys, the queen’s little sons by Daemon, had been aboard, sent away for safety because adults were forever arranging children like pieces on cyvasse boards and then acting shocked when the board caught fire. Aegon had escaped on Stormcloud, wounded, terrified, his small dragon torn and dying beneath him by the time he reached Dragonstone. Viserys was gone. Taken, drowned, dead, sold, hidden. No one knew. The not knowing was its own kind of knife.
Rhaenyra’s scream carried through stone.
You were already dressed when Jace came for you.
He did not knock. He entered your chamber with his riding leathers half-fastened, hair loose, face pale under the fury gripping him. For a wild instant, neither of you spoke. The castle beyond your door was chaos: running feet, shouted orders, sobbing servants, horns, the distant answering roars of dragons disturbed from sleep. You could smell smoke though there was no fire yet. Fear had a smell close enough.
“Viserys,” he said.
“I heard.”
“Aegon says ships. Many ships. Triarchy colors. They attacked the cog and took him from the sea.”
Your hands were already moving, buckling the straps at your wrists. “Where is Aegon?”
“With the maesters. Stormcloud is dying.”
Jace’s voice broke on the dragon’s name. Not loudly. Barely enough to hear. That made it worse.
You came to him. “Jace.”
“They took him,” he said. “They took my brother. My mother thinks him dead. Aegon saw them take him, and he could do nothing.”
“He is a child.”
“So was Luke.”
That one landed between you like a blade.
He turned away, breathing too hard. “I am flying.”
“I know.”
“The dragonseeds are being called. Addam, Hugh, Ulf, Nettles. All of them.”
“And me.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“For once in your life,” you said, “do not waste time arguing with me.”
He looked back. Rage and terror made him look older than he was and younger than he wished. “If something happens, I cannot turn back for you.”
“Good. I would hate to discover you had become stupid at the worst possible moment.”
“That is not a jest.”
“No,” you said. “It is an order.”
He stared, then crossed the room in three strides and kissed you with all the words neither of you had room to say. This one was not stolen sweetness. It was fierce, bruising, almost angry, his hands in your hair and yours gripping the front of his leathers hard enough to strain the seams. He tasted of salt and sleeplessness. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours as if committing your face to memory, which you hated so much you almost slapped him.
“Do not look at me like I am already dead,” you said.
He swallowed. “Then do not die.”
“Same to you.”
He nodded once.
That was the last gentle thing.
The dragonmont was thunder by the time you reached it. Vermax was shrieking from the lower slope, green scales dark with dawn mist, wings half-spread, lashing his tail so hard stones cracked under him. Rhovagon waited above him, copper hide catching the first miserable light of morning. He saw you and lowered his long head, smoke curling from his nostrils in hot gusts that smelled of iron and char. His eyes were molten orange, awake and terrible. He knew before you touched him. He always did.
“Rhovagon,” you said, pressing your palm to the warm scale above his jaw.
He rumbled. Not comfort. Agreement.
Beyond him, the other dragons gathered or lifted already. Seasmoke moved with pale, restless elegance under Addam of Hull, who sat him better than many highborn would have liked to admit. Addam had a Velaryon look to him despite his birth, and a steadiness you trusted more than Hugh Hammer’s broad-shouldered swagger. Hugh sat Vermithor like a man drunk on being chosen by a god. Perhaps he was. Vermithor’s bronze immensity made the air shake when he moved, old power wrapped in muscle and flame. Ulf White laughed too loudly atop Silverwing, though the sound cracked near the end, betraying the fear under the wine and bravado. Nettles was the strangest among them, small and brown and sharp-eyed, perched on Sheepstealer with a confidence that did not need announcement. Her dragon was mud-brown and lean, ugly by courtly standards, which meant he had probably lived longer than most pretty creatures through the radical strategy of not giving a damn what princes thought.
Jace was already mounted on Vermax.
He saw you climb into Rhovagon’s saddle. His face hardened into command because others were watching. Yours did the same. It was almost funny. Two children dressed as legends, about to fly into a naval battle because every adult in the realm had failed upward into disaster.
Lord Corlys stood below with his captains, shouting to men racing toward the harbor. Baela was there too, furious at being held back, Moondancer too young and too small for such a fight, though Baela looked ready to claw the sky open with her own hands. Rhaena stood beside her, arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on you.
“You come back!” Baela shouted.
You looked down at your sister and forced a grin you did not feel. “Bossy little beast.”
“Promise me!”
That cut deeper than expected. Baela did not beg. She demanded, threatened, mocked, charged. But promise me came out of her with childhood still inside it.
You looked from Baela to Rhaena. Rhaena’s eyes were wet, but she did not look away. Sweet sister. Quiet sister. The one everyone underestimated because she survived pain without making theater of it.
“I promise,” you said.
A stupid thing to say before battle. Necessary anyway.
Then Vermax leapt.
The sky took him.
Jace rose hard and fast, and Rhovagon followed.
Dragonstone dropped beneath you, black towers and smoking vents shrinking as the wind slammed cold against your face. The saddle straps bit into your thighs. Rhovagon’s wings opened in full, copper membranes snapping taut, and the world tilted into speed. Around you came the others: Seasmoke pale as sea fog, Silverwing gleaming, Vermithor vast enough to make clouds seem thin, Sheepstealer cutting lower with Nettles crouched forward like she had been born out of his spine. Vermax flew at the front, his green body arrowing toward the Gullet, toward smoke already staining the horizon.
You had flown all your life, but never into anything like that.
At first the battle was only a dark smudge over the water.
Then it became fire.
The Gullet was burning from end to end. Warships crawled across the sea like black beetles, some in Velaryon formation, others flying banners of the Three Daughters: Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, old enemies wearing new purpose. The Triarchy fleet had come in force, dozens upon dozens of ships, their decks crowded with archers, crossbowmen, sailors, sellswords, men who had fought dragons before in the Stepstones and learned just enough to be dangerous before dying anyway. High Tide and Spicetown were under attack behind the main press, smoke rising from Driftmark in long torn ribbons. Velaryon ships fought in the channel, their oars churning red water. Men leapt from burning decks. Others burned where they stood. Some tried to swim and were dragged down by armor, ropes, wreckage, or the simple cruel weight of panic.
Through the wind, you heard Jace shouting commands. Not to you. To all of them.
“Lysene galleys! Break them before they scatter!”
He did not sound like a boy then. He sounded like what Rhaenyra needed him to be. That terrified you more than weakness would have.
Vermax dove first.
Green wings folded, and he dropped through smoke with a scream that split the air. Fire poured from his jaws, golden-orange and furious, sweeping across the nearest galley. Sailcloth vanished. Men became torches. The ship’s mast cracked, fell, and crushed the deck in a spray of sparks and bodies. Seasmoke followed from the left, Addam bringing him low along the line of fleeing ships, white-grey fire washing over oars and rigging. Vermithor did not so much attack as erase. Hugh Hammer brought the old dragon down upon the Myrish line, and three ships burned in a single breath, their hulls bursting apart under heat too great for wet wood to bear. Silverwing passed higher, flame raining in a wide, terrible arc. Ulf whooped as if he were at a tourney, the idiot, but his dragon knew her work. Sheepstealer moved with ugly precision, diving at stragglers, tearing sails with his claws, setting one ship afire from stern to prow before Nettles pulled him sharply aside from a storm of bolts.
Then Rhovagon descended.
The first blast of his fire struck a Tyroshi ship attempting to ram a Velaryon galley. Copper light filled your vision. Rhovagon’s flame was not as pale as Seasmoke’s or as vast as Vermithor’s. It came dense and roaring, red-gold at the core, edged in green where the heat caught pitch and painted shields. Men screamed below you. You smelled hair and tar and blood boiling in armor. You banked hard, knees clamping against the saddle as arrows hissed past. One struck Rhovagon’s left shoulder and glanced from scale. Another tore through the loose edge of your cloak. A third flashed close enough that you felt its wind against your cheek.
“Rhovagon, up!” you shouted, and he climbed.
Below, the Triarchy ships tried to scatter, but the Gullet was crowded with death. Burning ships drifted into whole ones. Oars tangled. Men leapt between decks, some aflame, some trying to drag water buckets through chaos as if a bucket could argue with dragonfire and win. The sky filled with smoke so thick your eyes streamed. You wiped them with the back of your glove and looked for Jace.
Vermax was ahead, too far ahead.
“Jace,” you hissed.
He had seen something. You knew it before you knew what. Vermax angled toward a cluster of Lysene galleys breaking from the main fleet, their sails cut loose and oars driving frantically east. They were not fleeing blindly. They were guarding something between them. Smaller vessels. Prize ships. Captives.
Viserys.
Of course Jace saw it. Of course he did.
You dragged Rhovagon after him, cursing him in every language you knew and several you invented on the spot. “No, no, do not be noble now, you stubborn fool.”
Vermax dropped lower.
The Lyseni were ready.
From the decks below came the snap and groan of scorpions turning. Huge bolts rose like black needles into the smoke. Crossbows lifted in hundreds. Archers packed the rails. Men shouted in bastard Valyrian, in the trade tongue, in the rough clipped commands of sellsail captains who had known dragons once in the Stepstones and carried that terror back with them as instruction. Vermax opened his jaws and bathed the nearest ship in flame, but he was low. Too low. Smoke swallowed half his body. A scorpion bolt cut through the air beneath him. Another tore past his wing. Jace leaned forward in the saddle, driving him on.
“Jacaerys!” you screamed, though the wind stole most of it.
Rhovagon heard the panic in you and answered with speed that nearly ripped the breath from your chest. You dove after Vermax as the sea rose fast below, black and red and glittering with patches of fire. A Lysene galley exploded under Vermax’s flame, its mast flinging upward in a burning arc. Vermax swerved. A bolt struck his wing membrane. Not deep enough to kill. Enough to ruin the rhythm of flight.
The green dragon lurched.
For one instant, Vermax fought the air and almost won.
Then his claws struck a mast hidden in smoke.
Wood shattered. The impact twisted him sideways. Jace was thrown hard against the saddle straps. Vermax’s wing folded wrong, and dragon and rider crashed into the sea with a sound that seemed to silence the battle for half a heartbeat.
Water swallowed them.
Your own scream tore your throat raw.
Rhovagon tried to pull up by instinct. Dragons hated the sea. All fire hated the thing that could smother it. But you drove your heels down and hauled the reins, not away, not up, but toward the place where Vermax had vanished beneath foam and burning wreckage.
“Down!” you shouted. “Rhovagon, down!”
He snarled, furious, terrified, offended to his bones, and obeyed.
The heat vanished as you plunged through smoke toward the water. Arrows rose around you. A bolt glanced off Rhovagon’s breast and spun away. Another buried shallowly near his flank, drawing a roar that shook the air from your lungs. You did not look at it. You looked at the sea.
Vermax surfaced once.
His head broke through with a spray of foam, jaws open, screaming. One wing thrashed. His tail struck wreckage and sent men flying. Jace was no longer in the saddle.
No.
There. A dark shape in the water near the remains of a broken mast. Jace, one arm hooked over splintered wood, hair plastered to his skull, blood running from his temple into his eye. Crossbow quarrels struck the water around him. One caught his shoulder. You saw his body jolt.
Something in you went quiet.
Not calm. Calm was a virtue for septas and corpses. This was older. Cleaner. A narrow place inside fear where there was no room for anything except what must happen next.
“Rhovagon,” you said, voice wrecked but steady. “Take him.”
The copper dragon screamed in rage and folded his wings.
You hit the air above the water so low that spray lashed your face like thrown gravel. Rhovagon’s claws reached. The first pass missed Jace by the length of a man’s arm because Vermax’s thrashing sent a wave between them. You swore so violently your mother’s ghost probably sighed somewhere in whatever afterlife tolerated Targaryens.
“Again!”
A ship below you loosed everything it had. Arrows peppered Rhovagon’s underside. Most broke. Some stuck. A scorpion bolt shrieked past your leg and punched through the trailing edge of his right wing. Rhovagon’s body bucked under you. Pain blasted through the bond like red lightning. You nearly lost the saddle.
“Hold,” you gasped. “Hold, my heart. Again.”
Rhovagon banked, wounded wing dragging, and came around over the water.
Jace looked up.
You saw him see you.
Even from above, through smoke, through blood, through the insane battlefield blur of fire and sea, you saw recognition break across his face. Not relief. Horror. He understood what you were doing. He tried to lift his good arm, not to reach for you, but to wave you away.
That stupid, noble, beloved idiot.
You leaned so far from the saddle that the straps carved pain across your hips. “Take my hand!”
He shook his head once, hard, and shouted something you could not hear.
“Take my hand, or I swear by every god this realm has wasted prayers on, I will follow you into the sea and haunt you until the end of days!”
That, apparently, reached him.
Jace let go of the wreckage.
For a moment, the water claimed him again. Your heart stopped with him.
Then Rhovagon’s claws closed around his body, not cleanly, not gently, one talon hooking through leather near his ribs, another catching the back of his riding harness. Jace cried out. Rhovagon beat his wings once and rose, but Vermax screamed below, still sinking, still fighting, one wing ruined, neck tangled in ropes and broken mast lines from the wrecked ship. A dragon’s scream in pain was not like any other sound. It seemed to tear open the world and show the bones underneath.
Jace twisted in Rhovagon’s grip, blood streaming down his face. “Vermax!”
You heard that. Everyone heard that.
Rhovagon climbed a few feet, struggling under Jace’s weight and his own injury. Below, Vermax thrashed, dragging wreckage with him. The sea around him boiled, not from heat but from the violence of his dying struggle. Crossbowmen on the nearest surviving galley cheered, and the sound turned your vision red.
“No,” you said.
Rhovagon snarled as if he already knew.
You could save Jace and leave Vermax. That was what a sensible person would do. That was what commanders would praise later in careful voices. A dragon was a weapon, yes, and a terrible loss, but the heir mattered more. The promised husband. The boy in your dragon’s claws with blood pouring down his arm. You could climb now. You could live. He could live.
Vermax screamed again.
Jace made a broken sound that was worse.
Damn all sensible people.
“Rhovagon,” you said, and pressed yourself low to his neck. “We pull him out.”
The dragon’s answer was a roar so furious it shook ash from the sky.
He dropped again, Jace still held in one claw, and seized Vermax’s tangled harness and wing-root with the other. His talons slid once on soaked scale. Vermax snapped blindly in pain, teeth closing on air close enough to Rhovagon’s foreleg to tear flesh if he had found it. You shouted Vermax’s name, then Jace did too, ragged and desperate, and something in the green dragon recognized his rider’s voice. He stilled just enough.
Rhovagon beat his wings.
Nothing happened.
The sea held Vermax like a jealous god.
“Again!” you screamed.
Rhovagon pulled.
His injured wing faltered. You felt muscle tear through the bond. He screamed, but he did not let go. Vermax’s head rose higher. Ropes snapped. A mast fragment dragged beneath him like an anchor. Rhovagon’s body strained so violently you thought his spine would break. The saddle lurched under you. Your hands slipped on blood-slick leather. For one absurd instant, you thought of Baela demanding your promise and Rhaena’s wet eyes and your mother laughing in Pentos sunlight before death came to your house wearing fever and smoke.
Not yet, you thought.
Not him.
Not me.
Not like this.
A shadow swept over you.
Seasmoke.
Addam of Hull came down through smoke with his face pale and set, Seasmoke’s claws out. “Princess!”
“Cut the ropes!” you shouted.
Addam understood faster than most lords would have, which was another point in favor of bastards and fishermen’s sons over highborn council fossils. Seasmoke blasted flame across the wreckage tangled beneath Vermax, controlled enough not to burn the dragon but hot enough to char ropes, sailcloth, and splintered spars. Smoke burst upward. Rhovagon pulled again.
This time Vermax came free.
Half-drowned, wing torn, body shuddering, but free.
Rhovagon could not carry both. Not truly. He had Jace clutched beneath him and Vermax gripped awkwardly by broken harness and neck ridge, enough to keep the green dragon from sinking but not enough to lift him clear. Seasmoke moved beneath Vermax’s side, buffeting the water with his wings, helping push him up from the surface. For several insane moments, dragons became cranes and lifelines while men below forgot war long enough to stare. Then the Triarchy remembered itself and loosed another storm of bolts.
One struck you.
At first you did not understand. There was only a heavy punch beneath your left ribs, hot and stupidly intimate. You looked down and saw the quarrel buried through leather and flesh, the shaft trembling with each beat of Rhovagon’s wings. No pain yet. That would come, because the body was petty and always late with paperwork.
Jace saw it from below.
Even dangling half-conscious in Rhovagon’s talons, the fool saw it. “Y/N!”
“I’m busy,” you snapped, though it came out wet.
Rhovagon climbed. Seasmoke helped Vermax rise just enough for the wounded green dragon to beat his own good wing, then the other, clumsily, horribly, dragging water in sheets. He could not fly well, but he could stay above the sea in ugly, lurching bursts. Jace was still held by Rhovagon, and that was good because you did not think Vermax could have borne a sparrow then, let alone his rider.
Vermithor swept over the ships below in answer to your injury, or perhaps Hugh simply saw a chance for glory and burning things. Either way, the result was useful. Dragonfire engulfed the nearest galley, the one whose men had been cheering. Their cheers became screams. Silverwing crossed behind him, fire pouring bright into the smoke. Sheepstealer tore through another ship’s sail and sent it crashing into its neighbor, Nettles bent low over his neck, hair whipping loose, eyes hard as old nails. For all their rough edges, for all the danger of giving dragons to untested hands, in that moment they fought like fury given wings.
“Back!” Addam shouted. “Get him back!”
Yes. Back. Dragonstone. Maesters. Ground. Anything that was not this burning sea.
You tried to answer, but blood filled your mouth.
That was inconvenient.
Rhovagon knew before you sagged. His whole body convulsed with panic. Not fear of the sea now. Fear of you. The bond between dragon and rider was not a song, no matter what poets claimed after too much Arbor gold. It was hunger, heat, instinct, memory, command, and something stranger threaded through blood. Rhovagon felt your wound as wrongness. He felt your weakening grip. He felt death looking up from inside you and hated it.
“Fly,” you whispered. “Rhovagon, fly.”
He did.
The retreat was not clean. Nothing in war ever was, despite men drawing arrows on maps afterward as if battles were tidy little lines instead of thousands of people discovering what their insides looked like. Rhovagon climbed with Jace still in one claw, Vermax half-flying beside and below him with Seasmoke guarding his flank. Addam stayed near, calling encouragement in a voice that cracked from smoke. Behind you, the battle continued to devour itself. Vermithor and Silverwing burned through the scattered Triarchy ships while Sheepstealer harried those trying to flee. Velaryon sails regrouped below, battered but not broken. Driftmark still burned. Spicetown’s smoke rose thicker than before. The Gullet had become a grave no victory could cleanse.
Jace kept trying to speak. You heard pieces.
“Y/N. Stay awake. Damn you, stay awake.”
You wanted to tell him not to steal your commands. You wanted to tell him Vermax lived. You wanted to tell him that if he ever waved you away from drowning again, you would marry him solely to make the rest of his life difficult. Good promises, all of them. Very motivating. Unfortunately, your tongue had become a useless lump of meat and your vision kept narrowing.
The flight back stretched strangely. Dragonstone appeared, vanished behind smoke, appeared again. The sea below turned from battlefield red to ordinary grey, as if it had not just tried to swallow a prince and his dragon. Rhovagon’s wingbeats became uneven. Each one jarred the bolt in your side until pain finally arrived in full, white and immense. You could not breathe around it. Your left hand slipped from the saddle grip.
No, you thought, irritated more than afraid. Not after all that.
A laugh bubbled in your throat and became blood.
Rhovagon screamed.
The castle alarms answered. Men were running on the shore. Tiny figures. Useless, frantic ants. Some pointed upward. Some scattered as Vermax, barely controlled, came crashing toward the lower landing ground with Seasmoke beside him. Rhovagon followed, but his descent was wrong. Too steep. His wounded wing dipped. The ground rushed.
“Rhovagon,” you tried to say.
He turned at the last possible instant, taking the worst of the fall through his shoulder rather than his chest. The landing shattered into impact. You were thrown forward, saddle straps catching you cruelly. Jace fell from Rhovagon’s claw into a churn of ash and gravel, rolling hard before men reached him. Vermax struck the earth beyond with a broken howl, one wing dragging, claws tearing trenches through black soil. Seasmoke landed nearby and roared at everyone who came too close, which was sensible. Men were generally at their most useless when rushing at injured dragons with good intentions.
Hands grabbed at you.
You snarled at them. Or tried to. It may have been more of a wet cough. Humiliating.
“Do not pull her yet!” someone shouted. “The bolt, mind the bolt!”
“Princess, can you hear me?”
“Get the maester!”
“Where is the prince?”
“Seven hells, look at Vermax.”
Rhovagon twisted his head toward you, eyes wild, smoke leaking between his teeth. He would burn them all if they hurt you. You knew it as clearly as you knew your own name.
“Lykiri,” you whispered to him, because the old word came easier than the Common Tongue. Calm.
He did not calm. But he did not burn them, which under the circumstances counted as remarkable personal growth.
Jace crawled to you.
Not walked. Crawled. His shoulder was bleeding heavily around the quarrel lodged there, one side of his face masked in blood, his lips blue from sea cold. Men tried to hold him back, and he fought them with the blank, stupid determination of someone too injured to understand injury applied to him.
“Move,” he rasped.
“My prince, you must let us look at you.”
“Move.”
That voice moved them. Or maybe his expression did. He reached Rhovagon’s side and hauled himself up by one of the saddle straps, swaying so badly a groom had to catch him around the waist. He slapped the man away without looking.
Your vision cleared enough to find him.
He looked dreadful. Truly dreadful. Pale, soaked, bleeding, shaking, hair plastered flat, one eye swollen, mouth trembling from cold and fury. The future king. Pulled from the sea like drowned laundry and still trying to command the tide by glaring at it.
“You look awful,” you whispered.
He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You have a bolt in you.”
“I noticed.”
“You came back.”
“You told me not to die.”
“I told you not to die. I did not tell you to get shot.”
“Your instructions lacked detail.”
His face crumpled, just for a moment, and that frightened you more than the pain. Jace took your hand. His was freezing. You tried to squeeze back. You were not sure your fingers moved.
“Vermax?” he asked, barely able to force the word out.
You shifted your eyes toward the landing ground.
Vermax lived.
Barely, perhaps. Badly, certainly. The green dragon lay on his side while dragonkeepers shouted over one another and approached with chains, hooks, prayers, and long experience with creatures who could kill them by accident while dying. His wing was torn. Blood and seawater streamed from his body. But his chest moved. His jaws opened, and a weak plume of smoke slipped out. When Jace heard him, his own breath broke.
“He lives,” you said.
Jace bent over your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. His shoulders shook once. Only once. He was still surrounded by men. Still a prince. Still trapped inside all the ridiculous machinery of rule and bloodline and expectation. But you felt the tremor of it through your joined hands.
Then Rhaenyra arrived.
You had never seen the queen like that. Not even after Luke. Her hair was unbound, her gown hastily thrown on, face stripped of all paint and ceremony. Aegon the Younger’s blood was still on one sleeve where she must have held him before running here. She stopped when she saw Jace alive. Stopped as if the sight had struck her in the chest.
“My son,” she said.
Jace turned his head. “Mother.”
Rhaenyra crossed the ground and fell to her knees beside him, gathering his wet, bloody face between her hands. For a moment, he was not heir, not prince, not commander, not any of the names war had placed on him. He was her boy. Her firstborn. Alive when history had already opened its mouth to swallow him. She kissed his brow, his cheeks, his hair, murmuring words too low for others, and Jace let her because he had no strength left to pretend.
Then her gaze moved to you.
Something passed over her face that was almost impossible to read. Gratitude. Horror. Calculation, because queens could not stop being queens even when blood was on the ground. Memory too, maybe, of Laena, of Daemon, of promises made between houses to bind wounds that kept reopening.
“She saved me,” Jace said.
Rhaenyra looked at the bolt in your side, at Rhovagon bleeding beneath you, at Vermax shuddering nearby. “I can see that.”
“I am going to marry her,” he said.
Even wounded half to death, you managed to blink at him. “That was already arranged, you dramatic ass.”
Someone nearby choked. It might have been Addam of Hull. If so, your opinion of him improved further.
Jace did not look away from his mother. “No. I am going to marry her. Not only because grandsires and councils made contracts. Not because Velaryon blood must answer Targaryen blood, or because the realm likes neat lines drawn between quarrelsome houses. Her. I choose her.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes softened and focused at once. “Jace.”
“If I live,” he said, and his voice faltered there, “if she lives, there will be no more speaking of it as duty.”
You wanted to tell him this was a deeply inconvenient moment for declarations, considering you were actively bleeding onto your dragon, but the words would not form. Besides, some part of you, weak and furious and embarrassingly moved, wanted to hear it.
Rhaenyra looked at you again. “Princess Y/N.”
“Your Grace,” you breathed.
“You brought him back to me.”
“Vermax too.”
“So I see.”
“Do not let them hurt Rhovagon.”
Her expression shifted, and for the first time since you had known her, Rhaenyra Targaryen looked at you not as Daemon’s daughter, not as Laena’s daughter, not as a useful betrothal, but as a girl trying not to die while worrying about her dragon first. Something like grief moved through her gaze. Something like kinship.
“I will not,” she said. “You have my word.”
A queen’s word. Almost as sturdy as a wet paper shield in this family, but it was something.
The maesters finally took command, because apparently even princes and queens ran out of usefulness once wounds became complicated. Jace fought when they tried to separate him from you. He had to be held upright by two men, which made the fighting less impressive than he likely intended, but he gave it real spirit. You appreciated that. The maester, an elderly man with the dead-eyed calm of someone who had seen too many royal injuries and perhaps wished he had chosen a career in turnip accounting, told him plainly that if he did not sit down, he would bleed to death in a very undignified manner before anyone could remove the quarrel from his shoulder.
Jace said, “See to her first.”
The maester said, “There are other maesters, my prince.”
“See to her first.”
“Jace,” Rhaenyra snapped, queen and mother returning together. “Sit.”
He sat.
Not gracefully.
They cut you out of the saddle because moving you cleanly was impossible. Rhovagon snarled at every blade until you managed to touch his neck with two limp fingers. “Let them.”
His great eye rolled toward you.
“Let them,” you repeated.
He obeyed, trembling with rage.
The pain became worse when they lowered you. That seemed unfair. You had already done the difficult part by not dying in the sky. But bodies were vulgar little kingdoms, full of rebellion. Men carried you toward the castle on a litter while Jace was half-dragged beside you on another, refusing to be taken anywhere he could not see you. Rhaenyra walked with him for several steps, then stopped when a messenger came running from the harbor with more news. War did not pause because sons survived. Viserys was still gone. Driftmark still burned. The Velaryon fleet had lost ships and men. The Triarchy was broken, yes, but at a price no sane person would call victory unless paid to do so.
As they bore you up the stone path, you saw Baela and Rhaena.
Baela reached you first, face white with fury. “You promised.”
“I came back.”
“You look like shit.”
“Runs in the family.”
Her mouth twisted, and then she bent and kissed your forehead hard enough to hurt. “Do not leave us.”
Rhaena appeared on your other side, tears running openly now. She took your hand with careful gentleness. “You saved him.”
“I had help.”
“I know,” Rhaena whispered. “But you went down first.”
You could not answer that. Not because it was untrue. Because it was.
Jace turned his head on the litter beside yours. His eyes were half-lidded, fever already threatening at the edges, but he was still conscious. Stubbornness had apparently replaced blood in his veins. “Baela.”
“What?” Baela snapped, wiping her cheek with the heel of her hand like she could bully tears out of existence.
“If she dies, she will haunt all of us.”
Baela let out a strangled laugh. Rhaena covered her mouth.
You looked at him. “Especially you.”
“I know.”
“I would be unbearable.”
“You already are.”
You smiled, or tried to.
The maesters took you into the chamber nearest the rookery because it was warm and had tables enough for bandages, basins, knives, and all the other charming instruments by which healing resembled murder with better manners. They put Jace on a bed across from yours because he refused anything farther away and because everyone had realized arguing with the heir while he was bleeding was a waste of energy better spent keeping him alive. Your riding leathers were cut away. The quarrel was snapped short. Wine was forced between your lips, then milk of the poppy, bitter and heavy. You tried to refuse too much of it. You wanted your mind clear.
The maester leaned over you. “Princess, the bolt must come free.”
“Then pull it.”
His mouth tightened. “It may have caught deep. There will be pain.”
“I ride a dragon. Do I look unfamiliar with pain?”
“No,” he said dryly. “You look like a young woman who believes defiance is a treatment.”
From across the room, Jace gave a weak laugh and then groaned when another maester pressed cloth to his shoulder.
You turned your head toward him. “Do not encourage him.”
“You like him,” Jace murmured.
“He has spirit.”
“He insulted you.”
“Yes.”
The maester sighed. “Royal patients are a plague.”
“There are worse plagues,” you said.
“Indeed,” he replied. “Most of them listen better.”
Then he pulled.
The world went white.
You did not scream at first. You were proud of that, later. You bit down on leather until your jaw ached and your vision broke into sparks. Then something tore hot and deep inside you, and sound came out of your throat despite your best efforts. Rhovagon answered from outside with a roar that shook dust from the ceiling. Every servant in the room flinched. The maester did not. The old bastard really had chosen the correct profession if he enjoyed standing between dragons and death with only linen and nerve.
Jace tried to rise. “Y/N!”
“Hold him down,” your maester barked without looking.
“I am the Prince of Dragonstone.”
“And currently the prince of making my work harder. Down.”
You would have laughed if you had not been busy trying not to vomit blood.
The bolt came free. Blood followed. Too much, judging by the sudden grim silence. Hands pressed cloth to your side. Someone called for boiled wine. Someone else called for needle and silk. The room tilted. Jace was speaking to you, but his voice came from very far away.
“Stay with me. Y/N, look at me.”
You forced your eyes open.
He was pale as bone. A bandage had been wrapped tight around his shoulder, already staining red. Another cut marked his brow. His lips were cracked from seawater. He looked young again. Not boyish, exactly. Just mortal.
“I told you,” you whispered, “no looking at me like I am dead.”
“I am looking at you like I love you.”
“That is worse.”
His mouth trembled.
You regretted the words the moment they left you, because his face changed and you did not have the strength to fix it prettily. So you did the crude, honest thing instead.
“I love you too,” you said. “Unfortunately.”
Jace made a sound that was almost laughter and almost grief. “Unfortunately?”
“You are very troublesome.”
“I am?”
“Constantly.”
He shut his eyes. A tear escaped anyway, slipping into the blood at his temple. “I thought the sea had you.”
“Not me.”
“No. Me.” His voice lowered, roughening. “I thought I was gone. I saw Vermax go under. I could not breathe. Then I saw you above me.”
The maester pushed a needle through your skin, and you gripped the table hard enough that your nails bent. “Romantic. Terrible timing.”
“I waved you away.”
“Yes,” you said. “I plan to be angry about that later.”
“I knew you would come down.”
“Then why wave?”
“Because I am an idiot.”
The maester stitching your side muttered, “At last, a sound diagnosis.”
Even Jace laughed at that, faintly. The room seemed less likely to collapse for one breath.
Night came strangely. You did not remember the sun setting, only that the windows went from grey to black and candles multiplied until the chamber smelled of wax, wine, blood, herbs, and smoke carried in from the wounded dragons outside. Reports came and went. You caught pieces through fever and poppy haze. The Triarchy fleet had been shattered, though enough ships had fled to carry horror back across the Narrow Sea. Driftmark had suffered terribly. Spicetown was ash. High Tide had burned. Thousands dead. Velaryon power wounded but not destroyed. Aegon the Younger lived, though Stormcloud did not. Viserys remained missing, presumed lost by many, though no body had been found. Rhaenyra moved through the castle like a ghost made of iron, mourning one son, nearly losing another, unable to stop being queen long enough to simply break.
Vermax lived through the first night.
So did Rhovagon.
So did you.
Barely, because your body had decided to be dramatic about blood loss, fever, and a crossbow bolt through the side. Jace did not fare much better. The quarrel in his shoulder had missed the worst by less than a finger’s width, according to the maester, who said this in the tone of a man personally offended by luck. Jace had swallowed enough seawater to cough half the Narrow Sea into cloth, and bruises spread across his ribs where Rhovagon’s claws had held him tight enough to save him and nearly crack him at the same time.
By the second morning, they moved your beds closer.
No one admitted who ordered it. You suspected Baela, because she had the face of someone daring the entire household to object. Rhaena sat with you often, reading softly from books neither of you heard. Addam of Hull came once, awkward in the doorway until you opened your eyes and told him he looked like a man waiting for permission to exist. He smiled then, uncertainly, and said Seasmoke was healing well.
“You saved Vermax,” you told him.
He glanced at Jace, then back to you. “You went for him first.”
“I had already done something stupid. It seemed rude not to finish.”
Addam laughed under his breath. “Princess.”
“Addam.”
He hesitated. “They will tell it differently.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
That did not surprise you. Everyone always did. By tomorrow, half the castle would say Jace had saved himself through princely courage. The other half would say you had bewitched Rhovagon into dragging a dragon from the sea through sorcery inherited from Daemon, because if a woman did something inconveniently brave, someone eventually blamed witchcraft. Across the water, the Triarchy would probably claim they had killed you both and three dragons besides. The Citadel would reduce the whole thing to a dry paragraph and then spill more ink debating legitimacy than survival. History was a corpse men fought over after the living had done all the bleeding.
“Let them,” you said. “You know what happened. So do we.”
Addam nodded slowly. “Aye.”
When he left, Jace turned his head toward you. Fever had made his eyes too bright. “He is a good man.”
“Yes.”
“I chose well with him.”
“You chose well with Nettles too,” you said. “And Hugh and Ulf, though I reserve the right to dislike them both personally.”
Jace’s mouth curved. “Ulf was drunk when he mounted Silverwing.”
“I noticed.”
“Hugh frightens some of the lords.”
“Hugh enjoys frightening them.”
“And Nettles?”
“Nettles does not care what they think,” you said. “That may make her the wisest person on Dragonstone.”
Jace looked toward the ceiling, his smile fading. “We won.”
The words hung there, false and true at once.
“Yes,” you said.
“Then why does it feel like defeat?”
You watched candlelight tremble across the beams. Outside, somewhere beyond the stone walls, Vermax gave a low, wounded rumble. Rhovagon answered, softer than usual. Dragons speaking in pain across the yard like old soldiers after battle.
“Because only men who are not there think victory feels clean,” you said.
Jace was silent for a while.
Then, “Viserys may yet live.”
“He may.”
“If he does, I will find him.”
“I know.”
“If he does not…”
You turned your head despite the pull of stitches. “Do not finish that tonight.”
“I should have been faster.”
“No.”
“I should have seen the ships sooner.”
“No.”
“I should have saved him.”
“You saved who you could. So did Aegon. So did I. That is all anyone ever does in battle, though men dress it up afterward so they can sleep.”
Jace swallowed. “Luke died alone.”
The chamber seemed to still around his brother’s name.
You had no clean answer for that. There was none. Lucerys had been a boy on a young dragon under a storm-black sky, chased by a kinsman with a monster beneath him. No speech could make it noble. No revenge could make it whole. So you gave Jace the only thing that was not a lie.
“Yes,” you said softly. “But you did not.”
His eyes closed.
“I saw you,” you continued. “Vermax saw you. Rhovagon saw you. Addam saw you. The whole damned Gullet saw you fighting for your brother. If songs come of this, they will be full of nonsense, but that part will be true.”
