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Thunderbolts feels like someone read all the 2012 Avengers Tower Found Family fic way back and then painstakingly narrowed down the Marvel characters it would work best with in 2025 so they could make a movie about it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The moment you heard the last click you knew you had done it. The saber you had been working on for so many weeks was finally complete. Ahsoka was right about breaking it down to the smallest parts一thinking about the hilt in your hand like the engine on the Razor Crest.
Din had given you one of his older, smaller blasters to disassemble for parts. The scraps you had taken from Peli were not quite strong enough to hold the power of the crystal inside. The blaster metal was intended to contain heat and with an extra couple steps, you made it work.
The hilt was not pretty by any stretch. It was a combination of various colours and material composites一durasteel in some areas and guerrerite in others. You wrapped the middle in a band of brown leather ripped from your jacket for a better grip.
To you, it was perfect. Where it lacked in aesthetic charm it made up for in functionality.
You ignore the stinging ripple in your legs as you hit the metal floor of the ship you were hijacking. Din had jumped just before you and already had the pilots with their hands up一blaster pointed at them with intimidating calmness.
Your attention was far from the pilots一it was locked on the doctor.
“Before you make a mistake, this is Dr. Pershing.” The pilot says, putting a hand on the doctor's shoulder and stepping behind him like a human shield.
“We’ve met,” Din states plainly, blaster still trained on his chest, unconcerned. “Is the kid alive?”
“Yes. He’s on the cruiser.” Pershing stutters, tremble evident in his voice as his eyes lock on the end of the blaster.
You’re standing behind Din with your hood up. Watching them as they anxiously scale the Mandalorian in front of them. You’re not convinced they even noticed you standing behind the presence of the famed bounty hunter.
“Look, I’m not with him, we can work something一” The co-pilot starts, but just as soon as he does, the pilot grabs his own blaster and shoots him in the head. He grabs the doctor and points the blaster at his head. A desperate attempt from a desperate man.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Din warns, and while to the pilot it sounds like a taunt, it was genuinely a warning.
“You listen to me. This is a top-tier target of the New Republ一” His face suddenly drops. His eyes flick from rage to panic. The words are taken from his mouth as he suddenly begins to choke. He looks confused and petrified as his eyes glide over to where your hand is outstretched.
The pilot drops his blaster, pushes the doctor away and grabs his throat. Clawing away at fingers that aren’t there. Desperately pleading with his eyes to be released from your grasp. You don’t waver. You hold him there as the colour begins to drain from his face.
Din turns his head just slightly in your direction. Waiting for your next move when the pilot finally drops. He’s not dead. Just passed out from lack of oxygen.
You step over him to the doctor huddled against the wall of the ship, eyes wide, staring at the unconscious and dead pilots on the ground.
“Y-You’re a… you just一”
The dark cockpit lights up in flickering blue light.
“You’re coming with us.” You say as your stable, but pulsing saber flickers just below his throat.
Silence settles over the rocking hull like a vice.
The dim glow of the overhead lights flicker with each shift of the ship, casting long, unsteady shadows across the cold durasteel floor. You lean on the wall by the cockpit ladder rigid, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the opposite wall, unwilling to so much as look at the doctor at the end of the hull.
His hands bound, his posture tense, but it wasn’t just fear that kept him quiet. He was watching you—studying you with a scientist’s curiosity, eyes flicking over every twitch of your fingers, every breath you took.
It made your skin crawl. The way he viewed you like a subject to be studied—the same way he studied Grogu. The reason he is out of your grasp in the first place. Your hands itch for the saber at the back of your belt, encased in a barrel-shaped leather pouch. Instead, you clench them into fists, the bite of your nails into your palms the only thing keeping you still.
Cara shifts across from you, the scrape of her boot against the floor cutting through the thick silence. “You got a problem?” she snaps, her voice sharp with the same disgust curdling in your gut.
Pershing flinches, his wide-eyed gaze jerking away like a child caught where he shouldn’t be. “I-I apologize,” he stammers, licking his lips nervously. “I meant no offence.”
“Oh really, you seem to have a staring problem,” Cara takes a daunting step forward—her defence of you brings comfort, but not enough to ignore the rage deep in your stomach towards the doctor.
His hands, cuffed in front of him, rise to push his glasses farther up his nose, “Forgive me, but coming across someone with a connection to the force has become all too rare.”
“Might have something to do with you butchering all of them.” You finally speak up, his words offending you too much to stay silent.
“A path I had no part in and disagree with immensely.” He raises his hand in defense but you don’t care.
“And yet you had no issue experimenting on a child,” You seethe, pushing away from the ladder, hands still clenched into fists. “No issue keeping him locked up like some lab specimen.”
Pershing pales, shaking his head quickly. “I did what I had to do to keep him alive.”
You scoff, disbelief curdling into something sharper. “Alive? You tore him from the only family he has, kept him in chains, let monsters use him however they saw fit. That’s not survival—that’s suffering.”
The doctor swallowed, “You have to understand—what we are studying, what his blood could do—it could change everything. If I had access to your blood instead, to a fully developed sample, the child would be unnecessary. No more need to take from him.”
Your breath turns to ice in your lungs.
“My blood?” You scoff. “You expect me to give you my blood after everything you’ve done—your empire has done?”
Pershing hesitates, then nods as if genuinely convinced. “Yes. If you—”
Your hand twitches as if about to grab your saber but you remain composed.
“You’re delusional.” You practically spit before grabbing the ladder and pulling yourself up to the cockpit. Cara can deal with him from here.
The cantina hums with low voices, a steady undercurrent of murmured conversations and quiet negotiations. The clink of beskar against stone contrasts the occasional burst of laughter and the scrape of chairs dragging across the floor.
The air is thick with the scent of spiced liquor and cheap cigarra smoke, the haze curling in lazy tendrils toward the dim overhead lights. In the far corner, a group of armoured mercenaries huddle over a table, helmets resting beside half-empty cups, voices low and unreadable.
Bo-Katan Kryze sits among them, the sharp blue of her armour standing out even in the dim light. She turns away from her meal as you and Din approach, the ghost of an amused smirk tugs at her lips. “I figured if I ever saw you again, it would be fighting alongside your own kind.” Her voice is smooth, edged with curiosity and challenge in equal measure.
“I found what I was looking for,” you answer simply. “Thanks to you.”
Bo-Katan tilts her head slightly. “And yet, you came back?”
“We need your help,” Din cuts in, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
Bo-Katan exhales through her nose, leaning back in her seat. “Not all Mandalorians are bounty hunters. Some of us serve a higher purpose.” There’s a flicker of something in her gaze—pride, perhaps, or a warning.
Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palms becoming an anxious tick. “They took the Child.”
That gets her attention. She straightens slightly, eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“Moff Gideon.”
