Jyar’ika

Mando’s bicep tenses as you slice away another fragment of melted flight suit, angling the sterilised scalpel to take only dead and blistered skin with it. It feels like you’ve been at this for hours already, and you can still barely believe you’re doing it.

Once your anger at his reckless actions had thawed, a rising panic soon replaced it. Overwhelmed, you’d resorted to your default coping strategy: bossiness. That familiar mask had helped until he’d bitten back with a threat that would’ve ended badly for you both. With his recovery contingent on earning his trust, you’d had to switch tactics.

Letting a hunter see your vulnerable side was a risk, but it had paid off. You’d matched honour with respect, and now that you’ve cracked that shell, your panic is slowly giving way to increasing sympathy. He seems… nice. You’re no longer performing this task out of necessity alone, and the genuine desire to help him adds confidence to your movements. It’s even allowed you to find a rhythm of sorts in your macabre work.

To his credit, Mando is a model patient, enduring his gruesome treatment with impressive fortitude. You’d predicted more of a fuss, but muscle twitches and sharp breaths are your only clues he’s feeling anything at all. Perhaps the bounty hunting life toughened him up. Nonetheless, you pay careful attention to his tells; you’d rather know if you’re slicing too deep.

Peeling away a congealed mess of skin and coarseweave from his inner elbow elicits a long exhale. He must’ve been holding his breath for this last one. You squirt saline over the freshly scraped wound, watching his fingers curl into a loose fist against the floor. They relax as you seal the bacta patch’s edges, concluding your treatment of his arms.

“Still doing okay?” you ask, searching the black visor for any hint of what might be happening behind it.

He dips his helmet in response, maintaining the silence he’s been cultivating since you helped him drink. Despite his earlier dry throat, he was borderline chatty throughout the prep stage, somewhat quelling your nerves. Now, the contrasting absence of dialogue feels palpable. You pray it’s just gritted teeth keeping him quiet, not regret at being stuck here with you.

With his arms taken care of, you reach for the vibroblade again and clear your throat. “I need to…” You trail off as you gesture toward his legs. “Is this still okay?”

Mando nods again, a sharper jerk that betrays his own discomfort, his muscles rippling with it.

Taking a deep breath to dispel your own misgivings about stripping a man you’ve only just met, you begin cutting. The outer seams of his pants part easily, no match for the humming blade. Now for the awkward part.

As soon as you lean in close to cut around the wounds, the tension climbs rapidly. Your knuckles brush against his bare thigh, and you feel the muscle jump beneath your touch. “Sorry,” you murmur, though you’re not entirely sure what for. He doesn’t reply.

Finally, the garment falls away, revealing golden skin patterned with scars. A map of past battles etches its way across gorgeously toned thighs, now freshly marred by blistered, debris-filled welts.

You swallow hard and try to focus on his wounds, but you can’t tear your eyes from the sculpted terrain of his legs and the insight it offers. An athlete’s strength. A warrior’s endurance. A human’s limitations. It’s a welcome distraction from the grim knowledge that you have yet more patches of fused flesh and fabric to excise.

Smearing on the bacta gel strains the atmosphere even further. Suddenly, you can’t seem to distinguish between a soothing motion and a sensual one. Aiming for clinically professional, you smooth the salve across the large burn near Mando’s groin, but your attention keeps drifting to the impressive bulge only centimetres away beneath his black undershorts.

That’s definitely not a blaster.

CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3

THUD! 

The slam of a tightly balled fist on the table in front of you made you gasp and jump, your head whipping around to face the threat you’d been trying to block out.

“Answer the karking question, poppet.” The Abyssin sneered at you from across the table. His oversized thugs hovered behind him, their hands resting on the holsters of their blasters to remind you that all it would take was one word from their boss and you’d be done for. 

Like I need reminding. 

The tip of your tongue slid across your split lower lip, finding a trickle of blood from where you’d caught a backhand when you were trying to escape the strangers who had attacked your home. You knew quite well what men like them were capable of. Their little show of power was unnecessary. You’d been acutely aware of the danger you were in from the moment they appeared on the property. That didn’t mean that you wanted to give them the satisfaction of showing them any fear, though. 

You swallowed and put all of your effort into keeping your voice even as you blinked at your captor. “Sorry, I was distracted by…” You lifted one hand to point at the discarded sheets, the binders around your wrists forcing the other hand to rise with it. Shaking your head, you sighed. “Can you repeat your question?” 

The Abbysin, who had introduced himself to you as Kol Karesh while his men had dragged you by your bound wrists and dumped you into the chair you were sitting in, growled in frustration. “The Mandalorian,” he hissed, palms flat against the table as he leaned across it to get closer to you. “Where is the Mandalorian that killed my brother?” 

Furrowing your brow, you decided to make your only move - a bluff. “Mandalorian?” You shook your head in question, doubling down on your gamble. “I… I think you’ve got the wrong place. Maybe even the wrong planet. I’ve never even seen-” 

Your lie was cut short when the gruff gangster’s meaty hand shot across the table to snatch the pendant hanging from your neck. He gave it a sharp yank, tugging you down so that your face came within a hair of hitting the table’s edge. You let out a yelp, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart.” Reaching behind you with his other hand, Kol snapped the leather string and came away with it. You picked your head up as soon as you could, your heart sinking as you watched the beskar Mudhorn charm dangle from his grip. “I know what this is. And I know who gave it to you.” He dropped the pendant and it landed on the table, your eyes glued to the shape of the signet as you fought to hold back tears. “And I know that if you won’t tell me where he is…” You looked up, and the grin that filled the Abyssin’s pause made your stomach turn. “I can use you to make him come to me.” 