Jace breathed unevenly. “You came after me.”
“Yes.”
“You could have died.”
“So could you.”
“I am not worth your life.”
That angered you enough to cut through the fever. You shifted, regretted it immediately, and hissed through your teeth. “Do not insult me while I am too injured to throw something.”
His eyes opened.
“I decide what my life is spent on,” you said. “Not you. Not my father. Not your mother. Not Corlys. Not any council stuffed full of men who mistake age for wisdom because their knees hurt. I chose. I would choose again.”
Jace stared at you as if those words hurt more than the quarrel.
Then he reached across the narrow space between your beds.
It took effort. His arm shook. Yours was weaker. Your fingers met halfway, clumsy and cold.
“I would choose you too,” he said.
“You did. Very loudly. In front of your mother. While concussed.”
“I remember.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“I meant it.”
“I know.”
He held your hand with what little strength he had. For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need to fill every silence. You had been raised around enough people terrified of quiet to appreciate its uses. The castle groaned around you. Servants passed beyond the door. Far below, the sea went on chewing at the rocks as if it had not been denied its prize.
Near dawn, Rhaenyra came.
She entered without attendants, or perhaps dismissed them outside. Her face looked carved from exhaustion. She had changed gowns, but ash still clung in her hair. Queens were supposed to seem untouchable. Rhaenyra looked very touched by everything: grief, rage, sleeplessness, motherhood, rule. She stood between your beds and studied you both.
Jace tried to rise. “Mother.”
“Do not,” she said. “If you open that wound again, I will let the maester lecture you until you beg for mercy.”
He sank back. “Cruel.”
“I have had practice.”
Her fingers brushed his hair from his brow. The touch lingered only a moment before she turned to you. “Princess.”
“Your Grace.”
“Rhovagon has taken food.”
Relief moved through you so strongly it nearly hurt worse than the wound. “Vermax?”
“Not yet. But he drinks. The dragonkeepers say that is something.”
“It is.”
Rhaenyra looked toward the window, though nothing could be seen beyond the dark glass. “Aegon asks after both of you. He thinks himself a coward.”
Jace’s face twisted. “He is not.”
“No,” Rhaenyra said. “He is a little boy who watched his brother taken and his dragon die beneath him. Try telling him that when you can stand.”
“I will.”
Her gaze returned to you, and there was something in it you did not know how to receive. “You kept me from losing another son.”
You held her stare. “I kept myself from losing him too.”
The corner of her mouth moved, not quite a smile. “Yes. You did.”
“I could not save Viserys.”
“No.” Her voice thinned, but did not break. “Nor could I.”
Jace reached for her hand with his free one. Rhaenyra gave it to him. For a long moment, the three of you remained joined by silence, by wounds, by the missing child whose absence pressed into every corner of the room.
Then Rhaenyra drew herself back into shape. You could see it happen. Mother folding into queen because the realm would not wait for her to finish bleeding.
“When you are recovered,” she said to Jace, “we will speak of the declarations you made while half-dead on the landing ground.”
Jace glanced at you. “I stand by them.”
“You cannot stand at all.”
“Then I lie by them.”
Despite everything, you laughed. It hurt badly enough to bring tears to your eyes. Worth it.
Rhaenyra looked between you, and for a fleeting moment the grief in her face eased. “Rest. Both of you. The war will still be here when you wake.”
“Comforting,” you murmured.
“It was not meant to be.”
She left before either of you could answer, because queens also had a talent for making exits before emotions became too inconvenient. A family gift, apparently.
The day after that, the fever worsened.
You drifted in and out. Sometimes you were in the chamber with Jace’s hand near yours and Rhaena’s voice reading. Sometimes you were above the Gullet again, falling through smoke while Vermax vanished beneath the water. Sometimes you saw your mother walking towards flame, calm and terrible, choosing fire over the bed that had become her battlefield. You tried to call to her, but your mouth filled with seawater. Then Rhovagon would roar outside, and you would claw your way back to the room.
Once, you woke to Daemon.
At least you thought you did.
He stood near the foot of your bed in black, hair pale as moonlit steel, face unreadable in the candlelight. For a moment you were a child again in Pentos, running barefoot across warm tiles while your sisters shrieked behind you and your mother laughed from a shaded couch. Then the vision focused. Your father was not smiling. His hand rested on the pommel of Dark Sister.
“You are late,” you whispered.
His eyes moved to your face. “So I have been told.”
“By whom?”
“Your dragon nearly killed three handlers and one maester when they tried to change your bandages. I took that as complaint.”
“Rhovagon has good judgment.”
“So does his rider, when she is not diving into a sea battle after doomed boys.”
You turned your head slightly. Jace slept on the other bed, face turned toward you even unconscious. “He is not doomed.”
Daemon followed your gaze. For once, he said nothing cruel. Nothing clever either. That was rarer.
“You pulled Vermax out of the sea,” he said.
“Rhovagon did.”
“With you bleeding in the saddle.”
“Addam helped.”
“I heard.”
“I suppose people are already making it sound cleaner than it was.”
“They are calling it the Copper Descent.”
You closed your eyes. “That is horrible.”
“Yes.”
“They need better names.”
“War rarely attracts poets of quality.”
That made you smile, faintly. “Did you come to scold me?”
“I considered it.”
“And?”
Daemon’s silence lasted long enough that you opened your eyes again.
He looked older than he should have. Not frail. Never that. But worn at the edges in a way men like him usually hid behind danger. “Your mother would have been proud.”
The words entered you more deeply than the bolt had.
You looked away fast, but not fast enough. Tears slid into your hair. You hated crying in front of him. Not because he mocked it. He rarely did when it mattered. Because Daemon carried grief like a blade, and you had inherited enough from him already.
“She would have said I was reckless,” you whispered.
“She often said both.”
“Was she proud of you?”
His mouth curved without humor. “Not as often as I deserved.”
“More often than you deserved.”
This time his smile was real, brief and cutting. “There she is.”
You breathed through another wave of pain. “Viserys?”
His face closed.
That was answer enough.
“No word,” he said.
“He may live.”
“He may.”
“You do not believe it.”
“I believe many things when useful.”
“Father.”
Daemon came closer and sat beside your bed. It startled you. He was not a bedside man. He was made for dragon saddles, battlefields, council insults, bad decisions, and rooms full of people afraid to turn their backs. But he sat there and took your hand carefully, as if only now remembering you could break.
“If the boy lives,” he said, “we will find him.”
“And if he does not?”
His fingers tightened. “Then someone will pay.”
There he was. Your father, reliable as murder.
You were too tired to argue. “Do not let payment become the only thing left.”
Daemon’s eyes flicked to Jace, then back to you. “You sound like your mother.”
“Good.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Good.”
When you woke again, he was gone. You were not sure whether he had truly been there until you found a thin smear of ash on your blanket where his glove had rested. Proof, then. Or close enough. With Targaryens, proof was often just the most convincing ghost in the room.
Jace improved before you did, which annoyed you. Not because you wanted him worse. Because he became insufferable the moment he could sit upright.
“You need broth,” he said on the fifth day, propped against pillows with his arm bound tightly to his chest.
“You need silence.”
“You have eaten almost nothing.”
“I have been stabbed. My appetite is shy.”
“You were shot.”
“Same family.”
He gave you a stern look. It would have worked better if he did not still have bruising across half his face. “The maester says you must regain strength.”
“The maester also says royal patients are a plague. Perhaps he is not the authority you think.”
“The maester is correct on both counts.”
You accepted the cup only because Rhaena was watching hopefully from the chair by the window. Betrayed by your own sister’s soft eyes. Disgusting. You drank three mouthfuls, which tasted mostly of salt, onion, and obligation.
Baela entered without knocking. “Excellent. You’re eating.”
“I was coerced.”
“You usually are.”
“Cruel family.”
Baela crossed to the foot of your bed and looked at Jace. “Your dragon bit a keeper.”
Jace straightened. “Badly?”
“No. More insult than wound. The keeper says Vermax is becoming irritable, which means he will live.”
Relief moved over Jace’s face so nakedly that Baela looked away, pretending interest in the window. Rhaena did not. She smiled at him, gentle and open, and Jace managed a small smile back.
“And Rhovagon?” you asked.
Baela rolled her eyes. “Eating like a lord at a wedding and glaring at anyone who walks near him. One wing still pains him. He snapped at Father.”
“Good boy.”
“Father laughed.”
“Of course he did.”
Baela leaned against the bedpost. “Corlys says songs are already being made among the sailors.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I forbid it.”
“You are not queen.”
“I am injured. That should count for something.”
Jace looked amused. Traitor. “What songs?”
“One calls her the Copper Bride of the Gullet.”
You shut your eyes. “Kill me.”
Rhaena giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was so unexpected and lovely after days of grief that none of you scolded her, not even when she covered her mouth.
Baela continued, delighted by your suffering because sisters were made by the gods as intimate enemies. “Another says Rhovagon dragged the sea itself into the sky.”
“That did not happen.”
“And one says Jace kissed you while dying.”
“He did not.”
“I wanted to,” Jace said.
You turned your head slowly toward him.
He looked back with fever-thinned innocence.
Baela made a delighted noise. “Disgusting.”
“Leave,” you told her.
“Absolutely not.”
Rhaena was smiling harder now. “It is sweet.”
“It is revolting,” Baela said. “They almost die once and become poetic at each other.”
Jace’s voice softened. “Once?”
The room quieted.
There it was again. The war beyond the door. The dead beneath the sea. Luke in the storm. Viserys missing. Stormcloud gone. Driftmark burned. The war had given you a few minutes of laughter and then returned to collect interest like some ghastly Braavosi banker.
Baela’s expression changed. “I did not mean…”
“I know,” Jace said.
You set the cup down carefully. “We are alive.”
“For now,” Baela muttered.
“For now is not nothing.”
No one argued with that.
That evening, they opened the windows despite the cold because the chamber had begun to smell too strongly of medicine. Sea air moved through the room. Smoke still lingered over the island, but less than before. You could hear dragons outside. Wounded, restless, alive. Jace had persuaded the maesters to let him stand for a few moments, which had gone poorly, then moderately, then poorly again when he attempted a step. Still, he had stood. Now he sat in the chair beside your bed looking pleased with himself in the aggravating way of men who accomplished one medically inadvisable thing and expected admiration from the civilization they endangered.
“You are smug,” you told him.
“I stood.”
“You nearly fell into the basin.”
“Nearly is not did.”
“Royal wisdom.”
He smiled, then looked down at your joined hands. This had become habit. Whenever no one was actively cutting, bandaging, feeding, scolding, or reporting disaster to you, his hand found yours.
“I keep thinking of the water,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. “In my dreams, Vermax sinks first. Then you.”
“In mine, you wave me away and I let you.”
His grip tightened.
“I never would,” you said.
“I know. That is the problem.”
You turned your head on the pillow. His face was serious now, stripped of the small jokes you had both been using like shields. He looked at you for a long time before speaking again.
“When we were first betrothed, I thought you hated me.”
“I did not hate you.”
“You told Baela I looked like a solemn trout.”
“You were thirteen and standing beside the table as if someone had nailed your feet to the floor.”
“That was a formal betrothal supper.”
“That was trout behavior.”
He laughed softly. “I was terrified of you.”
“You hid it badly.”
“I hid it very well.”
“No. You tried to impress me by explaining the political importance of our match.”
“I was being responsible.”
“You were being a trout.”
His laugh faded into something warmer. “When did you stop thinking so?”
“That you were a trout?”
“Yes.”
You pretended to consider. “When you returned from the North.”
His brows lifted. “That late?”
“No. But that was when I saw what you would become.”
“What did you see?”
A boy carrying winter promises back across half a realm. A prince with grief hidden under duty. A bastard in whispers and an heir in action. A young man who wanted so badly to be worthy that he might spend himself to bone proving what blood alone should never have been asked to prove.
“You,” you said. “Only more.”
He took that in quietly.
“And you?” you asked. “When did you stop being afraid of me?”
“I didn’t.”
You looked at him.
Jace raised your hand and kissed your fingers. “I merely learned to enjoy it.”
“That is the first intelligent thing you have said all week.”
“Only first?”
“Do not become ambitious.”
His smile tilted, but his eyes stayed solemn. “I saw you with Rhovagon when we were children. Before the betrothal. You were small, all elbows and silver hair, and you walked straight up to him while three handlers were telling you not to. He lowered his head to you. Not because you commanded him. Because you expected him to understand. I remember thinking I had never seen anyone look less afraid of fire.”
You remembered that day vaguely. Rhovagon had been smaller then, still dangerous, copper wings tucked tight to his body, eyes following every movement. You remembered your mother standing at a distance, one hand pressed to her mouth, not stopping you. Laena had understood dragons better than almost anyone. She had known fear was not the same as respect.
“I was afraid,” you said.
Jace shook his head. “You did not look it.”
“I am Daemon’s daughter. We learn theatrical arrogance before sums.”
“You are Laena’s daughter too.”
“Yes.” Your voice softened. “That matters more.”
“To you?”
“To me.”
“To me too,” he said.
The room went quiet around that. Outside, wind dragged against the shutters. Somewhere below, men shouted over repairs, and gulls circled the cliffs, utterly indifferent to royal suffering. Sensible birds.
Jace leaned closer, slowly enough that you could stop him if pain made the movement too much. You did not. His lips touched yours with a care that hurt more than hunger would have. The kiss was soft, not because either of you had become gentle people overnight, but because your bodies had been battered into humility. His good hand framed your jaw. Yours rested weakly against his wrist. There was no urgency in it. No stolen corridor, no war council about to begin, no sister about to laugh from behind a tapestry. Only breath shared carefully between two people who had nearly run out of it.
When he drew back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“I thought I would never do that again,” he whispered.
“You worry too much.”
“You dove into a sea battle.”
“You flew too low.”
“You followed me.”
“Yes. That is usually how saving someone works.”
He smiled despite himself. “Marry me when this is done.”
“That was the plan.”
“No,” he said. “Not when the war is done. Nothing waits that long anymore. When we can stand. When you can walk without fainting and I can lift my arm without the maester threatening to sedate me. Marry me then.”
You looked at him. “Your mother may object to haste.”
“My mother owes you my life.”
“My father may object because he enjoys objecting.”
“My mother can fight him.”
“That would be entertaining.”
“Y/N.”
There was fear under it. Hope too, which was worse because hope was fragile and reckless and had terrible survival instincts.
You squeezed his hand. This time your fingers obeyed. “Yes.”
His breath left him.
“Yes,” you repeated. “When we can stand.”
Jace kissed your knuckles again, and this time he did not hide the tears in his eyes. You let him have them. You let yourself have yours too. War had taken enough without stealing every softness to prove a point.
Outside, Rhovagon roared.
Vermax answered.
The sound rolled over Dragonstone, wounded and defiant, two dragons alive who should have been dead by every account the world had meant to write. Men in the yard shouted. Someone laughed. Someone else began praying loudly, which felt excessive but understandable. You closed your eyes and listened to the dragons calling across smoke and stone.
The Gullet had tried to claim Jacaerys Velaryon. It had taken ships, sailors, towns, children’s sleep, a young dragon named Stormcloud, and whatever innocence had survived the first blows of the Dance. It had dragged Vermax under burning water and reached for Jace with a thousand cold hands. It had nearly taken you too.
But not all songs were lies.
Sometimes the sea opened and gave back what it had stolen.
Sometimes a copper dragon flew where fire had no business going.
Sometimes a girl promised to a prince refused to let history have him.
And sometimes, by spite, blood, love, and the reckless stupidity that seemed to run through House Targaryen as strongly as dragonfire, the doomed lived long enough to make the singers revise their verses.
Your fingers toyed with the tassels that lay on the corners of your pillow, but your mind was elsewhere. You laid playing the events of the day over in your head. Obi-Wan and Anakin had made the journey to Mandalore to speak with Duchess Satine about a rising threat against her planet.
-
You stood beside Obi-Wan making small conversation as you walked into the palace. You weren’t even able to finish your thought when Satine called out to him. Quickly Obi-Wan left your side, stepping forward to greet the duchess. He reached out, his arms wrapping around her waist pulling her forward into a tight embrace. Her head fell forward hiding against his neck, your stomach knotted, jealousy was creeping in. You looked up to Anakin, your eyes finding his.
“ Do they.. Do they know one another? ”
“ They know one another well. ”
Your heart sank deep down into your stomach, a knot formed in your throat. Why wouldn’t he have told you of his past? Just as quickly as the moment came, it passed, Obi-Wan pulled back from her embrace, his arms falling to his sides.
They walked together, side by side, leaving you and Anakin in their dust. Anakin could see your brow furrowed in thought, he wasn’t clueless, he knew of your relationship with Obi-Wan, he could see the way his past was eating at you.
“ Oh.. I forgot my comlink, can you come with me to grab it? ”
You only nodded, turning back to follow after Anakin. He knew you were barely focused, still caught up on what you had just seen.
“ You know Obi-Wan cares for you. ”
“ Yes, I know. ”
“ His past won’t change that. ”
Silence.
You didn’t respond, you simply kept on forward, walking aboard the ship. Your heels clicked against the metal floors as you walked towards Anakin’s quarters. His door slid open allowing you to enter, his bed was messy and unmade, a few stray garments laid on the floor. You stepped over his dirty clothes, finding his comlink laying on his bedside pillow.
“ Here it is. ”
“ Thank you. ”
-
The walk back was quiet, Anakin was too unsure of himself to say anything. He knew Obi-Wan well enough to say he loved you, but he didn’t know his past well enough to say he did not still harbour feelings for Satine. He saw the way his master looked at her, with a deep longing in his eye, almost the same as when he looked at you.
When you finally caught up to them they stood close, reminiscing about times long before you and Anakin. Two grins lay across their lips, their eyes locked on only each other like no one else existed.
“ I apologize, I’ve been rude, this is my padawan Anakin, and my friend Y/n. ”
Friend.
You felt your chest tighten, but still a smile laid across your lips. Her hand outstretched to you, inviting you to take it. You gave her hand a gentle shake before pulling away, allowing Anakin to greet her next.
-
The hours passed and finally you were being seen to your rooms. Three rooms just adjacent to one another, they were spacious and well furnished, fit for royalty.
You shut your door behind you, going off to explore your chambers for the time being. There was a four poster bed, the centerpiece of the room, two bedside tables, a large wardrobe with a matching dress, all paired with a large vanity. There was a large wooden door that hid an attached bathroom.
Slowly you slid out of your gown, leaving it to fall onto the bathroom floor before starting the shower. You felt the warm water run over your palm adjusting it to your liking before climbing in. You let your worries and anxieties slip down the drain with the filth that covered your skin.
When your shower finished you slipped from its warm embrace wrapping yourself in a robe that hung nearby. You left the bathroom wandering over to the vanity. You stared at yourself in the large mirror, admiring your beauties and your flaws. With time you rose from your seat, making your way across the room. Slowly you turned the knob, opening your door with a soft creak. You peeked out into the empty hall before slipping out, a chill ran up your body as your feet left the carpet pressing down against the cold marble floors.
You crept down the hall, slowly turning the knob to Obi-Wan’s door before pushing it open. You peeked just your head in calling out his name. That’s when two pairs of eyes met yours, Obi-Wan’s and Satine’s. They stood together in the center of the room, you didn’t want to know what they were doing, so quickly you yanked the door shut, hurrying back to your room.
-
Now here you lie in your bed, clutching a pillow to your chest, you didn’t know what might’ve been if you had come in a moment later, you didn’t want to know.
Obi-Wan quickly excused himself from Satine, moving past her and out the door. He walked the short distance from his room to yours, finding your door shut tight. His fist raised, knocking against the wood.
“ Let me in, please. ”
His voice came out as a soft plea against the wood, begging you to let him in.
With no response slowly the door creaked open. Obi-Wan found you lying there curled up on the bed, your back facing the door. He made a slow approach, rounding the bed to sit beside you. His hand reached out to gently stroke your back.
“ Love, talk to me, what is wrong? ”
“ You love her. ”
“ What? ”
“ Anakin told me. ”
At that moment Anakin was the biggest thorn in Obi-Wan’s side. He wanted to throttle Anakin for simply telling you the truth.
“ What did he say? ”
“ It’s not about him! It’s about you and.. And her, and how you acted like she was the breath that filled your lungs. ”
You sat upright, facing him with teary eyes and flushed cheeks. Deep down Obi-Wan knew you were right, he had completely discarded you that entire day.
“ I didn’t mean for it to be like that. ”
“ Do.. Do you love her? ”
“ No.. of course not, it’s not like that. ”
“ Did you ever love her? ”
“ There was a time, long before you, when I was only a padawan. ”
Tears slipped down your cheeks, you only managed a nod in response.
Obi-Wan reached out, pulling you forward into his lap, bringing your head down against his shoulder. His fingers tangled in your hair, his lips pressing against your temple as he whispered soothing words against your skin.
“ I am yours, and yours alone to keep, please know that. ”
You once again only managed a weak nod, your face pressed against his neck.
“ I have never loved her the way I loved you, please believe me. ”
You wanted to believe him, you yearned for it, but a part of you deep down couldn’t let it be.
“ Why was she in your room? ”
“ She needed to talk about republic senate decisions. ”
“ Why don’t you ever talk to me about those things? ”
“ Senate decisions? ”
You only nodded against his neck.
“ We can talk about that if you’d like. ”
You didn’t really want to talk about the republic, but you would talk about the grass if it meant speaking to Obi-Wan.
“ Would you like to rest now? ”
Once again you only gave a weak nod.
With gentle hands Obi-Wan laid you down on the bed, draping the blanket over your robe clad body. He took his place beside you, before wrapping you in his arms. He pressed kisses to your skin murmuring soft words of praise as you drifted off to sleep.
summary: you’ve seen a lot during your rebellion days & now with the New Republic… but working with a mandalorian may just send you into the wildest tailspin yet
word count: 11.9k (i’m sorry)
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS ⚠️ takes place before & during the events of the film, reader has a backstory & family but no physical description, light use of gendered language, slight annoyance to friends to lovers, pining & yearning, budding romance, threats & moments of violence/threat of kidnapping, flying as a love language, reader has instances of drinking and smoking, competency kink, light voice kink, slightly jealous!reader, spicy times in the cockpit (helmet stays on), dry humping, unprotected p in v, one moment of spit, creampie, protective and soft!Din
a/n: so… hi lmao I call this my ‘let’s daydream about being in the new movie’ fic or aka my attempt at plugging us into the storyline bcs it’s what we deserve lol big thanks to my dear @babynueva for always supporting my din delulu ily bb! Also this is my first official fic of the year & knowing it’s for Din means so much - so thank you for being here ♡ [divider credit & thanks to the ever amazing @saradika-graphics]
When a mandalorian first strides into base camp on Adelphi, you think you’re seeing things.
The sun bounces off his armor drawing all eyes. It’s like his ancient armor proudly beams of its power and striking force. The mysterious Mandalorian walks with intent, a steady gait that dares anyone to cross him. You can’t help but stare at the mysterious warrior.
“Is he… imperial?” Someone whispers in the mess hall and makeshift cantina.
“Nope, he’s working with us now.” Teva answers simply.
You didn’t believe it. But apparently it’s true.
“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.
Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.
“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.
Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.
“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.
It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.
“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.
“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”
“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.
“Good, that’s what I thought.”
When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.
Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.
Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.
A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?
“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.
“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.
“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?
“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?
“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.
“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.
It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.
The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.
“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.
A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.
Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.
“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.
“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.
The colonel sighs.
“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”
You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.
“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.
But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.
Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.
It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.
You don’t even know if you should say anything
“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.
With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.
Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.
“You like it? It’s cute right?”
The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.
Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.
Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.
“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.
You’re stunned.
Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.
So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.
“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.
You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.
“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.
You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.
“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.
Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.
“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.
Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.
You can’t wait till this is over.
It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.
“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.
So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.
You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.
And it pisses you off all over again.
But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.
The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.
This time you decided to bring something else along with you.
It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.
“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.
With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.
You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.
“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.
A bit stunned, you give it to him.
He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.
“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.
“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.
Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.
“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.
“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”
“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”
A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.
“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.
“Din…” you repeat it.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.
Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.
When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.
“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.
“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.
“What do you say, kid?”
Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.
The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.
Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.
“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.
“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.
Suddenly, a chuckle follows.
Din laughed.
You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.
“A fair statement.” Din agrees.
And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.
Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.
The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.
“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.
“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.
“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.
That’s when you realized he just joked with you.
“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.
“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.
“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.
You stay stubbornly quiet.
“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.
Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.
“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.
“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.
“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.
The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.
“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.
“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.
“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.
You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.
You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.
Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.
Except that time comes sooner than expected.
The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.
Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.
“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.
You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.
But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.
“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.
Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.
“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.
She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.
“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.
His helmet tilts towards you.
“Sometimes,” you shrug.
“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.
“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”
You want to strangle her.
“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.
It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.
All you can do is shrug again.
Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.
“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.
A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.
“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.
“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.
“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.
“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”
You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.
A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.
“Kid.” Din chides.
“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.
Din sighs, truly parental.
“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.
“I do.” Din answers, confident.
“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.
“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.
Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.
“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.
“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.
“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.
“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.
They were to remind you to come home safe.
“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.
A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.
“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.
You turn and find he’s already looking at you.
Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.
Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.
Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.
“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.
“No, I stole it.” You quip back.
“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.
“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.
“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.
You playfully elbow him.
Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.
“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.
“Mweh!” He squeals.
“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.
“No.” Din answers back firmly.
“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.
“No.” Din repeats again firmer.
A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.
“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.
Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.
You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.
The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.
Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.
Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.
You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.
“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.
“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.
“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.
“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.
“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.
“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.
You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.
Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.
It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.
Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.
“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.
“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.
His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.
The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.
“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.
“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.
“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.
“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.
With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.
“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.
“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.
“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.
As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.
And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.
Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.
“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.
Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.
“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.
“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.
Then you hold up the new charm.
“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.
“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.
“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.
“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.
Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.
“What do you say, kid?” Din says.
Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.
Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.
“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.
The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.
You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.
“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.
“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.
This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.
But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.
The wound isn’t looking good.
You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.
You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.
Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.
Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…
“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.
“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.
Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.
You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.
“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.
You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.
A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.
“What was that?!” One of them screams.
Then a blaster shot silenced him.
“Step away from her now.” Din.
Or someone sounding like him.
The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.
Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.
Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.
And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.
You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…
And he’s here to save you.
A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.
He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.
What is he doing?
The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.
“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.
“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.
Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.
“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.
An exhale escapes Din, relieved.
“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.
“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.
Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.
“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.
Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.
You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.
“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.
He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.
“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.
It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.
“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.
How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?
“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.
There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.
But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.
“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.
You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.
But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.
Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.
A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.
Raid strike this week, get ready
It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.
“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.
“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.
As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.
Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.
Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.
“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.
“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.
Din doesn’t say anything.
“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.
“Seems like it,” Din agrees.
This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.
Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.
The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.
“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.
Din simply and silently nods back.
Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.
But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.
It’s time to fly.
“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.
“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.
All you can do is laugh before parting ways.
“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.
You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.
Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.
Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.
“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.
“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.
“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.
The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.
Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.
That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.
A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.
But again, you’re proven so wrong.
Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.
A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.
But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.
Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.
It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.
So you do.
You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.
Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.
“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.
“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.
“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.
Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.
You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.
Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.
It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.
The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.
“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.
“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.
“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.
“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”
Teva takes a moment then sighs.
“Make it quick.”
Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.
“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.
“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.
The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.
Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.
“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.
“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.
But in a flash, he zooms past you.
“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.
Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.
Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.
Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.
Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.
But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.
All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.
“You were incredible.”
“You flew… amazing.”
Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.
Then you laugh.
“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.
“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.
“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.
Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.
Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.
“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.
You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.
Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.
“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.
The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.
“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.
“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.
“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.
“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.
“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.
Of course he’s a damn natural.
Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.
“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.
“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.
“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.
Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.
“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.
Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.
“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.
Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.
You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.
He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.
Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.
A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.
Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.
Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.
You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.
Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…
Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.
“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.
His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.
“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.
A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.
You even tell him that.
“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.
A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.
The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.
Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.
He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.
“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.
You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.
“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.
You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.
“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.
This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.
“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.
“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”
It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.
“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.
You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.
“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.
Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.
So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.
A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.
“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.
In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.
“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.
Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.
“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.
“You wanna see?”
He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.
“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.
Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.
The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.
“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.
“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.
“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.
“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.
He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.
There you arrive at your x-wing.
“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.
“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.
“Get in,” you urge.
Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.
“Can we even fit in this?”
“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.
The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.
Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.
“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.
As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.
“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.
You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.
“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.
“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.
You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.
So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -
Right between the V of Din’s legs.
You crouch low and drag him down too.
“Wh…what are you-”
“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”
“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.
“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.
The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.
You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.
“See… told you we’d be fine.”
He stays quiet.
It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.
You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.
But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.
“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.
“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.
“I would.” You immediately counter.
“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.
So you try to recover fast.
“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.
You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.
Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.
You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.
“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.
“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.
His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.
Din exhales, breathy and deep.
You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.
Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.
Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.
You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.
The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.
He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.
“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.
Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.
Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.
Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.
Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.
But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.
Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.
“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.
You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.
“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.
“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.
His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.
“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.
“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.
Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.
His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.
“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.
“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.
“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.
“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.
“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.
“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.
Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.
So you lean closer to his helmet.
“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.
But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.
How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.
“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.
“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.
This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.
Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.
It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.
So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.
Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.
Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.
Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.
The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.
“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.
Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.
“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.
“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.
He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.
A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.
His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.
Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.
He quickly hisses your name.
“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.
Who are you to deny your mandalorian?
He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.
Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.
You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.
A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.
He nods firm, so sure.
So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.
When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.
Now you don’t want Din to leave it.
A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.
Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.
His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.
“Where?” He slurs urgently.
“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.
“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.
“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.
Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.
His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.
Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.
“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.
You shake your head no.
“You’re the only one.” You reveal.
His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.
An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.
After this night, you find him everywhere now.
Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.
Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.
The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.
You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.
Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.
You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.
But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.
“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.
“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.
He chuckles.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.
“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”
You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.
But you’re reminded he does have a home.
“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.
“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.
“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.
“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.
Slowly your eyes close on their own now.
“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.
Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.
“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.
A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.
You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.
But those daydreams get shoved away fast.
Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.
Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.
Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.
That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.
“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.
“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.
Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.
You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.
“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.
You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.
“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.
“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.
He barks a laugh.
“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.
“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.
“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.
It makes you and Zeb snicker.
Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.
“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.
“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.
But he leaves you and Din alone.
It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.
So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.
He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.
You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.
Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.
You don’t hear from Din for half a month.
It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.
Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.
It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?
“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.
“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.
He smiles at you kindly.
“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”
Shit.
“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.
“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”
Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.
“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”
He is. But he’s more than that.
He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.
“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.
It’s unfortunately true.
How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.
The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.
Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.
Din has returned, but he’s not alone.
Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.
At least Din and the baby are safe.
Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.
“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.
“Tell me about it.” He sighs.
The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.
“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”
His somber tone says more looms.
“Din…” you mutter cautiously.
He turns to you.
“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.
“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.
Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.
But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.
The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.
“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.
His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.
“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.
You nod, fighting harder against tears.
Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.
With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.
This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.
You throw yourself into any available mission.
Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.
“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.
You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.
But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.
Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.
“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.
“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.
Absolute dread is unleashed in you.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.
“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.
Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.
“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.
“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.
“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.
“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.
Anger burns through your veins.
“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.
“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.
More Delphi officers stand up.
Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.
You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.
Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.
Ward calls out your name. This is it.
Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.
She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.
“I should sit you out on this mission.”
“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.
Her smirks grows bigger.
“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.
You’ll happily accept that too.
The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.
Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.
Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.
That’s what this feels like.
You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.
Yet Din remains inside.
And Ward gives the command to light the place up.
“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.
Then, the stronghold goes under flames.
You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.
“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.
Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.
A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.
“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.
Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.
Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.
But Ward of course arrives first.
You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.
“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.
Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.
“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.
“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”
Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.
You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.
He’s here.
Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.
“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.
The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.
While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.
He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.
“Welcome back,” you croak out.
Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.
“Had to bring this back.”
With a watery laugh, you shake your head.
“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.
A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.
Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.
“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.
“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.
Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.
Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.
Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.
Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.
It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.
Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting
Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.
After all, there's a flight to Nevarro calling your name.
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Summary: Colonel Ward needs only her best for a rescue mission and her best are you and Mando...if only you two could figure out how to get a long and stop bickering...
Author's Note: Saw the movie- loved it! Highly rec! And now I want to write lots more for Mando! Yay! Thank you all so much for reading and sharing, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰
****PS: There are NO plot spoilers here- but I definitely used some moments in the movie as inspo and threw in some fun little stuff from it- just so you're warned!
PPS You can look up the alien species I refer to here. I also use the name of a character in the new Darth Maul cartoon- but it doesn't give away any plot (that was good too- watch it)
Warnings: it's fun and flirty, tense and soft and sweet and there's some action (that I'm pretty bad at writing haha), Grogu is adorable and Djarin is sexy as f, also...all the kisses please
“What’s he doing here?”
You throw a thumb in Mando’s direction, your tone matching your exasperated expression. Without giving Mando a chance to reply, Colonel Ward smiles wryly.
“I have a mission for you,” she says.
You cross your arms over your chest and your nostrils flare. “Still doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
“For both of you,” she clarifies.
You can hear Mando sigh, his hands landing on his hips as his knee pops out.
Colonel Ward holds up her hand to halt any words either of you might throw at her. “Hear me out.”
Another sigh from Mando, and you throw him the stink eye.
“It’s a rescue mission…”
After she briefs you on the mission you know it’s not something you’ll be able to turn down so you square your shoulders and turn toward Mando.
“I’m in if you are,” you tell him.
“Mando?” Colonel ward asks.
“Fine. It will be done.”
Colonel Ward gives a triumphant smile. “And listen you two,” she adds. “try to make friends.”
With that, you both head out, Grogu appearing from the bar area with a mouthful of who knows what. As soon as he sees you he peels off in your direction, waddling as fast as he can until he can hop into your waiting arms.
“Hey buddy,” you chuckle. “What have you been snacking on?”
He pulls out a handful of the snacks you saw on Colonel Ward’s desk, stuffing some into his mouth before holding out his hand in offering to you.
“Does she know you took those?” you whisper. He just blinks at you, shoving your portion into his mouth. You laugh and rub him between the ears.
“Come on Grogu,” Djarin says as he steps beside you. “Time to get ready.”
Grogu secures himself at your shoulder and you head out to Djarin’s new ship.
“Are you actually going to listen to me this time?” Djarin asks as he takes stock of his weapons.
You let silence hang between his words and your next ones, watching unabashedly as he either hides or straps weapon after weapon onto his body.
“Hmm,” you finally answer, drawing his eyes to yours. “Not going to lie, this…” you continue and sweep your hand over his form, now fully weaponized, “is very sexy. So…maybe.”
With that you walk off to the cockpit, leaving him staring after you.
“You know, one day you’re going to have to teach me how to fly this thing,” you say as you start to put on your seatbelt.
“I’m teaching Grogu,” he says and as if summoning him, Grogu hops onto Djarin’s lap.
“No buddy, not now. We have a mission.”
Grogu makes a soft whine, his eyes wide as he looks to you. “Aw come on! What’s the difference?” you say.
Djarin looks down at Grogu. “She wants to learn too,” he says.
Grogu nods, ears perking up as he crawls off Djarin’s lap and into his own seat. His big eyes look at you then at Djarin.
“Oh!” you squeak, eying Djarin’s lap, thick thighs spread wide and inviting. “You think….well, I don’t…I’m not ready.”
Djarin chuckles and you quietly curse him. “You’re just afraid of sitting with me.”