Her expression hardens. The name alone is enough to shift the air around the table. Bo-Katan shakes her head, turning away as if dismissing the thought altogether. “You’ll never find him.”
Din takes a step forward, his voice firm. “We already did.”
That catches her interest. The subtle shift in her demeanour is almost imperceptible, but you see it—the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her eyes sharpen.
“We have the coordinates to Gideon’s light cruiser,” Din continues.
Bo-Katan exhales slowly, considering. “You can bring me to him?”
“A light cruiser could be helpful in your effort to regain Mandalore,” Din concludes and you watch as the fire in her eyes burns just a little brighter.
A pause stretches between you, tense but full of possibility. Then, finally, Bo-Katan nods. “We will help you. In exchange, we will keep that ship and retake Mandalore—I would have you reconsider joining our efforts.” Her firm gaze then shifts from Din to you—eyes gleaming with ambition. “You would be welcome to our cause. A Jedi would be invaluable.”
You consider her for a moment before holding firm. “Rescuing the child is our priority. Once he is safe we can talk.”
Bo-Katan holds your gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, she leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Fair enough,” she concedes.
Across from her, Koska Reeves watches you carefully, fingers tapping idly against the rim of her cup. “Gideon won’t give up the kid without a fight,” she says, her voice low but certain. “And his ship is well-guarded. How many are in your crew?”
“Not enough,” Din admits. His voice is rougher now, a quiet frustration simmering beneath the words. “But we’ve taken on worse odds.”
A trace of a smirk plays at Reeve’s lips, but Bo-Katan remains serious. “Do you have a plan?”
“We board the cruiser, secure the bridge, and take out any defences standing between us and the child,” you say, arms crossing as you lay it out plainly. “Gideon won’t expect an attack this direct.”
“He’ll expect something,” Reeves interjects, eyes flicking over to Bo-Katan. “If they have the coordinates, he’ll know we’re coming.”
Bo-Katan nods. “Then we strike fast. Before he has time to react.” Her gaze flickers to Din as she stands. “One more thing… Gideon has a weapon that once belonged to me. It is an ancient weapon that can cut through anything.”
“Almost anything,” Reeves smirks from behind her.
“It cannot cut through pure beskar. I will kill the Moff and retake what is rightfully mine.” Bo-Katan steps forward, staring Din down through his visor. “With the Darksaber restored to me, Mandalore will finally be within reach.”
“Help us rescue our child and you can have whatever you want. He is my only priority.” Din says earnestly, no weapon or valour worth more than the child taken away.
Bo-Katan nods in understanding before looking between the two of you, “you said you have Gideon’s location. How soon can we move?”
Din doesn’t hesitate. “Now.”
The weight of the word settles over the table, the finality of it sinking into the space between you. There is no room for delay, no time for second-guessing. Grogu is out there, alone, and every moment wasted is a moment too long.
“Then let’s get to work.”
The cockpit of the Razor Crest buzzes with quiet tension, lit only by the holoprojection that flickers in blue between everyone. You stand just behind the pilot’s seat, arms crossed, eyes on the holoprojection cruiser.
“This is Moff Gideon’s Imperial light cruiser,” Bo-Katan says, gesturing to the outline of the ship displayed above the console. “In the old days, it would carry a crew of several hundred. Now it operates with a tiny fraction of that.”
Her voice is calm but clipped—military, sharp.
“That assessment is misleading,” Dr. Pershing cuts in from the side, his hands still bound, his tone careful.
“Oh, great. An objective opinion,” Cara mutters, arms folded as she leans against the wall near the hatch, eyes narrowing with skepticism.
“This isn’t subterfuge,” Pershing replies quickly, glancing around as though expecting someone to cut him off again. “I assure you.”
“Let him speak,” Bo says, her tone brooking no argument.
“There’s a garrison of Dark Troopers on board,” Pershing continues, nodding toward the hologram. “They are the ones that abducted the Child.”
Your jaw tightens. The memory of cold, black metal and crushing strength flashes across your mind.
“Those things are not troopers,” you say quietly, but the edge in your voice is sharp. “They were droids. But stronger than any droid I’ve ever faced. It took everything I had just to destroy one.”
“These are third-generation designs,” Pershing explains, voice lowering as he leans toward the projection. “They are no longer suits. The human inside was the final weakness to be solved.”
A ripple of discomfort passes through the room.
“Where are they bivouacked?” Reeves asks from behind Bo, arms at her sides, expression unreadable.
“They’re held in cold storage in this cargo bay,” Pershing answers, highlighting the section on the cruiser layout. “They draw too much power to be kept at ready.”
“How long to power up?”
“A few minutes, perhaps.”
Din’s voice cuts through the hum of the engines. “Where is the child being held?”
Pershing’s finger shifts, selecting a smaller chamber near the center of the ship. “He is being held here. Under armed guard. He will not be easy to reach. All manpower on the cruiser is ordered to protect him.”
“Unless they have another reason for manpower,” you murmur, thinking aloud. The gears in your head are already turning, faster and faster.
Cara glances over. “What do you suggest?”
You take a breath, steadying the nerves coiling in your stomach. “The doctor said it himself. I’m the bigger target. If I come in hot, they’ll be forced to divert troopers away from him.”
“No.” Din’s voice is hard, immediate.
“I’m serious,” you press, stepping closer. “If I act as a distraction, you can—”
“No.” Stronger this time, firm enough to shake the walls between you.
“It’s a good plan,” Cara says, looking between you and Din with a shrug.
“It’s a horrible plan,” Din snaps. His helmet turns toward you. “I’m not taking that risk.”
“You wouldn’t be taking the risk,” you reply, voice steady but low, your gaze locked on his visor. “I would be exposing myself but it gives you the opportunity to get our kid. That’s all that matters.”
His fists clench at his sides. “I’m not letting you go in alone again.”
“She won’t be.” Bo-Katan’s voice slices through the rising tension. She nods at the schematic. “We hit the launch tube with her. That’ll draw attention. You go for the kid while they’re focused on us.”
You nod, heart pounding but resolute. “It’s a good plan,” you say, softer now, hoping he’ll hear the truth in it.
Din is silent, the weight of your words pressing on him like gravity.
Bo’s voice cuts through again—firm, decisive. “It’s the only plan.”
The stolen Imperial shuttle carrying Bo-Katan, Reeves, Cara, and yourself lurches into the docking bay of Moff Gideon’s cruiser, its exterior scorched and stinking of fuel. Metal clamps seize the hull with a mechanical clang, locking the vessel into place.
The bay is vast, lit with clinical white overheads and lined with rows of stacked crates and refuelling gear. Stormtroopers turn at the commotion—some raising weapons, others already barking into comms.
