HUSH | Chapter 5: It’s My Purview to Serve You
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter summary: You spend your first full day with Grogu, but you can’t stop thinking about those sexy promises Mando made. Were they just post-orgasmic banter and E-bacta-induced ramblings, or was he serious? And does your trust outweigh the risk? What will happen when he finally wakes up?
Chapter word count: 6,680
Chapter tags/warnings: OFC!Reader’s POV; slice of life; cute Grogu; awkward Din Djarin; some DBF!Din vibes; a smidge of power dynamics; groping; vaginal fingering; dominant Din Djarin.
Author’s Note: Bring on the smutty times! Thank you to everyone who continues to support this ongoing fic 💖.
Beyond the cabin’s transparisteel windows, gunmetal clouds hang low and heavy, bleeding deadly malice from above.
You’ve witnessed the deadly dance countless times. Sparkling flurries of drifting snow, pirouetting through the air with false innocence until they find something soluble and begin their destruction with a spiteful hiss. Soon, the terrain transforms into a muddy, caf-coloured soup that reeks of sulphur and organic decay. At Snowfall’s end, it’ll harden into a brittle crust, only to shatter underfoot, forming Nevarro’s barren regolith of loose pebbles and dust, shrouding the volcanic bedrock below.
Even the native plant species that thrive in caustic conditions can’t withstand the snow’s dominion. When the temperature drops, the hardy crimson fireweed and the spiny volcanic silversword retreat underground, curling their roots tight, hoping to survive. Weeks will pass before delicate shoots peek out, testing the air before committing to growth. Farmers will race to exploit the mineral-rich soil, reseeding their fields with topatoes, corn, rootleaf, zoochberries, caf beans, and other Nevarran staples.
Maintaining the city’s food stores is no longer the only agricultural goal. Your uncle’s ambitious vision to beautify the city has required careful planning and demands extensive maintenance. The vibrant plants are potted and movable. Each rooted tree benefits from complex drainage systems to neutralise toxic precipitation. Protective wrapping shields their trunks. When the surviving branches bud with new leaves, the city celebrates.
The large, centralised greenhouse was once a drab fortress against starvation. Now, after sweeping upgrades, it cultivates beauty alongside survival – sustenance and splendour awarded equal value.
All these efforts ensure the ruthless weather doesn’t damage the charm, appeal, and economy of the Hydian Way’s newest trade anchor. Visitors return, merchants resume trading, and investors maintain their stakes. With each credit that changes hands in the bustling marketplace, acid-scorched memories fade, and fortunes flourish once more.
Whilst the bleak conditions outside are commonplace to you, this must be Grogu’s first experience of snow. He’s transfixed. All morning, he leaves tiny three-fingered smudges on the windowpane from pressing against it, ears dipped low as he tracks the deadly flakes’ descent. When you try closing the shutters on the dismal scene, he chirps and gurgles in protest, fixing you with an earnest frown. It’s so endearing that you relent, letting him watch his front yard slowly dissolve, only able to tempt him away with food.
You’ve stopped trying to guess his age. Despite his insistence on window-watching, he’s remarkably well‑behaved and self-sufficient for a child, however old he is.
The only skank in the scud pie comes from his numerous attempts to infiltrate his father’s bedroom all afternoon. You thwart each of his campaigns, his stubby legs pedalling the air as you intercept him, but his efforts are relentless. “Your dad’s sleeping,” you whisper for the third time, but his huge eyes bore into you accusingly.
You can’t do it. You can’t keep this strangely wise little guy in the dark.
Standing him on the table, you sit so you can meet his gaze, then offer a gentler truth. “Remember how he got hurt in the snow? I’ve given him E-bacta, which will make him all better, but it makes him sleepy, too. And that’s good – it means it’s working. He’ll be fine just as long as we don’t wake him, okay?” The kid pouts in sadness, but he finally abandons his mission.
Mid-lunch, your datapad lights up with a text-comm from your uncle.
It’s not a casual check-in. It’s an implied assumption that you’re not coping okay.
Glaring at the pad, you snap a quick image of your happy little charge enjoying his yoghurt cup at the table, barely able to grip the spoon, yet not spilling a drop.
< less mess than mrs valgekk’s frog-dog >
You send the image with your reply, brimming with pride. He’d doubted your childcare skills, yet here you are, smoothly navigating the day.
His simple, wordless response tells you he’s suitably chastened, but as usual, he offers quiet support in place of an apology.
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