The goons crowding your small kitchen laughed at that, Karesh turning towards them to join in. But he spun back around as you spoke, none of the feigned naivete remaining in your voice. 

“Are you sure you want that?” It was your turn to let out a small chuckle even as you lost the battle and a lone tear slipped past your eyelid. “You must really miss your brother if you’re so eager to join him.” You laughed again, and you could tell the sound of it - along with what you were saying - was getting to Karesh from the way his face fell into a scowl. “He’s going to kill you. You know that?” You leaned to the left so you could see around your captor to make eye contact with his men. “All of you.” 

Karesh just clicked his tongue. “You underestimate me. See, I’ve got a plan.” He stepped around to your side of the table to give your cheek a pat, the contact making you flinch. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m in charge. I’ve made a lot of money by figuring out how to control people. The key,” he said, crossing his arms over his belly, “Is in pinpointing their weakness.” He jerked his chin down at the table, at the pendant Din gave you when he asked you to be his, and then looked back at you. “You’re the Mandalorian’s weakness. And that’s why you’re coming with us, poppet.” 

With that, he barked orders to his henchmen, and you were hauled out of the cabin and thrown on the back of a speeder. 

“Don’t even think about trying to run.” The biggest of Kol’s men, a heavily tattooed Quarren with a scar digging through one side of his face, sneered down at you from beside the speeder. You followed the movement of his hand as he used it to tap his holster again. “Boss just said I gotta get you back to his place alive.” The gnarled tentacles surrounding his mouth fluttered as he blew air through them in a humorless snort. “Didn’t say I couldn’t blast your kneecaps, though. So don’t make me have’ta do that. Understand?” 

Running would have been pointless anyway. The town was too far to reach on foot before nightfall, and the lava flats were prime reptavian hunting grounds after dark. Maybe you’d have a chance if you had a weapon. But bound and unarmed? It was a fool’s mission and you knew it. 

You gave him a curt nod, upper lip curled in disgust as you turned your head to look back at the cabin. What is he still doing in there? Karesh had yet to come outside, and your stomach turned at the thought of that scum inside your home. But then his squat shape filled the door frame and he strode smugly to where you and his crew were waiting. 

“Just had to take care of one last thing.” He climbed onto the back of the second speeder. “Needed to make sure the Mandalorian gets my invitation.” Kol stared directly at you as he continued. “And that he knows what will happen if he declines it.” 

At that, he laughed, shouting to his men to get to the ship, and then the speeders revved up and you were in motion. You kept your eyes on the fluttering white sheets until they shrunk from view. Silent, angry tears burned tracks down your cheeks as one thought repeated in your mind. 

He’ll come for me. 

You’d never been more sure of anything in your life. 

He’ll come for me. And they’ll be sorry. 

– – – 

Mandalore

“Okay, kid. We’re coming up on Mandalore. You remember the landing sequence I taught you back on Garel?” 

Din’s focus shifted from the steel gray planet outside the viewport, to the child in his lap. A pair of big, green ears flopped with the nod of Grogu’s head, a confident “patu” accompanying the movement. Removing one clawed hand from the steering device, he pointed at the panel that housed the landing controls. 

That’s right. “Go ahead, then,” Din encouraged, a proud smile curving his lips beneath his helmet. “Bring us down.” 

Grogu responded with a squeal of excitement - the same way he had every time he’d been asked to demonstrate what he’d learned on their trip - before he began performing his task. The two of them had been out on a series of training missions to prepare Grogu for his trials, Din mentoring him and teaching him the same things his own father taught him in preparation for the verd’goten. He’s doing a lot better than I did on my first training mission, though. Letting out a satisfied trill when he finished with the controls, Grogu returned his tiny hands to the steering wheel and began piloting the N-1 down through the atmosphere. 

“Go slow,” Din cautioned him, the advice only partially sinking in, as the kid only had two speeds - fast, and asleep. Or don’t. 

Despite the fact that it happened more quickly than was standard for a first time navigator, Grogu managed to set the ship down on the landing platform safely and skillfully. 

“Brreee? Patu! Patu!” The grin that greeted Din when he looked down was as wide as he’d ever seen Grogu wear. Proud of yourself, huh? The kid stood in his lap and turned, placing both hands on the sides of the man’s helmet, delighted giggles bubbling out of him to pull a chuckle from Din’s chest. Good. You should be.

“Good job, Grogu.” Reaching past the kid, he flicked the ignition switch to shut it down. “I’m proud of you.” Those seemed to be the exact words that the kid was waiting for, his whole face lighting up with even more excitement when he heard them. “I’m sure the Armorer will be, too. What do you say we go and tell her all about the things you learned?” 

Grogu nodded vigorously, sending his ears flapping again. “Doo.” Countering with a question of his own, he cocked his head to the side and used one pointed claw to tap at the beskar rondel that he wore, causing Din to let out another chuckle.

“I don’t know, pal, we have to see what she says. You might not be ready for your next piece of armor yet.” His ears drooped slightly at that, the sight sending a surge of affection through Din’s whole being. He wants to earn his helmet so badly. “Hey, it’s okay, buddy. Remember what I told you when we were practicing tracking?” Giving the kid a second to think back to their training mission on Lothal, he paused, waiting for Grogu’s ears to twitch as he found the right memory. “Patience is important. You can’t rush things, or they won’t work out.” Lifting one leather-clad hand, he patted his son’s head. “You’ll earn your armor one piece at a time, just like I did. Then, when the time is right, you’ll have the chance to swear the Creed. And when you do, I’ll be there just like my Buir was.” 