You stand at the back of the shuttle waiting for the ramp to drop. Cloak covering the entirety of your body, hood up over your head casting a shadow over your eyes. Fists in tight balls at your side, one firmly gripping the hilt of your saber. The shuttle’s ramp hisses open.
Your boots slap against the durasteel deck. The second your feet touch cruiser, you draw your saber, the pale ice-blue blade igniting in a sharp, clean snap-hiss. Its light cuts through the smoke of the hangar, casting flickering reflections on the white armour of the troopers now charging toward you.
Blaster fire erupts. A barrage of red bolts sear through the air, aimed squarely at your chest—but your saber spins in your hands, intercepting them with sharp, practiced movements. One bolt sizzles past your shoulder, scorching the skin of your upper arm with a hiss. You wince at the burn but don’t allow it to distract you. You pivot left and let the Force guide your step, sliding between two crates as the bolts light up the steel around you.
Bo-Katan and Reeves burst from behind you, jetpacks igniting in synchronized roars. They rise above the chaos, blasters trained, firing in controlled bursts. One trooper takes a shot to the neck and crumples. Another slams against a crate as Reeves drops into a slide, knocking his legs out before putting a bolt through his chest plate.
Cara is the last down the ramp, heavy repeater blaster slung across her chest, you know the moment it starts firing the troopers will have to call for more backup.
She fires in short, brutal bursts, mowing down a trio of troopers who had begun to flank your position. “Don’t stop moving!” she shouts over her fire, pivoting and dropping to cover behind a stack of fuel canisters. Her aim is ruthless—every shot deliberate, each one hitting center mass.
A squad rushes in from the east door. You raise your left hand and shove with the Force. The air around you shudders. The entire group flies backward in a heap, weapons clattering across the floor. Before they can regroup, you surge forward, saber cleaving through the last trooper still on his feet.
More troopers pour in. A klaxon wails overhead—short bursts of sound that rattle the walls and bounce off the cold durasteel floor. The troopers called for reinforcements—just like you wanted. You press forward, each movement deliberate, efficient. You duck under a shot, lunge forward, and slice a trooper’s blaster in half before spinning to knock him flat with your elbow. A backhanded swing drops the next one.
“Clear the bay!” Bo shouts over the noise. “Move now!”
Reeves rockets to the far wall and slaps a charge against a sealed entryway. The explosion rips the doors open in a burst of smoke and flame. You dash through the breach, saber leading the way.
The corridor beyond is narrow, dimly lit, and lined with flashing emergency panels. The lights pulse red now—alarms have gone full-scale. You barely break stride as another team of troopers appears ahead, raising rifles.
You leap.
Your boots hit the ceiling momentarily, your body twisting in a tight flip as you descend right into the middle of them. One trooper crumples before he sees your saber. The others spin around too late. You pivot, blade slicing low then high, dropping three in as many seconds.
Blaster bolts hammer the walls behind you. Bo and Reeves come in hard, laying down suppressive fire. A bolt skims your leg—you feel your flesh burn, but you ignore it. You grit your teeth and throw your hand forward again. This time, you pull.
Four troopers are yanked off their feet, skidding across the corridor and crashing into a wall panel in a shower of sparks.
Behind them, Cara barrels forward, slamming the butt of her blaster into a trooper's visor before riddling the last with point-blank fire.
“We’re close to the bridge!” Bo shouts, checking her ammo. “We need to draw more attention!”
You nod once and push ahead.
The bridge doors loom large, sealed tight, and reinforced with extra plating. You raise your hand, drawing a long breath, centering yourself in the Force. Metal groans under your will. You feel the strain through your bones, every bolt and gear resisting you.
Then—crack. The doors buckle and scream, then blow inward in a rush of smoke.
The bridge is full.
Two squads of elite troopers are already waiting, weapons up.
“Enough attention for you?” You mutter to Bo, to which her helmet tilts to the side in amusement.
The troopers begin to open fire—blasters scream with red fire the second you breach—but you’re already moving. You dive left, slide under a console, and return fire with a deflected red bolt that hits a trooper in the helmet.
Bo-Katan launches over your head, jetpack flaring, landing in the upper tier of the bridge. She lays down covering fire with practiced accuracy, her shots deliberate and deadly.
You spin out from cover and charge, saber flashing. You dodge a bolt, close the distance, and drive your saber through the chest plate of the nearest trooper. He drops. Another comes from your right—you counter with a clean diagonal cut. Sparks fly as your blade carves through armour.
Reeves flanks from the opposite side, blaster humming as she sprays the console row. A panel explodes, shrapnel taking out two troopers caught mid-run.
Cara stomps in behind you, tearing into the last line of defence. She grabs a trooper mid-tackle and throws him over the railing. Another gets a faceful of blaster fire before he can even turn. “Clear!” she roars as she boots the last rifle across the floor.
You and Bo meet in the center of the bridge. She drops the last trooper with a quick pulse shot to the visor. The air stills.
You breathe hard, sweat stinging your eyes, saber held low and crackling.
“Bridge is clear,” Reeves calls, kicking away a discarded rifle.
Bo moves to the controls. “Seal the blast doors. Lock down the entryways.”
You finally allow yourself a breath, the hum of your lightsaber ceasing as it disappears into the hilt. The ship may be in your hands—but your mind is already elsewhere.
“Now go,” Bo says, looking to you. “Go get your kid.”
And just like that, you turn and sprint out of the bridge and toward the detention level. You just hope it was enough to steer the guards away from Grogu.
Your boots hammer against the durasteel floor, every step echoing through the long, dim corridor of the cruiser. The flickering lights overhead paint the walls in a stuttering dance of shadow and steel. Light flashing over your face in a strobe—a symptom of causing so much commotion in the docking bay.
You keep your saber hilt clutched in one hand, thumb hovering near the ignition. The hallway stretches ahead in a grim blur, your breath loud in your ears beneath the hum of distant alarms and the rhythm of your pounding heart.
Then—you hear it.
A deep, mechanical thud. Followed by another. And another.
You freeze, ears straining. The noise grows louder, rhythmic, brutal—metal striking metal. You break into a sprint, weaving between the twisted remains of dead troopers and sparking wall panels. A mess left behind by Din—you bet. Sparks pop from the ceiling, casting momentary flares of light.
You round the corner—
And your stomach drops.
Up ahead, Din is pinned against the wall, a massive Dark Trooper towering over him. The droid’s vice grip is around his helmet, slamming his head into the wall again and again. The metal panel is already dented inward, sparks flying with every devastating blow. Din fights to break free, legs kicking, hands grasping for his blaster—but it’s knocked away, skittering across the floor—the droid is on fire which means he already exhausted his arsenal.
You don’t hesitate.