You turn his way, eyes narrowed and glaring. “I’m not afraid of anything. Especially you. But if you want us to get to our destination alive then you better fly this time.”
“Whatever you say sweetheart,” he murmurs.
“Don’t call me that!” you shoot back, sinking into the seat.
He takes off with ease, and you peer out the window, sighing at the beauty of the stretch of blue sea of Adelphi below.
“It’s always extra beautiful from up here,” you say softly.
He hums in agreement, his eyes on you instead of the sea.
The planet of Shakari is dense with life forms bustling through it’s darkened underworld. Mando and Grogu lead the way, his stride purposeful and full of confidence. You admire him in silence, finding it difficult to focus on much else.
“I think this is it,” he whispers, stopping by a doorway that’s locked. You nod and watch as Grogu hops off his shoulder and through a small window to the side. Less than a minute later the door opens, revealing a delighted looking Grogu.
You smile at him and this time he hops up onto your back. Djarin pauses and looks at you two. “I have cookies,” you explain with a wink. “Don’t worry you’re still his favorite.”
You take a step ahead, passing through the doorway and missing when Djarin says, “yeah, for now.”
The bar you enter is at the far back, quieter than the streets but still filled with life forms. Djarin scans the crowd.
“Follow me,” he says and starts to walk forward without waiting for your agreement.
“Always so bossy,” you mutter.
He approaches a Twi’lek sitting alone at a far table. “Let me do the talking,” he says before you get too close.
You roll your eyes and slide you hand to the hilt of your blaster. Grogu ducks lower on your shoulder.
“We’re looking for Rylee Lawson,” Djarin states, his voice more gruff than usual.
“I don’t care who you’re looking for,” the Twi’lek answers before taking a sip of his drink.
“You’ll be greatly rewarded if you can give me the location of where he’s being held.”
The Twi’lek looks at Djarin again, his eyes full of malice. “Get out of my bar.”
You step around Djarin, gun poised and ready to shoot. “You can either tell us or I’ll shoot you.”
Djarin’s frustrated sigh reaches your ears as the bar goes quiet and before you can give him a cheeky retort all hell breaks loose. Your back meets Djarin’s as you stay close and expertly shoot anything that moves. He’s right there with you, the two of you moving as a deadly unit.
Finally you separate, but only so he can take out the large Abyssin headed your way. He moves fluidly, kicking, punching and headbutting until everyone is either dead or lying on the floor groaning.
“You just don’t listen!” he chides when he joins your side again.
“And you were taking too long.”
Grogu makes a sound that you’re sure is one of agreement and you smile back at him.
It’s easy enough to find Rylee and when you reach his sell your heart sinks as the young boy looks up at you with terror in his eyes.
“It’s ok,” you immediately say. “We’re here to help.”
He looks skeptical but when Mando comes into view his eyes widen.
“You’re the Mandalorian,” he says in awe.
“Yeah, yeah, kid,” you huff. “Don’t stare too long. It’ll go to his head.”
Rylee nods and swallows hard, dropping his eyes to the lock. “How are you gonna…?”
His question never finishes because you blast through the lock, setting off the alarms.
“She’s loves to make things messy,” Djarin says as he ushers Rylee out of the cell. “Come on.”
The three of you race down the hallway, Grogu secured at your back. “Stay behind me kid,” Djarin yells when you round the corner and face several more armed Abyssin’s.
You shoot all four in rapid succession, each shot perfectly aimed until they drop to the floor. Rylee turns his wide eyes to you. “Wow,” he breathes.
You grin. “Mando’s not the only one who can get things done.”
Your escape back to the ship starts out quiet but you quickly gain a following as people realize you’ve ‘kidnapped’ a prized prisoner of the Hutts. With several bounty hunters on your tail it’s making it difficult to escape.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had some patience,” Djarin grits out as he turns to blast one of the vehicles in hot pursuit.
“Oh please,” you answer, “because you had some magical plan that was better?”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to listen,” he says back with a growl. “You never do.”
“I think you like it.”
His helmet turns toward you and you know there’s a smirk hidden beneath.
“Are they always like this?” Rylee asks Grogu as he ducks away from a blaster shot.
Grogu makes a confirming noise and reaches into his robe for a cookie.
Once you reach the ship, Djarin shoves Rylee into a seat. “Buckle up,” he says. You sit but don’t put on your seatbelt, working at the controls you’re familiar with and plugging in the coordinates.
“What are you waiting for?” you ask. “Let’s go.”
Gunfire shakes the ship and you raise your brows.
“Put your seatbelt on.”
Your jaw slackens then your mouth closes into a smirk. “Worried for my safety Mando?”
He huffs and pulls the lever for takeoff. “Just do it. Now…please.”
Your smile widens. “Since you asked so nicely.” You buckle the belt.
When the ship is in flight you make Rylee comfortable and share some food. He shoves it in his mouth with almost as much gusto as Grogu and you refill his bowl. Grogu hops up next to him on the cushioned seat and looks at you expectantly.
Djarin quietly watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame while you pull out a sleeve of Grogu’s favorite cookies.
“He should have dinner first,” Djarin says and you startle.
“And you should be more fun,” you say with a saccharine smile.
You hand Grogu a cookie, laughing as he inhales it and then asks for another.
“Only one more or your dad is going to yell at me again,” you whisper.
“I don’t yell at you!” Djarin says firmly.
You raise a brow. “Ok Mr. Bossy. Whatever you say.”
He shakes his head and walks off. You check on Rylee one more time and notice that both he and Grogu are getting sleepy. After getting them settled you head back toward the cockpit, lifting your shirt to check on the cut you att\ained during your escape.
You walk straight into what you think is the wall but instead look up to meet Djarin’s dark brown eyes.
“Shit,” you quickly say. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know…”
You’ve seen him without his helmet once before…a mission that had gotten very messy…and the image is burned into your brain forever.
“It’s ok,” he answers, gently grabbing your wrist when you start to turn away. “No enemies here.”
You give him a look. “You sure?”
He smiles and you look away, worried your reaction will show more than you want him to see.
His hand comes up slow, heel of his palm first at your jaw and warmth spreads, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He doesn’t turn your face, he waits, asking with his soft touch.
You meet his eyes and lean into the cradle of his palm. “How bad is it?” he asks softly.
“How bad is what?” you reply.
“Your injury.”
Your pulse flutters against his touch as you slowly lift the edge of your shirt, revealing the gash at your side. Djarin’s jaw tightens and he leans in, his breath ghosting along your neck and sending a flurry of shivers down your spine. The corners of his mouth dip down and his fingers linger on your skin, a gentle caress.
“We need to clean and dress this. Grogu can close it for you.”
You nod and his frown turns into a smile. “Now you’re listening?” he teases.
His hands bring you closer, and your comeback dies in your throat, suddenly too tight to hold it. The light above your heads flickers but the smell of him, the feel of his strong warmth, floods your senses. He doesn’t let go, if anything, his grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. His gaze is dark, blown wide, dropping to your mouth with the kind of hunger that steals your breath.
His hand moves first. Not to release you, but to map your skin. His thumb drags slow and heavy, along the curve of your waist, then up along the length of your spine, pressing against your neck with a possessiveness that makes your knees tremble.
Your hands stutter up the hard expanse of his chest, still covered in his armor and he breathes out your name in a warning he’s too weak to heed.
He leans in, just an inch, waiting for your hesitation. When it doesn’t come and you tilt your face, his mouth crashes onto yours, hot and desperate.
A moan vibrates in his chest as he devours the gasp you try to take. Heat floods your veins and you melt into him, your body curving to fit the hard lines of his, your fingers sliding up to tangle in the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
Djarin groans, a low, ruined sound, and hauls you closer until all that’s left between you is the pressure, friction, and taste of him.
Din Djarin takes a job from a Hutt-linked merchant on Nal Hutta, thinking it’s just another bounty. But the “payment” isn’t credits: it’s a human girl, held in a palace cruiser full of the kind of moral compromises he usually avoids.
When the girl proves she’s smarter, braver, and far more capable than she appears, Din realizes there's things far more valuable than credits at risk.
Or: the story of how Din Djarin lost his virginity.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Princess!Reader
Content warning: no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader, unprotected P in V sex, grogu isn't here this is like a prequel of sorts, idk what else to mention
Check out my masterlist - read this on AO3
Mando should’ve known better.
He’d been tracking bounties across the Outer Rim long enough to know which clients were trouble, and which were outright suicidal. And a Hutt-linked merchant on Nal Hutta? That was the latter.
But the credits were too tempting, and the Razor Crest was barely holding together (the hyperdrive couplings had been sparking like fireworks, and every core circuit threatened to go dark whenever he took off). So, reluctantly, Din Djarin agreed.
And now, standing in the merchant’s private meeting rooms aboard a hovering palace cruiser, he remembered why he didn’t accept anything from Hutt associates.
“This is only half the credits.” Mando said, his voice steady, trying his best to now show any kind of frustration.
“I know, I know, Mandalorian” the merchant, a Zeltron with deep cerulean skin, replied. “Money’s tight, but I am a creature of my word.”
And with that, he stood up, walking towards the end of the room, where he pushed aside a heavy curtain embroidered with stars. Immediately, a wave of strong perfume —spiced with the scent of Corellian hibiscus and Coruscant night markets— hit Mando even through his helmet.
Din didn’t move. He didn’t have to; he knew exactly what the “payment” would be, and it was not something he wanted.
But, then, he saw it: across the veil of smoke, a faint sparkle caught his eye, and a laugh drifted— light, almost musical, melting into the room like the last note of a flute.
He stepped forward before caution could stop him.
The merchant guided Din across the wide room, dimly lit by flickering fire candles, the smoke from exotic incense swirling in intricate patterns above Persian-style rugs. The cushions strewn across the floor were deep and embroidered with Naboo silks; they seemed to float above the darkness, inviting yet alien. The air smelled of sin, and the dim lights of the candles drew glowing pale orange shadows on the naked torsos of the ladies.
Zeltron, Kiffar, Theelin and other human-hybrid females, dressed in silk and linen, laid across the room, spread over the cushions like dehydrated flowers waiting for the dew. Their garments left nothing to the imagination, and yet they covered them enough to leave a man, regardless of his species, intrigued.
“This could easily cover the debt.” the merchant murmured, gesturing toward the figures lounging on the cushions. One of the girls stood up, and without breaking eye contact with Mando, moved to the merchant’s side, giving him a side hug. “More than enough, in fact.” the merchant continued, wrapping an arm across the girl’s slender waist. “My girls ain’t cheap. I am giving you more than what I had offered in the first place.”
Din’s hand hovered near his blaster. Despite being in a room full of women, a few men (some human, most of them Zeltrons and Kiffars) were there… receiving the pleasures they had paid for.
Everyone’s eyes, one way or another, landed in Din’s figure. He was used to it, at that point, and he knew the lingering eyes of the girls were curious and not threatening, yet Din’s instincts screamed caution. He checked every man in the room for their blasters and weapons, he took note of the guards standing in the darkest corners, and their rifles. He counted the windows (none) and the exits (just one).
Din cleared his throat, ready to demand the credits outright, when that soft, honeyed laugh sounded again. He must’ve reacted in some way, because the merchant raised an eyebrow, and scoffed a dry laugh.
“Oh, I see.” the merchant said, waving the figures back into the shadows. “You have… particular tastes, Mandalorian.”
The Zeltron, still holding the girl by her waist, guided Din toward a far corner, where the candlelight barely reached. Shadows twisted in shapes that hinted at hidden treasures —or hidden dangers. Din followed, every step measured, his hand outstretched and ready to blast off anyone if needed.
Together, the three of them walked towards another room, more secluded. The chamber smelled of spice, smoke, and something faintly metallic —the trace scent of a blaster discharge long past… or perhaps blood. They smelled the same to Din.
He didn’t know exactly what awaited him, but in his line of work, curiosity and caution walked hand in hand. One wrong step in a Hutt-controlled palace, and it wouldn’t just be credits lost —it would be his head, no helmet, mounted as a warning at the entrance of the brothel.
The merchant stopped before a narrow archway draped in sheer fabric the color of twilight. Unlike the main chamber, this room was quiet. No music. Just the soft crackle of a single oil lamp and that honeycomb laughter he had walked to, like a spell.
The merchant hesitated for a moment, unsure if to say anything or not, but instead he just opened the door and pushed the fabric aside. Inside, there were no cushions scattered across the floor. No perfumed haze thick enough to choke. Just a small table, a low bed against the wall, and a viewport showing the skies of Nal Hutta covered in greenish clouds.
And sitting cross-legged on the edge of the windowsill, was a human girl.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty standard years. Maybe twenty-four. Her long hair fell in uneven waves past her shoulders, clearly cut with a knife instead of proper shears. Her clothes were simple, compared to her co-workers —a loose linen tunic, trousers too big for her frame, sleeves rolled to reveal wrists ringed with faint bruises. Restraint marks.
She wasn’t painted in oils or draped in jewels. She wasn’t smiling seductively. She had something in her hand (the cause of her giggles) but she quickly put it away when they walked in. She looked ahead, and then turned to meet Mando’s gaze, hidden behind the helmet. Somehow, she managed to stare directly at him.
“This” the merchant said smoothly as he took a few steps towards the girl “is special stock. Rare. Fully human. No augmentations. No pheromone glands. No tricks.” He crouched beside her, fingers brushing her jaw as if inspecting merchandise. She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Fresh acquisition from a man who owed me a lot of money. Claims she’s from some backwater agri-world. No papers. No family.”
The girl’s gaze never left Din’s visor.
“She’s not trained yet.” the merchant added. “Her species makes her expensive, but her condition alone makes her worth far more than the credits I owe you. One hour with her and we would be more than settled.”
Din’s hand slowly curled into a fist.
“How old?” he asked, his voice lower than before.
The merchant shrugged. “Youngest you’ll find of her kind in Nal Hutta.”
Din tilted his helmet slightly. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
The girl's eyes widened. It seemed like Din was the first person to ever speak to her directly, or let alone ask her something so personal, now that she wasn’t a person anymore. But, before she could even stutter, the merchant interrupted sharply, squeezing her arm. “Property designation L-17.”
Din’s visor turned slowly toward him. “She has a name.” he said, matter of fact.
The Zeltron forced a smile, shaking his head, as he put his hands together. “Names are sentimental. And you see, I manage many girls, it’s useless for the stock to remember names and surnames.”
And with that, the merchant took a step closer to Din, and spoke to the girl in the entrance of the chamber, the one who had followed them in. “Give notice at the front desk, L-17 is booked for an hour.”
Din took one deliberate step closer, shaking his hesd. The sound of beskar boots against the metal floor rang heavy in the small room.
“I didn’t agree to this.” he said. “I want the credits.”
“And I am offering you something far more valuable.” the merchant replied, slowly and calm, with a tone as sharp as the blade hidden in his garments.
Din’s hand hovered near his blaster again— but not out of discomfort this time. He was calculating.
He could demand the money once again, and leave most likely empty handed, best case scenario. He could shoot the merchant and fight his way out of a Hutt cruiser swarming with guards. He could walk away entirely without making a scene.
Or—
“An hour?” he asked, moving his fingers to relax his grip, forcing himself to not grab the blaster.
“More would be too much. An hour… I understand it is enough time for humans.” the merchant smiled, clearly satisfied. “Assuming, of course, you are human underneath that helmet. I heard most Mandalorians are.”
Din didn’t reply. The Zeltron bowed shortly, and walked to the door. “We’ll see you in an hour” he announced as his girl closed the door, leaving Din and the human completely alone in the chamber.
The door sealed with a heavy hiss. The silence that followed was loud, but it finally made Din relax his shoulders.
He didn’t move toward her. Instead, he crossed the small chamber, removed his gloves one at a time, and set them carefully on the table. Then, he sat on the edge of the low bed, taking his boots off. After a moment, he leaned back against the wall, helmet still on, arms resting at his sides, trying to get as comfortable as possible.
He did not look at her. But he knew she was staring, expecting an order. “I won’t touch you” he said at last.
The words sat between them, heavy. To Mando’s surprise, the girl didn’t relax. But she didn’t shrink, either. “You paid for the hour” she said.
“I didn’t pay. The merchant owed me.” Din replied, closing his eyes, though of course she couldn’t see it.
He could feel her gaze on him, studying him. “You’re Mandalorian,” she said carefully. “That means you have a code.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his eyes, and watched her more closely as she shifted slightly on the windowsill.
The way she held herself still, the way her breathing evened out on purpose. The lack of fear, or rather her temple-like control of her emotions, made Din raise an eyebrow. Something metallic flashed briefly in her hand before she curled her fingers around it again. Din noticed, of course.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, sitting a bit more straight.
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Get what?” She played fool.
He tilted his helmet toward her closed fist. After a stretch of measured, skin tight silence, where she realised she couldn’t lie to him, the girl opened her hand.
It was nothing but a small magnetic restraint clip, bent at the edge and with rough edges— hacked.
“You’ve been working on that” he observed.
“For three weeks.”
Din nodded, impressed. He imagined most girls, if not all, were held against their will— he had assumed the merchant would’ve had smarter ways to avoid these kinds of situations. And yet, here there was a human girl, with a hijacked clip, waiting for an opportunity to run.
“That won’t open this door” he informed her, expecting to break her illusion, but her reply surprised him.
“I know.” She met his visor without flinching. “It opens the service corridor two decks down.”
Now he turned his head fully toward her, standing from the bed. “That corridor leads to—”
“Hangar access.” She finished the sentence. “Or so I’m told.”
Told.
The way she said that, and the slip of an accent —fine and clear like ceramic— made him realize she wasn’t a farm girl. He could hear it in her cadence now, and see it in the straighten of her spine, and the elegant arch of her naked feet. But it was more obvious when you spoke to her, and the way she chose words.
She was educated, and raised with a purpose much higher than most humans— and definitely not the one the merchant intended of her.
“You don’t sound like you’re from a backwater agri-world” Din murmured, not sure if he was doing the right thing or not.
She gave the smallest smile. “No, I’m not. And this isn’t my place either— but it’s also no place for a Mandalorian.”
Fair enough.
Din sat down on the edge of the bed, now closer to the windowsill. “You’re waiting for someone” he said.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She hesitated, for the first time. But that was just a pause to decide her words. “My people.” She replied at last, something twinkling in her eyes.
Not family.
Not father.
Not husband.
People.
That was more than enough to know that she— oh, she was a princess. Or at least nobility. And whatever her heritage was, she was hiding it very well.
“You’re not scared” he said.
She looked at him for a long moment, until she sighed. “I am.” she replied. “I just refuse to perform it.”
Din felt something shift in his chest. It took him a minute to understand it was respect. He hadn’t felt that for someone in a while— truth is, he hadn’t bumped into many people who deserved it. She did, though. At least in plain sight. A noble girl, trapped in a brothel, refusing to break and planning an escape instead of just waiting like a damsel in distress? That deserved respect.
“Are you going to take me out of here?” she asked, but it wasn’t a plea to be rescued, it was a calculated question, to measure her own plan.
“No”. Mando replied, and that clearly surprised her. She raised her eyebrows, not a single wrinkle on her forehead as she did. “I’m not in the business of stealing what isn’t mine.” he found himself explaining— odd for him.
Her fingers tightened around the clip. “Well, I’m not his property, even if he thinks so.”
Mando swallowed saliva, and nodded. “I know.” He said. She had a point. “I agreed to this” he said finally, voice lower “so I wouldn’t have to kill everyone between here and my ship.” Again, more explanations he wasn’t entirely sure why he was giving— maybe because he hoped she didn’t hate him for not helping her out. “I’ll figure out the credits later. But it was this or bloodshed.”
She studied him, holding herself with her arms. “Then why are you still here?”
“Because if I walk out too soon, they’ll know something’s wrong.”
That earned him the faintest nod. Now she was the one gaining his respect. The Mandalorian was strategic, not hot headed, and didn’t murder for sport. She liked that.
Din shifted slightly on the bed, going back to his relaxed pose, resting his back against the bedframe. “You have how long before your people come?”
“It is unknown.”
That made him huff a small laugh. “Then you don’t have a plan.”
“I do” she said, straightening up, holding the chip tight on her fist. “It’s just… delayed.”
Din looked at the bruises, at her clothes, at the bones poking from the hemline of the neck. Three weeks she had lasted, untouched and unbroken, but it was clear her limit was getting closer. If he had been a lesser man, he would’ve been the one in charge to bend that willpower holding her together.
“You want to get to that service corridor?” Din found himself asking.
She went very still, her breathing caught on her chest before she spoke. “Yes.”
He sat up. “Then when the hour’s up, you follow me. Don’t run unless I tell you.”
Her eyes sharpened, an eyebrow raised once again. “You’re helping me.”
“I’m helping myself.” he corrected, or rather lied. “I don’t want the merchant to think of me as a partner for business.” A beat of silence followed, and then, once again, Din found himself over explaining. “And I don’t like what this place is.”
That was as close to an admission as she’d get out of him, but it was enough. She slid off the windowsill, stepping closer toward him, but still keeping distance.
“For what it’s worth” she said quietly, “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me— you’re Mandalorian, after all.”
He didn’t respond at that, but his shoulders loosened slightly, almost against his will. Across the hall, distant laughter echoed again. Din glanced toward the door. “We wait.”
The hour did not pass quickly. If anything, they did the opposite. And it got longer with every distant footstep in the corridor that felt closer than it was; with every burst of laughter beyond the walls; with every distant and echoey moan and whimper that reminded them what performance the merchant expected them to be engaging at.
Din checked the time twice in the corner of his visor display. Fifty-three minutes.
She was pacing around the small chamber, not nervously, but thinking. Her linen clothes made a carpet-like sound as they rubbed against each other. “They’ll expect…” She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “They’ll expect signs.”
“I know.” Din replied, although he hadn’t really thought of it. Their gazes landed on the bed, where the sheets laid pristine. Din stood slowly. The mattress dipped as he pressed a gloved hand into it, then released. The fabric smoothed itself almost perfectly.
“Wrinkle them” he said.
She blinked.
“The sheets.” He clarified.
She moved without embarrassment now, pulling at the blanket, twisting the fabric, creasing it sharply near the pillows. She tugged one corner loose so it hung unevenly. While she worked on the bed, Din stepped toward the small oil lamp and dimmed it further. The room fell into deeper shadow, making the green clouds on the window glow like emeralds through the window.
“Your hair” he added, looking at the pale green glow bouncing off of her curls.
She hesitated only a second before dragging her fingers through it, loosening the waves until they fell more chaotically around her shoulders. But then, she paused, her face contouring into realisation. “I…” She swallowed, with her fingers still tangled on her locks.
“What?” Din asked, turning around to see her composure flickering for the first time.
“They think I’m untouched.”
He said nothing, but he knew her stomach turned just as much as his.
“If he checks” she continued quietly, more controlled and collected once again, but thinner at the edges, “there won’t be… evidence.”
Silence filled the room again. On his visor, the clock moved a number. Fifty-six.
Din looked at the sheets. Then at her. Then at his gauntlet. The idea came to mind before he could even process it.
He stepped past her toward the table, removing one glove. His hands were calloused, scarred with old cuts and burns, many from work, even more from childhood. It took her by surprise to see they were, as least in sight, pure human.
“I believe this will be enough” he said.
Before she could ask what he meant, he drew the small vibroblade from his boot. He didn’t hesitate, not even a second, when he rested the blade on his skin and made a quick slide across the pad of his finger, shallow enough to heal… shallow enough to bleed.
She inhaled sharply, despite herself, as she watched how Din pressed his hand briefly against the rumpled sheets, leaving a small, unmistakable stain. It wasn’t dramatic or excessive. It was… believable enough, hopefully.
He wiped the blade clean against his glove and sealed the minor wound with a small med-seal from his belt. “All right?” he asked.
She stared at the mark on the sheets for a long moment. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Once again, footsteps echoed in the corridor. But this time, they didn’t pass by.
Din put his glove on and resumed his place on the bed, leaning back against the wall exactly as before —except now the sheets bore their story.
She moved instinctively toward the windowsill again. “No.” Din commanded. When she turned, he nodded to the bed.
Quickly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, back partially turned to him, hair falling forward over one shoulder. She sat close enough to suggest proximity, but still keeping distance. She clenched the edge of the mattress tightly. Din couldn’t tell if that was part of the acting or not. But before he could ask, the door lock disengaged with a metallic click, and the Zeltron merchant entered with the same perfumed air and calculated smile he had an hour before.
His gaze flicked immediately to the bed and a smile of satisfaction struck his face. The sheets, the light, her hair, and the stain, all seemed to be doing the trick.
“I trust the hour was… sufficient?”
Din didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rose slowly from the bed. “It was.” he said.
The merchant’s smile widened. “Excellent. Then our debt—”
“I’m interested in purchasing her.”
Din’s words cut through the room like a blade. Through the corner of his visor, he saw the girl stiffening a bit, still on her spot.
The merchant blinked for a moment, and then laughed— a short, loud laughter that clearly was the only sound he managed to get out as he processed the request. “I’m afraid she’s not for permanent sale.” The merchant informed.
“I’m offering triple what you owe me.” Din lied.
The Zeltron’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “You misunderstand. She is an investment.”
Din stepped closer, voice calm, measured. “Everything has a price.”
Now that wasn’t a lie. And yet, the merchant’s pleasant demeanor cooled by a fraction. “Not this one.”
Din could feel guards shifting just outside the doorway now. The shift was subtle but he picked on it right away, and he hoped the girl was smart enough to pick on it too. The plan had just tilted.
“She’s—“ Din stuttered, not entirely sure of how to continue, but the merchant interrupted his words.
“She is leverage.” He informed the Mandalorian.
Not merchandise, or cargo. Not a gift, or a tool, or a working machine. She wasn’t kept in another room from the other girls because of her price, she was separated… because she wasn’t a girl from the brothel. Hence why the merchant offered her to pay his debt— her abuse didn’t have the goal of a profit for him, but clearly served a function for him.
Leverage.
Din’s helmet angled slightly. “Against who?”
The merchant’s smile returned to his face, but thin this time. “Now that would be telling.” He said as he gestured politely toward the door. “Our arrangement is complete, Mandalorian. I suggest you depart before additional fees are incurred.”
Din didn’t move. The corridor beyond the doorway felt narrower now as guards grew closer, blasters ready.
A part of him, a more cowardly side of him, knew he could just walk away with half of a payment and a lot of information.
Lucky for her, though, he wasn’t a coward.
Din moved before the guards did.
The merchant’s smile hadn’t fully faded when Din’s gauntlet shot forward and seized him by the collar, dragging him hard into the doorway. The Zeltron gasped as Din twisted him sideways. When the blasters erupted, the first bolt hit the merchant instead of beskar.
Female screams followed.
Din fired with clean, efficient shots. One guard dropped. Another stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, before falling as well. The corridor exploded into chaos. It was clear the guards hadn’t been expecting this, and their hesitation cost them their lives.
“Move!” Din said, hoping the girl wasn’t waiting for this moment to become foolish. She stepped past the fallen merchant without looking down, and ran to the left.
Din advanced, firing with measured precision, as he followed her. They reached the first junction before more boots thundered from the far hall. “Left.” she said. “Service access.”
They slipped into a narrower corridor that was dimmer, colder, and scentless. The decorative walls gave way to exposed piping and maintenance panels. The air smelled metallic— both from blasters and blood.
As they ran, a bolt scorched the wall inches from her head, making her scream. Din caught her arm and pulled her behind him in the same motion, returning fire without breaking stride.
“Stay behind me.” He shouted.
“I am!” She shouted back.
Finally, they reached the ladder shaft, where two clueless guards awaited. Din didn’t slow, and he blasted before the guards could even draw their weapons.
The girl took her chip, the hijacked one, and placed it on the door. Her fingers trembled, but it was the only part of her body doing so. And when the door opened, she gasped in relief. “Hangar is forward.” she said, breathing slightly faster now. “But they’ll lock it.”
“Not before we get there.” Mando shook his head.
They turned the final corner, and ran straight into resistance. Four guards this time. Unlike their previous workmates, these ones were prepared and ready to blast. In a quick move, Din shoved the girl sideways, behind a stack of supply crates, just in time the blasterfire erupted.
The corridor filled with light, his beskar armour making fireworks with each hit of a bolt. One guard went down to a clean headshot. Another to a blast that ricocheted off the wall and caught him in the throat. The third lunged forward, and Din drove him into the bulkhead with a brutal shoulder slam before firing point-blank.
The fourth fled the scene. Din would’ve killed him if it wasn’t for the girl.
He turned his head to locate her, but lucky for him, she was already moving past the bodies and into the hangar. That made the corners of his mouth lift up as he ran behind her.
They burst into the hangar as the massive bay doors were already beginning to close. And there, waiting, sat the Razor Crest. But blasterfire began to rain down from a catwalk above as they reached the ship. A bolt clipped the edge of the ramp controls as Din slammed his fist against them.
The boarding ramp began to lower, and she climbed up, but halfway up, a bolt grazed her shoulder.
Din turned and fired upward, forcing the catwalk guards back just long enough for the girl and him to climb up and close the ramp.
Inside, the Crest felt tighter than ever as he rushed to the cockpit. She followed behind, one hand pressed to her shoulder, though she refused to slow or cry.
Din dropped into the pilot’s seat and ignited the engines. The hyperdrive couplings screamed in protest, and he silently prayed they cooperated one last time.
“Hangar doors are sealing,” she exclaimed, peering through the viewport.
Din didn’t hesitate as The Crest lurched violently upward, scraping hard along the closing doors. Metal shrieked. Sparks exploded across the viewport in blinding flashes. For a moment —one suspended, endless second, longer than the hour they had endured— it felt like the ship wouldn’t make it.
And then, they were flying across Nal Hutta’s murky sky. Din steadied the controls, guiding them into thick green cloud cover, and as far away from the brothel as possible.
That’s when she collapsed.
By the time you awoke, the sounds of screams and blasters were long gone, and the smell of perfume and incense had faded away.
The ship was quiet. Not silent —ships were never silent— but quiet in the way the world sounds after a thunderstorm, before birds sing again. Quiet, just like when something stubborn settles after surviving. You noticed the faint clicking of cooling metal, and a low vibration under the floor.
You did not open your eyes immediately, as they were still heavy. That was the first thing you felt. The second was pain. Not sharp and blinding like the moment you were shot-- instead, it was a dull, tight pull on your shoulder. You reached your hand to your shoulder, and recognised the gauze to the touch. As your fingers traveled, you touched something else. A blanket, definitely not soft, or washed, but doing its job.
Your memory returned in fragments, then. The corridor. The catwalk. The bolt. The Mandalorian.
Your eyes opened slowly, at last. Around you, the cockpit lights were dimmed. That surprised you-- the fact that you were still in the cockpit, sitting on the passenger seat, instead of laying on a bed. Outside, the viewport stretched not across the green murk of Nal Hutta, but a velvet, deep darkness, speckled with distant stars.
You turned your head slightly, and there he was.
The Mandalorian.
Your saviour.
He was seated on the pilot chair beside you, helmet still on, of course, with an upright but not rigid posture . One gloved hand rested loosely against his thigh, while the other hung near the controls.
You sat upright, straightening on the chair. You shifted your weight, the gauze cold but comforting across your shoulder. Every movement reminded you of the fight, of the corridor, the catwalk, the feel of cold metal under your palms, and the smell of scorched walls. Yet, even with pain lingering, even with the adrenaline fading, there was a sliver of relief that wrapped around you like the coarse blanket still draped across your lap.
The Mandalorian didn’t turn, nor moved. He just spoke.
“You’re nobility.”
His voice was calm, and he didn’t say it like an accusation, just like a fact he had assumed back in the brothel and confirmed a moment ago.
You let out a slow breath, as a deep weight sunk onto your chest. “Yes” was all you said.
When he didn’t reply, nor ask more questions, you moved, folding the coarse blanket back and swinging your legs slowly off the cot, ignoring the slight pull in your shoulder. The cockpit smelled faintly of fuel, ozone, and oil.
“What gave it away?” you asked, resting your head fully against the chair as you watched the stars.
“Your accent, and certain words you use--” the Mandalorian explained, his voice deep and rich. Now that you were out of danger and enclosured into the cockpit of the ship, it projected more clearly. “No farmer girl has your vocabulary, and the leverage part… men like the merchant love money more than anything, it didn't make sense he wouldn’t sell you to me. So, I searched databases.”
Your stomach tightened, but not from fear. From inevitability.
“I found inconsistencies.” he continued. “No missing persons report matching your description from any agri-world in the sector. No ransom demand listed through known Hutt channels.” His head tilted slightly. “No public bounty.”
You held his gaze through the visor.
“Yet…” he continued calmly, “three encrypted bulletins were issued through private syndicate networks three weeks ago. Diplomatic bulletins.”
The silence that lingered was deep and rich, and it added more weight to the stone that was oppressing your chest.
“Your father...” the Mandalorian spoke, matter-of-fact. “is the King of Corfai”
“Former King.” you corrected softly, and cleared your throat as you looked away. “He abdicated three years ago, my brother sits on the throne now. But the Hutts don’t care about titles.”
The engines hummed steadily. “The merchant said they took you for leverage” the mandalorian repeated.
“For humiliation.” You corrected, again. Gathering strength, and ignoring the pull on your shoulder, you stood carefully, bracing one hand on the bulkhead. The ship swayed subtly with hyperspace corrections. “They wanted a smuggling corridor across Corfai’s southern hemisphere. A permanent passage with unchecked inspections and protected airspace.”
“For the merchant network.” he said.
“For the Hutt merchant network” you clarified, giving him a look that implied a lot. He is a bounty hunter, you thought to yourself, so he must be aware what kinds of merchandise flows in a Hutt merchant network. Spice, weapons, drugs, and more than just women to feed the brothels.
“Corfai’s economy is delicate, especially now with these turbulent political times.” you continued. “They believed my father would bend and convince my brother, but he didn’t.” A faint exhale left your chest, although it didn’t lessen the heavy sensation you felt.
“So they made you disappear” Mando said, but you shook your head. Unconsciously, you found yourself clasping your hands together, behind your pack— an old posture from state briefings.
“I wasn’t meant to be killed or disappeared. Quite the opposite, in fact. I was meant to be seen, and rumoured about my whereabouts. About my dignity.”
“And then returned damaged” he finished.
Your jaw tightened. “I don’t believe they would’ve returned me, but yes. Hand me back damaged, stained, violated. No longer a princess, but instead a living proof of the Hutt’s power, of what happens when you say no.”
He paused, and for a moment, you dared to let the heaviness settle without moving. The soft vibration of the hyperdrive hummed through the floor and into your bones. The dim cockpit lights cast long, angular shadows across the panels, glinting off the metallic edges of buttons and switches. Outside, the stars blurred into thin, pale streaks, streaks that seemed to echo the chaos you’d just escaped.
Then he broke the silence. “Are you hurt?”
“Just the shoulder.” You shruggle, holding the injured arm with your hand. “Thanks, for patching me up. And saving me.”
Your manners were not the best, you knew, but it made you feel flustered just to imagine the Mandalorian picking you up, ripping your shirt off, cleaning your wound and then carefully setting you beside him.
“You’re welcome” he scoffed. “But I meant…” His voice softened, almost low enough to be swallowed by the hum of the ship. “The merchant said you were unclaimed.”
His voice was low, and if he hadn't been wearing that helmet, you would’ve sworn he was blushing as he spoke. “You said you were unclaimed. Is… that true?”
The words lingered in the air, heavier than any blaster bolt had been. You knew what he meant, and for some reason --perhaps owing him your life, or perhaps his religion-- you decided to speak the truth.