The thought of having his own helmet ceremony - and taking the Creed - seemed to perk Grogu right up. Spinning back towards the controls, he pressed another button before zipping back around to face his father while pointing backwards at the holo-screen that he activated. When he glanced over the kid’s head to see what was displayed, Din felt yet another surge of warmth. It was an image of you and Grogu, the two of you sitting outside the cabin on Nevarro, the little womp rat in your lap and bright grins on both of your faces. 

“That’s right, she’ll be there, too.” Din nodded. “And she’ll be so proud of you, just like I am.” She already is. The fact that you loved and supported Grogu just as much as he did was one of the many things that made Din so sure that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

For a long time he doubted that settling down and building a home and a family were in the cards for him. But it wasn’t just that he had spent so many years on his own that gave him pause. It was also because of what those years had been filled with that made him question whether or not a simpler life was even possible for him. Decades of bounty hunting had garnered him countless enemies within the galaxy’s underworld, and from time to time those enemies surfaced. Subjecting a partner or child to the consequences of his past seemed cruel and irresponsible in his mind. Better that he handle those threats as they come the same way he handled the jobs they emerged from. On his own, with no one else at risk. 

All of that changed when the tiny quarry-turned-adoptive son that was sitting in his lap and hanging on his every word came into his life. Din had tried to find the kid a safe place to grow up, to have the sort of childhood that he himself had been denied. He had tried finding others who he felt would be more able to give Grogu a stable, secure home, or who he thought would be better suited to teach the child what he needed to learn. A life on the road, with danger constantly close behind and a man who had closed himself off far more than his armor ever could? That was no life for a kid. That was no environment in which love could thrive. 

Which was exactly why, once Grogu had made his choice clear, Din discarded his former life and began work on this new one. He’d sworn off chasing bounties, dropped out of isolation, tried his hardest to file down his sharp edges, all so that he could give the kid the life he deserved and wanted. And in doing so, he’d met you, and despite the things he previously thought would make him unchoosable, he’d been chosen a second time. 

“Your past doesn’t scare me, Din,” you’d said, when he confided in you about the things that he worried could come back to haunt him and hurt you. You’d laced your fingers with his then, your gaze focused on his shrouded eyes, and even though he knew you couldn’t see through his visor, he felt as though you were looking straight into his heart. “I’m more afraid of a future without you. I know you’ll always keep me safe. And I know that there’s nothing that you and I can’t get through together.” The smile you gave him cracked through the rest of his dwindling reserve before you added - “Well, the two of us and Grogu, of course.” 

He had decided that night that he would do whatever it took to make sure that your fear never came to fruition - and that meant taking you as his riduur. You weren’t Mandalorian, and you had no plans to change that. You weren’t a warrior, you didn’t wear armor, and you had never even held a blaster before he taught you how to use one. But none of that mattered to Din. He loved you for what and who you were. You were brave, and strong, and you made him feel like he deserved the life he was carving out for himself. You were smart, and kind, and you brought warmth to parts of him that he’d thought had frozen over ages ago. And if he could put your fears to rest by joining his life with yours, then he would. Without hesitation. 

Because it’s what I want, too. 

When you said yes, when he saw you wearing the Mudhorn pendant - his sigil, and soon to be yours - for the first time? Between that moment and the one when Grogu had formally become his child, Din had never felt so far from his past as he had then. Every step the three of you had taken since had only put more distance between his former life and the one you were building together. 

The plan was for the two of you to have a small ceremony on Mandalore once Grogu finished the first year of his training - which was quickly coming to an end - and it was nearly impossible to tell which of the three of you was looking forward to that milestone the most. I think it might be me, though. As he helped Grogu down from the cockpit and waved to the armored teens who had been tasked with refueling all incoming ships, he found his mind wandering to the things that would change with the exchanging of vows. 

That your two souls would be joined as one was, of course, the most important aspect, and the one that mattered most to him. But it also meant that he would finally be able to reveal his face to you. It meant that for the first time, you would get to see him - the small shifts of depth and color in his eyes when he smiled or laughed or said your name, the creases that formed between his brows when he was concerned, the twitch of his upper lip when you touched him. It meant removing the only remaining barrier between you. 

It meant being able to give more of himself to you than he’d ever given to anyone. I’ve never wanted that before. But with her I… With you, he wanted everything. 

He hadn’t noticed that he’d been grinning until the call of his name snapped his focus back to the present. “I see that you and your apprentice have returned from your journey.” Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw the Armorer striding towards him and Grogu. 

“We have,” he responded with a nod. Beside him, Grogu’s excitement was almost palpable, the kid practically bouncing from foot to foot. 

“And how did everything go? Did the apprentice complete all of his tasks?” She asked Din but tilted her head down to look at Grogu. 

“He did.” Din glanced down just in time to see a wide, toothy grin split the kid’s face, then met the Armorer’s gaze again. “I think he’s ready for the next level of training.” 

“Hmm!” Grogu hummed in enthusiastic agreement. 

“Is that so?” The Armorer placed her hands on her hips, cocking her head to the side. “In that case, Grogu, we have work to do. There is still much for you to learn before your next set of missions. Are you ready to begin?” Though he knew that Grogu was bursting with excitement, Din watched as the child set his features into a mask of discipline, giving the Armorer a serious nod. “Well then, let us get started.” 

Letting Din know that she would be taking over Grogu’s training for the next few days, the Armorer permitted the child a moment to say goodbye to his father before she took him to join the other Mandalorian apprentices who were ready to advance. 