The saber snaps to life in your hand with a fwoom, bathing the hallway in the glow of cold, pale light. You sprint forward, angling your blade—
And slice clean through the trooper’s extended arm.
Sparks explode from the severed limb. The Dark Trooper staggers, turning its glowing red eyes on you now, its inflamed head cocked unnaturally as it calculates this new threat. It swings a metal fist toward your head, but you duck low, ready to drive the blade through its chest—
Before your saber lands, a spear pierces straight through the back of the trooper’s head.
The metal giant spasms, joints seizing, then collapses to the floor with an echoing clang. You whip around, breathing hard—Din is still standing but using the wall for support. The beskar spear abandoned inside the trooper as he stumbles back, chest heaving under the weight of the exertion.
“Din—” you breathe, rushing to his side, grabbing his arm. Your eyes rake over him for any sign of injury—eyes trailing up his chest, neck, chin—there's blood on his chin where his helmet sits slightly askew.
Quickly, so quickly, you grab his helmet and push it down, covering him before he notices. You pretend not to notice the tanned skin. You pretend not to notice the stubble you’ve felt against your own skin so many times that you’ve never been able to see—until just now.
“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his helmet in your hands as though that was your intention all along. He didn’t notice the exposure.
He leans his head back against the wall, catching his breath. “Yeah... yeah, I’m fine.”
You nod quickly, hands moving to rest briefly on his chest plate, grounding yourself. “Okay, okay, good.”
“Are you?” His hand lifts to your chin, holding your face up and turning it to the side, but his helmet moves down to your arm. “What happened?”
You had completely forgotten about your arm, glancing down to see angry flesh glaring at you. You instinctively move your hand to cover it, instantly regretting it as it screams with a stinging pain.
“It’s nothing a little bacta won’t fix.”
“I don’t like you getting hurt.” He says earnestly, pushing off the wall to glare down at you.
“And you think I like seeing you hurt? It comes with the job. You’ve said it yourself, occupational haz—”
“My occupation. My hazard.” He quips at you, causing you to shrug.
“If I remember correctly, this whole thing started because you hired me. So, it kinda is our occupational hazard.” The exchange pulled you from reality for just a moment. The first moment since you lost the kid that you’ve managed to almost smile. Almost.
“You secured the bridge?” Din asks in concern.
“We secured the bridge, but Gideon wasn’t there.”
Din’s jaw tightens beneath the helmet, the weight of what that means heavy in his silence.
“We need to find him,” you say, voice low and urgent, reality setting back in, burning more than the skin on your arm.
He nods once, gripping the end of the spear still buried in the trooper and yanking it free.
You and Din stalk through the corridor, breath tight in your throat. The heat from your lightsaber still radiates in your hand. Din moves just ahead of you, spear held tight in his grip. Steps silent despite the weight of his armour.
Then suddenly—two stormtroopers round the corner and you both jump to action. As you cut through one and Din blasts the other in the chest, you round the corner to see a squadron of troopers turning to meet you with open fire.
Your saber flashes, spinning upward to deflect the bolts. Din charges straight through, using the spear like a battering ram—he drives it through one trooper’s chest plate with brutal precision.
You slide low across the floor, blade angled upward. One clean swipe and two troopers collapse with smoking injuries.
More come at you. Four—five—maybe six.
You plant yourself at Din’s back as they surround you, back to back. A Jedi and a Mandalorian.
He moves with that deadly calm, all instinct and power. The beskar spear slashes through one helmet, then another. You catch a trooper trying to flank him and slam your saber through his gut, twisting the hilt upwards to yank it free—splitting him in half from belly up. It’s violent and fast.
The last trooper charges at Din, yelling beneath his helmet. Din doesn’t flinch. He steps in close, catches the man’s blaster arm, and twists it with bone-snapping force. The trooper struggles—but Din shifts his grip on the spear, spins it, and drives the shaft across the trooper’s throat. Sliding behind him within a fraction of a second and pulling hard. The trooper’s boots kick uselessly as his body is hoisted off the ground.
Your breath catches. He’s holding the full weight of another man off the floor, legs not even locked. You’re frozen for just a second, watching the sheer strength in him, the exactness of it. Brutal and controlled.
The body goes limp as he jerks the spear—snapping his neck.
Din releases him and he crumples to the ground. He steps back, catching his breath as though it were nothing, securing the spear back on his spine. You don’t say anything, but he glances at you. You’re not sure what emotion he reads on your face. You’re not sure what you’re feeling—you’re not scared or disgusted. Something about that feels wrong.
Without a word, you turn away, stepping toward the cell door.
Your saber hisses back to life.
You drive the blade into the locking panel. Sparks explode from the frame as the mechanism gives, metal hissing and curling. You kick the door open.
You barely have time to register the scene before you, but your heart drops to the cold floor.
The first thing you see is Moff Gideon, standing, holding an ignited saber—only it’s not a lightsaber. It’s dark and flat. Glowing unnaturally. This must be the Darksaber Bo-Katan told you about.
The sound of a thrilled squeal pulls your eyes down and your heart leaps back up into your throat.
Your baby.
Grogu sits in small shackles, looking between you and Din with a trill, wriggling against his restraints with joy.
Instinct wants you to smile back at him but your eyes are trained on the Darksaber humming just inches above his perfect little head.
The Darksaber hums menacingly. Nobody moves. And Moff Gideon smiles.
“This is the part where you drop your weapons,” He looks between you two, eyes flicking down to the ignited saber in your hand. “Slowly.”
Din moves first. Lowering his blaster to the ground. You can’t seem to move.
“Do it,” Din mutters under his breath as he stands. You bite back every instinct as you allow the saber to disappear into the hilt. You crouch slowly, eyes never leaving Gideon as you place the hilt on the ground.
“Now kick it over to me.” He says as you stand. Din kicks the blaster and you have no choice but to kick the saber. You want to grab him with the Force and throw him against the opposed wall. Collapse his throat in on itself—but as much as you hate it—you don’t know what you’re up against. Each time you think you have Gideon figured out he throws something else at you. First the Darktroopers, now the Darksaber. You are not willing to gamble your kid's life.
Gideon notices your eyes on the saber and he moves it back and forth slowly.
“Mesmerizing, isn’t it? Used to belong to Bo-Katan.” He smirks. “Yes, I know you’re travelling with Bo-Katan. A friendly piece of advice, assume that I know everything. Like the fact that your wrist launcher has fired its one and only salvo. And that you, my dear, have come across a new and exciting gift.”
“Where is this going?” Din cuts him off, seething with anger at the man staring you down.
“The simple truth. All I wanted from this child was to study his blood.” The amusement leaves his face as his features harden. “This Child is extremely gifted and has been blessed with rare properties that have the potential to bring order back to the galaxy. He is the key—was—the key.”