“No.”
You looked out the window, into the stars, as you continued. “I was claimed long ago, by a knight who no longer works at the palace. I’ve had many lovers since then.” You didn’t meet his gaze, but through the corner of your eye you saw the helmet move. “The merchant thinks he can tell when a human is virgin or not, when he barely even knows our anatomy.”
There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clicks of the ship’s machinery. You hoped he didn’t ask more specific details.
“Did the lie help?”
“Yes…” you spoke with the truth again. “But it wasn’t going to last long. You came in time.”
You shifted, taking a steadying breath as the hyperdrive thrummed beneath you. The vibration traveled through your chest, soft but persistent, lessening a bit of that heaviness you felt in your chest.
And when you thought the conversation was over, the bounty hunter spoke once again. “Why did you choose the service corridor instead of the main hall to escape?”
“The main hall cameras record to external Hutt archives. The service corridors are internal.” You explained. The smooth, unyielding tilt of his helmet caught the low light, reflecting stars in tiny, fractured patterns.
“You weren’t planning to be rescued” he said quietly, as though verifying a truth he already suspected.
“No.” you admitted, looking back at him. “I tried to keep a low profile, and flee on my own before things could escalate.”
“And now?”
You looked out the viewport at the velvet expanse of hyperspace, letting the stars draw your focus. “Now I need a ship that can move without attracting attention.”
A slight tilt of the helmet, deliberate, made you turn once more. “You’re in one.” he said.
Your shoulders eased slightly. “You realize that if you return me to Corfai, you will not leave quietly, right?”
“I don’t plan to land publicly.”
“And if my father insists on thanking you?”
“I’ll leave before he can.”
For the first time, a small smile flickered across your face, fragile but real. “You could drop me at a neutral system, and erase yourself from this.”
“I don’t abandon assets mid-transport.”
You almost replied back with something silly, like ‘I'm not an asset’, but you knew it'd be pointless. And a lie. You were an asset, a piece of a game, an object for men’s politics. So you just sat down again.
The ship’s hyperspace hummed deeper, steadying the ship’s path, as if sensing the fragile truce forming between you.
“What happens when we reach Corfai?” the Mandalorian asked.
You inhaled, slow, measured, the faint scent of ozone and oil sharp in your nose. “Officially? I was never gone.”
“And unofficially?”
You bit your cheek. “We’ll determine how much of this becomes public. If the Hutts are exposed, it becomes galactic. If it stays quiet… then perhaps we might let it slide.”
For a long moment, the two of you sat in the cockpit, suspended in the silent hum of the Razor Crest. The dim lights glimmered on the smooth curves of metal, on the worn edges of control panels, on the gloved hands resting lightly at your side. Outside, hyperspace stretched, carrying you away from the brothel.
Time moved slowly as the bounty hunter and you traveled through space towards your planet, and the Hyperspace had gone quiet in the way only deep night can feel quiet.
The Razor Crest vibrated softly around you. The lights were dimmed to a low amber glow, shadows settling into corners, the cockpit illuminated only by the wash of blue streaming past the viewport.
You couldn’t sleep.
The Mandalorian had shown you a bed where you could rest more comfortably, the only one in the small ship— his bed.
You turned in the sheets, trying to pick up the smell left there. The scent, not of his armour, but of his skin. Every time you closed your eyes, echoes of the brothel invaded your thoughts. Long nights where all you could hear were moans and pleasure. Now, those memories mixed in with the scent of what hid beneath the beskar.
You couldn’t sleep.
You stepped from the bed slowly, your bare feet quiet against cold decking. You took a few steps —it wasn’t a large ship by any means— and found the Mandalorian right where you had expected him, still on his pilot seat, even though the ship was in autopilot.
“You don’t trust autopilot” you said softly, hoping to not startle him, but he wasn’t asleep.
“It’s old.” He replied, gloved hands resting on his thighs.
“So are you.” You joked, taking another step closer. And, to your surprise, he joked back.
“I’m older.”
You smiled, and stepped into the cockpit.
The air was unperfumed. Nothing like the brothel’s cloying air. And yet, the echoes of the moans continued to run on your ears. You lowered yourself into the co-pilot seat. “Couldn’t sleep” you explained.
“Nightmares?” The Mandalorian asked, making you chuckle.
“Eh, you could say so” you said with a shrug.
The silence stretched, deep like the black stretching across the galaxy. Not a ship in sight, not a planet nearby. They were so far away even the stars seemed to be out of reach.
But you couldn't let that distract you. You were on your way to Corfai, to your father and brother, to your duties and responsibilities. To your silk dresses and long hours of work. You had to shift your mind once again, dart it away from the echoes of the brothel, from the scent still trapped on your nostrils.
“Can I be honest now?” you found yourself saying. The Mandalorian nodded, shortly. “You asked if I was… still a maiden. And I said no. I’d rather we keep that between you and me.”
It took the bounty hunter a long moment to reply, long enough to make you hesitate if the request had been a right call. But he surprised you, at last, when he cleared his throat, and said: “Not my business to tell.”
“Right. But, for nobility, these kinds of things are important.” You replied, perhaps too quickly. You didn’t like the anxiety that was growing on you the closer the ship got to Corfai.
“Why?”
“Huh?”
When you turned your head, you found the beskar helmet staring right at you, your own face reflected on the visor. You didn’t look happy for a princess that was just rescued.
“Why is your maidenhood important for nobility?” The Mandalorian asked.
You had to look away, even if he didn’t. “Well, heritage, I suppose.” You found yourself doubting, even though you knew the reasons. You were taught from birth your body was more important than others, because it had the ability to birth heirs to the throne, to continue the bloodline. That, above all, was your duty and purpose.
“And… there’s this thing about being… pure. The whole reason I was kept in a brothel and not locked in a cell is because they wanted to take that away too.”
“But you aren’t pure.” The Mandalorian said, matter-of-fact.
“No, I’m not” you confirmed.
Your gazes met again. But now, instead of watching your reflection, you forced your eyes to look beyond, to try and spot the human eyes you knew laid beneath the armor.
You didn’t mean to do it, but your eyes dropped down to admire the rest of the fit-- a big armor, for a big man. Older, he had said. Determined, not hot headed. Respectful. And yet, incredibly dangerous. After all, this wasn’t one of the castle’s knights, this was a bounty hunter who just so happened to bump into you. A man who could’ve abused you if he had wanted to. A man still with the opportunity to do so.
His hand --the one he had taken the glove off to cut his finger for you-- was resting on the control board, but it drifted down slowly, like a snail, to lay on your knee. It was big, heavy, and warm, and his thumb ran soft circles on your exposed skin.
And when you looked up --to do what? You weren’t sure-- he moved it away, as if he’d gotten a whiplash.
“Sorry. I don’t want to get it wrong.” he apologized, looking ahead, and straightening his stance --closing his legs, tightening his shoulders, and clearing his throat, his voice more correct now, less warm. It didn’t sound arrogant, nor controlling.
He was nervous.
You turned fully in your seat to face him, your legs crossed daintily by your ankles.
“Get what wrong?” you asked quietly.
The Mandalorian didn’t look at you at first. His helmet remained fixed forward, staring out at the endless streak of hyperspace as if it were the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.
“You” he said after a moment. “I’m a bounty hunter.” he continued, voice careful now, measured in a way that felt more deliberate than before. “You’re a princess.”
The way he said it made the title feel heavier than it had when it came from courtiers and diplomats. From them, it was expectation. From him, it sounded like distance.
“You were taken by Hutt men” he went on. “You were kept somewhere you didn’t choose to be. I’m bringing you home.” His fingers curled once against his thigh. “Wouldn’t be right to...”
“To what?” you pressed, hoping, begging on your mind he’d ask what you wanted him to. That he also couldn't escape the moans echoing on his head, that he was also drunk on your scent --not the incense of the brothel, but your own scent, the smell of your skin.
The helmet turned toward you again. And, once again, your reflection stared back at you from the visor, eyes darker now in the dim amber light.
“Mistake your kindness” he said.
That surprised you. “Kindness?” you repeated, a bit disappointed.
“You’re grateful I got you out” he said simply. “That can feel like something else, to other bounty hunters.”
You bit your cheek, a bit frustrated, and leaned back slightly in the seat, folding your arms loosely across your middle. For a moment you watched the faint reflection of his helmet in the cockpit glass, the broad shape of him filling the small space.
“That’s a very cautious way to live.”
“It’s a necessary one.”
You tilted your head. You knew it was necessary-- it was the way you were raised to. But needs were needs.
“For bounty hunters?”
“For men who wear armor.” he simply said, and something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten. The odor of his human skin, the one trapped beneath the beskar, still hung on your nose.
You let the silence stretch again, long enough that the hum of the ship filled the space between breaths.
Then you spoke, almost in a whisper. “You’re assuming my kindness comes from being rescued, or because of my manners.” The cockpit felt smaller, if that was even possible, when he turned again. “I spent weeks in a brothel…” you continued, your voice steady but low, your gaze fixed on the visor. “...listening to men think they were irresistible because someone was paid to moan for them.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the armrest of your chair. “Trust me, Mandalorian. I know what false interest sounds like. This isn’t it.”
You could almost feel the way he was listening now and how his body relaxed involuntarily-- shoulders loosening, legs opening up again.
“So, if I were grateful…” you said, standing up, “…it would look like this.”
The pilot seat didn’t move when you slowly lowered yourself to sit on his legs, straddling him.
You didn’t move until you got a sign, of any kind, that he wanted this. Lucky for you, it came rather quickly— his hands, gloves on, moved to hold your waist, and fixed your posture on his lap to a more comfortable angle, exactly where your hips and his met.
But when he spoke, his words shocked you.
“I’ve never…” He began stuttering. “I’ve never been with anyone.”
There was no embarrassment in his tone. He just said it, stating a fact. It made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“You don’t owe me that confession” you said gently.
“I wanted you to know.”
“Why?”
“So you don’t expect something I don’t know how to give.”
That made your smile soften, and relax your shoulders, even if you hadn’t been aware you were so tense. He was a virgin, probably by Mandalorian code, or perhaps due to his own personal experience. A man so correct, so right, so strict, of course had trouble enjoying himself. It didn’t turn your heat off— if anything, it made you feel calmer. And hornier.
“Sex isn’t about giving or taking— that’s prostitution. That’s what happened in the brothel. We aren’t there anymore.” You explained, running your fingers lazily up and down his arms, moving them up to trace a slow line along the edge of his collar. “You’re very brave in battle” you murmured.
“Battle makes sense.”
“And this?”
The Mandalorian took a pause, exhaling.
“This doesn’t.”
It made you smile again. “It will. If you want to” you whispered.
And, to surprise you again, the Mandalorian’s hands tightened around your waist at your words, almost as if he’d been afraid you would’ve stepped away from his lap.
“I do.”
You smirked.
The heat pouring off of your core was already too noticeable to ignore it anymore, so you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, holding on to his frame, as you began to rock your hips back and forth. The fabric of his pants made a sharp contrast between the rough linen of your brothel clothing, rubbing you harsh but determined. And the naked parts of your body —yours hands, your arms, and part of your thighs— felt hot against the cool beskar armour.
But before you could moan, he did.
His hands grasped your waist stronger, pushing you deeper into his crotch, making the friction more intense. A moan, mixed in with a small gasp of surprise, left your lips.
You would’ve devoured his mouth now, but he kept his helmet on, your own eyes reflected on them. “Does it break any Mandalorian code—?”
“Leave that to me” he interrupted before you could even finish. His voice sounded worked up, and breath taken. “You… you keep moving.”
That made you bite your lip to hold on a smile. You kept moving, slowly, in a circular pattern. You felt yourself get wet, dampening the linen of your clothes.
“You feel anything under your suit?”
“I do.” He growled. That made you speed up just a bit, and rub yourself a bit tighter. The Mandalorian didn’t moan again, but you could tell he was swallowing all the noises down his throat.
“And your gloves?” You continued, pushing the edge a bit. You were eager to be touched by real skin, and to get closer to the scent you’d smelled in his bed— his scent, not the scent of the beskar. “You can touch me”
You didn’t expect much, so you smiled when he actually moved his arms from your waist to remove both of his gloves. The cut finger was the first one to land on your waist again, and you felt the small bump of the healing wound against your skin.
His hands were big, soft, pale white. And they guided you deeper into his crotch. Your linen garments were ruined by your wetness by now, and through his pants, you felt his manhood grow and harden, rubbing you exactly where you wanted him the most.
“You’re not bad at this” you whispered.
“I’m armored” he replied, making you laugh softly, and the sound broke the last of the tension between you two.
Your hands slid from his helmet to rest lightly at his collar. “If we go further” you said, gently “we go slowly. And we stop if you want to.”
“Yes.”
He looked steadier now. Not overwhelmed. Just focused.
“I don’t want to rush you” he said.
“You’re not.” You replied, a bit surprised. You were clearly the one rushing him, not the other way around. But this man, this Mandalorian, you’ve come to learn, was too well mannered.
You brushed your thumb lightly along the edge of his helmet, and he pressed his fingers tighter against your skin, pressing on to your ribs.
“You’re choosing this?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You chuckled a bit, although it was more of a moan than a giggle. “Do I have to explain why I want to sleep with you?”
“Yes.” He replied immediately. “I don’t want you to do it because you feel indebted.”
“I know i'm not”
“Or because you think you should.”
“I know I shouldn’t”
“Then why?”
You stopped your hips, feeling his cock hard and pressing against you. You felt like you were drowning in your clothes, and seeing him all dressed, helmet on, made the sensation worse.
“Because I need to get off.” You confessed, and looked down at the spot where your hips met his, where the fabrics had faint stains of wetness. “And so do you.”
That seemed to settle it.
He nodded once, sharp, firm, like the knights of the palace when you gave them orders. “Then I’m yours” he said quietly.
It made you bite your lip. You would’ve devoured his mouth right there, but there was one thing standing in between.
“The helmet—?”
“Stays on” he cut you off, immediately.
You sighed, a bit frustrated. “So I can’t kiss you?”
It took the Mandalorian a moment to reply, as if he was measuring his options. But in the end, he shook his head, sharp, but less firm, like this wasn’t an order he was happy to follow.
You swallowed saliva, the pool of heat on your thighs now unbearable. “Well, lucky for you I can do other things with my lips” you said, and moved.
He was about to protest when your hips moved away from his crotch when you kneeled in front of him, and worked your way around his belt.
The Mandalorian didn’t move— he seemed too shocked for it. But when you huffed in annoyance he flicked your fingers off of the belt, and swiftly removed it. You leaned back for a bit to admire it; watching a man take his belt off was a sight you loved to see.
When he was done loosening the belt, you continued your job. Gracefully, as to not startle him, you moved your hand, cupping his cock before sliding it in to pull it out.
It was pale, veiny, and you saw a lot of hair at the base. Pretty good length— not too much, not too little. The tip was a soft shade of pink, and you couldn’t help but imagine that was the same color of his lips, hidden beneath the beskar helmet.
The bizarreness of it all made you chuckle a bit. Here you were, holding a man’s length in all its glory, and yet you were not allowed to see his face as you lowered your lips, and gently sucked off.
Drowning the moans was too much for the bounty hunter at this point, and his hiss felt like a victory chant. After all, it was the only way to know he was enjoying it.
You took your time blowing him. He was a virgin, but you weren’t sure if he had ever been given pleasure like this before, so you made the experience worth remembering.
Your tongue wrapped on his tip all the way through, and sucked hard, making pressure on his nerves. You removed your lips quite often to spat on his shaft, so your hand could slide up and down smoothly. You felt every vein on his cock pump with each stroke of your hand, and by the time your mouth was reaching the base, the Mandalorian was holding your hair, helmet tilted back, and growling like a beast.
“I—“ he moaned, clearly out of his control. You moved your lips away, holding to his cock but not stroking it. It pulsed, like a bomb, on your grip. You knew exactly what was happening— he was about to come, all the cum gathered right on the tip, waiting for release.
“Bed?” You asked as you slowly rose. He nodded, and you almost swore you saw him tremble.
Smiling, licking his taste off of your lips, you took his hand and guided him to his bed, as if this wasn’t his ship and not yours.
You would’ve loved to ask about the helmet once again, but you knew you couldn’t push it. So, once you reached his bedsheets, you only slipped off of the linen garments, and rested on all fours, chest pressed on the mattress, ass up in the air.
You didn’t have to explain to him what to do, although it took him a moment to follow. You felt the tip right on your folds, trying to push in— and even though you were wet, the friction made you flinch a bit.
“Spit on it, and go slow” you told him. You couldn’t help but moan when, after a pause, a wet and cold spat landed right on your ass, sliding down to your core. “That’s it.”
The Mandalorian moved the tip up and down, parting your lips, before he put a knee up on the bed, and slowly pushed in. The sensation— the first time a cock slides into your womanhood— was as good as ever. But for him? Oh.
The Mandalorian let out a loud huff, something along the lines of incredible pleasure and frustration to not come right away. He stood still inside of you, before he gathered himself and began to rock his hips in and out. You weren’t sure if you needed to give him any more guidance than this, but he seemed like he didn’t need it.
For a moment, all the sounds on the ship were his and your moans, growing louder, covering the hum of the ship, the sounds of the windpipes on the walls, the drip of the oil or the purr of the engine. That’s why he took you by surprise when he spoke, voice a bit trembling, but holding together.
“You said let it slide”
“Huh?”
“Your kidnapping.” He huffed, hips in and out. “Why wouldn't you want to--?
“Take revenge?” You finished the sentence as he drowned in a moan.
He swallowed. “Claim justice”
You adjusted your hips, raising them up a little. Your chest rose off of the mattress, letting you breathe a bit more, and talk more smoothly. You swallowed another moan. “Some battles are not worth the fight. My planet isn't in the right position, politically and economically, to face the Hutt cartel” you explained as your hand reached down to rub yourself, immediately tightening around the bounty hunter’s cock. It made him hiss.
“Aren’t you mad?” He asked.
“I’m—“ you tried to reply, but the Mandalorian moved his own hand off of your hips to replace your own fingers in your cunt. You held them in place, teaching him exactly how to move them, and where. He was a quick learner. “I’m close”
The political conversation ended right the same way it had started— drowned in moans. You moved your hand away, and the Mandalorian kept his movements perfectly paced, synchronizing his thrusts with the circular movements around your clitoris.
You turned your head, your lips partially open, holding in the tune of the moans, and saw him naked— all except the helmet, of course.
His torso was lean, strong, covered in hair. Some spots didn’t have hair, though, and instead had scars. He was pale, very much so, but sweat covered every inch of his skin, and you knew underneath that helmet he was blushed and dripping.
You knew he was making eye contact through the beskar, because he thrusted harder when you turned to face him. “Would you let me do this back in the brothel if I had wanted to?” He asked.
“No, definitely" you said, although you didn’t sound that convincing as he pounded you in all fours.
“Then why you let me now?”
You rolled your eyes. You knew this was important to him— to know that this wasn’t a mistake, that he wasn’t breaking codes, nor your trust. You knew that he, bless his heart, had never done this, and wasn’t totally aware of the subtle, gentle, swift dance around sex. “Consent, reward“ you moaned, feeling your cunt get tighter.
“Shit” the Mandalorian cursed, loud, as he suddenly pulled his cock out. You hissed at the sudden loss of contact. “Stop that” he said.
You shook your head— asshole didn’t let you come. Of course, he had no clue what was happening, he only did so because he was probably about to finish as well, just with the grip of your core.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” You apologized, but raised an eyebrow as you saw him kneel right on your core. “What you what are you--?”
“Close your eyes.” He commanded, and you smiled. He was about to eat you out. Biting your lip, you faced the wall again. Then, the sound of beskar hitting the floor, and a deep breath, told you all you needed to know— he’d removed his helmet.
“I’ve never done this before” he said, voice raggedy but more clear now that he didn’t cover his head anymore.
“Remove your helmet or go down on a girl?”
He huffed. “The latter”
You moved a little in place, and used both hands to spread your cheeks wide, but his own hands covered yours in a second. You removed them, and held tight to the sheets. “Give it a long lick, all across the folds first.” You explained.
It took a second but then you felt it— the soft, cold, slimy tongue right across your burning cunt. It felt refreshing, like sipping a glass of the coldest and sweetest juice you could find in the galaxy when you are thirsty. Your moans made you vibrate, and you felt him smirk on your sex.
“Now part them apart, and work your way in with your tongue.” You continued explaining, and he obeyed to perfection. His lips sucked on you, drinking in your fluids. “Once you reach the clit you suck— fuck!”
He’d found it, and he had sucked.
“You alright?” He asked, parting his lips from your cunt as your knees shook.
“Don’t stop.”
The Mandalorian obeyed, and went back to eating you out. His tongue explored every crevice, and moved in and out of your entrance just like his cock had done it before lowering to your clit. It moved up and down, sometimes close to reaching your ass. You would’ve loved to ask him to lick it too, but you didn’t want to push him too much— besides, your cunt was tilting by this point.
“I need a finger” you murmured, nose buried on his pillow as you inhaled his scent.
“Huh?”
“In me.” You clarified. “Do it slow, lick it first.”
You couldn’t help but giggle a bit when, suddenly, his hand was right next to your face. He wanted you to lick his fingers.
You moved your head a bit to do so, and through the corner of your eye, you saw a glance of him— small ears, and brunette short hair with curls stuck by his sweat onto his skull. But that was about it.
In your tongue, you felt the small dent of the cut on his finger, the small wound he had taken to himself to free you from the brothel, all because you’ve lied about your virginity. And now here you were, sucking on it, helping him claim his own.
The Mandalorian removed his hand, now sloppy with your saliva, and you smirked. “You’re naughty, Mandalorian”
“Din. call me Din.” He corrected, but he didn’t pause to let you process the information. “Now what?”
“Insert them, slow, and when you reach the top, hook them up and move them towards you, like you're calling me” you explained.
You felt the index and middle fingers slowly get in, sliding with no problem. They were thick, and they easily got all the way in, and hooked like you asked him. It made you shiver as he moved them, calling for another orgasm.
“Now?”
“Keep eating me too.” You sighed, and moaned louder when his fingers moved faster and his tongue went back to your clit. “Oh my—“
It didn’t take you that long to cum this time, now properly riding your orgasm through his fingers. You felt yourself tighten around them, and you knew he felt it too, and tasted the sweet liquid softly pouring out.
When he removed his lips, you thought he was just taking a break to breathe through, but he moved his fingers away, and held you by the hips. “Keep your eyes closed” he commanded as he flipped you to lay on your back.
He barely gave you a second to obey, but he was ahead of it— his hand reached your eyes before your back had hit the mattress. You opened your legs wider, setting them on his shoulders. This time, you didn’t have to give him any indications.
You moaned hard when he slipped in. You were over-stimulated by this point, and the angle on your hips made his cock thrust even deeper, rubbing against your cervix, making you hiss. His hand, big, rough and sweaty, pressed hard against your eyes.
“Don’t stop” you begged.
“Wasn’t gonna” he replied, and to your surprise, his voice was just centimeters away from your ear. His breath mixed in with yours when you moved your head a bit. And, still with your eyes covered, you leaned into his mouth.
His lips were chapped, but the moistness of your cunt had softened them. He tasted like you, but they also had a metallic touch to them, probably from the beskar. You were surprised to also feel hair from a trimmed beard and moustache as well.
Your hands moved to hold him, to run your fingers on the damp curls, to caress his jawline and feel his beard, to hold on to his thick, strong neck. You were lost, lost in his smell, his touch, his tongue, his cock— so lost, in fact, that you didn’t even realize he’d removed his hand from your eyes at one point to hold your waist, and cup your breasts, and run his fingers through your curls too.
But his hand returned to cover your vision at the same time he broke the kiss apart in raggedy breaths. “I need to—“
“Come? Pull out, then”
You felt it all, but didn’t see it— his cock moving out of your pulsing cunt, and the hot pool of cum dripping into the skin of your belly. It was hot against your skin, and it came out in small intervals, until it was finally over.
“Keep your eyes closed” he murmured as he softly stood up, removing his hand from your face, and walking away.
Of course, you didn’t obey.
You opened them up immediately to see the mess. His cum, white and thick, was creamy and shiny on your skin. You saw the bedsheets were damp as well. And in between your thighs, just before your leg ended and your genitals started, there was a love bite.
You couldn’t explore it much before you heard footsteps, and closed your eyes shut again.
“You can open them” you heard Din speak, his voice a bit drowned now— he’d put the helmet on. He was still naked, but now more freshened up, sweat no longer clinging to his skin. He carried a damp towel, which he immediately used to clean his seed off of your skin.
He did it slowly, and you knew he was admiring it under the helmet, taking in the scene in front of him.
“How you feeling?” You asked.
He sighed, and dropped the towel aside as he put his hands on his hips. “Tired” was all he said, and then moved to pull his pants up.
You smiled, and moved to the side, to leave him room. “Sleep with me.” You said, and chuckled when his helmet suddenly snapped up. “We already fucked, we might as well”
He didn’t move, not speak, but his shoulders relaxed. He crawled to your side, and laid on his back, stiff like a board.
Rolling your eyes and smiling, you moved to cuddle him. “This is part of the sex too, Din” you explained, and that made him loosen up, loosely draping an arm around your waist as you drifted off.
dividers by toastray - pics from Piterest - DO NOT copy, reupload, translate or steal pls
summary: the four times Din Djarin almost says it, and the one time he does. alternatively, the four times you almost say it, and the one time you do.
a/n: *gif is not mine, it’s from Pinterest* just imagine that trend on tiktok where people scream and cry in their shower to the bridge of enchanted by taylor swift, except it’s Din doing it. also, did I include a Princess Bride reference? yes, cause I’m trash, but I thought it fit (sidenote this may just be my most favourite thing I’ve ever fucking written??)
warnings: a FUCK ton of angst, major one-sided pining (is it though?), jealousy, broody Din, reader is fucking oblivious, Cobb Vanth being a flirty little shit, eventually a lotta fluff
word count: 6.1K (it's a long one, guys, but I promise its worth it)
🪐
i.
“Stop. Moving.” You spit through gritted teeth as you try to wipe at the bloody mess before you.
Mando flinches beneath the wet rag. “Just-“ he groans as you swipe rather harshly at the wound that traces his entire bicep. “Just use the bacta spray, dank farrik!”
“It’s called cleaning the wound first. Maker, Mando, how you made it this long is kriffing beyond me.” You squeeze out the bloody rag into the bucket placed at your feet before draping it on the side.
The vibroblade that had caused the wound had made a perfect gash—deep, bloody, and very infected.
Usually, you had a weak stomach and weren’t able to tend to wounds, especially of this magnitude. But the more injuries your Mandalorian had acquired, the more you were put in a position to take care of him. And so, here were the two of you, hunched over each other in concentration.
You pull out said bacta spray from the medical kit along with a pair of scissors. Placing your hand along the rip in his shirt, you run your fingers gently around the fraying ends and look at your friend. “I’m going to have to cut the rest of the fabric around the wound so that way the bacta can reach the surrounding areas—“
“No, I—that’s enough—“
“Mando…” you warn lowly, attracting his attention to you. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”
He lets go of a shaky breath and allows himself to lean back against the metal wall. You take that as your go ahead and begin to cut the shirt. You know about his Creed, how strictly he follows it and what he allows himself to feel comfortable with. You respect him greatly, and so you make sure to only cut away the parts of the fabric that is needed.
Splaying your hand on the curve of his armor-ridden shoulder (you had somehow managed to convince him to remove it in order for you actually heal him properly) you take the bacta and spray along the jagged edges of the now clean wound. It’s a nasty cut, but far more manageable when it’s not covered in blood and scabs.
He flinched again at the cool contact but quickly settled into you. “You need to even out your breathing. You're gonna make yourself light-headed.” You say nonchalantly, making sure you are focused on getting bacta to every exposed area possible.
He doesn’t respond, but you do hear him pause, then inhale and exhale deeply through his modulator. You’re grateful for the way it calms you down—hands cease shaking, allowing you to start wrapping his arm in bandages. “You gotta keep this on. You can take it off in a couple days, but until then…” you tuck the open end into itself and stand up wiping at your knees and the dirt that accumulated on them from the ship's floor. “Until then don’t do anything to aggravate it.”
He huffs, but you can tell he tries to hide it as a cough when you shoot him a sour look. “I’m serious, Mando. I see that thing come off before it’s supposed to and you’re a dead man. You hear me? I’ll beat your ass so hard even the New Republic officers won’t be able to find you.”
He groans as he sits up slowly. “They already can’t find me.”
His quip elicits a harsh look from you. He raises his non-injured arm up in defense. “Alright, I get it. I won’t take it off.”
You keep the glare on him until you’re sure he got the message, then slowly allow the hint of a smile to breakthrough.
Then, you hear a coo and feel two tiny hands grab at your ankle. You look down with an even bigger smile and pick up the baby. “Hi, little guy!” You sit him in the curve of your inner elbow and bounce around on your heels, waiting for him to burst into a fit of giggles. Although it doesn’t take much for your tiny green child to laugh, he is almost always overjoyed when you bounce him around or spin with him in the air.
“You wanna see your dad?” His mouth falls open in a silent laugh when you reposition him against your chest. “Yeah, he’s alright. A little stupid, but he’s okay.”
You look up to Mando mid-laugh only to see that he’s already looking at you and the kid.
Typically, it’s unnerving when he stares. After all, intimidation is his strong suit. When he wants to be scary, he is, and with a type of ease only he possesses, he parts crowds like the Geyser Sea. But right now, he isn’t like that. It’s…different, somehow.
Instead of the sharp lines of his visor being pointed down, they’re slightly titled upward—an air of softness to the minuscule movements he makes. A strange, yet familiar feeling bubbles in your stomach, but you do what you know best and push it down. You clear your throat before sitting down beside your friend and place the baby in the middle of you two.
“Tell me again why you waited almost two days to treat that?”
He shrugs, head lolling to the side as the kid plays with his gloved fingers. “You’re better at patching me up, I guess.”
You feel your face quirk up. “Well, you’re not wrong. I am an amazing medic.”
He lets out a soft laugh, picking the green child up and sitting him in his lap. “An amazing medic who passed out after seeing a blaster burn for the first time.”
“Oh, c’mon, that was one time. I didn’t have any experience yet!” You lean into him unconsciously as you both play with your adopted child. “Besides…you don’t seem to be complaining. I mean who else is gonna patch you up? Certainly, not him,” a pair of big brown eyes meets yours. “The kids smart, but he’d definitely try eating at least half of what’s in that med kit.”
He laughs harder this time. The sound reverberates off the walls of the Razor Crest and rattles your ribs.
He’s lovely.
The two of you fall into another bout of comfortable silence. The only sounds are the occasional creaks of an old ship and the baby’s soft humming.
“Y/N…?” You turn your head enough so that way your eyes catch his through his helmet. He breathes deeply, chest rising and falling until yours fall into the same rhythm. He takes one particular shaky breath and then… “thank you.”
"Anytime."
ii.
“Y/N, this is Cobb Vanth. A frien—“
“The Marshal,” you say in awe. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
The man in question shoots you a friendly smile: wide and toothy. He’s an attractive man, with dark silver hair swept to the one side of his face and bright hazel eyes that lift up at the corners. He softly takes your hand in his, cradling it like you do your child. “All good things I hope.”
You snicker, earning a wink from the stranger. He lets your hand fall at that, but never leaves your side, opting to face Mando and bump shoulders with you.
“Mando,” he muses. “You didn’t tell me how pretty your uh, friend here was. Would’ve liked to freshen up a bit, ya know.”
“No need.” Mando’s voice is low and dark and sends chills down your spine. “We’re just visiting. But we should go, it’s getting dark.” He practically stomps towards the two of you, shoulders squared out and head held up high. You quickly notice how his arms are held to his sides, fists clenched as though he’s restraining himself. It makes you nervous.
What he's restraining himself for? You don’t know. But the sight makes you gulp and want to hide in the safety of your bunk on the ship. Even the child, whose head pokes out of the brown satchel that rests on your hip, cowers back into the safety of the bag at the sight of the angry Mandalorian.
“Now wait just a second.” Cobb places a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder and points to the closest—and quite frankly, the only—cantina in Mos Pelgo. “You two just arrived. Take a break for once Mando, yeah? You’re all work and no play, it’s not healthy. Lemme buy you and the lady a drink.”
Somehow, your Mandalorian bristles even more at that notion, and before anything can escalate, you choose to interject.
“That sounds wonderful, Cobb, thank you.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the familiar beskar helmet snap in your direction. He backs up a bit, adding distance between the three of you, and somehow that one act shows you just how tense the air had gotten.
You watch your friend as he shifts. It’s subtle, hardly noticeable if you’re a stranger—but all too familiar to you. He’s retreating. “You, you want to stay?” His voice is softer than usual and you swear you catch a hint of sadness.
It’s like a punch in the gut.
“Well, we’re just visiting, right? Might as well get a drink. I could go for some spotchka, and uh, I think you could use a break too.” You try to keep your tone as even as possible as you send Mando a comforting smile. One that you hope he accepts as an olive branch.
Instead, he just stands there for a couple seconds as your pulse pounds. Then, he bows his head. “…As you wish.”
“Great!” Cobb says as he leads the three of you up the steps of the cantina. He walks in ahead, calling to the bartender with a loud laugh.
Mando goes to follow him to the bar until you stop him in the middle of the room. You’re both extremely exposed, but that thought doesn’t concern you right now. As a matter of fact, not much does. The only thing that concerns you is him.
It’s always been him.
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The air is thick and heavy but it’s not from the Tatooine heat, rather, the sudden coldness between two friends. You don’t know what to say to him, but you can’t leave it like this. You can’t pretend that something didn’t just happen, regardless of the fact that you don’t know what that something is. But he waits. He patiently stands there, but he never looks at you. You realize you can’t look at him either.
It can’t just be you…
The kid pushes himself further out of the bag to greet his father, probably picking up on the weird silence. That action alone gives you strength. “Are you okay?” You whisper. You meant to sound stern, but your throat is dry and scratched. You chalk it up as a side effect of being surrounded by sand, but you can’t rule out fear either.
“I don’t know what you mean,” is his response.
Your heart drops…maybe it is just you.
He’s far more composed than you: with his hands on his hips and visor trained on the baby gurgling at your hip. You take a quick once-over of him to make sure you’re not hallucinating, but he remains relaxed. There’s still something wrong. Something feels off with his words, and it hurts to analyze. To worry. To hope that everything’s okay when it definitely feels like it isn’t. “Look,” he sighs and goes to reach for your arm in a way he’s done countless times before. But he stops. He stops mid-air, and you wait for something to happen, but it never does. Simply, you watch him retreat for the second time in ten minutes. “You’re right. We need a break and Cobb’s good company. Seems to like you a lot. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
You step closer to him and wish more than anything that you could actually see his eyes. You want to see the colours that flicker in his iris’; the way you imagine they soften at the sight of his son, and how they glow when he laughs. You want to pinpoint the different emotions he feels through eyes alone, but he doesn’t give you that. He just nods politely and walks inside the cantina leaving you and the little green guy to fear the worst.
iii.
He feels stupid.
Like, really kriffing stupid.
Cobb had picked the table furthest from the bar, smack dab in the corner, providing an ample view of the entire cantina. Though there weren’t that many patrons, Din still liked to be in the corner. He was an observer after all. It was where he had the most control because he didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking up on him. It also allowed him to see everyone in a more subtle way; one where he wasn’t blatantly staring and would likely rile up a drunk who wanted to pick a fight.