Stooping down, Din brought himself to his son’s level. “Alright, pal, you know what to do. Listen to what you’re told, and don’t start any trouble, got it?” He patted the space between Grogu’s ears, the small head moving in a nod beneath his leather clad palm. “I’m going to go back home to Nevarro for a few days, but when I come back guess who’ll be coming with me?” 

With a small gasp, Grogu pointed at the purple scarf tucked around the collar of Din’s flight suit - the one you had given him as a Life Day gift the year before. 

“That’s right,” he nodded, letting out a small laugh. “And she’s going to want to hear all about the things you’re learning, so make sure you pay good attention so you remember everything and you can show us with your pictures.” 

“Patu.” Din had to stop himself from letting out another chuckle at the serious tone in Grogu’s little voice. Good, I’m glad he’s dedicated to this. It’s important that he learns. 

But as soon as that thought cleared his head, Din was hit with a blur of motion as Grogu launched himself into a hug, the man wrapping his arms around him and letting the held back chuckle go free. “Alright, buddy. Be good. I’ll see you soon.” 

With that, Grogu bounded off with the Armorer, and Din was left to himself. He thought briefly about stopping into his quarters on Mandalore to use the refresher and make some caf before heading straight back to Nevarro. But before he could decide if that was what he wanted to do or not, his attention was drawn by a pair of quickly approaching footsteps and the call of his name from the direction of the landing platform. He turned as Leera Shale, one of the teenaged trainees from the landing platform, shouted his name again. What’s she in such a hurry for? 

“Din Djarin!” The kid ran, huffing and panting under the weight of her armor as she reached him. “My brother and I,” she began, pausing to gulp in a breath and let it back out. “We were refueling your ship and recalibrating the guns, and a holo transmission came through. It’s… It’s urgent.” 

Though she hadn’t said what the message entailed, a sudden weight dropped into Din’s stomach. With the frantic way she’d run to get him, he doubted that the news she had was good. “What is it? Who is it from?” 

The girl shook her head, the green and orange helmet she wore moving side to side. “We don’t know. Sahmer said the man was an Abyssin? But that’s… it doesn’t-” She sputtered. “It doesn’t matter. You need to come see it. He’s… I think someone might be in trouble.” 

Your face flashed in his mind then, and though he couldn’t explain how, he knew that you were in danger. Racing back to his ship with the young Mandalorian at his heels, he tried not to think about the fact that if you were in danger, it was his fault. If she’s been hurt I’ll- 

The thought trailed off as he reached the platform, wasting no time in climbing into his ship so that he could play the transmission and hear it for himself.  

“I didn’t want it to come to this, Mando, but you’re a tough one to pin down.” 

A chill ran down Din’s spine as he saw the speaker - an Abyssin, as Sahmer had said - seated at the table in the kitchen of the home he shared with you, though you were not in view. Where is she? What- 

“We’ve never met, you and I. But you knew my brother. Gor Karesh.” The speaker clicked his tongue and huffed a humorless laugh. “Did you really think there would not be consequences for what you did to him?” At that, he lifted one hand, and from it dangled a length of leather cord, Din’s hands clenching into tight fists as he made out the pendant he’d given you. “It would be a shame to make your woman pay for those consequences, don’t you think?” He laughed again, the sound just as cold and flat. “Come to the battle arena in the warehouse district. RTK111. You know the place. Oh, and come alone. I’ll know if you don’t.” He paused then, winding the cord around your pendant and tucking it into his shirt pocket before looking straight at the holo-device as he finished his threat. “Come alone, or she dies.” 

The transmission ended then, Din left staring at the controls of his ship with Sahmer and Leera standing silently beside the open cockpit. Chest heaving with rage, he started immediately setting course for the location your captor had given him. “Were you able to finish refueling before the holo came through?” He asked the question in a steady, even tone, not wanting to scare the kids despite the way his blood was boiling. 

“Y-yeah.” Sahmer answered nervously. “Tank’s full and the guns are ready.” 

“Good. Thank you.” He punched in the coordinates and turned to Leera. “I need you to go and find Bo-Katan Kryze. Tell her where I’m going, but that she can’t follow. Tell her my riduur is in danger and I have to get her back, and tell her-” A tight knot formed in his throat as he prepared for the worst case scenario, but he forced it down. “Tell her to look after Grogu if I don’t come back. Can you do that for me?” 

Leera looked to her brother, the two of them sharing a solemn nod before the girl turned back to face Din. “This is the Way.” 

Though every beat of his heart drove more fear and anger into his bloodstream, the familiar words and the meaning behind them gave him a small amount of comfort. “This is the Way.” 

He only allowed himself to feel that comfort for a second though, the entirety of his focus on getting to you before it was too late. As the ship lifted from the ground, he made you a silent promise. 

I’m coming for you. 

He didn’t know what was waiting for him once he arrived at the arena. Based on the last interaction he had there, he could guess that it wouldn’t be pleasant. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Karesh put a hundred men in his way, or if he had to fight a rancor. Nothing would stop him from bringing you home. 

I’m coming for you, cyare. I promise. – – – 

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He would be so hard to work with initially. Not because he’s intentionally standoffish, or because he has any horrible habits, or even because he’s any kind of inherently disagreeable. He’s just.. blank. There’s an… uneasiness when you first work as partners. A lack of trust that can only be earned over time, when you’ve been under intense pressure and could only rely on the other.