“Was?” You question, not trusting a word out of the man's mouth.
“I watched you take the bridge. I must say you were quite impressive cutting down my men. Unfortunate, yes, but I have to say I enjoyed the spectacle.” Gideon continues, despite the calm tone you feel the tension in his firm hand. “You in mere months have accomplished more than this child in years. I’ll admit… I am impressed.”
“Then hand him over. If he has no more use to you.” You spit back but Gideon only chuckles.
“You see, my dear, that is not how negotiations work.” He smirks again. “I show you my leverage and you agree to my terms.”
“We don’t negotiate with you.” Din steps forward suddenly, Gideon’s eyes flashing over to him with interest. His blade lowers, inching closer to Grogu and you grab his arm, pulling him back.
“No, no, stop!” You hold your hand up at Gideon. “Just, stop.”
“My terms,” He says again, sterner this time. “You hand yourself over to me, and I allow your Mandalorian friends, and child, to leave this ship unharmed.”
Din’s arm hardens like steel under your grip. The air leaves your lungs as you inhale his words and feel them scrape down your throat like ice. Give yourself over. It’s everything in you not to look at Din—because you already know what he will say.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
“What?” Din growls instantly, stepping in front of you. “No, no—”
“We don’t have a choice.” You grab his arm and pull him back again, firmer this time. You tilt your chin toward Grogu, who stares back at you with those impossibly wide eyes, the shackles heavy around his wrists. His lip trembles. “Please.”
He looks at you—stiff and silent—and you can tell he wants to argue, to punch a wall, to do anything but stand down. But after a long beat, you step forward, and he doesn’t stop you. That’s all you need.
You turn to Gideon. “But you remove the blade first. You get nothing until that thing is away from him.”
Gideon pauses. His face ticks—somewhere between amusement and annoyance—but then, to your surprise, he obliges. “Fair enough.” He lifts the Darksaber from over Grogu and steps to the side. In response, the saber is now pointed at you, humming just above your ribcage.
With a flick of his hand, a small silver key lands on the ground in front of Grogu. His hand reaches back into his belt, this time pulling a set of cuffs, the same as the ones on Grogu, but larger. You can feel the Force dimming as he approaches with them. Suppressing cuffs.
You lift your wrists, but your jaw tightens. “You let them go unharmed,” you remind him.
He doesn't respond. He just snaps the cuffs over your wrists—tight and cold—and steps behind you, one hand still holding the ignited Darksaber.
“Of course,” He says, lifting the blade so it flickers just below your chin. “Those were the terms.”
“Din,” you say, voice steadier than you expected, “Take him. Now.”
Din hesitates. He doesn’t move. His visor is locked in on you. On your neck. Lit up and glowing from the reflection of the saber.
“Din,” You say, without seeing his eyes you know where he’s looking. At your voice he looks up at you, seeing your eyes open, pleading, trusting him.
You watch as nods once. He turns toward Grogu, walking slowly, carefully. Gideon follows each step with the tilt of his blade—you feel the hum of it close to your neck, not touching, but you can feel the heat—can hear it echoing in your ears.
Grogu wriggles, chirping excitedly now that Din is so close. You let yourself breathe—just once.
Din crouches, eye level with Grogu. For just a moment.
And then, all at once, he moves.
The beskar spear swings from his back in a blur, and with the power of a coiled spring, he lunges across the space.
You drop to the floor the second the blade swings over your shoulder.
The clang of metal against pure energy crashes through the room as spear meets saber. Gideon grunts, stumbling backward from the sheer force of the blow. Din presses forward, relentless.
You scramble to your feet, wrists still bound, heart in your throat. Then you're running—straight to Grogu. He squeals at the sight of you, reaching out with those tiny cuffed hands.
“I’ve got you,” you breathe, grabbing the key from the floor. You unlock his cuffs with shaking fingers. They hit the ground with a small clang, and Grogu immediately lifts his hands, placing them over your cuffs.
“Can you help me?” you ask softly. His ears twitch. Then his eyes narrow with concentration.
You feel it—the warm swell in the air, that electric pull as the Force thrums between your skin and his. The metal around your wrists groans, creaks—splinters—then bursts apart with a loud snap.
The cuffs fall.
You grab Grogu and hold him tight, hand cupping the back of his head, pressing your nose into the top of his bald little head and breathing in. Breathing life back into your lungs.
You pull away and look into his eyes. “You stay right here. Don’t move.”
Spear and saber clash behind you, over and over, fire and fury ricocheting through the room as you stand and turn toward the fight.
You lift your hand.
Gideon’s body jolts like a puppet on invisible strings. His feet lift from the floor. He gasps once, his eyes wide in shock, but no air makes it to his lungs—not with your grip closing around his throat. You’ve restricted movement across his entire body. He cannot fight. He can’t claw at his neck. His hand holding the Darksaber, still ignited in his hand, is locked in place.
Din pulls back instinctively, spear lowered now, his helmet turning slowly to you. He doesn't interrupt. He recognizes that look in your eyes.
You twitch your fingers. Gideon spins, midair, turning slowly until his eyes find yours and this time, they don’t gleam with arrogance. Or smugness. Or hatred.
They are wide. White-rimmed.
Fear.
You take a step forward, lifting your chin, one flick of your other hand and your lightsaber skitters across the ground, flying back to you like metal to a magnet. It ignites the moment you catch it. Eyes never leaving his.
“You tried to tear my family apart,” you say calmly as everything rushes back to you. This man. This man in a black cloak tried to rip the universe away from you. Everything.
He chokes again, trying to speak, but the Force crushes the words back down his throat.
And then—without warning—you drop him. He crumples to his knees with a clang, gasping, coughing, spitting on the floor like a man who just clawed his way out of drowning.
Din steps forward and pulls the Darksaber from his hand, disarming him as Gideon gains control of his body, released from your hold but too weak to fight, the blade slipping from his fingers without protest.
You move your saber under his chin—just as he did with his own only moments before. The irony of the moment might have made you smile in any other situation. The end of the saber hovers so close to his mouth he barely dares to swallow. He lifts his eyes to meet yours and you feel a crack in your chest.
His lip curls faintly, a pathetic echo of a smile. “What now?” he rasps.
Your face doesn’t move.
“Was it you?” you ask suddenly.
He blinks, caught off guard by the question. “What?”
You hesitate just a moment. One moment.
“Were you the one who killed my parents?” you repeat, voice flat. “Who lit fire to an innocent Sorgan village?”
Din takes a step forward, not interrupting, only prompted closer by your words. The air is thick with a tension that coils and tightens, humming in the silence.