He could monitor things and still be able to enjoy what little amount he allowed himself to partake in.
But he feels stupid. Because that’s not the case right now.
He could have a group of raiders walk right up to him and he would never notice. Not when he’s staring at you. It isn’t that this is a rare thing he does because it happens more often than he’d care to admit—when his attention drifts to the one thing, the one person, that somehow constantly invades his mind.
He tells himself that it’s for safety. He’s keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re alright and that no one’s bothering you (although he’s the first one to say anything whenever anyone does). But even he knows that’s a lie.
It’s not uncommon for him to steal subtle (or what he hopes are subtle) glances at you, but it is uncommon for him to be this angry when looking at you.
Usually, he’s at peace when it comes to you. But he wasn’t anticipating Cobb to invite the two of you for a drink. He wasn’t anticipating Cobb to take such a liking to you, nor, to offer to go with you to the bar to get said drinks even though you’re more than capable. But out of all the surprises he’s had today, the one that shakes him the most is you taking such a liking to Cobb.
The two of you are talking wildly to each other as the barkeep prepares your drinks. You’re smiling at him and he’s smiling right back, and you’re doing that thing where when you get excited you talk with your hands.
Din finds it endearing, but right now it’s different. Because he’s just watching. He’s not the one you’re excited about. So, he can’t bring himself to join you two. He knows that he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing you look at him like he’s a burden, a buzzkill who only knows how to follow you like a lost pet. But he wants to. Maker does he ever. Because maybe at the end of it all he’d get to keep you. You’d choose him after realizing that he’s always chosen you.
He forces himself to look away at that. Why would you choose someone who you can’t even see return your smile?
He’d never disobey his Creed. It’s a part of him, it’s what he stands for. And yet, he can’t count the number of times he’s second-guessed himself just to show you that he does in fact smile, that he’s alive, that he needs you more than anything. He’s a breathing man with a bleeding heart that wasn’t made for you but can’t live without you. And he hates it.
“Here we go,” Cobb sits down gently on the chair and places the drinks in the middle of the table.
Din keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you take the seat beside him. The kid notices your back and immediately grasps for your attention. Which you give to him every single time because you love him.
Din would give anything to be him.
You sit the child down in your lap and grab at your glass of spotchka when a look of realization hits you. “Oh, we forgot his broth.”
Cobb, in what Din sees as a chance to impress you, is already up before you can ask. “I got it. You sit tight little guy.”
The man saunters off and when he’s out of earshot, you turn to look at him. Din feels himself start to sweat. “So, I know you said everything’s okay, but I call bullshit.”
Din’s eyes widen at the blunt statement. Not that she can see, but he’s very aware of his reactions to her (maybe the fact that she can't see is for the best). “Mando, what’s going on?” She lifts the baby up so that he can see him clearer. “We’re both worried.”
He sighs and shifts in his seat. Quickly, he weighs his options.
He could ignore her, wait until Cobb gets back, and then interrupt their little date. Cobb would get the hint and she’d be back with him and their kid on the Razor Crest. But he realizes that’s selfish of him and she’d be even angrier with him…possibly even hate him, which is the last thing he wants. Ever. So he scraps that thought. He thinks that he could bluff his way out of the situation: tell her his mind is once again on his abandoned covert and that he’s just having an off-day. It wouldn’t be the first time, and if he was convincing enough she’d probably believe him. But then he thinks of something different. He considers, for a very brief moment, what it’d be like if he just told her. He could tell her everything. How she’s all he can think about most days and nights, how he imagines what it’d be like to actually hold her hand without reason, and most importantly, how his biggest fantasy involves him taking off his helmet and kissing her. Actually kissing her like he’s longed to do since the first week of having her stay with them.
She doesn’t long for you, though.
He realizes she’s still looking at him and so he makes his decision. “It’s just an off-day for me, cyar’ika. I’ll be alright. I’m sorry if I worried you and the little one.”
She pauses, her face turned downward in sadness. His heart twists painfully. But soon she smiles. It’s faint and fake and nothing like her usual self, but it’s something.
“Okay.”
Cobb comes back to the table with a small bowl of broth and places it before the kid. The conversation returns to normal and Din is thankful that the noise is just loud enough to drown his thoughts. Even if for a short while.
iv.
“Oh, Mando look at this!”
You show him a large green and blue textile with intricate designs along its edges. It was knitted with care and looked impossibly comfortable, as far as Din could tell. “It’s beautiful.”
You smile widely and lift it up to properly look it over. “It reminds me of him.” You look down to the child that this time Din was now holding. He lifts him out of the bag in order to show him the blanket, which he immediately grabs onto. The baby coos at you, which elicits a giggle and smooth knuckles to run over his cheek. “He likes it,” you say. “We should get it for him. It can be his new blanket.”
“He has lots of blankets, cyar’ika.” He knows you know this. You're both a sucker for the little guy, but at some point Din reasons, he will have to stop spending so many credits on blankets. Though, if it keeps his cyar’ika and his ad’ika happy, he figures it can’t be all that bad.
It seems though you’ve already beat him to that realization. “Yeah, and who gets him all those blankets? Us. ‘Cause, we’re the best parents in this kriffing galaxy.”
His parents. Din preens at your words. “I’ll buy it. You go look around some more, we’re gonna have to leave soon.”
You frown playfully at him but take his advice and skip off to another booth filled with hand-made items.
Din smiles at you beneath his mask then looks down to see his child already looking up at him. The baby, who knows far more than he lets on, looks at him and then looks at you, only to look back at Din. It’s then his turn to follow the kid’s line of sight before it clicks. “No. Not happening,” Din mutters, pulling a couple of credits out of his pocket and passing them to the vendor who gives him the folded blanket.
He tucks the blanket under his arm then walks in your direction. You had moved on to a new vendor, touching anything you could get your hands on. This particular display though seemed to have you preoccupied as you proved to be too distracted to notice him come up beside you. “Find anything you like?”
You don't respond, but Din sees how your eyes were fixated on one particular piece of jewelry. The necklace was strung up on the stand closest to the woman who he assumed made them: a beautiful, long silver chain with a small moonstone attached to it. You admire it, but eventually back away from the display. You take a quick glance at all the pieces one last time before smiling at the lady then looking up to Din.
“No, it’s alright. Let’s go home.” Home. Our home.
He looks at the table and then at you. He’s not really good at the whole surprise thing (in all fairness he’s never had anyone to surprise) but, he thinks, as Cara always tells him ‘there’s a first for everything', he might as well start now.
“You go ahead, cyar’ika. I’ll catch up. I just need to finalize some things with the bounty.” Din passes you the child and the blanket and he pretends he doesn’t notice his pulse quicken when you look at him like he’s the kindest person in the galaxy.
He’s not. But he hopes he’s enough for you.
You touch his shoulder, the same shoulder you healed only weeks ago, then walk away to the loading dock with your child in tow as Din heads back to the market.
v.
You don’t think you will ever get used to hyperspace.
Colours, the kind you imagine even the queen of Naboo is envious of, rush past you in a mosaic of light. Your heart drops to your stomach as you lurch forward into what always seems like another dimension. It’s a visceral experience. It’s addictive.
The Razor Crest is a big ship, but in hyperspace, it’s weightless. And maybe that’s why you love it so much because you can’t get that kind of weightlessness anywhere else.
You’re invigorated by it at all.
Unfortunately, not everyone on the ship is having as good of a time as you are.
Below the cockpit, down the stairs, and to the right is where Din paces back and forth. The child watches from the corner, eyes going back and forth, stopping, then going back and forth again as he tracks his dad's nervous movement.
Din then stops and sits beside the kid with his back against the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever given a gift before.”
Mandalorians don’t get nervous; they’re not supposed to. They’re supposed to be composed warriors, the soldier everyone relies on. But right now, Din can’t even rely on himself.
It’s really nothing special, simply a necklace. A piece of jewelry that you eyed, but eventually dismiss—
Wait. Did you even want the necklace?
Maybe Din read the situation wrong and you had actually decided you didn’t like it. Maybe you were simply looking at it because it was ugly, like how you study something you don’t understand.
Great. Now he’s going to give you an ugly necklace that you don’t want.
Maybe he’s not as observant as everyone says he is. As he likes to think he is.
“Dank farrik.” Din slams the back of his beskar covered head into the metal wall. This wasn’t exactly how he planned this to go.
In hindsight, he wasn’t exactly sure of how it would play out anyway, but he liked to believe giving you the necklace would lead to you giving him some amount of attention. No matter how little or how much, as long as it came from you he’d do anything for it.
Maybe he’d give it to you and you’d smile in the warm way only you can. The kind of smile that even the most beautiful of moons cry over because they’re nothing compared to you. Maybe you’d touch his face through his helmet and he’d soak into your embrace the way he’s done thousands of times before. Or maybe you’d laugh, take the gift and never think about it again.
Yeah. That sounds more probable.
“I don’t know, buddy… Do you think she’ll like it?” He goes to reach for the necklace in his pocket but it’s not there. And quite frankly neither is his kid.
He’s frantic in his search for the child and the jewelry until his eyes catch him on the ladder.
Since when did he—
Damn it.
He jumps up, as quickly as his body will allow, but the baby’s already at the top with the necklace in hand.
Your little green child coos. Your turn your head to see him shuffling over to you, a huge grin on his face with something stuck in his mouth.
“Ugh,” pushing yourself off the captain's chair, you nab the kid and sit back down with him. “How do you find this stuff, I swear to Maker, kid.”
His teeth clamp harder on the object as you try to pry it out of his mouth until you finally get your fingers around it and pull it out. It’s wet from his saliva and he laughs at you as you wipe it on your shirt in disgust. Lifting him up so he’s above eye level you give him a stern look. “Stop trying to eat everything. Especially when you don’t know where that thing's been.”
Your scolding just makes him giggle harder, forcing you to roll your eyes. You swear you’re going to roll your eyes right out of their sockets one day.
You both then turn your heads to the sound of shoes pounding up the ladder, and then the door opens to the cockpit.
Mando stands there breathing heavily, as his helmet scans the entire room before landing on you two.
“Are you…are you doing okay?”
Even under his helmet, you can tell he’s flustered, and then as quickly as he came up the steps, he focuses on you. “Sorry, I just…he had a thing in his mouth and I didn’t want him to swallow it.”
“Oh yeah trust me, I already fought with him over it.” You laugh while picking up the object you set to the side.
You swear you actually hear Mando’s breath stutter as you finally take a look at the object. At first, you don’t recognize it, concern flooding your mind at the thought of your little baby choking on something as dangerous as this.
But then you realize what it is.
Din’s shifted his weight to his other leg and he can feel his hands flex nervously—compression gloves not enough to stop him from wanting to grab the object right out of your grasp.
But he knows you. He knows you well. And he can see you’ve already figured out what you’re holding.
Your eyes meet his through his helmet. “This is…this is the necklace.” It dangles from your fingertips, and the child swats at it—the jewelry becoming his newfound obsession. “The one from the market I was looking at…”
“Yes.” He cringes at how he sounds. So quick and robotic and awkward, and so very unprepared. He’s never felt this nervous before, and yet he can’t back away. He has to deal with it. “You didn’t buy it, but, I thought maybe you still wanted it. So I got it for you. As…as a gift.”
You look down at the pendant and smile softly, running your thumb over the cool, smooth stone. “If you don’t want it, I can trade it for something else when we land. Something more desirable—“
“What’s that word…?” You both speak at the same time.
“Sorry,” you chuckle out. You’ve caught his attention though, caught him off guard on his needless apology, so you clear your throat. “How do you say beautiful in Mando’a?”
He’s stunned beyond words. Beyond thoughts. And yes, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he knows he probably looks like an idiot—a man who doesn’t even know how to talk to the woman he loves, much less surprise her with something so heartfelt. But the way you look at him, sincerity in your eyes as you await a response, his brain short circuits and he somehow gives you one.
“The word is mesh’la.”
“Mesh’la,” you repeat softly. He feels his knees buckle at your voice speaking in his mother tongue and he curses every deity for putting him in such a foreign situation.
But then you’re putting the necklace on without a second thought. As though it’s routine and the necklace is already part of your being. And then his nervousness melts away. It de-escalates into something different. Something that propels him further, closer to you.
You’re a magnet and he’s the piece of metal flying through the air, willed by a force he cannot control. “Do you…like it?”
“I wouldn’t be putting it on if I didn’t like it, now would I be, Mando?”
“Din.”
“…what?”
He hadn’t even noticed that it slipped out. And he’s surprised his covert haven’t already started to beat down the walls of his ship. A confession of a gift is one thing, but Din telling you his name is just purely reckless. He should stop while he’s ahead, but the dam has been cracking beneath the weight of his feelings for a long time. So it seems that it’s time he gives them a chance.
“My name,” his voice shakes, wavers with each syllable. “My name, cyar’ika, is Din Djarin.”
You stare out, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. But then there’s a calmness that shines through. You look down at the kid, who has been watching the two of you closely for a while now.
He hears his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he’s positive he's going to pass out. “Din…” You repeat the name slowly, unsure of it as you test out the way it feels as it rolls off your tongue. “Din. I like that name. It suits you.”
“I like your name, too.” You laugh loudly. If it were out of context, he would’ve panicked at your laughter, but after realizing how ridiculous he sounded, he finds it easy to laugh right along with you.
You hold the kid in the crook of your elbow as you stand in front of the man with a permanent smile on your face. “And uh, cyar’ika…” Din’s heart drops to his stomach and his blood runs cold. “What does that mean? I figured it meant friend or something like that but…” you’re hesitant to voice your thoughts, worried that maybe you’re overthinking it; anticipating and expecting something only for it not to be there. Wishful thinking. “I’m just curious.”
Of course, you are. Why wouldn’t you be? It was only a matter of time before you were going to ask him. Only a matter of time before you put all the signs together. Before you realized you didn’t want him that way.
Cara once told him he wasn’t subtle. At first, he had no clue what she meant, but he knows now. And he wishes he didn’t.
He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the welling up in the corner of his eyes, but understands that it’s pointless. His time is up.
“Cyar’ika…” his tongue swells up his mouth. He’s never felt this breathless before. “It means sweetheart.”
Even from behind his helmet he feels exposed. Everything is out in the open and nothing he can do, or say, can fix it. And the fact that this is the first time since he met you that he can’t read you? It truly terrifies him.
He tenses up, waiting for the moment in which you say goodbye. When you kiss the forehead of your child, pack up your things, and give your awkward thanks to Din for allowing you to stay with them.
He waits, and waits, and waits. But it never comes. Instead, you slowly bring your hands up to his. He holds his breath, or rather, his breath holds him. Your hands gently glide on his arms until they reach the broad expanse of his shoulders, and then the edges of his helmet.
He hesitates, but you don’t stop there. Eventually, your hands stop on the sides of his helmet, where you assume the sides of his face would be if you were to hold him without his armor. He can’t help but lean into the contact you provide him. Even through the impenetrable beskar, he can still feel the warmth of your hands on his skin, imagines how it would feel to place his skin on yours. It may be temporary, but if this is all he’ll get for the rest of his life, he’d die happy. “What should I call you then?”
He…wasn’t expecting that. Actually, it was the last thing he expected you to say. You take his silence as a good sign to keep going. “Well, if you call me sweetheart…what should I call you?”
“I…” Din almost cries. He’s tired, stressed, and feels like he’s on a tightrope. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes you aren’t running away. You’re staying here. Touching him through his helmet and looking at him the way he’s wanted you to for what feels like forever. You're looking at him the same way he looks at you. “Din. I just want you to call me Din.”
You smile at that. At him. “Din…” he melts underneath you, relishing in the way his name sounds in your voice. And then you're reaching up to him, hands still holding his helmet firmly as you ever-so-gently pull him to meet you. And then…
Then you kiss him. You plant a feather-light kiss to his helmet, one that lingers and permanently takes ownership of his breath. You pull away from him before pressing your foreheads together and Din swears he just died.
The two of you stay like that for…you aren’t too sure how long. It feels like it’s been both seconds and minutes. Although you really aren’t keeping track, the dizzying feeling rattling around in your skull makes your brain feel like mush.
You can feel Din’s breastplates move slowly, letting you know that he’s calmed down, coming down from the shared high of two friends who’ve finally collided. He inhales deeply and his hands rest over yours. Your fingers intertwine on the sides of his helmet, but then he’s lifting up the beskar, and you panic.
“Din, stop.” You don’t realize how breathless you’ve become and you’re shocked that even with the lack of oxygen to your brain, you’re still aware of his creed.
But he cuts you off and presses his forehead to yours again. “It’s okay, just…just close your eyes. Please.” It's almost a whimper, and the sound ruins you (you take mental note of that sound for later). So you close your eyes.
You’re eager to feel him. To touch skin rather than just beskar. You don’t know what he looks like, might not know for a long time, but you’ll know what he'll feel like. And right now that’s the only thing keeping you going.
Your hands feel him first. Smooth and warm and a hint of stubble. You begin to map out his face with your hands, all while he holds you. It’s the most intimate you’ve ever been with someone…the most intimate you think you’ll ever be. Then, he’s kissing you. It’s firm, yet gentle. Soft, yet hard. It’s everything you both imagined it to be, and more.
It’s so beautiful it hurts. But at least now you two don’t have to deal with the pain on your own.
this fear is a part of me (please don't take my hope away)
this lust is a burden that we both share - series masterlist here
pairing: din djarin x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1k
genre: hurt/comfort, fluff
warnings: reader has vulnerability issues but it all works out, din is trying so so hard
a/n: new verse ok ok ok lemme know what y'all think
"It's a nice home," you admit, eyeing the house that's been given to Din, refusing to acknowledge the way he's staring at you. Your heart aches in your chest when you think of it, of him and his son and his home. It's a stark contrast to the cold, quiet, solitary metal of your ship that you know is waiting for you. You spin around to face Din fast enough that he lurches back a fraction.
"Well," you begin, chin lifted and face resolute. "It'll be good for the two of you. Reach out if you need anything," is all you say before you move to walk past him, away from him, beyond him.
Din stops you, though, a hand across your hips to pull you back with a gentleness you shouldn't be surprised by anymore.
"It's not a home for two," he murmurs, his voice halting. Vulnerability isn't something that comes easily to either of you. "It… it doesn't have to be."
"You want me to stay?" you prompt, your voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. Din nods, his arm tightening around your waist. You look at him pointedly. He sighs.
"Yes. I want you to stay."
"You know what that means, don't you?" You step away from him. His fingers twitch as he reels himself in, stopping himself from reaching for you. "This is… commitment. This is serious. This is different."
"My love…" Din begins, a layer of hurt seeping into his voice that makes you dig your nails into your palms. Always hurting, you think to yourself. You will always hurt him. "I understand commitment more than anything else. This is what I want… with you. With our son." Din's voice is sombre as he speaks, his words prompting you to glance at where Grogu's chasing frogs in front of his new home - in front of your new home, if you let it be.
"Your son," is what you fire back, though, the panic of having something good clouding your rationality - the fear of having something that can be taken away.
"Our son," Din corrects firmly, stepping towards you. You tense like an animal ready to bolt, but you don't run. Progress, Din supposes. "This is your family as much as it's mine. This is your home, as much as it's mine. I wouldn't say that unless I understood the severity of it."
You sigh, your shoulders dropping as your fists unclench. There's a solidness about him, a resoluteness that turns him into a fixed point for his family to lean on when they need to. He has never stumbled underneath your weight, and you think it might be unfair to expect that he suddenly will now. You look at him through his helmet and let your brows furrow as you try to gauge his reaction to your snapping, to your walls closing up. He seems to take your relaxing posture as a sort of victory, though, because he steps towards you again, reaching forward to brush his gloved fingers against yours. You let your fingers intertwine with his, holding his hand firmly enough to convince yourself that he won't disappear from in front of you - that this good thing is here to stay.
"I'm sorry," you murmur gently, letting your head thump against his shoulder. He relaxes at the feeling of you pressing your face to his neck and breathing him in, squeezing your hand gently in his while his other strokes up and down your back.
"There is nothing to forgive, my love," he assures with a softness that's reserved for you alone. "This isn't easy for either of us. What matters is that we do it together."
"Together," you mumble in agreement, nodding as you keep your face pressed against him. He huffs out what's almost a laugh, letting you take your time in extracting yourself from him. Once you're standing tall again, chin lifted and eyes regaining their confidence, he squeezes your hand once more.
"Where do we go from here?" is all Din asks, gaze fixed on you.
"Home, I suppose," is your airy response as you stare at the little house you can now call yours. Din feels his heart thump in his chest at your declaration of home, of sharing something like that with him. He breathes deeply, steadying himself against the onslaught of emotions that are thrown at him by those simple words.
"I always had a home in the covert," he says, shifting uneasily on his feet. It's rare for him to divulge anything too personal, even this far into your relationship. You look at him earnestly, the breeze settling around the two of you as you watch Grogu chase frogs out of the corner of your eye.
"Even when I was… an apostate," Din continues, "then it was about finding a way back to that home. But it was always there - always something to fall back on. You…?" He doesn't continue, just stares at you through the slit of his helmet and you know he's giving you an out. You know he won't force you to talk about your past, about where you came from or what you left behind.
"I think it was about… finding one," you say eventually. "I never - I didn't a home to fall back to. But I wanted one, even when I couldn't really admit that to myself." You turn back towards your house - your home, now. One that you would share with your family. "Didn't think I'd ever actually get one, though," you add quietly, a confession whispered so softly Din almost doesn't hear it.
"You have it now," he assures you, wrapping an arm around your waist and using his other hand to cup your cheek gently, turning you to face him so that he can press the cool beskar of his helmet against your forehead. "You're home now."
summary: you’ve seen a lot during your rebellion days & now with the New Republic… but working with a mandalorian may just send you into the wildest tailspin yet
word count: 11.9k (i’m sorry)
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS ⚠️ takes place before & during the events of the film, reader has a backstory & family but no physical description, light use of gendered language, slight annoyance to friends to lovers, pining & yearning, budding romance, threats & moments of violence/threat of kidnapping, flying as a love language, reader has instances of drinking and smoking, competency kink, light voice kink, slightly jealous!reader, spicy times in the cockpit (helmet stays on), dry humping, unprotected p in v, one moment of spit, creampie, protective and soft!Din
a/n: so… hi lmao I call this my ‘let’s daydream about being in the new movie’ fic or aka my attempt at plugging us into the storyline bcs it’s what we deserve lol big thanks to my dear @babynueva for always supporting my din delulu ily bb! Also this is my first official fic of the year & knowing it’s for Din means so much - so thank you for being here ♡ [divider credit & thanks to the ever amazing @saradika-graphics]
When a mandalorian first strides into base camp on Adelphi, you think you’re seeing things.
The sun bounces off his armor drawing all eyes. It’s like his ancient armor proudly beams of its power and striking force. The mysterious Mandalorian walks with intent, a steady gait that dares anyone to cross him. You can’t help but stare at the mysterious warrior.
“Is he… imperial?” Someone whispers in the mess hall and makeshift cantina.
“Nope, he’s working with us now.” Teva answers simply.
You didn’t believe it. But apparently it’s true.
“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.
Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.
“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.
Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.
“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.
It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.
“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.
“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”
“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.
“Good, that’s what I thought.”
When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.
Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.
Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.
A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?
“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.
“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.
“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?
“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?
“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.
“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.
It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.
The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.
“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.
A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.
Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.
“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.
“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.
The colonel sighs.
“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”
You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.
“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.
But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.
Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.
It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.
You don’t even know if you should say anything
“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.
With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.
Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.
“You like it? It’s cute right?”
The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.
Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.
Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.
“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.
You’re stunned.
Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.
So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.
“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.
You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.
“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.
You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.
“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.
Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.
“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.
Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.
You can’t wait till this is over.
It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.
“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.
So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.
You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.
And it pisses you off all over again.
But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.
The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.
This time you decided to bring something else along with you.
It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.
“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.
With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.
You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.
“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.
A bit stunned, you give it to him.
He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.
“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.
“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.
Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.
“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.
“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”
“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”
A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.
“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.
“Din…” you repeat it.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.
Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.
When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.
“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.
“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.
“What do you say, kid?”
Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.
The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.
Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.
“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.
“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.
Suddenly, a chuckle follows.
Din laughed.
You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.
“A fair statement.” Din agrees.
And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.
Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.
The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.
“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.
“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.
“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.
That’s when you realized he just joked with you.
“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.
“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.
“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.
You stay stubbornly quiet.
“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.
Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.
“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.
“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.
“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.
The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.
“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.
“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.
“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.
You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.
You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.
Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.
Except that time comes sooner than expected.
The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.
Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.
“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.
You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.
But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.
“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.
Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.
“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.
She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.
“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.
His helmet tilts towards you.
“Sometimes,” you shrug.
“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.
“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”
You want to strangle her.
“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.
It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.
All you can do is shrug again.
Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.
“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.
A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.
“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.
“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.
“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.
“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”
You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.
A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.
“Kid.” Din chides.
“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.
Din sighs, truly parental.
“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.
“I do.” Din answers, confident.
“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.
“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.
Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.
“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.
“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.
“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.
“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.
They were to remind you to come home safe.
“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.
A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.
“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.
You turn and find he’s already looking at you.
Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.
Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.
Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.
“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.
“No, I stole it.” You quip back.
“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.
“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.
“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.
You playfully elbow him.
Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.
“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.
“Mweh!” He squeals.
“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.
“No.” Din answers back firmly.
“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.
“No.” Din repeats again firmer.
A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.
“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.
Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.
You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.
The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.
Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.
Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.
You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.
“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.
“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.
“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.
“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.
“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.
“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.
You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.
Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.
It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.
Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.
“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.
“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.
His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.
The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.
“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.
“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.
“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.
“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.
With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.
“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.
“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.
“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.
As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.
And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.
Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.
“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.
Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.
“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.
“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.
Then you hold up the new charm.
“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.
“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.
“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.
“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.
Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.
“What do you say, kid?” Din says.
Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.
Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.
“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.
The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.
You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.
“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.
“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.
This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.
But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.
The wound isn’t looking good.
You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.
You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.
Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.
Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…
“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.
“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.
Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.
You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.
“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.
You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.
A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.
“What was that?!” One of them screams.
Then a blaster shot silenced him.
“Step away from her now.” Din.
Or someone sounding like him.
The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.
Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.
Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.
And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.
You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…
And he’s here to save you.
A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.
He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.
What is he doing?
The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.
“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.
“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.
Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.
“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.
An exhale escapes Din, relieved.
“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.
“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.
Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.
“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.
Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.
You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.
“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.
He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.
“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.
It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.
“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.
How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?
“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.
There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.
But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.
“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.
You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.
But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.
Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.
A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.
Raid strike this week, get ready
It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.
“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.
“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.
As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.
Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.
Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.
“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.
“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.
Din doesn’t say anything.
“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.
“Seems like it,” Din agrees.
This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.
Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.
The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.
“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.
Din simply and silently nods back.
Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.
But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.
It’s time to fly.
“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.
“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.
All you can do is laugh before parting ways.
“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.
You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.
Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.
Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.
“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.
“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.
“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.
The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.
Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.
That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.
A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.
But again, you’re proven so wrong.
Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.
A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.
But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.
Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.
It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.
So you do.
You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.
Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.
“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.
“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.
“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.
Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.
You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.
Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.
It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.
The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.
“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.
“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.
“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.
“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”
Teva takes a moment then sighs.
“Make it quick.”
Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.
“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.
“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.
The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.
Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.
“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.
“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.
But in a flash, he zooms past you.
“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.
Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.
Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.
Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.
Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.
But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.
All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.
“You were incredible.”
“You flew… amazing.”
Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.
Then you laugh.
“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.
“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.
“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.
Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.
Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.
“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.
You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.
Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.
“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.
The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.
“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.
“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.
“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.
“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.
“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.
Of course he’s a damn natural.
Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.
“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.
“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.
“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.
Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.
“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.
Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.
“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.
Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.
You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.
He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.
Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.
A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.
Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.
Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.
You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.
Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…
Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.
“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.
His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.
“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.
A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.
You even tell him that.
“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.
A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.
The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.
Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.
He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.
“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.
You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.
“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.
You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.
“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.
This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.
“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.
“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”
It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.
“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.
You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.
“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.
Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.
So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.
A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.
“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.
In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.
“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.
Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.
“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.
“You wanna see?”
He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.
“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.
Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.
The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.
“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.
“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.
“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.
“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.
He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.
There you arrive at your x-wing.
“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.
“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.
“Get in,” you urge.
Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.
“Can we even fit in this?”
“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.
The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.
Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.
“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.
As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.
“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.
You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.
“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.
“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.
You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.
So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -
Right between the V of Din’s legs.
You crouch low and drag him down too.
“Wh…what are you-”
“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”
“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.
“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.
The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.
You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.
“See… told you we’d be fine.”
He stays quiet.
It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.
You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.
But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.
“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.
“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.
“I would.” You immediately counter.
“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.
So you try to recover fast.
“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.
You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.
Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.
You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.
“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.
“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.
His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.
Din exhales, breathy and deep.
You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.
Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.
Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.
You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.
The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.
He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.
“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.
Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.
Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.
Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.
Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.
But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.
Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.
“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.
You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.
“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.
“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.
His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.
“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.
“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.
Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.
His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.
“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.
“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.
“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.
“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.
“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.
“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.
Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.
So you lean closer to his helmet.
“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.
But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.
How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.
“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.
“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.
This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.
Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.
It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.
So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.
Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.
Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.
Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.
The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.
“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.
Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.
“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.
“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.
He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.
A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.
His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.
Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.
He quickly hisses your name.
“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.
Who are you to deny your mandalorian?
He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.
Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.
You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.
A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.
He nods firm, so sure.
So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.
When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.
Now you don’t want Din to leave it.
A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.
Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.
His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.
“Where?” He slurs urgently.
“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.
“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.
“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.
Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.
His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.
Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.
“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.
You shake your head no.
“You’re the only one.” You reveal.
His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.
An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.
After this night, you find him everywhere now.
Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.
Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.
The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.
You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.
Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.
You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.
But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.
“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.
“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.
He chuckles.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.
“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”
You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.
But you’re reminded he does have a home.
“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.
“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.
“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.
“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.
Slowly your eyes close on their own now.
“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.
Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.
“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.
A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.
You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.
But those daydreams get shoved away fast.
Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.
Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.
Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.
That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.
“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.
“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.
Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.
You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.
“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.
You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.
“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.
“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.
He barks a laugh.
“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.
“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.
“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.
It makes you and Zeb snicker.
Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.
“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.
“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.
But he leaves you and Din alone.
It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.
So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.
He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.
You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.
Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.
You don’t hear from Din for half a month.
It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.
Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.
It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?
“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.
“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.
He smiles at you kindly.
“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”
Shit.
“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.
“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”
Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.
“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”
He is. But he’s more than that.
He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.
“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.
It’s unfortunately true.
How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.
The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.
Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.
Din has returned, but he’s not alone.
Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.
At least Din and the baby are safe.
Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.
“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.
“Tell me about it.” He sighs.
The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.
“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”
His somber tone says more looms.
“Din…” you mutter cautiously.
He turns to you.
“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.
“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.
Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.
But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.
The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.
“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.
His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.
“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.
You nod, fighting harder against tears.
Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.
With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.
This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.
You throw yourself into any available mission.
Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.
“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.
You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.
But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.
Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.
“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.
“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.
Absolute dread is unleashed in you.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.
“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.
Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.
“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.
“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.
“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.
“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.
Anger burns through your veins.
“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.
“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.
More Delphi officers stand up.
Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.
You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.
Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.
Ward calls out your name. This is it.
Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.
She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.
“I should sit you out on this mission.”
“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.
Her smirks grows bigger.
“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.
You’ll happily accept that too.
The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.
Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.
Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.
That’s what this feels like.
You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.
Yet Din remains inside.
And Ward gives the command to light the place up.
“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.
Then, the stronghold goes under flames.
You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.
“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.
Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.
A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.
“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.
Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.
Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.
But Ward of course arrives first.
You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.
“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.
Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.
“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.
“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”
Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.
You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.
He’s here.
Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.
“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.
The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.
While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.
He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.
“Welcome back,” you croak out.
Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.
“Had to bring this back.”
With a watery laugh, you shake your head.
“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.
A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.
Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.
“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.
“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.
Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.
Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.
Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.
Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.
It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.
Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting
Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.
After all, there's a flight to Nevarro calling your name.
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Summary: What happens after you, a Mandalorian, use the Force to save an unconscious Din Djarin?
Pairing: Din Djarin x Mandalorian!Force-Sensitve!Reader
Words: 5,477
Warning(s): Mention of injuries to Din (like broken bones/concussions)
Notes: I tried my best to keep this consistent with the lore of Star Wars! Clan Ordo is actually really cool!! I kept the Razor Crest for the sake of the story. This isn't beta read, so sorry if this isn't like the rest of my works!
The first time you realized Din Djarin had stopped asking where you learned to move so quietly, you were already three systems past the last honest answer you had given him.
By then, the habit of omission had settled into your bones so deeply it barely felt like deception anymore. Just survival. Another layer of armor beneath the beskar.
The Razor Crest groaned softly around you as it cut through hyperspace, every loose panel and aging bolt singing its familiar complaints through the hull. Blue light from the cockpit washed faintly down the corridor, catching against scratched metal walls and the polished edges of Din’s armor where he sat forward in the pilot’s chair, silent as always. Grogu slept in his pram nearby, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of engine oil and the sweet broth Din always managed to find for him no matter how poor the planet.
And somewhere along the journey, Din had stopped asking questions.
He never pried. That was one of the things that made traveling with him easier than it should have been.
Din was the kind of man who let silence do the work of a conversation. He asked only what he needed to know.
You noticed it in the way his helmet would angle slightly toward you whenever your instincts reacted before his scanners did. The tiny shift of black visor tracking you after you paused outside a corridor seconds before an ambush emerged from it. The way his hand sometimes drifted nearer to his blaster when you suddenly went still, because he had learned that your stillness usually meant danger. If he caught the strange rhythm of your awareness- the way you seemed to feel ships before they docked, violence before it erupted, fear before it reached someone’s face- he buried the observation beneath the same quiet restraint he buried everything else under.
Then there was Grogu.
The child watched you differently.
Not suspiciously. Not even curiously.
Knowingly.
Sometimes you would look up and find those enormous dark eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus, his little head tilted slightly to one side as if he were listening to something beyond sound. Those moments always made heat crawl beneath your plating. It felt less like being observed and more like being recognized.
As though some part of him already knew.
Every time it happened, Din would simply reach down and adjust Grogu’s blanket or rest a gloved hand briefly against the edge of the pram, patient and calm, seemingly unaware of the tension tightening in your shoulders.
Or maybe aware of it, and choosing not to corner you with it.
So you kept your silence. It was not a lie exactly, not entirely, just a door left shut. A hand braced firmly against the frame whenever anyone came too close to opening it.
You told Din enough to make the shape of your life believable.
You were Mandalorian. That much required no explanation. It lived in everything you did.
In the way you entered a room already cataloguing exits.
In the instinctive checks of your vambraces before sleep.
In the habitual awareness of weight at your hips where weapons rested.
In the economy of your movements: efficient, deliberate, never wasting energy where precision would suffice.
Armor was another language to you. You understood beskar the way mechanics understood engines or smugglers understood hyperspace lanes. Every dent told a story. Every scorch mark carried memory. You knew how to tighten weakened straps by touch alone, how to recognize imbalance in a chest plate before it restricted movement, and how to hear when a jetpack’s ignition cycle sounded wrong.
That part of yourself was easy to share. People saw beskar and blasters and the steady discipline in your movements, and they knew where to place you in their minds. Mandalorian. Warrior. Survivor. The galaxy understood those things. It knew what boxes to put them in.
It was the rest of yourself that stayed buried beneath layers of steel and silence.
Because Mandalorians had long memories.
And so did the Jedi.