You meet in Peli’s hangar one day while she’s working on your ship, and unfortunately for him, he caught you on a bad day. He waltzes in while she chirps and chitters the terrible news, so casually as if it’s no sweat off her back: your ship is completely kaputt.

And here comes moneybags, wearing the rarest and most expensive armor in the galaxy, adorable green baby on his back, immediately arranging new modifications for his sleek Razor Crest. Pre-empire, older than dirt, but still borderline luxurious compared to yours.

In moments, your ship goes from ‘in desperate need of repair’ to ‘readily available parts.’ Peli’s chipper voice crows your beloved ship’s demise.

“Lucky you should ask, Mando— just so happens, a shiny new rag-nax converter just fell right into my lap! Probably the only working part on that old clunker.”

You feel like you’re moments from crumbling apart. He tosses her a bag of money like it’s nothing. She has the audacity to carefully pluck a handful of credits from it and unceremoniously plop them into your palm.

Before you can protest, her gallery of droids begin disassembling the hunk of junk—a light-freighter you’ve called home for years, modified to the gills to withstand long stints in hyperspace.

The tin man before you has the gall to feign kindness and understanding. His voice is hoarse, almost soft— helmet moving ever so slightly as he speaks.

“I’ve lost a ship before, too. It’s…not easy,” he says, T-visor glancing toward Peli, “If you need transport somewhere—“

“I’m not keen on spending what little money I have to be ferried by a stranger,” you balk, pocketing the handful of credits, which you really should count, “thanks, but—“

“I insist. You’re the reason i’m not waiting on jawas so my ship can get fixed.”

And thus began your uneasy alliance. Mando, Peli called him. He wasn’t a cruel or dismissive host— just… quiet. Kept to himself, gave short clipped answers when prompted. Most of the speaking he did was toward his son, who he apparently reserved the greater breadth of his emotional expressiveness for— rightfully so.

He had to make a couple stops on his way to coruscant, where you insisted on going, much to his displeasure— but he offered, and he always honors his word. Your time on the Razor Crest was rightfully extended following an unfortunate series of events on Shakari— a planet Mando seemed to harbor an intense distrust of. You proved resourceful, quick-witted. Skilled with a blaster. Protective of his son. You enjoyed the company, the change in pace from hopping between planets and cities for work.

He rewarded the three of you with fried crispics— it was the first time you saw him eat anything. It was the first time he heard your laugh—doubling over as you watched a crispic slowly disappear under his helmet. For the first time in decades, all Din wanted was to hear that sound again.

He hated it, at first—something in his chest felt raw and peeled open. Like a hard-shelled fruit, cracked open and oozing. Before, he’d found you to be a kind guest and competent companion—a good friend. Someone he could count on. But seeing you laugh—move to protect Grogu on instinct—share your warmth, your food, your thoughts?

He found himself at an impasse. He could keep you around and face the unexpected, inescapable yearning for someone who is right there—or send you away and try to forget that you exist.

At another time, when he was another kind of man, he would have opted for the latter.

He surprised himself when he went back for the kid, years ago. He did it again when he earnestly asked you to stay. It happened once again, with the fluttering in his stomach when you immediately agreed to join him.

The unspoken oath of reliability came with uneasiness. The believed-to-be unrequited feelings nearly pushed you both over the edge. Your dynamic shifted—you were both new fixed objects in one another’s periphery, the shaken routine of accounting for someone else’s safety throwing you both off-balance. Still, you’re both nothing if not adaptable.

Months into your partnership, he brings you to his home on Nevarro. Its the quaintest little cabin. A sleek starfighter parked across from two blurgs, and just enough space for a busy father and his young son. You were only stopping in, refueling and gathering supplies for the coming journey. You were still getting used to working for the New Republic, even as an independent contractor.

You sit side-by-side on his porch one night. The night air crisp in your lungs, the moon illuminating the countryside— the city of Nevarro glowing just off in the distance. While you’re grateful you’ve outgrown your need to fill the silence, Din sits beside you, silently missing your nervous chatter. Tonight, he is the one who breaks the silence.

“Thank you.”

Your head turns toward him, brow furrowed. Before you can ask, he continues.

“You’ve been a pleasure to work with. Grogu and I can rely on you. That isn’t something I.. hold lightly. Thank you.” His voice, even dulled by his helmet’s modulator, holds a greater reverence; this isn’t a simple admission of appreciation. The warmth behind his words is almost startling.

You can feel the skin of your neck prickle with warmth, your pulse buzzing. The night air suddenly thickens.

“Thank you, Mando, I-“

“Din.”

You pause. You swear you’re looking directly into his eyes behind that visor, and something shifts—like the change in atmospheric pressure just before a storm hits.

“That’s your— Din?”

“Din Djarin.”

He slowly pulls off one glove, your own breath quickening at the sight of his golden skin. He cups the back of one of your hands. He pulls your hand up, towards his helmet, reaching up with his opposite hand; with a soft hiss, the seal is released.

He pulls your hand so your fingertips reach just past the brim of his helmet. Soft lips press against your fingertips, the soft prickle of facial hair dragging against your skin. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire—dizzied by the warmth, the slight moisture of his lips as he presses a kiss to your skin.

He slowly pulls your hand away, gingerly sets it back down, and pulls his leather glove back on.

You lean forward and press your lips against the curve of his beskar helm, just beside his T-visor.