Grogu is tucked in the shadows, wide eyes shimmering in the low light. But he doesn’t just watch—he feels it. The tremble in your voice beneath its steel. The current of grief and rage humming just beneath your skin. He senses the storm within you long before it breaks. His ears dip slightly, a physical echo of his distress, but he makes no sound. It’s not fear of Gideon that holds him still—it’s worry for you.
To him, you are the warmth he runs to in the dark. The one who sings to him when the stars are quiet. And now, something in you feels wrong. He can’t name it—but it vibrates through the Force like a fraying thread.
You’re standing tall. You look strong. But Grogu feels the weight in your chest. The tremble you’re hiding in your limbs. And so he waits. Watching. Wishing he could do more. Wishing you’d look back at him just once so he could let you know.
He’s here. And he knows this pain—because it’s his too.
Gideon stares at you. His expression shifts—just a flicker.
“Child...” he says, exhaling. “I don’t know who you are.”
There is no mockery in his voice. Just a man who knows the ending is already written in stone.
Your jaw flexes. You stare at him for a long time, reading him, letting the silence stretch. Then you take a step back. You lower your saber, the light vanishing into the metal with a hiss.
You don’t say a word. You look up at Din and nod once.
He raises his blaster in one smooth motion. No hesitation. The shot rings through the chamber. Sharp. Echoing.
Gideon slumps forward, head down, body lifeless. Silence returns.
The only sound is the soft hum of the ship and Grogu’s quiet coo as he toddles toward you, arms lifted. You drop to your knees and scoop him into your chest as he burrows into your shirt. You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding him until the warmth of another presence comes to your side. Din.
He kneels beside you silently, the weight of everything unspoken and heavy in the air. His armour creaks with the movement. His visor tilts down to Grogu, and for a moment he just… looks. Taking him in. Breathing.
Then, gently, his hand reaches forward. He touches Grogu’s head—fingers gliding softly over one of those long ears—and Grogu lifts his head to look at him, wide-eyed and smiling. A chirp escapes him, small and joyful.
Din’s shoulders drop. Just a little. Relief flooding through him.
You look up at him just as he reaches out and cups your cheek. The leather is warm, grounding. His thumb brushes over your skin as if making sure you’re really here.
“Never do that again,” he says, voice low, rough with everything he isn’t saying.
You press your hand over his, holding it against your face, your lips trembling. You nod once, unable to speak.
Grogu shifts between you, nestling close, his tiny hands gripping the front of both your shirts like he’s anchoring himself. Din pulls you both in, his arms circling around the two of you, your bodies drawn in tight. Your face tucks against his neck as he holds the both of you like he’ll never let go again.
No one speaks.
You just sit there—arms tangled, hearts pounding. There’s a peace in it. A stillness that makes everything else fade away.
Grogu sighs softly, finally calm, cradled between the two people he loves most. You press your lips to his forehead, then lean into Din’s hold, his hand still cupped at the nape of your neck. His chest rises and falls against you, his thumb dragging a slow, reverent circle against your skin. His other arm never loosens from around the both of you. And then—suddenly, like a dam bursting open—he speaks.
“Marry me.”
Your heart stops.
You pull back slightly to look up at him, stunned, your mouth parting but no words coming out. Your breath catches in your throat.
Din’s hand cups your cheek again, firm and grounding, and his voice is rough with conviction when he repeats, “Marry me. Right now.”
You blink, your chest rising with a sharp inhale. “What about—?”
“I don’t care,” His thumb dances across your cheek. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome,”
You stare at him, lips trembling. “What… what does that mean?”
“They’re vows,” he says softly. “Ancient ones in the language of my ancestors. We are one when together, we are one when parted.” His gaze never leaves you. “Mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde—We will share all. We will raise warriors.”
Your eyes burn. You nod. You nod even though your voice has gone. Even though the moment is so much bigger than you can comprehend.
You clear your throat, voice trembling. “Say it again.”
He does. He speaks the vow slowly this time, each word deliberate. You take a deep breath.
“Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar’tome. Mhi me’dinui an. Mhi ba’juri verde.”
Your lips tremble as you repeat the words. And, with each word he falls in love with you all over again. Your voice wraps around his tongue, the language foreign and beautiful on your lips. And something in his eyes—behind the visor—shatters with it.
Din takes your hands, his touch careful, reverent. He carries them to the sides of his helmet. And for a second—just one—he pauses, breath held, hands over yours over beskar. You hold your breath too. And then you move.
Your fingers slide up the edges of the helmet, cold beskar smooth beneath your touch. Slowly, with trembling hands, you lift. The seal releases with a soft hiss.
And then—there he is.
Din Djarin.
Your heart stutters at the sight.
His face is flushed. A faint sheen of sweat and blood along his brow. His hair is dark and thick, curling gently where it’s grown out along the nape of his neck. There’s a scar high on his cheekbone, another cutting just beneath his lip. His nose—his beautiful nose—slightly crooked, healed from some old break. Stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and soft, and his eyes—
Stars.
His eyes are deep brown and raw. They blink at you like he can’t quite believe this is happening, that you’re here and seeing him. In some way, he’s seeing you for the first time too. The first time without the filter or scanner in his helmet blocking the way. The first time with more than a faint light across your features. The first time your eyes connect with nothing between them but air.
You notice the sudden anxiety in his eyes. Fear. Like maybe you’ll turn away. Like maybe, you won’t like what you see. But your hands lift instantly, cupping his face with awe. Your thumbs brush over his cheeks, into the soft stubble, and your voice—barely there—breaks the silence.
“You’re beautiful.”
Something in his face crumbles. His eyes close for a moment like he’s steadying himself.
And then you lean in. You kiss him.
It’s not your first kiss, but gods, it feels like it. There’s no more mask. No more hiding. No barrier between skin and breath and soul.
Your lips meet his with reverence—slow, aching. Like the whole galaxy has paused around you just to make space for this. Like you’re not on an Imperial cruiser but in the hull of the Razer Crest, encased in the safety of hyperspace. You’re favourite place in the world. Between worlds.
His hands slide to your back, one palm pressing between your shoulder blades as he deepens the kiss. He tastes like salt and iron. The warmth of him seeps into you, anchoring every piece that ever broke apart. He kisses you like it’s a promise. Like it’s forever.
Grogu lets out a loud, happy gurgle beneath you, and you both break away with quiet, breathless laughs. Din leans his forehead to yours, panting, smiling. And then the two of you glance down together.
Grogu stares up at Din, wonder bursting across his little face.
His mouth opens in wonder, those huge dark eyes sparkling with awe. Din chuckles—soft, low—and leans down toward him. “Hey, kid.”
Grogu chirps in disbelief and lifts both arms, touching Din’s cheek with those tiny, clawed hands like he’s making sure he’s real. You laugh with a slight sob, brushing away the tears from your cheeks, heart full to the brim.