History lingered in both cultures like old scar tissue- never fully healed, only endured. Stories of wars fought centuries ago still lived in training chants and cautionary tales. Children on both sides were raised hearing different versions of the same battles. Different villains. Different martyrs.
The Jedi spoke of Mandalorians as fierce, dangerous, stubborn people forever flirting with violence.
Mandalorians spoke of Jedi as arrogant mystics who thought the Force gave them the right to decide the fate of everyone around them.
And somewhere between those histories sat your family, Clan Ordo.
Even now, the name still existed in old archives and older grudges. Buried in war records. Mentioned in fading stories traded between surviving clans around campfires and ship holds. A bloodline remembered not for conquering Jedi, but for standing beside them when the rest of Mandalore sharpened blades for war.
A clan that had once looked at centuries of hatred and decided alliance was not weakness.
To some Mandalorians, that history made your family honorable. Proof that strength meant choosing your own path instead of inheriting old hatred unquestioned. Your clan’s name was spoken with rough respect in certain circles, especially among older warriors tired of endless wars that only left more ghosts behind.
But to others, Ordo was a stain. A family that had allowed outsiders too close to the heart of Mandalore.
You remembered the looks sometimes. The subtle shift in posture when someone learned what blood ran through your veins. The slight narrowing of eyes behind helmets. Questions that sounded polite but carried sharpened edges underneath.
Your father was a Jedi?
As if the word itself explained something dangerous about you.
And the Jedi had not been much different.
Some had viewed your Mandalorian heritage with fascination, others with quiet concern. Your armor, your training, your anger- they looked at those things as if waiting for them to prove an old fear correct. As though violence lived in your bones more naturally than peace ever could.
You had learned very young that people loved contradictions only when they remained distant enough to feel poetic. But stories became far less comforting when they turned into a living person standing directly in front of them.
You learned quickly how uncomfortable that made people: too Jedi for some Mandalorians, too Mandalorian for some Jedi. It lived in hesitation more than hatred. In the tiny pauses between words. In the way conversations subtly shifted around you once someone understood what you were. The realization settling into their expression like a door quietly locking.
You could feel the divide every time a Mandalorian’s posture stiffened after hearing your family name, every time the word Jedi entered the conversation and eyes flicked instinctively toward you afterward.
As though they were checking for signs of corruption.
Or betrayal.
Or weakness.
You remembered one old warrior staring at you across a fire when you were young, helmet resting beside his boots while sparks drifted into the dark between you.
“Can’t serve two creeds,” he had said flatly.
Then there were the Jedi who watched your hands too carefully whenever you got emotional. The ones who noticed how naturally your stance shifted toward defense. The ones who spoke gently, but always with the faint concern of people handling something unstable.
And so you became careful. You learned to ration pieces of yourself out in ways people could digest without recoiling from them.
The Mandalorian side was easier. The galaxy understood armor. Understood blasters and discipline and scars. People trusted visible danger more than invisible power, so you leaned into that, let others see the warrior first.
And then there was the thing you never said at all.
You were Force-sensitive.
Even thinking the words sometimes made something tighten painfully in your chest.
Not because you hated that part of yourself, but because of what the galaxy had taught you those words meant. People heard Force-sensitive and imagined legends. They imagined towering Jedi in flowing robes deflecting blaster fire without effort. Sith with burning eyes tearing ships from the sky. Holovid dramatizations filled with screaming lightning, impossible acrobatics, and destinies so large they crushed everything around them.
That was never what it felt like for you.
For you, the Force had always been quieter. It lived in small things.
A pressure at the back of your thoughts moments before someone spoke your name. A strange pull in your chest before a door opened. The instinctive certainty that a room had changed somehow before anyone else noticed the shift in atmosphere.
Sometimes it felt like standing in shallow water and sensing distant movement before the wave actually reached you. Other times it was almost unbearable- an invisible static humming constantly beneath the surface of the world, brushing against your nerves until sleep became difficult.
You noticed things other people missed.
The tremor in someone’s breathing before they reached for a hidden weapon. The emotional shape of a crowd before panic spread through it. The subtle wrongness in places where violence had happened recently, as if suffering left fingerprints on the air.
The Force did not make you feel larger than other people.
It made you feel open.
Too open.
As though the galaxy was always speaking just beneath hearing range and your mind could never fully tune it out. Like existing with a second pulse layered beneath your own heartbeat: something ancient and immense brushing constantly against the edges of your awareness.
Some days it was beautiful.
You remembered sitting beside your father as a child aboard a quiet transport drifting through hyperspace, eyes closed while he taught you how to listen instead of resist. The Force had flowed around you then like warm current through dark water. Vast. Alive. Connected.
You remembered feeling the life aboard the ship all at once- the steady concentration of the pilot, the restless dreams of sleeping passengers, your mother’s calm presence nearby sharpening a blade with rhythmic precision. For one brief moment, the entire galaxy had felt impossibly close.
And then there were the other days.
Days where crowded cities became suffocating because emotion pressed against your senses from every direction. Fear. Rage. Hunger. Grief. Desperation. So many people carrying pain through the galaxy that sometimes it felt impossible to breathe beneath the weight of it.
And then there was the day you learned the worst part of betrayal was how ordinary the moment looked right before it happened. Just another evening beneath the cold iron sky of Kalevala Station while fuel lines hissed overhead and half-drunk warriors traded stories around burn barrels in the loading district. Armor gleamed orange in the firelight. Someone nearby was sharpening a beskar blade against stone with slow metallic strokes. The air smelled like engine smoke, rain, and overheated circuitry.
You had been younger then. Younger enough to still believe honesty could earn understanding if it was offered carefully.
Your father had warned you otherwise.
“Some truths,” he told you once, “change shape after they leave your mouth. You may speak them with peace and still watch them become weapons in someone else’s hands.”
At the time, you thought he sounded paranoid. Now you understood he had simply survived longer than you had.
The warrior who attacked you had eaten beside your family before.
That was the part your memory returned to most often.
Not the fight itself.
Not even the blood.
It was the memory of him laughing hours earlier beside the fire. The kind of Mandalorian children naturally gravitated toward because he told loud stories and exaggerated victories until everyone around him laughed.
The friendly warmth in his posture was gone now, replaced by something harder. Older.
“You hid this.”
Your father answered before you could.
“They’re still Mandalorian.”
Rav’s helmet tilted slightly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
The next few seconds lived in your memory with brutal clarity.
Your father stepping forward, your mother reaching for her weapon. And then Rav drew his blaster. Fast.
The Force surged through you violently, raw and uncontrolled, and the blaster bolt twisted sideways in midair with a scream of displaced heat. It slammed into metal behind you instead. The entire station suddenly felt alive with danger. You could feel adrenaline surging through every body nearby. Fear spreading. Rage igniting. Ancient history clawing its way into the present through the simple reality of what they had just witnessed.
Your mother slammed into Rav before he could fire again, driving him backward into the barrel fire hard enough to scatter sparks into the night. And your family fled.
The memory still followed you sometimes when Grogu stared too knowingly at your face from inside his pram. Or when Din’s visor lingered on you a second too long after your instincts reacted before his scanners. So you learned to bury your connection to the Force beneath competence and caution. Learned to pass unusual instincts off as experience, impossible timing as sharp reflexes. Learned to keep your hands still when fear threatened to move objects around you unintentionally.
Tonight, Din stayed in the pilot’s seat a moment longer than necessary, one gloved hand steady on the controls. Grogu stirred in his pram at the change, blinking sleep from his eyes and making a small, questioning sound.
You turned toward the cockpit.
“Are we here?”
Din’s helmet angled, a curt acknowledgment.
“Near enough.”
Always near enough with him. Never a word wasted.
You moved closer, your boots quiet on the worn deck. Beyond the viewport, the planet below looked dry and broken, its surface marked by pale ridges and deep scars where old riverbeds had once cut through the earth. Not a place that welcomed anyone. That made it sound, in your experience, exactly like the sort of place someone had a reason to choose.
Din’s voice came after a pause.
“Local contact says a cache was moved through the settlement two days ago. Could be Imperial. Could be raiders. Could be both.”
“Could be trouble,” you said.
“That is usually what it means.”
Grogu gave a soft little chirp, lifting both hands as if in agreement. Din reached back without looking and touched the edge of the pram with two fingers, an absent gesture so familiar now it made something in your chest ache.
You watched the two of them in the reflection of the viewport glass. The Mandalorian in his armor, all hard lines and silence. The foundling in his floating crib, round-eared and wide-eyed and too perceptive for his own good. There were moments when traveling with them felt strangely like standing at the edge of something safe and impossible at the same time. A place where you could almost imagine being ordinary.
Almost.
The settlement was smaller than the last three you had passed through with them, a scatter of low buildings pressed into red dust and wind-carved stone. No dome. No grand landing pad. Just a rough field cleared of rocks and marked by old fire pits, and a handful of villagers watching the Razor Crest touch down with the exhausted caution of people who had already learned to expect the worst.
Din had not even removed his gloved hands from the controls before one of them approached.
The woman was broad-shouldered, sun-worn, and tired in a way that seemed older than her face. Her eyes flicked to Din’s armor, then to you, then to Grogu, lingering on the Child with a look that was careful and frightened all at once.
“You’re late,” she said.
Din gave her the sort of stare that made lesser people apologize for things they had not done.
“We were told we were expected.”
“We expected someone less obvious.”
You almost smiled at that, almost. Din most likely did not.
He only said, “Then you were given poor information.”
The woman looked at you again.
“You the one they said was quiet?”
Your instincts went still. “Depends who’s asking.”
She exhaled through her nose, which might have been amusement if her shoulders were not so tight.
“Name’s Sera. We’ve got a problem in the western cisterns. Something took up residence there two nights ago. Took two workers already. Maybe more.”
“Took?” you repeated.
She nodded once.
“Nobody saw it clearly. Just shadows. Screaming. A smell like burned metal.”
Din’s helmet turned toward the distant ridge line.
“And the cache?”
“Still down there.”
That was when you felt it. Not the smell she described, not the worry in her voice, not even the tension that spread through the gathered villagers like a slow crack in ice.
The wrongness.
It touched the back of your neck first, then settled deeper, a cold seam opening in the air itself. Your breath caught before you could stop it. The world did that sometimes- shifted, sharpened, as if some unseen hand had tilted it just slightly off balance.
You looked toward the western side of the settlement.
A cistern opening half-hidden between jagged rocks.
Dark.
Too dark.
The feeling pressed harder.
Din noticed your stillness immediately. He always did.
“What?”
You could have lied. Could have said nothing. Could have let the instinct pass as unease over a dangerous mission.
Instead you heard yourself say, quiet and certain, “We should not go down there first.”
Sera frowned.
“Why not?”
You stared at the cistern entrance, every muscle in your body braced against the pull of what waited below.
“Because it knows we’re here.”
Din was silent. That silence was worse than any question.
Grogu made a low, worried sound from the pram as his little fingers curled against the blanket. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the cistern too, as if he had heard the same thing you had.
That made your stomach drop.
Din’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
“You sensed something.”
It was not a question.
You looked away before he could read too much in your face, despite it being concealed under your helmet.
“Old instinct.”
“From what?”
You should have had an answer ready. You had spent your entire life making answers ready. But the air seemed to press tighter around your ribs, and Grogu was still watching you with that unnerving, knowing stillness, and Din had gone very, very quiet in the way he always did when he had already begun to piece something together.
So you said nothing.
That was answer enough.
The descent into the cistern was a narrow stair of cut stone, damp at the edges, the air growing colder with each step. Din took point, blaster low, armor barely making a sound despite the tight confines. You followed close behind, one hand near your sidearm, the other hovering in unconscious readiness. Grogu stayed at the top with Sera until Din ordered otherwise, which did nothing to ease the pressure in your chest.
Below, the tunnel widened into a chamber lined with old water channels. Most of them were dry now, cracked and lined with mineral crust. The flashlight mounted on Din’s vambrace cut through the dark in a narrow beam, revealing broken crates, torn cloth, and dragged marks in the dust.
Signs of a struggle.
Signs of something much larger than a person.
The Force pressed against your awareness in uneven pulses, brushing the inside of your skull hard enough to make your jaw tighten beneath your helmet. You focused on your breathing instead. On the sound of Din’s boots against stone. On the weight of your blaster at your hip.
The tunnel finally widened into a massive underground reservoir, the ceiling vanishing high above into darkness. Ancient support pillars rose from black water below like the trunks of petrified trees, their reflections trembling faintly across the surface. Most of the cistern had dried long ago, leaving only scattered pools and deep channels winding through cracked stone.
The Force screamed at you.
“Din-”
The water of the closest pool exploded upward.
The creature emerged so suddenly and violently that your mind refused to understand its scale at first. Black water crashed across the stone floor as something enormous unfolded itself from the reservoir depths, towering high enough that its back nearly scraped the ceiling above.
It was massive.
Long-limbed and malformed, covered in slick armored hide that reflected Din’s flashlight in fractured glints. Its front limbs ended in hooked claws the size of vibroblades, while its lower body dragged through the water with terrible weight. Its head was eyeless, split open down the center by a circular maw lined with rotating teeth that flexed and churned as it roared.
Din fired instantly.
Blaster bolts slammed into the creature’s chest in bursts of red light, but the thing barely recoiled. One blast scorched its hide. Another disappeared into layers of armor-like flesh.
Then it moved. Far too fast for something that size.
One enormous limb crashed sideways into a support pillar, shattering stone apart like brittle glass. The next swing came directly toward you both.
“Move!”
You threw yourself sideways as Din fired his grappling line toward a higher ledge. The claw smashed into the ground where you had stood a heartbeat earlier, the impact splitting stone and sending debris exploding through the chamber.
The entire cistern trembled.
Din landed hard atop the ledge and kept firing, drawing the creature’s attention upward while you scrambled for cover below. Red bolts lit the darkness in rapid flashes, illuminating glimpses of the monster’s body twisting through the chamber. You barely had time to shout before one gigantic claw slammed directly into the ledge beneath Din.
Stone ruptured, and the platform collapsed.
Din hit the ground hard enough to crack duracrete. His helmet struck stone with a sharp metallic crack that echoed through the chamber.
Then he stopped moving.
Everything inside you went cold.
“Din!”
The creature turned toward him, toward the still shape sprawled beneath broken stone.
Your thoughts vanished.
Not strategically. Not calmly. Every lesson about restraint and concealment and survival disappeared in one instant beneath a single overwhelming certainty: if it reached him, he would die.
The Force crashed through your senses in a sudden brutal wave—flashes of movement, claws, blood against beskar, Din hitting the floor hard enough not to get back up afterward. Not prophecy. Not certainty. Just possibility screaming loud enough to drown thought beneath it.
And underneath all of that, him.
The shape of his presence in the Force had become painfully familiar to you over time. Steady. Controlled. Quiet in a way that hid exhaustion instead of peace. You had learned the emotional rhythm of him without meaning to. The constant vigilance. The buried grief. The stubborn refusal to let himself break even when every part of him was splintering beneath pressure.
You knew the sound of his footsteps on the Crest.
Knew the slight tilt of his helmet when he was listening instead of speaking.
Knew the tiny pauses before he answered difficult questions.
Knew the warmth of his gloved hand against your shoulder after nightmares he pretended not to notice.
And somewhere along the way, without permission and without safety and without any tactical wisdom whatsoever, your entire nervous system had begun treating Din Djarin’s continued existence as something essential.
The Force erupted through you before you could stop it.
Loose debris lifted from the ground around your boots as invisible pressure exploded outward from your body in a violent wave. The creature roared as something unseen seized it mid-motion.
For one impossible second, the gigantic beast actually stopped moving.
Then it lifted.
Stone cracked beneath its weight as the Force hauled the creature sideways across the chamber with catastrophic force. The monster slammed into one of the massive support pillars hard enough to splinter ancient rock apart.
The creature screamed in rage, claws tearing through stone as it fought against the invisible pressure crushing it backward. You could feel its weight straining against your mind like trying to hold a crashing ship in place with your bare hands.
Pain ripped behind your eyes.
Your knees nearly buckled.
But the creature was still moving.
Still trying to reach Din.
“No,” you heard yourself snarl.
You raised one shaking hand instinctively.
The Force answered. The broken remains of the shattered pillar tore free from the ceiling above and crashed downward onto the creature in a thunderous avalanche of stone.
Din.
You turned instantly and dropped beside him.
He still lay motionless where he had fallen, partially buried beneath broken stone. Panic clawed up your throat as you reached for him, hands trembling despite every effort to steady them.
“Din-”
Your voice sounded wrong. Thin. Fractured.
You pressed gloved fingers against the side of his neck beneath the helmet seal, desperately searching for a pulse.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief nearly made your vision blur.
“You idiot,” you whispered shakily, though your chest ached so hard with fear the words barely held together. “You absolute idiot…”
Your hands hovered uncertainly over him, checking for injuries you could not fully see beneath the armor. The cracked stone around his body suggested bruised ribs at minimum. Possibly worse.
The creature remained buried beneath the collapsed pillar across the chamber, though every instinct in your body warned you not to trust that stillness. Something that large did not die easily. You could still feel it faintly through the Force: a dim, furious pulse buried beneath rubble and broken stone.
You looked down at Din again. The sight of him lying there unnaturally still sent another cold spike of fear through your chest. The crack of his helmet against the stone replayed viciously in your memory. You had seen armored warriors die from impacts like that before. Beskar protected against many things, but bodies inside armor were still flesh.
You hooked one arm beneath his shoulders and hauled him upright with effort. Din was heavy even without the armor damage. With it, dragging him through collapsing tunnels felt nearly impossible.
“You owe me for this,” you muttered breathlessly.
No response.
You tried not to think about that.
The climb back toward the surface became a blur of strain and noise. Several times you had to stop to brace Din’s weight against the wall while dizziness clawed behind your eyes. Using the Force like that had drained you more than you wanted to admit.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
You could still feel the echo of it roaring through your nervous system. The terrible instinctive release of power after years spent locking every door inside yourself shut as tightly as possible.
You reached the surface level just as another deep tremor shook the settlement. Villagers shouted nearby. Somewhere behind you, deeper underground, part of the cistern collapsed with a thunderous roar.
Sera turned sharply the moment she saw you emerge carrying Din.
“What happened?”
“No time,” you snapped.
The words came harsher than intended. Fear was making everything sharp-edged.
“Ship. Now.”
Her eyes widened at the condition of the armor. “Is he-”
“He’s alive.”
You hoped.
Grogu was already racing toward you before you fully crossed the landing field, tiny hands gripping the edge of his pram so hard the fabric bunched beneath his claws. The child made a distressed noise the moment he saw Din hanging unconscious against your side.
“I know,” you said quietly.
Grogu looked up at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since you had met him, there was no uncertainty left in his expression at all.
Only recognition.
The Force brushed softly against your awareness from him, warm and worried and heartbreakingly gentle. You swallowed hard and looked away first.
The Razor Crest lifted from the settlement only minutes later, engines screaming against the storm of dust now rolling across the desert. You strapped Din into one of the rear bunks as carefully as you could manage, removing damaged sections of armor where the impact had warped the beskar inward.
Bruised ribs.
A dislocated shoulder.
Possibly a concussion.
Your chest loosened slightly once you confirmed he was breathing steadily beneath the helmet.
Grogu sat beside the bunk the entire time, tiny ears lowered anxiously while you worked. He watched your hands with intense focus, following every movement as you adjusted medical patches and tightened stabilizers around Din’s side.
The trip to Tatooine took longer than you liked.
Din regained consciousness exactly once during the journey. You were in the cockpit trying to keep the Crest together through another wave of turbulence when you heard movement behind you. You turned instantly, hand already near your blaster out of instinct.
Din sat partially upright on the bunk, one gloved hand pressed against his ribs.
“You should be unconscious,” you said.
“Tried.” his voice came out rough through the modulator.
You exhaled shakily before you could stop yourself. His visor tilted toward you.
“Tatooine?” he asked.
“Figured your friend owed you enough favors not to ask questions.”
“Boba Fett asks many questions.”
The Razor Crest touched down outside the palace near dusk beneath Tatooine’s endless burning sky. Heat rolled across the sand in visible waves while the old fortress loomed above the dunes like the skeleton of something ancient and territorial.
Before the ramp had fully lowered, you heard blaster safeties disengaging outside.
Reasonable, honestly.
You stepped carefully down the ramp first with your hands visible.
Immediately, a rifle pointed directly at your chest.
“You look terrible,” said Fennec Shand from beneath the shade of the palace entrance.
“You should see the other guy,” you answered.
Her gaze flicked past you toward the ship interior.
“Djarin alive?”
“Currently.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her a moment later as Boba Fett emerged into the sunlight wearing his weathered green armor.
His attention landed on you first.
Then on Din being half-carried down the ramp moments later.
Then finally on Grogu hovering anxiously nearby in his pram.
Boba sighed deeply through his helmet.
“What happened now?”
For a moment, nobody answered him.
Hot desert wind rolled through the landing platform, tugging faintly at cloaks and carrying sand against metal with a dry hiss. The palace loomed behind Boba Fett like something watching the exchange with ancient patience.
You adjusted Din’s weight slightly against your shoulder.
“He got hit hard in a cistern collapse,” you said. “There was a creature.”
“That explains the damage.” Boba’s helmet tilted toward the dented beskar plating along Din’s side.
Before you could answer, Din shifted slightly beside you with a low sound of restrained pain. Instantly, Grogu chirped anxiously and floated closer in his pram.
“I’m fine,” Din muttered.
“You are absolutely not fine,” you shot back automatically.
Fennec snorted softly somewhere to your right.
You swallowed once. Then slowly lowered Din’s arm from your shoulder as Boba stepped forward to take his weight instead.
Din stiffened slightly from the movement but didn’t resist.
The sudden absence of him beside you felt strangely cold.
“I need a favor.” Your voice came quieter than intended.
Boba crossed his arms as best he could under Din’s weight.
“That depends heavily on the favor.”
“A ship.”
“Hangar three,” Boba Fett said gruffly. “Old Firespray patrol craft. Needs work, but it flies.”
Fennec turned toward him. “You’re just giving them a ship?”
“They saved Djarin.”
You stared for a second before nodding once.
“Thank you.”
Then you moved. Fast.
Because if you stopped long enough to think about this, you were not sure you would actually go through with it.
Grogu chirped sharply behind you.
Your boots rang against metal walkways as you crossed deeper into the palace hangars. The sounds behind you blurred together beneath the pounding of your pulse. Someone called your name once- Din, maybe- but you kept moving anyway.
This was the right choice.
It had to be.
You had seen the way people looked at you your entire life once they learned what you were. Eventually there was always distance afterward. Carefulness. Hesitation. Even among good people. Especially among good people.
Because good people tried to reconcile compassion with fear, and sometimes that process hurt more than outright hatred ever did.
You couldn’t do that to Din.
Not after everything he had already survived.
Not after the covert.
Not after Mandalore.
Not after a lifetime spent inheriting stories about Jedi and wars and betrayal.
Your hands shook while entering the launch sequence.
Not from fear. From grief.
Because somewhere along the way, the Razor Crest had started feeling like home.
And Din Djarin and Grogu had started feeling dangerously close to family.
The realization hollowed your chest out from the inside. Because you spent your entire life being the contradiction that made people uncomfortable and you could not survive watching that realization settle into Din’s silence too.
A moment later, the stars stretched into hyperspace lines with the familiar violent lurch that always made your stomach tighten no matter how many years you spent traveling between systems.
summary: you’ve seen a lot during your rebellion days & now with the New Republic… but working with a mandalorian may just send you into the wildest tailspin yet
word count: 11.9k (i’m sorry)
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS ⚠️ takes place before & during the events of the film, reader has a backstory & family but no physical description, light use of gendered language, slight annoyance to friends to lovers, pining & yearning, budding romance, threats & moments of violence/threat of kidnapping, flying as a love language, reader has instances of drinking and smoking, competency kink, light voice kink, slightly jealous!reader, spicy times in the cockpit (helmet stays on), dry humping, unprotected p in v, one moment of spit, creampie, protective and soft!Din
a/n: so… hi lmao I call this my ‘let’s daydream about being in the new movie’ fic or aka my attempt at plugging us into the storyline bcs it’s what we deserve lol big thanks to my dear @babynueva for always supporting my din delulu ily bb! Also this is my first official fic of the year & knowing it’s for Din means so much - so thank you for being here ♡ [divider credit & thanks to the ever amazing @saradika-graphics]
When a mandalorian first strides into base camp on Adelphi, you think you’re seeing things.
The sun bounces off his armor drawing all eyes. It’s like his ancient armor proudly beams of its power and striking force. The mysterious Mandalorian walks with intent, a steady gait that dares anyone to cross him. You can’t help but stare at the mysterious warrior.
“Is he… imperial?” Someone whispers in the mess hall and makeshift cantina.
“Nope, he’s working with us now.” Teva answers simply.
You didn’t believe it. But apparently it’s true.
“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.
Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.
“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.
Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.
“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.
It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.
“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.
“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”
“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.
“Good, that’s what I thought.”
When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.
Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.
Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.
A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?
“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.
“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.
“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?
“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?
“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.
“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.
It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.
The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.
“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.
A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.
Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.
“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.
“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.
The colonel sighs.
“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”
You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.
“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.
But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.
Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.
It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.
You don’t even know if you should say anything
“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.
With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.
Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.
“You like it? It’s cute right?”
The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.
Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.
Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.
“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.
You’re stunned.
Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.
So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.
“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.
You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.
“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.
You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.
“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.
Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.
“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.
Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.
You can’t wait till this is over.
It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.
“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.
So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.
You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.
And it pisses you off all over again.
But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.
The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.
This time you decided to bring something else along with you.
It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.
“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.
With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.
You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.
“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.
A bit stunned, you give it to him.
He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.
“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.
“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.
Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.
“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.
“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”
“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”
A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.
“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.
“Din…” you repeat it.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.
Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.
When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.
“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.
“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.
“What do you say, kid?”
Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.
The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.
Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.
“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.
“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.
Suddenly, a chuckle follows.
Din laughed.
You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.
“A fair statement.” Din agrees.
And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.
Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.
The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.
“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.
“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.
“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.
That’s when you realized he just joked with you.
“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.
“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.
“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.
You stay stubbornly quiet.
“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.
Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.
“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.
“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.
“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.
The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.
“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.
“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.
“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.
You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.
You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.
Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.
Except that time comes sooner than expected.
The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.
Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.
“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.
You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.
But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.
“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.
Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.
“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.
She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.
“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.
His helmet tilts towards you.
“Sometimes,” you shrug.
“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.
“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”
You want to strangle her.
“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.
It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.
All you can do is shrug again.
Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.
“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.
A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.
“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.
“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.
“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.
“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”
You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.
A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.
“Kid.” Din chides.
“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.
Din sighs, truly parental.
“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.
“I do.” Din answers, confident.
“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.
“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.
Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.
“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.
“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.
“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.
“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.
They were to remind you to come home safe.
“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.
A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.
“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.
You turn and find he’s already looking at you.
Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.
Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.
Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.
“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.
“No, I stole it.” You quip back.
“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.
“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.
“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.
You playfully elbow him.
Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.
“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.
“Mweh!” He squeals.
“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.
“No.” Din answers back firmly.
“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.
“No.” Din repeats again firmer.
A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.
“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.
Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.
You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.
The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.
Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.
Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.
You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.
“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.
“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.
“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.
“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.
“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.
“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.
You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.
Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.
It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.
Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.
“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.
“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.
His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.
The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.
“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.
“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.
“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.
“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.
With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.
“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.
“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.
“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.
As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.
And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.
Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.
“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.
Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.
“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.
“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.
Then you hold up the new charm.
“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.
“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.
“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.
“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.
Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.
“What do you say, kid?” Din says.
Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.
Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.
“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.
The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.
You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.
“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.
“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.
This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.
But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.
The wound isn’t looking good.
You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.
You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.
Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.
Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…
“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.
“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.
Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.
You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.
“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.
You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.
A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.
“What was that?!” One of them screams.
Then a blaster shot silenced him.
“Step away from her now.” Din.
Or someone sounding like him.
The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.
Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.
Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.
And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.
You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…
And he’s here to save you.
A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.
He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.
What is he doing?
The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.
“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.
“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.
Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.
“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.
An exhale escapes Din, relieved.
“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.
“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.
Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.
“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.
Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.
You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.
“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.
He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.
“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.
It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.
“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.
How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?
“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.
There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.
But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.
“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.
You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.
But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.
Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.
A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.
Raid strike this week, get ready
It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.
“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.
“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.
As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.
Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.
Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.
“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.
“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.
Din doesn’t say anything.
“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.
“Seems like it,” Din agrees.
This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.
Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.
The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.
“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.
Din simply and silently nods back.
Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.
But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.
It’s time to fly.
“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.
“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.
All you can do is laugh before parting ways.
“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.
You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.
Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.
Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.
“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.
“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.
“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.
The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.
Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.
That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.
A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.
But again, you’re proven so wrong.
Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.
A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.
But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.
Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.
It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.
So you do.
You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.
Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.
“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.
“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.
“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.
Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.
You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.
Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.
It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.
The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.
“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.
“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.
“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.
“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”
Teva takes a moment then sighs.
“Make it quick.”
Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.
“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.
“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.
The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.
Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.
“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.
“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.
But in a flash, he zooms past you.
“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.
Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.
Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.
Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.
Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.
But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.
All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.
“You were incredible.”
“You flew… amazing.”
Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.
Then you laugh.
“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.
“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.
“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.
Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.
Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.
“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.
You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.
Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.
“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.
The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.
“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.
“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.
“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.
“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.
“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.
Of course he’s a damn natural.
Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.
“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.
“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.
“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.
Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.
“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.
Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.
“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.
Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.
You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.
He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.
Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.
A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.
Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.
Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.
You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.
Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…
Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.
“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.
His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.
“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.
A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.
You even tell him that.
“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.
A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.
The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.
Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.
He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.
“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.
You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.
“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.
You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.
“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.
This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.
“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.
“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”
It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.
“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.
You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.
“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.
Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.
So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.
A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.
“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.
In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.
“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.
Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.
“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.
“You wanna see?”
He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.
“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.
Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.
The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.
“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.
“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.
“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.
“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.
He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.
There you arrive at your x-wing.
“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.
“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.
“Get in,” you urge.
Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.
“Can we even fit in this?”
“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.
The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.
Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.
“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.
As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.
“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.
You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.
“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.
“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.
You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.
So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -
Right between the V of Din’s legs.
You crouch low and drag him down too.
“Wh…what are you-”
“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”
“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.
“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.
The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.
You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.
“See… told you we’d be fine.”
He stays quiet.
It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.
You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.
But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.
“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.
“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.
“I would.” You immediately counter.
“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.
So you try to recover fast.
“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.
You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.
Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.
You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.
“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.
“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.
His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.
Din exhales, breathy and deep.
You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.
Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.
Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.
You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.
The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.
He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.
“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.
Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.
Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.
Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.
Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.
But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.
Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.
“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.
You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.
“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.
“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.
His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.
“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.
“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.
Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.
His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.
“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.
“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.
“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.
“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.
“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.
“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.
Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.
So you lean closer to his helmet.
“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.
But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.
How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.
“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.
“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.
This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.
Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.
It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.
So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.
Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.
Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.
Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.
The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.
“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.
Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.
“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.
“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.
He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.
A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.
His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.
Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.
He quickly hisses your name.
“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.
Who are you to deny your mandalorian?
He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.
Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.
You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.
A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.
He nods firm, so sure.
So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.
When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.
Now you don’t want Din to leave it.
A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.
Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.
His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.
“Where?” He slurs urgently.
“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.
“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.
“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.
Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.
His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.
Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.
“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.
You shake your head no.
“You’re the only one.” You reveal.
His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.
An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.
After this night, you find him everywhere now.
Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.
Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.
The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.
You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.
Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.
You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.
But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.
“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.
“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.
He chuckles.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.
“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”
You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.
But you’re reminded he does have a home.
“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.
“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.
“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.
“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.
Slowly your eyes close on their own now.
“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.
Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.
“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.
A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.
You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.
But those daydreams get shoved away fast.
Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.
Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.
Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.
That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.
“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.
“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.
Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.
You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.
“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.
You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.
“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.
“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.
He barks a laugh.
“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.
“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.
“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.
It makes you and Zeb snicker.
Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.
“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.
“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.
But he leaves you and Din alone.
It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.
So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.
“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.
He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.
You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.
Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.
You don’t hear from Din for half a month.
It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.
Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.
It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?
“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.
“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.
He smiles at you kindly.
“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”
Shit.
“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.
“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”
Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.
“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”
He is. But he’s more than that.
He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.
“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.
It’s unfortunately true.
How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.
The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.
Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.
Din has returned, but he’s not alone.
Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.
At least Din and the baby are safe.
Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.
“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.
“Tell me about it.” He sighs.
The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.
“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”
His somber tone says more looms.
“Din…” you mutter cautiously.
He turns to you.
“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.
“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.
Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.
But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.
The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.
“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.
His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.
“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.
You nod, fighting harder against tears.
Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.
With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.
This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.
You throw yourself into any available mission.
Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.
“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.
You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.
But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.
Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.
“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.
“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.
Absolute dread is unleashed in you.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.
“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.
Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.
“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.
“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.
“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.
“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.
Anger burns through your veins.
“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.
“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.
More Delphi officers stand up.
Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.
You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.
Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.
Ward calls out your name. This is it.
Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.
She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.
“I should sit you out on this mission.”
“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.
Her smirks grows bigger.
“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.
You’ll happily accept that too.
The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.
Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.
Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.
That’s what this feels like.
You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.
Yet Din remains inside.
And Ward gives the command to light the place up.
“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.
Then, the stronghold goes under flames.
You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.
“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.
Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.
A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.
“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.
Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.
Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.
But Ward of course arrives first.
You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.
“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.
Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.
“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.
“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”
Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.
You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.
He’s here.
Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.
“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.
The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.
While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.
He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.
“Welcome back,” you croak out.
Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.
“Had to bring this back.”
With a watery laugh, you shake your head.
“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.
A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.
Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.
“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.
“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.
Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.
Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.
Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.
Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.
It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.
Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting
Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.
After all, there's a flight to Nevarro calling your name.
Summary: Colonel Ward needs only her best for a rescue mission and her best are you and Mando...if only you two could figure out how to get a long and stop bickering...
Author's Note: Saw the movie- loved it! Highly rec! And now I want to write lots more for Mando! Yay! Thank you all so much for reading and sharing, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰
****PS: There are NO plot spoilers here- but I definitely used some moments in the movie as inspo and threw in some fun little stuff from it- just so you're warned!
PPS You can look up the alien species I refer to here. I also use the name of a character in the new Darth Maul cartoon- but it doesn't give away any plot (that was good too- watch it)
Warnings: it's fun and flirty, tense and soft and sweet and there's some action (that I'm pretty bad at writing haha), Grogu is adorable and Djarin is sexy as f, also...all the kisses please
“What’s he doing here?”
You throw a thumb in Mando’s direction, your tone matching your exasperated expression. Without giving Mando a chance to reply, Colonel Ward smiles wryly.
“I have a mission for you,” she says.
You cross your arms over your chest and your nostrils flare. “Still doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
“For both of you,” she clarifies.
You can hear Mando sigh, his hands landing on his hips as his knee pops out.
Colonel Ward holds up her hand to halt any words either of you might throw at her. “Hear me out.”
Another sigh from Mando, and you throw him the stink eye.
“It’s a rescue mission…”
After she briefs you on the mission you know it’s not something you’ll be able to turn down so you square your shoulders and turn toward Mando.
“I’m in if you are,” you tell him.
“Mando?” Colonel ward asks.
“Fine. It will be done.”
Colonel Ward gives a triumphant smile. “And listen you two,” she adds. “try to make friends.”
With that, you both head out, Grogu appearing from the bar area with a mouthful of who knows what. As soon as he sees you he peels off in your direction, waddling as fast as he can until he can hop into your waiting arms.