Chapter 1: In The Mood For Solitude [AO3]

Chapter 2: Armless, But Never Harmless [AO3]

Chapter 3: Confidential Potential [AO3]

Chapter 4: Built To Uncover Our Guilt [coming 25-Jul-26]

Chapter 5: It’s My Purview To Serve You

Chapter 6: Secret Sex Isn’t Complex

Chapter 7 (part 1): My Undercover Lover

Chapter 7 (part 2): Exceptions and Deceptions

Chapter 8: Keep Going, It’s Mindblowing

Chapter 9: Guess What I Heard, Little Bird

Chapter 10: Encore! So Much More In Store

Chapter 11 (part 1): Don’t Smirk, I Work Here, You Jerk

Chapter 11 (part 2): Not A Stranger To Danger

Chapter 12: Let’s Trade – Your Blade, My Charade

Chapter 13: The Sweet Abyss Of Your Kiss

Epilogue: Renowned, Crowned, Now Homeward Bound

Mando’s bicep tenses as you slice away another fragment of melted flight suit, angling the sterilised scalpel to take only dead and blistered skin with it. It feels like you’ve been at this for hours already, and you can still barely believe you’re doing it.

Once your anger at his reckless actions had thawed, a rising panic soon replaced it. Overwhelmed, you’d resorted to your default coping strategy: bossiness. That familiar mask had helped until he’d bitten back with a threat that would’ve ended badly for you both. With his recovery contingent on earning his trust, you’d had to switch tactics.

Letting a hunter see your vulnerable side was a risk, but it had paid off. You’d matched honour with respect, and now that you’ve cracked that shell, your panic is slowly giving way to increasing sympathy. He seems… nice. You’re no longer performing this task out of necessity alone, and the genuine desire to help him adds confidence to your movements. It’s even allowed you to find a rhythm of sorts in your macabre work.

To his credit, Mando is a model patient, enduring his gruesome treatment with impressive fortitude. You’d predicted more of a fuss, but muscle twitches and sharp breaths are your only clues he’s feeling anything at all. Perhaps the bounty hunting life toughened him up. Nonetheless, you pay careful attention to his tells; you’d rather know if you’re slicing too deep.

Peeling away a congealed mess of skin and coarseweave from his inner elbow elicits a long exhale. He must’ve been holding his breath for this last one. You squirt saline over the freshly scraped wound, watching his fingers curl into a loose fist against the floor. They relax as you seal the bacta patch’s edges, concluding your treatment of his arms.

“Still doing okay?” you ask, searching the black visor for any hint of what might be happening behind it.

He dips his helmet in response, maintaining the silence he’s been cultivating since you helped him drink. Despite his earlier dry throat, he was borderline chatty throughout the prep stage, somewhat quelling your nerves. Now, the contrasting absence of dialogue feels palpable. You pray it’s just gritted teeth keeping him quiet, not regret at being stuck here with you.

With his arms taken care of, you reach for the vibroblade again and clear your throat. “I need to…” You trail off as you gesture toward his legs. “Is this still okay?”

Mando nods again, a sharper jerk that betrays his own discomfort, his muscles rippling with it.

Taking a deep breath to dispel your own misgivings about stripping a man you’ve only just met, you begin cutting. The outer seams of his pants part easily, no match for the humming blade. Now for the awkward part.

As soon as you lean in close to cut around the wounds, the tension climbs rapidly. Your knuckles brush against his bare thigh, and you feel the muscle jump beneath your touch. “Sorry,” you murmur, though you’re not entirely sure what for. He doesn’t reply.

Finally, the garment falls away, revealing golden skin patterned with scars. A map of past battles etches its way across gorgeously toned thighs, now freshly marred by blistered, debris-filled welts.

You swallow hard and try to focus on his wounds, but you can’t tear your eyes from the sculpted terrain of his legs and the insight it offers. An athlete’s strength. A warrior’s endurance. A human’s limitations. It’s a welcome distraction from the grim knowledge that you have yet more patches of fused flesh and fabric to excise.

Smearing on the bacta gel strains the atmosphere even further. Suddenly, you can’t seem to distinguish between a soothing motion and a sensual one. Aiming for clinically professional, you smooth the salve across the large burn near Mando’s groin, but your attention keeps drifting to the impressive bulge only centimetres away beneath his black undershorts.

That’s definitely not a blaster.

CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3

Mando’s bicep tenses as you slice away another fragment of melted flight suit, angling the sterilised scalpel to take only dead and blistered skin with it. It feels like you’ve been at this for hours already, and you can still barely believe you’re doing it.

Once your anger at his reckless actions had thawed, a rising panic soon replaced it. Overwhelmed, you’d resorted to your default coping strategy: bossiness. That familiar mask had helped until he’d bitten back with a threat that would’ve ended badly for you both. With his recovery contingent on earning his trust, you’d had to switch tactics.

Letting a hunter see your vulnerable side was a risk, but it had paid off. You’d matched honour with respect, and now that you’ve cracked that shell, your panic is slowly giving way to increasing sympathy. He seems… nice. You’re no longer performing this task out of necessity alone, and the genuine desire to help him adds confidence to your movements. It’s even allowed you to find a rhythm of sorts in your macabre work.

To his credit, Mando is a model patient, enduring his gruesome treatment with impressive fortitude. You’d predicted more of a fuss, but muscle twitches and sharp breaths are your only clues he’s feeling anything at all. Perhaps the bounty hunting life toughened him up. Nonetheless, you pay careful attention to his tells; you’d rather know if you’re slicing too deep.

Peeling away a congealed mess of skin and coarseweave from his inner elbow elicits a long exhale. He must’ve been holding his breath for this last one. You squirt saline over the freshly scraped wound, watching his fingers curl into a loose fist against the floor. They relax as you seal the bacta patch’s edges, concluding your treatment of his arms.