Din looks back at you, something gentle and absolute in his eyes. His voice comes quiet, certain.
“Let’s go home.” And you understand.
He doesn’t mean the Razor Crest. Or Takodana. Or anywhere in the stars.
The moment you heard the last click you knew you had done it. The saber you had been working on for so many weeks was finally complete. Ahsoka was right about breaking it down to the smallest parts一thinking about the hilt in your hand like the engine on the Razor Crest.
Din had given you one of his older, smaller blasters to disassemble for parts. The scraps you had taken from Peli were not quite strong enough to hold the power of the crystal inside. The blaster metal was intended to contain heat and with an extra couple steps, you made it work.
The hilt was not pretty by any stretch. It was a combination of various colours and material composites一durasteel in some areas and guerrerite in others. You wrapped the middle in a band of brown leather ripped from your jacket for a better grip.
To you, it was perfect. Where it lacked in aesthetic charm it made up for in functionality.
You ignore the stinging ripple in your legs as you hit the metal floor of the ship you were hijacking. Din had jumped just before you and already had the pilots with their hands up一blaster pointed at them with intimidating calmness.
Your attention was far from the pilots一it was locked on the doctor.
“Before you make a mistake, this is Dr. Pershing.” The pilot says, putting a hand on the doctor's shoulder and stepping behind him like a human shield.
“We’ve met,” Din states plainly, blaster still trained on his chest, unconcerned. “Is the kid alive?”
“Yes. He’s on the cruiser.” Pershing stutters, tremble evident in his voice as his eyes lock on the end of the blaster.
You’re standing behind Din with your hood up. Watching them as they anxiously scale the Mandalorian in front of them. You’re not convinced they even noticed you standing behind the presence of the famed bounty hunter.
“Look, I’m not with him, we can work something一” The co-pilot starts, but just as soon as he does, the pilot grabs his own blaster and shoots him in the head. He grabs the doctor and points the blaster at his head. A desperate attempt from a desperate man.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Din warns, and while to the pilot it sounds like a taunt, it was genuinely a warning.
“You listen to me. This is a top-tier target of the New Republ一” His face suddenly drops. His eyes flick from rage to panic. The words are taken from his mouth as he suddenly begins to choke. He looks confused and petrified as his eyes glide over to where your hand is outstretched.
The pilot drops his blaster, pushes the doctor away and grabs his throat. Clawing away at fingers that aren’t there. Desperately pleading with his eyes to be released from your grasp. You don’t waver. You hold him there as the colour begins to drain from his face.
Din turns his head just slightly in your direction. Waiting for your next move when the pilot finally drops. He’s not dead. Just passed out from lack of oxygen.
You step over him to the doctor huddled against the wall of the ship, eyes wide, staring at the unconscious and dead pilots on the ground.
“Y-You’re a… you just一”
The dark cockpit lights up in flickering blue light.
“You’re coming with us.” You say as your stable, but pulsing saber flickers just below his throat.
Silence settles over the rocking hull like a vice.
The dim glow of the overhead lights flicker with each shift of the ship, casting long, unsteady shadows across the cold durasteel floor. You lean on the wall by the cockpit ladder rigid, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the opposite wall, unwilling to so much as look at the doctor at the end of the hull.
His hands bound, his posture tense, but it wasn’t just fear that kept him quiet. He was watching you—studying you with a scientist’s curiosity, eyes flicking over every twitch of your fingers, every breath you took.
It made your skin crawl. The way he viewed you like a subject to be studied—the same way he studied Grogu. The reason he is out of your grasp in the first place. Your hands itch for the saber at the back of your belt, encased in a barrel-shaped leather pouch. Instead, you clench them into fists, the bite of your nails into your palms the only thing keeping you still.
Cara shifts across from you, the scrape of her boot against the floor cutting through the thick silence. “You got a problem?” she snaps, her voice sharp with the same disgust curdling in your gut.
Pershing flinches, his wide-eyed gaze jerking away like a child caught where he shouldn’t be. “I-I apologize,” he stammers, licking his lips nervously. “I meant no offence.”
“Oh really, you seem to have a staring problem,” Cara takes a daunting step forward—her defence of you brings comfort, but not enough to ignore the rage deep in your stomach towards the doctor.
His hands, cuffed in front of him, rise to push his glasses farther up his nose, “Forgive me, but coming across someone with a connection to the force has become all too rare.”
“Might have something to do with you butchering all of them.” You finally speak up, his words offending you too much to stay silent.
“A path I had no part in and disagree with immensely.” He raises his hand in defense but you don’t care.
“And yet you had no issue experimenting on a child,” You seethe, pushing away from the ladder, hands still clenched into fists. “No issue keeping him locked up like some lab specimen.”
Pershing pales, shaking his head quickly. “I did what I had to do to keep him alive.”
You scoff, disbelief curdling into something sharper. “Alive? You tore him from the only family he has, kept him in chains, let monsters use him however they saw fit. That’s not survival—that’s suffering.”
The doctor swallowed, “You have to understand—what we are studying, what his blood could do—it could change everything. If I had access to your blood instead, to a fully developed sample, the child would be unnecessary. No more need to take from him.”
Your breath turns to ice in your lungs.
“My blood?” You scoff. “You expect me to give you my blood after everything you’ve done—your empire has done?”
Pershing hesitates, then nods as if genuinely convinced. “Yes. If you—”
Your hand twitches as if about to grab your saber but you remain composed.
“You’re delusional.” You practically spit before grabbing the ladder and pulling yourself up to the cockpit. Cara can deal with him from here.
The cantina hums with low voices, a steady undercurrent of murmured conversations and quiet negotiations. The clink of beskar against stone contrasts the occasional burst of laughter and the scrape of chairs dragging across the floor.
The air is thick with the scent of spiced liquor and cheap cigarra smoke, the haze curling in lazy tendrils toward the dim overhead lights. In the far corner, a group of armoured mercenaries huddle over a table, helmets resting beside half-empty cups, voices low and unreadable.
Bo-Katan Kryze sits among them, the sharp blue of her armour standing out even in the dim light. She turns away from her meal as you and Din approach, the ghost of an amused smirk tugs at her lips. “I figured if I ever saw you again, it would be fighting alongside your own kind.” Her voice is smooth, edged with curiosity and challenge in equal measure.
“I found what I was looking for,” you answer simply. “Thanks to you.”
Bo-Katan tilts her head slightly. “And yet, you came back?”
“We need your help,” Din cuts in, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
Bo-Katan exhales through her nose, leaning back in her seat. “Not all Mandalorians are bounty hunters. Some of us serve a higher purpose.” There’s a flicker of something in her gaze—pride, perhaps, or a warning.
Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palms becoming an anxious tick. “They took the Child.”
That gets her attention. She straightens slightly, eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“Moff Gideon.”