“Hey buddy,” you chuckle. “What have you been snacking on?”
He pulls out a handful of the snacks you saw on Colonel Ward’s desk, stuffing some into his mouth before holding out his hand in offering to you.
“Does she know you took those?” you whisper. He just blinks at you, shoving your portion into his mouth. You laugh and rub him between the ears.
“Come on Grogu,” Djarin says as he steps beside you. “Time to get ready.”
Grogu secures himself at your shoulder and you head out to Djarin’s new ship.
“Are you actually going to listen to me this time?” Djarin asks as he takes stock of his weapons.
You let silence hang between his words and your next ones, watching unabashedly as he either hides or straps weapon after weapon onto his body.
“Hmm,” you finally answer, drawing his eyes to yours. “Not going to lie, this…” you continue and sweep your hand over his form, now fully weaponized, “is very sexy. So…maybe.”
With that you walk off to the cockpit, leaving him staring after you.
“You know, one day you’re going to have to teach me how to fly this thing,” you say as you start to put on your seatbelt.
“I’m teaching Grogu,” he says and as if summoning him, Grogu hops onto Djarin’s lap.
“No buddy, not now. We have a mission.”
Grogu makes a soft whine, his eyes wide as he looks to you. “Aw come on! What’s the difference?” you say.
Djarin looks down at Grogu. “She wants to learn too,” he says.
Grogu nods, ears perking up as he crawls off Djarin’s lap and into his own seat. His big eyes look at you then at Djarin.
“Oh!” you squeak, eying Djarin’s lap, thick thighs spread wide and inviting. “You think….well, I don’t…I’m not ready.”
Djarin chuckles and you quietly curse him. “You’re just afraid of sitting with me.”
You turn his way, eyes narrowed and glaring. “I’m not afraid of anything. Especially you. But if you want us to get to our destination alive then you better fly this time.”
“Whatever you say sweetheart,” he murmurs.
“Don’t call me that!” you shoot back, sinking into the seat.
He takes off with ease, and you peer out the window, sighing at the beauty of the stretch of blue sea of Adelphi below.
“It’s always extra beautiful from up here,” you say softly.
He hums in agreement, his eyes on you instead of the sea.
The planet of Shakari is dense with life forms bustling through it’s darkened underworld. Mando and Grogu lead the way, his stride purposeful and full of confidence. You admire him in silence, finding it difficult to focus on much else.
“I think this is it,” he whispers, stopping by a doorway that’s locked. You nod and watch as Grogu hops off his shoulder and through a small window to the side. Less than a minute later the door opens, revealing a delighted looking Grogu.
You smile at him and this time he hops up onto your back. Djarin pauses and looks at you two. “I have cookies,” you explain with a wink. “Don’t worry you’re still his favorite.”
You take a step ahead, passing through the doorway and missing when Djarin says, “yeah, for now.”
The bar you enter is at the far back, quieter than the streets but still filled with life forms. Djarin scans the crowd.
“Follow me,” he says and starts to walk forward without waiting for your agreement.
“Always so bossy,” you mutter.
He approaches a Twi’lek sitting alone at a far table. “Let me do the talking,” he says before you get too close.
You roll your eyes and slide you hand to the hilt of your blaster. Grogu ducks lower on your shoulder.
“We’re looking for Rylee Lawson,” Djarin states, his voice more gruff than usual.
“I don’t care who you’re looking for,” the Twi’lek answers before taking a sip of his drink.
“You’ll be greatly rewarded if you can give me the location of where he’s being held.”
The Twi’lek looks at Djarin again, his eyes full of malice. “Get out of my bar.”
You step around Djarin, gun poised and ready to shoot. “You can either tell us or I’ll shoot you.”
Djarin’s frustrated sigh reaches your ears as the bar goes quiet and before you can give him a cheeky retort all hell breaks loose. Your back meets Djarin’s as you stay close and expertly shoot anything that moves. He’s right there with you, the two of you moving as a deadly unit.
Finally you separate, but only so he can take out the large Abyssin headed your way. He moves fluidly, kicking, punching and headbutting until everyone is either dead or lying on the floor groaning.
“You just don’t listen!” he chides when he joins your side again.
“And you were taking too long.”
Grogu makes a sound that you’re sure is one of agreement and you smile back at him.
It’s easy enough to find Rylee and when you reach his sell your heart sinks as the young boy looks up at you with terror in his eyes.
“It’s ok,” you immediately say. “We’re here to help.”
He looks skeptical but when Mando comes into view his eyes widen.
“You’re the Mandalorian,” he says in awe.
“Yeah, yeah, kid,” you huff. “Don’t stare too long. It’ll go to his head.”
Rylee nods and swallows hard, dropping his eyes to the lock. “How are you gonna…?”
His question never finishes because you blast through the lock, setting off the alarms.
“She’s loves to make things messy,” Djarin says as he ushers Rylee out of the cell. “Come on.”
The three of you race down the hallway, Grogu secured at your back. “Stay behind me kid,” Djarin yells when you round the corner and face several more armed Abyssin’s.
You shoot all four in rapid succession, each shot perfectly aimed until they drop to the floor. Rylee turns his wide eyes to you. “Wow,” he breathes.
You grin. “Mando’s not the only one who can get things done.”
Your escape back to the ship starts out quiet but you quickly gain a following as people realize you’ve ‘kidnapped’ a prized prisoner of the Hutts. With several bounty hunters on your tail it’s making it difficult to escape.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you had some patience,” Djarin grits out as he turns to blast one of the vehicles in hot pursuit.
“Oh please,” you answer, “because you had some magical plan that was better?”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to listen,” he says back with a growl. “You never do.”
“I think you like it.”
His helmet turns toward you and you know there’s a smirk hidden beneath.
“Are they always like this?” Rylee asks Grogu as he ducks away from a blaster shot.
Grogu makes a confirming noise and reaches into his robe for a cookie.
Once you reach the ship, Djarin shoves Rylee into a seat. “Buckle up,” he says. You sit but don’t put on your seatbelt, working at the controls you’re familiar with and plugging in the coordinates.
“What are you waiting for?” you ask. “Let’s go.”
Gunfire shakes the ship and you raise your brows.
“Put your seatbelt on.”
Your jaw slackens then your mouth closes into a smirk. “Worried for my safety Mando?”
He huffs and pulls the lever for takeoff. “Just do it. Now…please.”
Your smile widens. “Since you asked so nicely.” You buckle the belt.
When the ship is in flight you make Rylee comfortable and share some food. He shoves it in his mouth with almost as much gusto as Grogu and you refill his bowl. Grogu hops up next to him on the cushioned seat and looks at you expectantly.
Djarin quietly watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame while you pull out a sleeve of Grogu’s favorite cookies.
“He should have dinner first,” Djarin says and you startle.
“And you should be more fun,” you say with a saccharine smile.
You hand Grogu a cookie, laughing as he inhales it and then asks for another.
“Only one more or your dad is going to yell at me again,” you whisper.
“I don’t yell at you!” Djarin says firmly.
You raise a brow. “Ok Mr. Bossy. Whatever you say.”
He shakes his head and walks off. You check on Rylee one more time and notice that both he and Grogu are getting sleepy. After getting them settled you head back toward the cockpit, lifting your shirt to check on the cut you att\ained during your escape.
You walk straight into what you think is the wall but instead look up to meet Djarin’s dark brown eyes.
“Shit,” you quickly say. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know…”
You’ve seen him without his helmet once before…a mission that had gotten very messy…and the image is burned into your brain forever.
“It’s ok,” he answers, gently grabbing your wrist when you start to turn away. “No enemies here.”
You give him a look. “You sure?”
He smiles and you look away, worried your reaction will show more than you want him to see.
His hand comes up slow, heel of his palm first at your jaw and warmth spreads, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He doesn’t turn your face, he waits, asking with his soft touch.
You meet his eyes and lean into the cradle of his palm. “How bad is it?” he asks softly.
“How bad is what?” you reply.
“Your injury.”
Your pulse flutters against his touch as you slowly lift the edge of your shirt, revealing the gash at your side. Djarin’s jaw tightens and he leans in, his breath ghosting along your neck and sending a flurry of shivers down your spine. The corners of his mouth dip down and his fingers linger on your skin, a gentle caress.
“We need to clean and dress this. Grogu can close it for you.”
You nod and his frown turns into a smile. “Now you’re listening?” he teases.
His hands bring you closer, and your comeback dies in your throat, suddenly too tight to hold it. The light above your heads flickers but the smell of him, the feel of his strong warmth, floods your senses. He doesn’t let go, if anything, his grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. His gaze is dark, blown wide, dropping to your mouth with the kind of hunger that steals your breath.
His hand moves first. Not to release you, but to map your skin. His thumb drags slow and heavy, along the curve of your waist, then up along the length of your spine, pressing against your neck with a possessiveness that makes your knees tremble.
Your hands stutter up the hard expanse of his chest, still covered in his armor and he breathes out your name in a warning he’s too weak to heed.
He leans in, just an inch, waiting for your hesitation. When it doesn’t come and you tilt your face, his mouth crashes onto yours, hot and desperate.
A moan vibrates in his chest as he devours the gasp you try to take. Heat floods your veins and you melt into him, your body curving to fit the hard lines of his, your fingers sliding up to tangle in the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
Djarin groans, a low, ruined sound, and hauls you closer until all that’s left between you is the pressure, friction, and taste of him.
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: You’re not sure how it happens, how you two end up on the ground, sliding in the mud, clutching at each other. His big hands lock your wrists above your head, pinning you to the moss and mud. You could slip out from under him easily, but you let him scan you, checking to make sure you’re okay, helmet tilting when he sees your racing heart in your chest.
Warnings: Smut, mud, rain, Din uses that line from the movie, helmet stays on, gloves stay on, we only get Din dick glimpse, author used Wookieepedia. Not beta read because it just needs to be released so I can move along with my day.
Words: 1,600
A/N: 🤷🏼♀️ I saw Mandalorian & Grogu while ovulating. I've had this idea half written in my docs with Joel, but once I figured out how good this would be for Din, well, I had to change it. This is partially based from my favorite sex scene (Emmanuelle IV nation, rise) that I've shared with some of you. Titles from the Marías song "Care For You" which is the hottest song/video in the world. Uhhh. Enjoy?
Masterlist
It hasn’t stopped raining since you set foot on this planet. It’s a sheet of water, unforgiving and smothering, hammering down so hard you can hardly breathe, let alone see in front of you. The storm soaks you all the way through, your boots dipping deeper into the muddy ground.
You couldn’t move, even if you wanted to. The throaty and deep growl that told you “stay put” keeps you planted in the forest. You’re out, in the open, the clearing barely wrapping you in any sort of protection. You’re shivering, arms shaking, blaster held up as if your measly little pistol’s going to do anything to protect you.
Far away shots radiate through the tall trunks of the trees, coming closer with every sway of the foliage. Your breathing rattles when you gasp a wet, rapid suck of air. You want to call out for him, but you stay quiet and armed. Just how he likes you.
Another blast of shots echoes out into the air. Then a weird silence that seems to mute the cacophony of raindrops and thunder.
If he doesn’t come back, what the fuck do you do next? Do you even know where the ship is? And how the hell are you going to pilot the thing? You still feel like the bounty hunter’s little charity case, proving herself to the big, strong Mandalorian after you were left all alone when the Hutts ran your crew to the ground on Nar Shaddaa and your captain ditched you to save his own skin.
Your feet are growing numb, water trickles down your whole body, and you’re too anxious to get mad at yourself for not bringing your poncho. He told you to wait. So you do. Body quaking, teeth grinding. Every shadow looks like an enemy hiding in the bushes. You thought you’d have more courage with Din, that you’d be brave like him. And yet… all you want to do is get back to the safety of the ship.
A hunched shape breaks through the dense foliage. Tall, looming, broad, shiny.
Din.
Your blaster drops to the ground, and he says your name, speakers crackling just loud enough to hear over the rain. You slip in the muck as you cross the clearing.
“Din,” you whisper.
He bounds towards you, gloved hands gripping your arms, his armored shoulders rising and falling. The metal of his helmet clunks against your forehead, and he takes a moment.
“Are we okay?” you ask.
“We are.”
That unlocks you, and you choke on relief, collapsing against the Beskar wall of him. “I was scared,” you blurt to the dark T of the visor.
You’re not sure how it happens, how you two end up on the ground, sliding in the mud, clutching at each other. His big hands lock your wrists above your head, pinning you to the moss and mud. You could slip out from under him easily, but you let him scan you, checking to make sure you’re okay, helmet tilting when he sees your racing heart in your chest.
“Don’t be scared, I’ll protect you,” he thunders above you, pressing his body down, full heavy weight against you, the edge of his thigh armor digging between your legs. Lightning strobes and thunder cracks, and you’re flailing, greedy, grinding yourself against the hard edge of his armor. The rain still sheets down, droplets of it leaking down his helmet, tasting like precious metal and need.
He’s repeating your name, barking it almost, over the tinny speaker in his helmet, gasping it out. You clutch at his pauldrons, trying to bring him closer and closer to you. He’s heavy, but you’re slippery.
The world turns when he rolls, and you’re straddling his hips. The clasp of your soaked tunic is ripped open by Din, cold rain hitting your bare skin, and you welcome it to cool your burning skin.
His hands slide up your thighs, leather gripping hard, and he groans, that low, mechanical sound you crave. His visor is fixed on your breasts, the rain making your skin glisten in the flashes of lightning.
“This is dangerous,” you say, and yet Din’s hands pull you harder against him
“I’ll take care of whoever comes.”
He sits up, holding you against him, your legs twining around his waist. You grind, the soaked seams of your pants and the scrape of his flight suit sparking warm friction along your needy cunt. It’s almost primitive in the way you rub and moan, head tipped back, rain filling your mouth as his big, meaty hands grip your ass, moving you sweeter and deeper along him.
The mud squelches beneath you when he presses you back down into the ground, his helmet knocking against your forehead again. “Your heart,” he growls. “I can hear it.”
There’s a desperation shared between you, it’s been there from the first moment the dark T of his visor met your eyes. You tug at his flight suit, needy for his skin, but he stops you with his hand on your wrist. Instead, he slides his hand down your stomach, under the waistband of your pants, and you gasp when the leather finds your clit, thick finger pressing against it and circling. The rain continues to pour and pelt, washing the mud from your skin only for your writhing body to replace it with more, but you don’t care about the mess, not when Mando has you captured like this. You don’t care about anything now, just the way he watches you through that impassive visor.
“I want you,” you beg.
He tugs your pants low, exposes your pussy to the rain, to the unknown planet, and to him, not even pausing before grinding himself against you.
You wonder what he looks like when he sees you like this, naked body offered to him amongst the dirt and mud of the planet he landed on just a few hours ago. Are his eyes greedy? Does he lick his lips, craving the taste of you? You want to see his face, want to see his eyes, but you know you can’t… and it only makes you want him more. He groans and grunts, desperation through the speakers, and he rips down his flight suit, just enough to give you a quick glimpse of his golden cock.
The thick tip of Din nudges at your slick entrance, and when he pushes in, you see a galaxy behind your eyes. You moan, loud, an almost primal scream, and he answers it with a growl of “good girl,” like he always does.
He gives you all of him at once, shrouding himself in your wet heat, he doesn’t take it slow. There’s no time for savoring. It can’t take long out here in the middle of the forest. Later, after you’ve scrubbed yourself in the tiny shower of the ship, he’ll lay you down on the metallic floor and take his time… maybe even wrap a blindfold over your eyes and bestow the precious gift of his tongue between your legs, but for now, you have to be fast.
He presses you deeper and deeper into the forest floor, hands bracing on your shoulders, using you as leverage as his cock spears you. The Mandalorian overpowers you, makes you ache in the way he fills you, thrusting into you with the same rhythm as the quick thunderclaps overhead. Din’s breathing hard, fingers gripping you so hard you welcome the ache across your skin.
“Look at me,” he rasps, visor locked on your face, and you do, all soaked, crumpled, and ruined by his big cock.
Your back bows in the mud, mouth open to the rain, and his helmet presses into your forehead in the way you know he’s thinking about feeling your skin against his. Every tattered breath he takes through the speakers vibrates through your body, his tremors meeting yours as your cunt clenches around him. You wonder if he’s sweating under there, if his sweat tastes metallic.
You cum first, noisy and shameless and writhing, out in the middle of the forest. Your pulsing pussy drags him with you, and you can hear the panic of his own orgasm in the flatline of his breathing. He pulls out and gives you what you crave, the sight of his big, gloved hand wrapping around his fat cock, stroking his release out of him.
Thick white webs of the Mandalorian land across your wet body, the rain instantly washing away the cum he’s bathed you in. You’re panting, curses you’ve gathered from far-off planets escaping from your mouth as you come down, and for a split second you pretend he could take off the helmet, feel his plush lips against yours outside the privacy of his ship… but the moment never comes.
He rolls off, grunting, tucking himself back into his flight suit, all of the Mandaloian now shrouded and protected, while you lie splayed amongst the forest naked and shivering. He drags you over to him, gathers you in his arms, gauntlets pressing against your skin. He cradles your head against his throat, your face mashed up against the pulse point under his helmet, pressing into the scratchy flight suit.
You savor it, shaky and sated, his body heat radiating through the panels of armor. He traces the line of your spine with his hand, full of softness not many people know the bounty hunter is capable of.
“I care for you,” he finally says, hushed and flattened by the rain.
Your eyes close, and you memorize the sound, pulse slowing when you realize you're safe for once, because of the impossibly big, shiny bounty hunter.
“And, I care for you,” you tell him, his arms answering your confession when they bound you tighter against him.
summary: personal space is hard to maintain on a shuttle that's less than 650 sq ft
note: i make a lot of assumptions about the layout of this spaceship so you'll have to forgive me. i also probably fudge the timeline in every way- that being how long or how quickly the plot actually moves. love dragging things out, sorry about that. also i should note, i do very much enjoy aroace grace. like a LOT. but… i also wish to personally smooch the man so i am also conflicted. this fic contains not many if not ANY sexual notes, just general attraction and affection because again, i wish to kiss the man on the cheeks — bye!!!
warnings (TW): swearing i think
tags: angst-slight-comfort?, affection, amnesia
word count: 5.5k
The topic of gender didn't arise until their little curious stowaway made himself rather comfortable in their medical bay.
Though, it was something Ryland considered… later. But in their general confusion they attracted and repelled back and forth around each other for several hours after he shook her awake all those days ago.
He was relieved, and wasn't afraid to admit that he shed a couple tears too, when he realized he at the very least wouldn't have to bury his other crew-mates completely alone. Or that he wouldn't have to eat ramen alone also, or figure out who he was either. Something in him sunk though, when he realized she woke much in the same condition he did several days prior—completely and utterly confused.
Luckily he was able to supply her with her own name, but not much else. Her belongings were the only one's he couldn't bring himself to crack open yet, something about her name scrawled on the baggage tag made him stutter. Something about her living and breathing still, eased something in him. He figured it was the loneliness that made him so eager for her to wake, and that it was deep, instilled, manners that stopped him from ripping open his only-living crew-mates belongings'.
She awoke confused, but clung to him for a good thirty minutes despite that. While he didn't struggle at all initially to move up and down the sleep-compartment ladder or through the cockpit, she seemed to struggle with the centrifugal fake-gravity the ship created. She had decided to wake while he excessively took stock of the laboratory for the upteenth time in his confusion and withering panic.
Her feet pained her, her muscles slightly atrophied from the years-long coma, but she insisted on taking meticulous inventory of each nook-and-cranny of the ship, like she knew it better than she knew herself. Which, ironically, she seemed to. As she made careful inspections of the interior of the craft from ceiling to floor (or was it just floor to floor?). She listed insightful information regarding the storage of the craft, limping all the while as he took in the sound of someone else for the first time in days.
But, her hunched form had him concerned, even if her warm-hands along his right arm and shoulder were world-shatteringly reassuring at the moment. She probably already knew of the feature on the ship, seeing as it seems she had her own hand in building Mary, but he figured she'd still get a kick out of it. She had yet to even acknowledge their fake-gravity at the moment, probably too caught up in being awake for the first time in years. That or, she wasn't an astronaut. Something he had an itching suspicion that he wasn't either.
He brought her to the cockpit and watched her face crack into something entirely human. The fascination was palpable. She grew even giddier when he flipped those switches and turned off the nauseating spinning.
She flew from space to space in the ship then, her spine elongating and her unkept hair flying. He wished he could have been as awe-struck as she was when he awoke, but he swallowed his jealousy in favor of living a little in between his usual dread.
They were stuck like glue, for about two-hours. Until that same dread caught up to her also. Confirming his hypothesis about her. She was no astronaut. Neither was he.
He had knowledge of space, an aptitude for it really. Knew of star-chasing and planet atmospheric chemical-make-ups. Knew biological systems and micro-chemistry like the back of his hand. He was… okay at math. Mediocre, at best. He always needed to write it down.
She was great at math, knew physics better than most. Or what he believed to be… "most". What's a good point-of-reference when you don't remember much of anything?
So, she was better at physics than him. Math too. She knew molecular material-science, but strayed when it came to the biological. She was a builder, knew electronics and metals and everything in-between. She knew of space travel, of projectile maps and time-dilation.
Decidedly though, neither of them were astronauts.
They couldn't place why they would be here though. Which was the real mystery.
They separated after, like a town-hall meeting commenced and completed. She fled to the holo-room, her luggage banging along the walls as she floated to the compartment. She was going to take stock of who she was, and he didn't invite himself along. Just brought himself back to his white board, scrawling out her name and a question mark somewhere along the margins of the growing list of questions he had about himself.
Because the stranger in the other room was oddly familiar to him. Though he could not place the significance yet.
Ryland was embarrassed by the half-hazard living he was doing until she awoke. He tried to hide the more erratic parts of himself from her, and thanked some god every day she couldn't hear the ever-cycling chaotic dialogue of his mind day in-and-out.
She was tidier than him, which he could admit. He took to taking her orders like someone who was used to them.
She dictated food, dictated the time, dictated the organization of what they had labeled "common" spaces between them also. She found solace towards to front of the ship, by the medical bay and cockpit. He felt most comfortable in the lab, and dragged his mattress to the back room quickly after she set guidelines on space. Something she took seriously, and something he nodded along in agreement to.
Because she was rather distracting.
It all went belly-up when Rocky invited himself in and she didn't have the heart to protest. They had been back and forth for days, communicating and building a relationship with the arthropod-like alien in hopes of finding an answer to the ever pressing mystery of a darkening space. When somewhere during week two their new friend became their new roommate.
And so the lines she had hastily drawn were skewed in favor of making room for their pushy new friend.
"Why sleep here. Question." Echoed behind him as Rocky observed his spotty whiteboard math.
"What?"
"Why sleep here. Why not sleep next to each other. Question."
"I sleep back here, and she sleeps closer to the cockpit. Just in-case something happens, she knows the controls better than me." He answers, tapping his marker against the board.
"Does not explain. Why back here, why not up by her. Question." How can a computer sound so judgemental?
He sighs, hands finding his waist. "Humans don't… sleep close together. Like you guys do."
"Oh." Rocky isn't quiet for long. "Why not. Question. Eridians protect each other when sleep. Why don't you protect. Question."
Ryland flings his hands out, Rocky copies. Almost like he's mocking him.
"Because, she doesn't want to sleep near me."
Rocky jumps at that, something excited in his computerized voice as he scampers through his tunneling system to the front of the ship.
"I ask why." The Eridian replies, from rooms away. Grace doesn't have the energy to follow. She could entertain him for a while, at least until he's done with this projectile math needed to get closer to their destination.
She stomps in within what he presumes is thirty minutes. Something he can sparse from the clock she stuck to the wall in the laboratory. An arbitrary time chosen by her and the ship system. It's almost dinner-time.
She's wearing something casual, which always upsets his chest. A sense of domesticity to it almost. Like the gray sweats and big sweater don't swallow her whole. Her hair is mused on one side, evidence of her dozing off at the med-bay desk again. Something he caught her doing from time to time when he snuck into her space. It took real willpower to not tuck her frizzy hair behind her ear.
Her eyes narrowed at him, something unserious about the whole situation had him giggling at her rather than trembling. It only brought her further into the room, her hand smacking against the table next to him as she found balance in front of him again.
She still struggled with the gravity, from time to time. Long-term affects they both figured.
His hand reaches forward, long fingers curling around her back as he continues to sit in his stool. His eyes find hers, his glasses crooked at the bottom of his nose. Giggling still, he tries to ignore the bashful look she sends his way.
"What is Rocky nagging me about?"
Her hand finds his, uncurling his fingers from her warm hitched-waist he pushes his stool a little bit back. Folding his arms across his chest he shakes his head.
"He's going on about how I sleep back here. He had a billion questions about it."
"Why?"
Grace sighs, standing to level with her. "The hell if I know?" He shrugs, shooting a smile towards her. She reaches to rub the sleep from her eyes.
Rocky interrupts, rolling into the room rather sloppily in his makeshift hamster ball that he still has yet to get the hang of.
"Why run. Question."
She scoffs, eyebrows raising as she turns to crouch in front of the curious alien.
"I did not run!"
"You did. Statement."
"Rude."
"Don't understand. Ignore questions. Why no let Grace protect. Question."
She stands, cocking her head to face him again. "What is he talking about? I think I'm missing at least half of a conversation."
He turns away from her, looking back to the whiteboard again. She was too distracting with the look on her face. He hides his smile behind a hand, and pretends to be busy with the not-so-complex math scrawled on his board.
"It's about the sleeping arrangements, I told you." He laughs, his shoulders shaking.
She crouches in front of the alien again, "Rocky, I sleep up front so I'm closer to the cockpit. I explained what the cockpit was, remember? It's like your ships control-room. Just in case we need to move the ship."
Rocky gets frustrated, running around in his ball, his computerized voice unable to translate the aliens hemming and hawing. She sighs, settling on the floor to ease the weight off her hips. Rocky settles in front of her again, but quickly makes his way over to excessively ram himself into his shins. He makes his way over to her, settling on the floor next to her to be lectured at by the alien.
"You no answer. Know why she sleep by control-room. Safety of ship. Why not safety of her. Question."
"What?" Her brows furrow, and she groans as she unfolds her legs out in front of her, rubbing at her knees. He doesn't think much of it as he reaches over to soothe the ache in her joints, his fingers rubbing above her knee.
"Eridians watch over each other when they sleep. They are very vulnerable when they sleep, so they take shifts."
She sighs, her shoulders drooping as she hums out a sound of relief. "I've not seen Rocky sleep?"
"No sleep as often as humans." Rocky interrupts. "Not as squishy." He reasons, nodding his head.
Her hand meets his along her knees, fingers frozen over his forearm. "But what does that have to do with us, Rocky?"
"Protect." Rocky answers. She cocks her head again, turning her gaze to Grace again. He's unsure when he became the Rocky-whisper-er, but her curiosity may kill him. So will that damn look.
Ryland sighs. "Rocky… watches us sleep."
She seems less confused by this, "Okay?"
"Okay. Statement." He interrupts again. "Lot of work!" The Eridian exaggerates, running around the room in his ball. "Not close. Be closer. Less work for Rocky."
Her shoulders sag. She levels a look back at him, deep eyes-exhausted, but utterly amused by the alien. She seemed more alive, to him, when she gave-way to the pushiness of their new roommate. She didn't seem the type to usually bend to another commands, but she usually did for Rocky.
It was endearing, at the very least.
She nodded her head up, and he shot to his feet, quickly extending his hands to help her to her own. Hands trailing from her forearms to her back to steady her. Her hands curling around his biceps, trails of warmth left in their wake.
She's laughing almost the entire time, her shoulders stuttering and that amused breathy-laugh escaping her distracting mouth. She's the first to step out of his loose-embrace, turning to face their roommate again.
"Alight Rocky." She hums, trailing a hand along the top of his enclosure, like a pat on the head. Not that Rocky understood the intricacies of human contact. Not that Grace was jealous.
She meanders to his white board, examining his work. Corrects a calculation and plants herself back in front of him to hand off the whiteboard marker.
"Dinner is soon, okay?" She hums again, smile crinkling the edges of her eyes. "When you're done with the pathway go ahead and bring it upfront, I'll need it for charting."
He nods, bringing his hands to his pockets. Hiding away fingers that wish to creep along the edge-line of her hair.
Her face flushes, that bashful look again. He balls up his hands inside his pockets.
"And bring your bed back to the med-bay."
She leaves quickly, her voice ringing as she calls for Rocky.
"Need your help with something!" She calls, and is gone from site in the next. Her warmth taken with her.
Rocky seems almost cocky as he turns to Grace.
"I help." He nods his head, arms waving around him, before pointing at him. "You're welcome, Grace."
How can a computer sound so smug?
After Rocky's insistence on sharing at least a bedroom, a lot more of their things seemed to become jumbled together.
They both of course seemed to have come with very minimal things. A box of mismatched shirts and pants each, along with minimal pictures and knick-knacks. Their previous crew-mates seemed to have packed more.
Grace remembers his lodgings back on Earth, from before. Remembers the crampt space on that research boat, remembers Stratt and the mismatched quilt his mother made him that followed him all the way out to that desolate boat and his minimal quarters.
The quilt came with him to space, also. He must have dictated it as important enough to shove in the small storage compartiment they alloted for each person onboard. It took up the majority of his space, along with several t-shirts that followed him from his teaching days to now. And several pairs of beloved lounge-pants he brought from the research ship to here also.
He must not have had a lot of time to decide what to bring, so most of his luggage was clothing.
It seemed she had the opposite problem. He has seen her cycle through approximately three pairs of shirts, two sweaters, and two pairs of pants- in their time together. It seems he shoved his entire closet in his compartment.
She spent a lot of time half-in half-out of their orange maintenance suits. Something that caught him off-guard the first time he saw her bent and working at a bench with the suit on, like he had seen her dressed similarly before.
There are little things, little blips of his memory that resurfaces from time to time, and he makes an effort to log it.
He is a teacher— middle school. He has a doctorate, a well-worn bike, and an empty apartment in Cleveland. He remembers Stratt and the research and, obviously, what their mission is. He remembers meeting Olyesya and Yao, but not many details of the people individually.
And he remembers her, her intrusion into his laboratory from time to time, how she made space on the back bench to work on odd PCB's she would shrug off and never explain. How she usually brought along random books to read, and how he would chatter the day away, and how he never really expected her to respond.
He remembers enjoying the company.
He remembers he knew her, knew her well. Knew about her, knew the overarching picture of her. Her mothers name, an old friends picture hung on her rooms' wall. The old watch her father gave her loose on her wrist.
He can't quite remember if they ever inhabited the same room to sleep together, though.
The med-bay spaces had overhanging beds—like bunk beds. To conserve space they built up rather than out. Or she built it up rather than out.
Now though, Rocky protested the ladders, and had once again bruised his shins with his insistence that they both ensure they were on what was dictated as the "ground level" when the gravity was activated. She took the ground bunk, and he put his badly-padded twin mattress on the floor somewhat close to her. Chivalrous of him, and he had boasted as such to her also. It at least amused her.
She slept rather erratically, but hard. A slight snore caught in the back of her throat at times. He would adjust a pillow below her neck and pretend he didn't thread his fingers through her hair about every other night.
Again, heavy sleeper.
In sharing closer quarters, his intrusive self finally discovered what was in her luggage he didn't have the heart to break into before. Minimal pieces of clothing, a scattering of pictures, and lots of books.
She seemed to not have a favorite genre either. He's spotted her with classics— Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. Seen her with romance novels he couldn't place past the questionable covers they had. Mysteries and crime novels. Two huge textbooks with huge citation sections. She guarded each, and rarely went a day without cracking one open. She tended to read before bed. Something to settle her mind and heart, and she would doze off with them still folded open on her chest.
It was incredibly cute.
Rocky had his usual list of questions when it came to "books". He understood the logging of history, although it seemed his language was best translated by pictures rather than an alphabet, as he emphasized with his markings etched upon his limbs. They had oral stories and songs for entertainment, so a whole textbook with knowledge of complex subjects excited the alien. She'd read to him often, when things came into a lull, and then would answer his questions along the way. She in turn would inquire about some of Rocky's cultural stories also, asking for more details along the way. Speaking of their own respective homes soothed everyone.
Grace thinks she would have made a good teacher. If she was one.
He remembers her being around, but not who or what she did at the research facility. He figures it must have been important if she was here with him. He remembers her coming to him, but never him to her. So it was hard to place her, when she simply etched herself into his day to day. Hard to remember much about her, when all of his memories simply seemed to include her. He'd turn, and she'd be there.
She did the same now, wandering from her own space back into his lab from time to time. It became more frequent as of recent, especially with their proximity and boundary lines interweaving now.
He made an observation as of recent. A hypothesis— a scientific jump in conclusion, really. That she tended to linger longer when his arms were exposed.
He tested it out, wore his shirts with jackets some days, and would change things up midday by discarding his jacket and claiming he simply became too warm. Even though at times it was freezing.
He set a control, testing out the longevity of her prescense at the edge of the room when he has his cardigan on. The frumpy thing hides all of him, but he has a growing feeling that she used to steal it from him. When she could.
She enters and exits the lab for no real reason, just like she always used to. But she doesn't linger like she used to in those fractured memories he carries around of her. Something sad and wistful in her furrowed brow. Like she knows something, but is always wondering if he may still be there when she turns and leaves again. So she darts around the ship, exercising her weary muscles and hovering for approximately four minutes and forty three seconds— on average. When he's wearing that stupid cardigan.
When he isn't she stays for much longer, which he prefers. He's always performed best with a student leering over his shoulder, like he has something to prove. Rocky is said student, of course, but she's the principal perched in back of his classroom. A checklist in hand and an easy observation on her tongue. She settles the class and disrupts every nerve he can even begin to grasp. But he's reminded of some distinct part of his humanity when she's there. He feel more him.
So, yes, he is essentially selling himself out for a smidge of some comfort. A hint of his past that must have excited him at some point. The excitment being her, of course. She feels like the orbital point in every room.
She changes the tide of this silent war one random "morning". His shirt found it's way into her limited rotation, and it sent him stuttering.
"Uhhhh…" Short-circuiting, reeling really, he full on faces her as she meanders in through the door-way.
She seems self-assured, her face gets all fixed and calculated as she cocks an eyebrow at him. Her hips naturally falling in that crooked way as she stands before him. A question in her eyes, that he knows if he answers she'll… win. Whatever this turned into.
He can't think of anything intelligent, though he feels he rarely does when she enters his stratosphere. Just extends his hand, almost to bridge the distance, only to rethink it as nothing but nonsense flies through his head.
"Mine…", he finally concludes.
It has her face blooming, cracking into that so-human way that reminds him of sunrise. Unassuming and beautiful.
Unfortunatly, dusk quickly follows, as she flies back out of the room in the direction she entered.
Rocky chirps, his language not translating with the current minimal words he has entered into the computer-translator. He sighs, positioning himself back infront of the computer to translate Rocky's words in to a concise translation in the program.
Idiot.
"Get over here Grace."
"Why the hell are we even out here."
The lanky, accident-ridden scientist she had become close with was stumbling behind her, the gravel path wet beneath them. They didn't usually take walks for lunch, tending to find themselves at the edge of every room. The brisk air shocked her as she tugged the scientist outside, quickly concluding she would need at least one of the many layers Grace seemed to always have on.
His cardigan sleeves hang from her arms, her boots slipping on her feet as she makes her way from the path into a wet, green field. The research center crests into view as she makes her way back to it.