“Still doing okay?” you ask, searching the black visor for any hint of what might be happening behind it.

He dips his helmet in response, maintaining the silence he’s been cultivating since you helped him drink. Despite his earlier dry throat, he was borderline chatty throughout the prep stage, somewhat quelling your nerves. Now, the contrasting absence of dialogue feels palpable. You pray it’s just gritted teeth keeping him quiet, not regret at being stuck here with you.

With his arms taken care of, you reach for the vibroblade again and clear your throat. “I need to…” You trail off as you gesture toward his legs. “Is this still okay?”

Mando nods again, a sharper jerk that betrays his own discomfort, his muscles rippling with it.

Taking a deep breath to dispel your own misgivings about stripping a man you’ve only just met, you begin cutting. The outer seams of his pants part easily, no match for the humming blade. Now for the awkward part.

As soon as you lean in close to cut around the wounds, the tension climbs rapidly. Your knuckles brush against his bare thigh, and you feel the muscle jump beneath your touch. “Sorry,” you murmur, though you’re not entirely sure what for. He doesn’t reply.

Finally, the garment falls away, revealing golden skin patterned with scars. A map of past battles etches its way across gorgeously toned thighs, now freshly marred by blistered, debris-filled welts.

You swallow hard and try to focus on his wounds, but you can’t tear your eyes from the sculpted terrain of his legs and the insight it offers. An athlete’s strength. A warrior’s endurance. A human’s limitations. It’s a welcome distraction from the grim knowledge that you have yet more patches of fused flesh and fabric to excise.

Smearing on the bacta gel strains the atmosphere even further. Suddenly, you can’t seem to distinguish between a soothing motion and a sensual one. Aiming for clinically professional, you smooth the salve across the large burn near Mando’s groin, but your attention keeps drifting to the impressive bulge only centimetres away beneath his black undershorts.

That’s definitely not a blaster.

CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3

The locals have a saying about Nevarro’s winters: “Three months of gloom, three weeks of doom.”

It’s no exaggeration.

As you hurry toward City Hall, daylight is dimming by the minute, and you can smell the forecasted doom on the wind. The volcanoes have been vomiting toxic sulphur clouds for weeks, rebelling against the crisp winter air and choking the sky. And their misery is about to become everyone’s problem.

You take a shortcut through the bazaar, checking your chrono and swearing at the readout. Just over an hour until lockdown. You shouldn’t have left it this late.

Behind you, a shopkeeper slams down his durasteel shutters, startling a nearby stall owner who is frantically packing up their own wares. A mother bustles past you, dragging her reluctant children toward shelter; one wails as it loses its toy in the rush. You curse again as you hastily sidestep a sweeper droid zooming down the middle of the street. Kriff, the countdown has forced even the non-sentients into a state of panic.

Every morning for weeks, the weather droid has been droning on about increased sulphur counts and plummeting temperatures. The whole city tunes in daily, but nobody really listens until the droid delivers the one forecast they’ve been dreading. Lockdown will begin tonight. Suddenly, Nevarrans can think of nothing but the brutal weather event they learned about as children and live through each year.

Snowfall.

For the next fifteen days, stepping outside means dying outside – in the deadly acid snow.

By now, most citizens have gathered in larger homes or public shelters for the compulsory lockdown, though only the old and the young go in smiling. The officials call it ‘communal bonding to boost morale’. You call it three weeks of psychological torture. The enforced proximity, the constant noise, the performative cheer. The total lack of privacy, with every opinion, argument, and bodily function becoming public knowledge. You can’t stand it.

But this year, you’ve scored your ticket out of that sweaty, noisy hell. A secluded cabin, stocked provisions, and blessed solitude during Snowfall. Credits for looking after some creature while its owner’s off-world. With minimal duties and total privacy, you’re kriffing thrilled with the assignment.

Your uncle, however, is not.

You figured he’d be sorry to lose you this year – perhaps a little worried about you being alone. But when you make it through the nervous crowds to his office at City Hall and finally break the news, the storm in his expression rivals the one brewing outside.

You drop your holdall at your feet and slap both palms down on his desk, leaning forward. “It’s more credits than I ever made at the cafe, for less work,” you exclaim, glaring at your overprotective guardian. “What’s your karking problem?”

He stands from his chair and rounds his desk in four heavy steps to loom over you. It’s the same bullish tactic he deployed when he caught you sneaking home reeking of Corellian whiskey at the tender age of fourteen. “My problem,” he retorts, voice lowering to a venomous pitch, “Is that I don’t want you anywhere near someone like him.”

CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3

What a great start! I already love our protagonist, especially how she handled Din coming back in the acid rain. Making sure to take care of him as soon as possible, but also making sure to get a good scolding in 😂

Clint Flood

Call Me (September 1990) (October 1990) by @ak-vintage - Clint Flood x f!reader

Din Djarin / The Mandalorian

When a Feather-Light Touch is Agony by @bergamote-catsandbooks - Din Djarin x f!reader

Hush (Chapter 2 A03) by @djarins-cyare - Din Djarin x OFC!Reader

Frankie Morales

Frontier Hearts (Ch 4) (Ch 5) by @din-cognito - Frankie Morales x ofc

To Love Me Is To Suffer Me by @dreamedaboutitinthedark - Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader

Harry Castillo

A Baker's Dozen (Sixteen) by @avastrasposts - Harry Castillo x reader

Jack Daniels / Agent Whiskey

Jack & a Clown Costume by @ghoulettesinspace

Javi Gutierrez

Find A Man Who Can Do Both by @grogusmum - JAVI GUTIÉRREZ X F!READER

Javier Peña

Medium Well by @604to647 - Javier Peña x fem!reader

Here and Now (A03) by goodwithcheese - Javier Peña x ofc

Marcus Pike

run to you (ch 9) (ch 10)by @foli-vora - marcus pike x f!reader

The Way We Were Drawn (Ch 1) (Ch 2) by @ishabull - Marcus Pike x Reader

Reed Richards

Dirty move by @petalsinblood - Reed Richards x gn!reader

Crossovers

Seeing Double by @andrew-codys - Jack Abbot x F!Author!Reader x Grant Reilly

Dieter's First Yule by @quinnnfabrgay - dieter bravo x non-binary!reader x din djarin

Call of Duty

Heavy Weighs The Crown (A03) by @sentientcave - Fantasy AU. 2nd POV (OC Reader). 141 x Reader

captain john price x fem!141!reader by @warmfrequency

The Fifth Element (A03) by @the-californicationist -COD/Fallout Task Force 141/Reader Polyamory Fic

little milk on the tongue (ch 1)-(ch 5) by @anneofgreengabagool - john price x reader

fly, songbird, fly (A03) by pap3rtigers - Task Force 141 x Reader (omegaverse)

The Pitt

acute adoration (part iii) by @penvisions - Jack Abbot x F! Reader ;Michael "Robby" Robinavich x F! Reader ; Jack Abbot x F! Reader x Michael "Robby" Robinavich

These Walls Have Eyes by @asxgard - Dr. Jack Abbot x f!nurse!reader

Casual by @lovebugism - michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader

The Casting Couch - Michael “Robby” Robinavitch (P*rnstar AU) by @bullet-prooflove

I Think He Knows (AO3) by starallover Jack Abbot x reader

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

A Stag, A Doe, and a Hedge Knight (A03) by Huntress_Moon - Lyonel Baratheon x reader x Duncan the Tall

Franke Castle

no one knows by @foli-vora - frank castle x f!reader

Off Campus

Rich In Love by @666eyed - John Logan x Reader

Immobile and on his knees, Din seethes with a rage he has no way to release. His muscles scream at him to slam his fist through something solid – to channel this volcanic fury into action – but the slightest twitch sends liquid fire racing through his nerve endings. Trapped in his own body, his arms stiffly splayed like some malfunctioning droid kneeling before its Maker, he can only helplessly pant through his agony. A Mandalorian warrior reduced to feeble inaction.

The forced stillness only fuels his anger, creating a feedback loop of pain and impotent wrath that threatens to consume him as he stews over who deserves the brunt of his ire.

Colonel Ward’s face flashes in his mind. Even through the flickering lines of the holo, he could see her stony expression as she’d cancelled his job over the comm while he was still in orbit. His fists clench, sending fresh waves of pain up his arms as he recalls her impassive response of “Not my problem” when he’d explained Nevarro’s lockdown had already begun.

That’s on him, though. He should’ve checked in with her before he left. If he had, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Then there’s the woman he’d hired to take care of Grogu. When he’d instructed her to arrive before sundown, he hadn’t meant with only minutes to spare. She’d offered some excuse about Karga delaying her but hadn’t explained why, and frankly, he hadn’t cared. With lockdown looming, he’d barked some instructions, then hauled ass to the N-1.

Though he must admit, his irritation faded the moment she transformed his intolerable agony into a more bearable torture. Her quick thinking with the limewater was impressive. She deserves his gratitude, even if she did just scold him with the same eerily calm authority the Armorer employs when dressing down a wayward tribe member.

Which leads Din back to the person most deserving of his fury: himself. For his own reckless stupidity.

Every Mandalorian child learns to read atmospheric conditions, and the cloud formations he could see from orbit had been textbook warning signs. Still, he’d checked planetary broadcasts, hoping he was wrong. As the embargo signal had blared through his cockpit, his fists had tightened around the control sticks, his teeth clenching behind his helmet. Three seconds – that’s all it had taken for his anger to overwhelm his training. He’d silenced the broadcast with a jab of his finger and pushed the thrusters anyway, like some cocksure apprentice with a death wish.

But what was the alternative? Return to Mandalore, where the tribes are at each other’s throats again? His jaw tightens at the mere thought. No. He’s already redeemed himself, scouted Mandalore, and helped unite his people. It’s the Armorer’s job to ensure they stay that way. Now, as both a father and a teacher, Grogu is his only priority.

The kid had been crushed when Ward had vetoed his inclusion in this mission, and so had Din. Though his training has been going well, there was simply no role for a small alien child on a three-week undercover mission as Imperial security. The Colonel had insisted he go alone or not at all, and he’d backed down. He couldn’t afford to piss her off, not if he wanted to keep getting paid work.

With the job’s cancellation, the equation had been simple in his mind. He needed to return to his son, no matter the risk. He just hadn’t considered the risk might be to his life.

Pain he can handle – has handled worse than this searing hell – but this is different. This is weakness, poor judgment. It’s the worst kind of example he could set as both a teacher and a father, and that knowledge burns almost as badly as his wounds. His guest was right; he did a stupid thing. And now he’s relying on a stranger for medical aid.

Speaking of… he’s been so consumed by his self-directed fury that he let his attention lapse. Where is she? Is she still settling Grogu down, or did she already move to the refresher to find the medpac? Why is she taking so long?

It’s not suspicion that claws at him, but rather a sudden ambush of curiosity.

CONTINUE READING THIS CHAPTER ON AO3