"Did we come out just for a walk? It's a little cold for that." Grace questions behind her, his breath heavy in the cool air.
"You needed a break." She answers. He had been bent over calculations and test-tubes and gadgets for so long now, she didn't know him to do much else. As the clock dwindled down to launch-day her doctor had become quieter in the last few weeks, more contemplative. It scared her, as she had never known him to be quiet— ever. She figured he came out the womb with a full vocabulary, the way he ran through lectures on the daily.
She didn't mind at first, and then quickly came to crave his voice. Though she would never admit that to him. Unsure if he would become cocky concerning her admission, or if he may flush in that confrontational way he does when he has to speak during meetings. She didn't want to chance it, even if she figured it was a 50/50 shot.
He was quiet now, quiet during meals, and quiet during work. Quiet when she would visit, and gave rather clipped answers to her questions these days. It unsettled her.
"I do not." Grace interjects, his hand shooting out to pull her arm. She turned to face the man now. His face flushed from the walk and the air, his hair a mess from the costal wind.
"You do." She answers again, something final in her. He accepts this with ease, his fingers finding her own now. He nods, pulling her closer.
He sighs again, his shoulders drooping, his glasses slipping. She reaches forward, pressing the heavy spectacles back up his arched nose.
"I'm just." He pauses, considering. "Just having a hard time wrapping my head around…"
"Around?"
"Around this." He throws his hands up, emphasizing where they stand. "Around this mission. Around this deadline. Around…" He points his hands again, his gaze coming back to her. "Around all of it."
She knew what he meant. Upon her first introduction to Grace he had protested the… finality… of the mission. Although the name was fitting, he struggled to accept the "one-way-ness" of the mission they both had their hands in creating.
He felt a real moral obligation to prove himself to the colleagues that did not believe in him, of course. But he also wanted to truly help Earth, something Stratt had emphasized every time Grace teetered on the edge of hesitation.
But death was death, even if everyone but him could see the benefits outweighed the costs.
Meeting the astronauts didn't help him, nor did the doom of a two-week impending timeline they were currently locked into. Mary would launch in less than fourteen days, and Grace felt a genuine sense of distress when it came to the technical end of three people's lives.
Partially, she figured, because they had a hand in doing it.
She never thought of the moral-ness of it. Never considered anything but the time left on this ticking Earth coming to a tragic and frightful end— unless she helped. So she did.
She appreciated Grace's opposition, none the less. Enjoyed his softness, his contemplative consideration for others. Something she felt she lacked at the best of times. But she had some real contention with the way it sat on his shoulders and dug into his mind every day now. She wished he knew how important he was, how brave it was despite everything, to go against what his heart may be telling him at the moment.
She wished he knew.
She stops, squeezing his hand in her own. She reaches into her pants pockets, pulling out a compact digital camera. There was a reason she pulled him out here. To immortalize this time together with him, even if he didn't think what they were doing should ever see the light of day. It could take years for all their work to unfold and prove fruitful, that is, if this half-hazard mission garnered any success to begin with.
She wanted to remember this, for what it was at the time. Capture them in the moment in hopes they could one day look back on it fondly.
Or at least, so she could.
"For the history books." She hummed, a glint in her eyes. Something hidden between her intent.
He sighs, flinging his arm casually behind her back and pulling her closer. His yellow coat crumpling under her hand as she fixes her face to the camera held out in front of her.
The only room that she could escape to from time to time now was the holo-room. Projections of Earth cycle through a loop— a never ending feeling of nostalgia hits her when she enters here, now.
The pictures of Earth hurt her much less than the memories folded and crumpled into her hands now. Pictures of a life gone, one she catches in glimpses.
All the best parts seem to be at the end, anyways.
There is a peace in the growing doom of it all, and she can tell it upsets Grace more. Not that she could ever fault anyone for being fearful of an end.
She remembers his apprehension well, his furrowed brow and the wind in his hair. He had been frightful then, of other's impending doom. Afraid of the hand they both played in it, and the consquences if their last-ditch-effort proved for naught.
She remembers breakfasts and lunches and dinners. Remembers his close-quarters and his students drawings strewn along his desktop. Remembers their bickering, his reluctance and quick acceptance, and his wind-kissed lips.
He had been everything of Earth to her, wrapped into one. She had found comfort in their shared crime to help humanity, and imagined making herself comfortable in any corner of the world her doctor decided to flee too. She'd follow him anywhere.
Even to space, it seems. Even though she doesn't remember him ever volunteering for the task to begin with.
It's the last memory to the puzzle of them, in her mind. Even though her doctor lagged behind, she knew he'd soon remember her jumbled figure in all of his memories leading up to now. Didn't feel like overwhelming the man as they both scrambled to make peace in their floating casket she had conviently made for them.
Her memory is most hazzy in the last moments, flashes of Stratt plague her mind, of meetings she passes notes with Grace at, of kicking her feet upon his lap as they lounge about in his room. A quick flash of an explosion, edging along that foggy horizon-line.
She can't reason it out, can't see her doctor every willingly stepping foot off of Earth. His eyes blurry in her memory, his shaking hands reaching for her as he pled— pled for something.
No, he wouldn't have. Can't imagine, can't reason his death. Even now it seems to be the hardest thing to swallow.
He better not have been chasing after her, of all people.
"Rocky help. Question."
The alien surprises her, mainly because he's never been this quiet before. The little transporter-communicator she has tapped into the translator computer crackles on her belt. The aliens computerlized voice has her shoulders drooping.
Sniffling, she rearranges her face to look at her new friend. "Hello, pal."
"Rocky help. Why wet. Question."
She sniffles again, reaching out to the creatures hamster-like enclosure. Her hand runs around it's edges, centering her mind back to the present.
"I'm just upset is all, Rocky. I'm sorry, but I don't think theres anything you can do."
"Rocky try." She giggles, facing the alien now.
Their new roommate was admittidly the best part of their one-way trip. His insightfulness and knowledge was of course a plus, but his prescense was also a balm on her growing uneasiness. Everyday they got closer to a solution, they got closer to the end.
And she was selfish. She wanted more time. More time with Rocky, and more time with her doctor.
"Rocky doesn't need to," she interrupts the aliens melodic humming, "him being here is enough."
The alien seems relieved by this, his curious nature taking hold.
"What that. Question." His ball rolls forward, nudging her thigh and hands.
Her hands uncrumple, the photo lined and folded several times. Well loved and traveled, she had kept the photo close since opening her luggage in this very room. The significance escaped her, but it made her breath hitch then. Just as it does now.
"It's us, pal." A picture of her and Grace unfolds in her hands, the research facility blurry in the backround.
The alien chirps again, the translator unable to decipher the deeper meaning of her friends words. She imagines it to be a word, one untranslatable. Like those languages on Earth that have those very distinct feelings tied to one big word.
She hums then too, looking back at the photo she wishes she could go back in time to adjust.
Because her doctor is never positioned quite how she wants, his handsome face veered to the side, his eyes forever fixated on her.
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Author's Note: Oh ho ho. I hurt my own feelings today, guys
Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!
"So why'd you become a teacher?" She asks as she walks into his little lab on the naval ship.
Ryland pulls back from the microscope, adjusting his glasses to look up at her. Immediately, he flushes when he sees her. She's wearing his shirt —the one he gave her —and holding two coffees in her hands. She's wearing shorts, with the hem of the shirt tucked into the band of them, and Ryland can't stop his eyes from following the length of her legs to the floor. She has an anklet on one leg —just a little string tied in a knot with a little star charm —and two tattoos on each knee.
That's what his eyes really focus on —two little bees, bright yellow and shaded in.
"Because I'm the bees knees," she provides, and he blushes even more when he realizes he's been caught.
"Oh —I'm sorry —I wasn't —," but he cuts himself off, looking back up at her face. She's smiling at him, and he realizes he…doesn't really need to be awkward with her. Easier said than done, of course. "You are," he confirms, then clarifies. "The bees knees, I mean."
She smiles a little wider at that, like she's genuinely happy that he thinks so.
"I know," she says easily, crossing the room and holding out one of the coffees to him. "But I'm glad you think so too."
Ryland takes it, fingers brushing against hers as he does. Their eyes meet for a moment, and everything sort of short-circuits in his mind. He clears his throat, stepping back from her and bumping into the table and nearly knocking over the vials next to the microscope.
"You asked about teaching," he says, like he's trying to remember how conversations are supposed to work.
"I did," she confirms, leaning her hip against the edge of the table. She takes a sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup in a way that is…not subtle. Not anymore, at least.
It makes him a little nervous, honestly. Not in a bad way; just in a very noticeable way.
He nods, turning back to the microscope for a second before realizing he can't focus on anything with her standing there like that. Ryland straightens again, slipping his glasses under his chin.
"Uh —yeah. Teaching," he repeats. "It's…loud. Very loud. Kinda overstimulating, honestly. And there's always at least one kid asking a question that has nothing to do with anything. And at least one kid that absolutely understands everything and is deeply bored about it."
She hums softly, like she's filing it away. "I was the deeply bored kid —which were you?"
He huffs out a quiet laugh. "Oh, I was definitely the annoying question kid. No one wanted me in their group."
"I find that hard to believe," she says, shifting her weight from one leg to another.
He glances at her, a little skeptical. "You've known me for what? Two months?"
"Long enough."
That does something to him again —that same quiet, steady warmth that spreads from his chest to the rest of his body. He's still not sure how to handle it.
He looks down at his coffee for a second, then back up at her.
"I like it," he says, softer now. "Teaching, I mean. It's…messy. And unpredictable. But when it works —when a kid gets it —it's…," he trails off, searching for the word. Then he shakes his head slightly. "It's what I was meant to do."
She watches him the whole time he talks, focused. She doesn't interrupt, she doesn't tease him. She just…listens, and softens the more he speaks. It makes him a little self-concious, but not enough to stop.
"You'd be good at it," he adds, almost as an afterthought.
That catches her off guard, and he can see it. "Teaching?"
He nods, taking a sip of his coffee. "Yeah. You've got the patience for it. And the way you explain things —you don't just say them. You…you wait. Like you expect people to process and actually understand you."
She considers that for a second, looking down at her coffee. "I don't think I have the patience for children," she admits.
"You have the patience for me," he points out.
That earns him a look. A very specific look —with a teasing grin on her face as she says, "Barely."
He smiles a little more at that, ducking his head. There's a pause then as she pushes herself off the table, stepping a little closer. Her gaze drifts down to his desk briefly before returning to him.
"You like it," she says, more to herself than to him. "The chaos and the noise."
He nods. "I do, yeah."
"And you chose that," she continues, studying him again in that way she always does. "You could have stayed in research."
"I couldn't," He shrugs lightly. "Anyway, I'm better with middle schoolers than I am with professional scientists."
That earns a small but genuine laugh from her. "Yeah, I've noticed that."
He smiles at the sound, committing it to memory. It softens quickly, something quieter slipping in around the edges.
"It's fun, too," he concludes. "I just…genuinely enjoy it."
Her expression shifts at that —nothing dramatic, but enough for him to feel the shift in the air. Because they both know what she's about to do —she's about to help the world in the biggest way possible. Committed her life to it. And for a moment, something unspoken seems to pass between them —something heavier than the easy teasing that's carried most of their conversations so far.
Ryland feels it, even if he doesn't fully understand it.
So he does what he always does when things get too big —he tries to make it smaller.
"Well," he says, clearing his throat slightly, gesturing vaguely toward her. "You're definitely not helping my ability to focus today."
Her brow lifts, amused. "Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah," he says, nodding seriously. "The shirt is very distracting. It's hard to focus when I want to correct it so much."
She glances down at herself, then back up at him, a slow smile forming. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," he continues, stepping closer. Feeling a little more confident than before. "Maybe I need to take it back."
She takes a step closer now too. "No," she says simply.
He exhales a quiet laugh, but it catches a little in his chest.
"Yeah, no —I uh…I like seeing you wear it," he admits.
There's a beat, then her hand lifts again. Her fingers brush lightly against the fabric of her shirt —his shirt, their shirt —before settling against his chest. She's not pushing him, or pulling him. But she's just touching him, and Ryland knows that she can feel his heart racing against her palm.
"You didn't answer my question," she says finally.
He blinks, brow furrowing. "What question?"
"Why you became a teacher," she clarifies.
Ryland hesitates a moment, and the truth settles in his chest.
"I…I wanted to matter to someone," he admits.
It's a sad thing to admit, he thinks. No immediate family, no partner, not even a dog. But he has his students, and those are his kids. And he loves them dearly, and misses them the longer he's away.
But his words hang in the air, heavier than anything else he's said. Her gaze turns a little sad, fingers curling into the fabric of the shirt he's wearing. It makes his breath hitch in his throat, the way she's looking at him.
"You do," she promises him. "You matter to me."
And then she kisses him again, less careful than the first. And he kisses her back almost immediately, because he knows now that this is what they both want.
He leans into it this time without hesitation, his hand coming up to her waist more naturally now. Like he's learned something since the last time she kissed him. And the world narrows around them —down to her, to her warmth. To the quiet and nearly impossible reality that this is happening at all.
Ryland tries not to focus on the fact that she's going to leave him, and it's going to devastate him. He can't let that ruin what he has in front of him now, because he needs to hold onto this —to her —as long as he can.
When she pulls back, she stays close, forehead pressed against his. His lips chase hers, refusing to let go of her just yet, and he kisses her again. When he pulls back, he has his arms wrapped around her waist and he refuses to let her go.
That's when he feels the tears on his cheeks —but they're not his.
They're hers.
He whispers her name softly, pulling back to take her face in his hands. She lets out a watery laugh, shaking her head as she tries to pull back from him. But Ryland doesn't let her get far.
"I'm sorry," she breathes out, wiping her eyes, trying to push his hands away. But he won't let her.
"You don't need to apologize," he reassures her, thumbs wiping away the tears that keep falling. "It's —it's normal to cry. It's okay, I promise. I cry, like, all the time."
Another shakey laugh escapes her lips and soon, her arms are wrapped around his middle, hugging him tight. Ryland doesn't hesitate to hold her close to his chest, pressing his lips to the top of her head.
"I wish we'd met before this," she mumbles into his shirt, shoulders trembling now.
"I do too." Ryland feels his own tears start fog up his glasses. He wants to say it. He can feel it bubbling up in his chest, and it wants to break through his ribs. Tell her. "I —,"
"Dr. Grace, I need you to —,"
Stratt's voice freezes in the doorway, and the two doctors reluctantly pull away from her each other. Stratt narrows her eyes for a fraction of a second, and Ryland wants to tell her to leave so they can have a moment. But he knows well enough that whatever she's here for, she'll get.
"Dr. Grace," Stratt starts again. She greets the other doctor with the same sharpness. "You are needed for this next meeting, Dr. Grace. If you'd gather your findings and join me."
Say it. Turn around and say it, he keeps telling himself. But instead, Ryland simply nods and smiles softly down at the doctor beside him.
"I'll see you at dinner," he promises, and he does press a kiss to the top of her head one more time.
Ryland doesn't catch the look the doctor and Stratt share as he gathers his research. If he had, he would have seen Stratt's edges soften just barely —almost apologetically. A look that is the warmest she's been since they'd gotten on the ship.
A look that says Stratt may have let the doctor change her mind if she had asked.
*****
"Hi, Grace. Hi, doc."
Ryland and her share a glance before looking back down at Rocky again. Ryland leans against the hatch of their ship.
"You're…in a ball."
"So Rocky no die in Grace atmosphere," Rocky explains, rolling between the two doctors and into the ship. "I come up."
"Rocky —," she starts, side stepping out of his way because Rocky is absolutely going to run her down if she doesn't.
"Grace and Rocky and doc. Big science!"
Ryland chases after Rocky as he speeds through the ship, knocking into walls and tables as he goes. She's mostly just watching the chaos, following a few steps behind with her arms crossed and amusement etched on her face. The Eridian is babbling as he goes, talking about wanting to see human technology and understanding human spaces.
"Science. Save Earth. Save Erid. Good plan," he's saying, bursting through the mental health wing of the ship. "This room boring."
"Rocky!" Ryland calls, but he's ignored.
"What is down here, question?" Rocky asks, bursting into the lab now. "Amaze, amaze, amaze. Rocky want to see human technology."
"This is the lab," she calls after the two, staying as out of Rocky's way as she can. "This is where we work."
"Dirty," Rocky says, rolling over piles of clothing that she and Ryland have tried to clean and leave around to dry. "Dirty, dirty, dirty. Why room so MESSY, question?"
"Well, I wasn't expecting company, was I?!" Ryland defends, throwing his hands in the air.
"Grace dirty mate. Doc deserve clean mate."
"Grace is a very dirty mate," she teases, and Ryland gives her an exasperated look. "What? You are."
"Stop that, don't encourage him," he chides, putting his hand up. "Rocky, my hand is up."
Rocky comes to a halt, looking up at Ryland expectantly. She's leaning against a table with the same amused grin as usual.
"You cannot just show up in a space ball unannounced and move into someone else's space ship. There has to be…boundaries."
"Boundaries," Rocky repeats.
"We have one mission," Ryland continues, gesturing to them all. Rocky is mimicking his movements, and she's just watching, brow raised. "But we are three seperate individuals, with our own distinct parts of the the mission. Separate."
"Separate," Rocky confirms. But then he takes off again. "Where my bedroom?"
"Bedroom!" Ryland groans, running after him again.
"Rocky take this room."
"No, no —this is her room," Ryland corrects, pointing back at her as she follows silently. "You can't just claim someone else's room."
"Doc not sleep with Grace, question?"
Ryland stops dead, floundering for a moment for an answer. Behind him, she chokes on a laugh. And she's not even subtle about it anymore. She has to press her hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tries to contain the laughter.
Rocky tilts sllightly in his ball, like he's evaluating the reaction. "Grace and doc mates, but no share room. Inconsistent."
"This is —," Ryland starts, then stops, because he doesn't even know how to respond to this conversation. "That's not how —no, that's not —,"
"Not efficient," Rocky concludes.
"Not your business," Ryland shookts back immediately.
That only seems to make Rocky more curious. Meanwhile, she's given up entirely on pretending to be composed. She's leaning back against the wall now, openly laughing, and Ryland can feel the heat creeping up his neck.
"This isn't funny," he insists, pointing at her.
"It's actually very funny," she counters, still smiling at him.
"It's not —we are not having this conversation with him," he continues, gesturing wildly at Rocky, who is now very clearly paying attention to both of them. Clearly collecting data on human interaction, no doubt.
"Grace and doc still mate, question?"
"Oh my god," Ryland mutters, dragging his hands down his face. "That's not —we haven't —,"
Rocky turns, very deliberately, toward her. "Doc, question?"
She straightens slightly, still smiling, but there's something questioning in her eyes now. Ryland risks a glance at her, but it's mistake; she's looking at him. Not amused, or teasing. She's not even laughing anymore. She's just…waiting. Which is new.
And significantly more dangerous.
"I think," she begins, eyes still on Ryland. "That's something Grace should answer."
He blinks —once. Twice. Rocky turns back to him again.
"Grace, answer."
"This is —this is a hostile environment," Ryland manages to say, but it's not as joking as he needs it to be.
"Grace," Rocky prompts.
He exhales sharply, looking anywhere but at either of them for second. But then, inevitably, he looks back at her. There she is, still waiting. Still watching him a curious smile, like she's waiting for him to decide their fate.
And suddenly, this feels a lot less like Rocky being instrusive and a lot more like something he's been avoiding getting handed back to him.
"Okay," he says, pushing his glasses back up like that might help him think better. It doesn't. "First of all, the sleeping arrangements are…irrelevant. That's not what…defines anything."
"Define what, question?"
Ryland pauses for a second, looking between the alien and the doctor. For once, he decides, he doesn't want to deflect this into something easier. He looks at her again.
"It doesn't decide anything about our relationship," he says finally, a little quieter now. "It's just…," he hesitates, searching for the words so he doesn't say the wrong thing. "Sleeping in the same room isn't the same as…choosing the same person. Over and over. Even when things get…weird. Or hard. Or —," he gestures vaguely to the ship around them. "This."
Rocky is very still now, and Ryland wonders if he's looking at the two humans like they're crazy. But he doesn't take his eyes off her now.
"And I do," he says. Promises, really.
There's a moment of silence in the ship. Then Rocky moves some, knocking into the table.
"Rocky understand. Grace choose doc."
"Grace chooses doc, yeah," he confirms. "And doc…?"
She smiles again, stepping towards him with her hand out. "Doc chooses Grace."
Ryland takes her hand. And for the first time in weeks, he's found something not complicated. Something that makes this entire, chaotic situation they're in feel —briefly —like the easiest thing in the world.
"I am not an astronaut!" He yells, banging his hands on the table. "I put the NOT in astronaut!"
Across the table, Stratt watches him as he spirals. Beside him, she is giving Stratt a look that could melt the icecaps.
"You can't force a civilian into this," she states, but that earns her a narrowed eyed look from Stratt and the people at the table. "Glare at me all you want —you know I'm right."
"I think that you are biased, doctor," Yao points out, and the rest seem to nod in agreement.
Her nostrils flare, and she shoves up from her chair, pointing at Stratt now. "If I was biased, I'd be selfish. I'd be thrilled to have him with me up there. But I am not biased and I am not selfish."
The room stills at this. Ryland, specifically, stops fidgeting in his seat as he looks up at her. Not because she raised her voice —she hasn't. But because there's something sharp and sincere in how she says it; something that hits him so hard in the chest that he realizes what she means.
Thrilled to have him with me.
She doesn't want to leave him. She wants to be with him.
But she can't be —and she's standing up for him in a way no one has in a long time.
"I am not interested in your emotional assessment of the situation," Stratt says flatly. "I am interested in whether Dr. Grace can complete the mission."
"He can't," she fires back immediately. "Not like this. Not when you're trying to force his hand. Not when he doesn't want to do it."
"I don't," Ryland jumps in, because that feels important to clarify for himself. "I super don't, actually."
Stratt doesn't even look at him. No one does, actually, and that somehow makes it worse.
Yao folds his hands on the table, calm in a wau that feels forced. "Willingness is not always prerequisite for necessity."
Ryland gives him an incredulous look, but she snaps at the commander before a coherent argument can form.
"That is not how consent works."
"That's not how survival works," Stratt counters, just as quickly.
The words land heavy, finality spreading through the room. Ryland feels like he's standing just slightly outside of his own body, watching the conversation happen around him instead of being in it. Like this is some kind of simulation and he's waiting for someone to break character and tell him it's not real.
It doesn't happen.
She turns back to him then, and the shift is immediate. The sharpness she had for Stratt softens —it's not gone, but it's not directed at him.
"Ryland," she says, quieter now. It's the first time anyone in this room has addressed by his first name and not his title. Like he's not the solution to the problem, but just…him.
He looks up at her, a little helplessly.
"I don't want you to do this because they're telling you that you have to," she continues. "Or because you think you owe anyone anything. You are nobody's soldier."
Stratt exhales sharply through her nose, clearly unimpressed, but she doesn't interrupt.
"Do not feel pressured by any of these people to sacrifice your life for the world," she adds, sitting down beside him again, taking his hand.
Ryland squeezes it tight, eyes on her and refusing to look at anyone else. For a second, everything else in the room fades. The table, the voices. The weight of what they're asking him to do.
It all narrows down to her hand in his.
"I don't want you to do this because of me, either," she says, more for him than anyone else in the room. "Not because of…this." Her thumb brushes lightly against his knuckles, grounding and steady. "It wouldn't be fair to you."
That pulls something tight in his chest.
“Yeah,” he breathes, though it doesn’t sound like agreement so much as acknowledgment. Like he understands the words, even if they don’t make anything easier.
Across the table, Stratt finally leans forward slightly, her patience clearly thinning. "This is not a philosophical excercise," she says. "We require a decision."
Ryland refuses to look at Stratt. Because he knows if he does, this becomes real again in a way that he's not ready for. The doctor's hand tightens in his, and he focuses on that. On the way she's looking at him. On the way she's letting him make the choice.
It would be easier if she wasn't looking at him like this.
Maybe it'd be easier if she was selfish and asked him to go with her. He thinks he'd go.
Actually, truthfully, he doesn't think he would. Does that make his feelings for her any less real, though?
His grip tightens around her hand for a second before he finally forces himself to look away, dragging his gaze back to Stratt and reality.
"I can't —," he starts, voice catching slightly. He clears his throat and tries again. "I can't decide this in five minutes."
"You have already been given all the relevent information," Stratt replies.
"Yeah, well," Ryland says, a little sharper now, his earlier frustrations bleeding back in. "Knowing things and processing things aren't the same."
A brief silence follows that, then more controlled, he asks, "Can I think about it?"
"No." His stomach drops, and the doctor tries to stand, but he keeps her close. Stratt studies him, eyes slightly narrowed. "You can have three hours."
"Three hours," he repeats, like maybe if he says it out loud, it'll sound less insane. It doesn't.
Stratt doesn't elaborate.
He lets out a breath, somewhere between disbelief and resignation, and nods once.
"Okay," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. Great. I'll just —," he gestures vaguely. "Rearrange my entire existence in the next hundred and eighty minutes. No problem."
No one reacts, except her, as she tightens her grip on his hand again. Just for a second. And when he glances back at her, she's still watching him like she's silently telling him not to do it.
The remainder of the crew leave them there, and Ryland isn't sure they even said good-bye. Though maybe they did; he's not really sure he would have heard them even if they had. His ears are ringing, and everything is sort of just happening around him still as he pulls off his beanie and glasses, dropping them both on the table.
"Am I a bad person if I don't do this?" He asks quietly, though he's fallen back in his chair and doesn't look at her.
"Not at all," she promises him, pulling back some. Giving him space. "It makes you human, Ry."
Ry. No one's called him that in so long. And now the one person that does is going to die in space, and he needs to decide if he wants to die with her.
"Can I…I need a minute alone," he manages to breathe out, wiping his eyes.
She doesn't hesitate, standing up. But she touches his cheek, and Ryland looks up at her with watery eyes. Then she presses her lips to his forehead, gentle but sure. He needs to tell her, he decides. He can't keep being a coward.
"I…I —," he starts off, but he can't bring himself to say it out loud.
"I know," she tells him, giving him a sad smile as she meets his gaze with her own teary one. "I do too."
He wishes that made the decision easier.
*****
The first thing she registers is the sound.
Not the alarms —those are constant now, background noise in the worst possible way —but the impact. A dull, violent crack that echoes through the whole structure of the ship, and straight through her body a fraction of a second before the pain hits.
Her shoulder slams into something solid —she thinks it's Rocky's barrier, but the thought doesn't fully form before something in her arm gives a sharp, sickening snap. The breath is knocked out of her lungs all at once, her vison flashing white at the edges as she drops to the floor and screams out.
For a moment, she can't move.
Not because she doesn't want to, but because he body simply refuses to respond. Pain is flooding her senses, bright and overwhelming, radiating from her arm down to her fingertips and up into her shoulder. It's distancing itself though. Muted now by something stronger. Louder.
Wrong.
The ship is still moving —still spinning, though slower now —and her equilibrium hasn't caught up. The world tilts in a way that makes no sense, and gravity is pulling inconsistently as she struggles to orient herself.
Then —,"
"Grace!" Rock's voices cuts through the haze, distorted by urgent in a way she's never heard before.
Everything else falls away. She forces herself up with her good arm, teeth gritting against the wave of nausea and pain that follows the movement. Her injured arm hangs uselessly at her side, but she ignores it, pushing through the disorientation until her vision steadies enough the focus.
Ryland is slumped over the console, too still. Something in her chest drops out entirely.
"No," she breathes, the word barely there as she stumbles forward, catching herself against the edge of the panel before forcing her legs to cooperate. The ship lurches again —not as violently but enough to remind her that nothing is stable and nothing is safe.
"Ryland," she calls, voice steadier than she feels. "Ryland, can you hear me?"
There's no response, though she half expected that. Up close, it's so much worse to see. There's blood where his face struck the console —smeared across the metal and his face. His body is slack, completely unresponsive.
For half a second, she freezes. Because this…this isn't how it's supposed to go. They aren't suppopsed to die violently in space; this wasn't part of the plan.
But before she can spiral, her training kicks in.
"Doc save Grace, question?" Rocky asks, and she thinks there's panic in the inflection. She can't tell.
"I'm going to try," she promises, carefully pulling Ryland back from the console with one arm, supporting his weight the best she can. "Mary, status of the ship?"
"Rotation decreasing," the ship's computer responds. "Ship unstable but fuel tanks are disengaged."
There's immediate relief, because even if the ship is unstable right now, it'll stabilize again soon. Hopefully.
She tries to undo the restraints holding Ryland in, but her hand doesn't want to work and frustration is starting to leak into her movements. If she can just…unclip this, then she can —,
But she can't treat him in here; the med bay has everything she needs and she can't leave Ryland alone to force her way through her own pain.
There's tapping, suddenly, against Rocky's barrier. She tries to ignore him for the moment, trying to figure out her best course of action. But the tapping gets louder; more violent. When she looks up finally, Rocky is breaking through his barrier.
"No," she corrects immediately, the word firm despite how tight her chest goes. "Rocky, don't do that."
"Rocky save Grace," Rocky replies, hammering against his barrier. "Rocky didn't save crew. Rocky save Grace."
"Opening that will kill you, Rocky," she reminds him harshly.
Rocky pauses, just for a moment. Like he's considering her words.
"Grace die sooner."
The remains of his barrier crack further as he forces himself fully through it, the change in atmosphere immediate and dangerous. His movements are slower now, heavier, but still purposeful as he approaches. The hissing sound of Rocky being exposed to her atmosphere is distracting. Her heart feels like it's breaking as Rocky pulls Ryland from the seat.
"Rocky —,"
"Grace priority," he says simply.
She swallows hard and nods once. Together, they try to lift him —awkward and uneven because her broken arm is making it clumsy —but it becomes immediately clear that it's not going to work.
"Wait," she breathes through the pain. "No —drag him. We don't have time."
Rocky adjusts immediately. He grips Ryland more securely —careful in his own way, but without the hesitation she has —and begins pulling him across the floor, moving with deliberate urgency toward the hallway. She follows as quickly as she can, one hand braced against the wall for balance as the ship continues to settle. Every step sends a jolt of pain through her arm, but she ignores it, eyes locked on Ryland as his body is dragged carefully but quickly through the ship.
Every step, black vapor comes off Rocky as he moves Ryland towards the medical bay. She's trying to think how she can save both of them now; how can she prevent Rocky's suffering.
She doesn't like being called out like that, but nods as the corridors blur past in uneven motion. The alarms are still blaring. The ship is dark outside the flashing of the warning lights. She thinks it feels like a horror film, but doesn't focus on the thought as they finally make to the wing.
Rocky manuevers Ryland up onto the table with surprising precision given the circumstances.
"Place here," he says unnecessarily. "Save Grace."
"I'm going to," she promises. When she turns to Rocky, though, he's slowly making his way back to his ball. "Rocky —,"
"Rocky…sleep now."
"Rocky —,"
"Doc…watch Rocky sleep, question?"
She nods, tears in her eyes as she does. "I'll save him, and we'll both watch you sleep, okay? But you have to —you have to wake up, okay?"
Rocky doesn't respond, disappearing down the hallway. For a long time, she watches where the alien once was and the trail he's left behind.
Then she forces herself into doctor mode, pushing through the pain the best she can. All of it gets pushed aside. She steps in close, bracing her hip against the table to steady herself as she leans over him.
“Ryland, can you hear me?” she says, firm now —clear, projecting.
No response. She doesn’t wait for one.
Her hand moves to his jaw, tilting his head back just enough to open his airway. Her fingers press lightly beneath his chin, checking for obstruction, watching his chest.
“Airway clear,” she murmurs, half to herself, half to the robotic arms that are pulling out tools for her.
His chest rises. Falls. It's shallow, but consistent.
She leans closer, listening, feeling for breath against her cheek.
“Breathing spontaneous,” she confirms, voice tight but controlled. “Rate’s…elevated, but he’s compensating.”
Her fingers move to his neck again, pressing just below his jawline. Pulse. She counts under her breath, eyes flicking to the nearest display for time reference.
“Pulse is fast. Regular,” she says. “Probably adrenaline, shock —,”
Her gaze shifts to his face. Blood is still seeping from a cut along his brow, trailing down toward his eye. There’s swelling already forming where he hit the console.
Head trauma.
Her stomach drops —but her hands don’t hesitate. She works one-handed, clumsy but efficient —grabbing gauze, pressing it firmly but carefully against the wound to control the bleeding.
“Ryland,” she tries again, louder this time. “Open your eyes.”
Nothing, so she shifts tactics. Her hand moves to his shoulder, giving it a firm shake —not enough to harm, but enough to stimulate.
“Ryland, stay with me.”
Still nothing. Her jaw tightens.
“Unresponsive to verbal and physical stimuli,” she says quietly, the clinical language grounding her even as something tight coils in her chest. “Likely concussion. Possibly worse.”
She adjusts the gauze, securing it as best she can with one hand before moving lower, checking along his collarbone, ribs —pressing gently, watching for any reaction.
“Any other injuries…?” She mutters.
There are no other visible deformities, nor immediate signs of internal bleeding. His breathing, while shallow, is even. That’s good…That’s something. Her hand hovers over his sternum for a second before she presses —firm, deliberate.
“Come on,” she murmurs under her breath.
There’s the faintest shift, though it's not much. It is, however, enough. Relief flickers through her —small and fragile.
“Good,” she says, softer now. “That’s good. Stay with me.”
She reaches for a penlight, flicking it on and lifting one of his eyelids carefully. Pupil response. Sluggish, but there.
“Pupils reactive,” she exhales, some of the tension easing just slightly. “That’s…that’s good.”
She repeats it for the other eye, confirming. Then she finally allows herself to pause —just for a second —her hand resting lightly against the side of his face, grounding herself in the warmth there, in the fact that he is still here. Still alive.
She tries not to think about Rocky.
Instead, she leans in just slightly, her voice dropping—no longer projecting, no longer clinical.
“Ryland,” she says, softer now. “You’re okay. You’re…you’re going to be okay.”
Her hand finds his, fingers curling around his instinctively. She ignores the pain her broken arm, even as the robotic arms try to get her to be treated.
They got the collector.
The thought surfaces again, fragile but insistent.
They did it. It has to mean something.
“You’re not allowed to miss this,” she murmurs, leaning closer, her voice softer now —trembling fro either pain or shock or something else she can't name. “Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave right after we finally get something right.”
Her grip tightens slightly.
“I’m not done with you yet,” she adds, quieter.
"Eye movement detected," Mary says, and Ryland blinks up through the darkness of the ship. "Good morning, Dr. Grace."
He stares at the ceiling for a long time, breathing in and out. His face hurts, and so does his head. There's an oxygen mask strapped to his face, and when he sits up, he yanks it off.
He's alone, too.
That's the first thing he really realizes. He's alone. Then he sees…ash, or something —it's training back towards the hull of the ship. There's barefoot prints following the trail as well, and Ryland feels something crack in his chest.
When he manages to get through to the lab —slow, confused —he freezes in the hallway.
A sling hangs over her chest, her right arm tucked into it. She's wrapped in his blanket, leaning up against Rocky's barrier, sleeping. Rocky is…not moving. Ryland doesn't want to think what he's thinking but he…he knows.
He slowly sits down beside her, whispering her name. When she doesn't stir, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into him, mindful of her arm, and presses his cheek into her hair. Then he says her name again.
"I love you," he whispers, and he feels her shift into his arms and begin to cry.
Ryland cries too; for Rocky. For her. For…everything.