Her expression hardens. The name alone is enough to shift the air around the table. Bo-Katan shakes her head, turning away as if dismissing the thought altogether. “You’ll never find him.”
Din takes a step forward, his voice firm. “We already did.”
That catches her interest. The subtle shift in her demeanour is almost imperceptible, but you see it—the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her eyes sharpen.
“We have the coordinates to Gideon’s light cruiser,” Din continues.
Bo-Katan exhales slowly, considering. “You can bring me to him?”
“A light cruiser could be helpful in your effort to regain Mandalore,” Din concludes and you watch as the fire in her eyes burns just a little brighter.
A pause stretches between you, tense but full of possibility. Then, finally, Bo-Katan nods. “We will help you. In exchange, we will keep that ship and retake Mandalore—I would have you reconsider joining our efforts.” Her firm gaze then shifts from Din to you—eyes gleaming with ambition. “You would be welcome to our cause. A Jedi would be invaluable.”
You consider her for a moment before holding firm. “Rescuing the child is our priority. Once he is safe we can talk.”
Bo-Katan holds your gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, she leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Fair enough,” she concedes.
Across from her, Koska Reeves watches you carefully, fingers tapping idly against the rim of her cup. “Gideon won’t give up the kid without a fight,” she says, her voice low but certain. “And his ship is well-guarded. How many are in your crew?”
“Not enough,” Din admits. His voice is rougher now, a quiet frustration simmering beneath the words. “But we’ve taken on worse odds.”
A trace of a smirk plays at Reeve’s lips, but Bo-Katan remains serious. “Do you have a plan?”
“We board the cruiser, secure the bridge, and take out any defences standing between us and the child,” you say, arms crossing as you lay it out plainly. “Gideon won’t expect an attack this direct.”
“He’ll expect something,” Reeves interjects, eyes flicking over to Bo-Katan. “If they have the coordinates, he’ll know we’re coming.”
Bo-Katan nods. “Then we strike fast. Before he has time to react.” Her gaze flickers to Din as she stands. “One more thing… Gideon has a weapon that once belonged to me. It is an ancient weapon that can cut through anything.”
“Almost anything,” Reeves smirks from behind her.
“It cannot cut through pure beskar. I will kill the Moff and retake what is rightfully mine.” Bo-Katan steps forward, staring Din down through his visor. “With the Darksaber restored to me, Mandalore will finally be within reach.”
“Help us rescue our child and you can have whatever you want. He is my only priority.” Din says earnestly, no weapon or valour worth more than the child taken away.
Bo-Katan nods in understanding before looking between the two of you, “you said you have Gideon’s location. How soon can we move?”
Din doesn’t hesitate. “Now.”
The weight of the word settles over the table, the finality of it sinking into the space between you. There is no room for delay, no time for second-guessing. Grogu is out there, alone, and every moment wasted is a moment too long.
“Then let’s get to work.”
The cockpit of the Razor Crest buzzes with quiet tension, lit only by the holoprojection that flickers in blue between everyone. You stand just behind the pilot’s seat, arms crossed, eyes on the holoprojection cruiser.
“This is Moff Gideon’s Imperial light cruiser,” Bo-Katan says, gesturing to the outline of the ship displayed above the console. “In the old days, it would carry a crew of several hundred. Now it operates with a tiny fraction of that.”
Her voice is calm but clipped—military, sharp.
“That assessment is misleading,” Dr. Pershing cuts in from the side, his hands still bound, his tone careful.
“Oh, great. An objective opinion,” Cara mutters, arms folded as she leans against the wall near the hatch, eyes narrowing with skepticism.
“This isn’t subterfuge,” Pershing replies quickly, glancing around as though expecting someone to cut him off again. “I assure you.”
“Let him speak,” Bo says, her tone brooking no argument.
“There’s a garrison of Dark Troopers on board,” Pershing continues, nodding toward the hologram. “They are the ones that abducted the Child.”
Your jaw tightens. The memory of cold, black metal and crushing strength flashes across your mind.
“Those things are not troopers,” you say quietly, but the edge in your voice is sharp. “They were droids. But stronger than any droid I’ve ever faced. It took everything I had just to destroy one.”
“These are third-generation designs,” Pershing explains, voice lowering as he leans toward the projection. “They are no longer suits. The human inside was the final weakness to be solved.”
A ripple of discomfort passes through the room.
“Where are they bivouacked?” Reeves asks from behind Bo, arms at her sides, expression unreadable.
“They’re held in cold storage in this cargo bay,” Pershing answers, highlighting the section on the cruiser layout. “They draw too much power to be kept at ready.”
“How long to power up?”
“A few minutes, perhaps.”
Din’s voice cuts through the hum of the engines. “Where is the child being held?”
Pershing’s finger shifts, selecting a smaller chamber near the center of the ship. “He is being held here. Under armed guard. He will not be easy to reach. All manpower on the cruiser is ordered to protect him.”
“Unless they have another reason for manpower,” you murmur, thinking aloud. The gears in your head are already turning, faster and faster.
Cara glances over. “What do you suggest?”
You take a breath, steadying the nerves coiling in your stomach. “The doctor said it himself. I’m the bigger target. If I come in hot, they’ll be forced to divert troopers away from him.”
“No.” Din’s voice is hard, immediate.
“I’m serious,” you press, stepping closer. “If I act as a distraction, you can—”
“No.” Stronger this time, firm enough to shake the walls between you.
“It’s a good plan,” Cara says, looking between you and Din with a shrug.
“It’s a horrible plan,” Din snaps. His helmet turns toward you. “I’m not taking that risk.”
“You wouldn’t be taking the risk,” you reply, voice steady but low, your gaze locked on his visor. “I would be exposing myself but it gives you the opportunity to get our kid. That’s all that matters.”
His fists clench at his sides. “I’m not letting you go in alone again.”
“She won’t be.” Bo-Katan’s voice slices through the rising tension. She nods at the schematic. “We hit the launch tube with her. That’ll draw attention. You go for the kid while they’re focused on us.”
You nod, heart pounding but resolute. “It’s a good plan,” you say, softer now, hoping he’ll hear the truth in it.
Din is silent, the weight of your words pressing on him like gravity.
Bo’s voice cuts through again—firm, decisive. “It’s the only plan.”
The stolen Imperial shuttle carrying Bo-Katan, Reeves, Cara, and yourself lurches into the docking bay of Moff Gideon’s cruiser, its exterior scorched and stinking of fuel. Metal clamps seize the hull with a mechanical clang, locking the vessel into place.
The bay is vast, lit with clinical white overheads and lined with rows of stacked crates and refuelling gear. Stormtroopers turn at the commotion—some raising weapons, others already barking into comms.
You stand at the back of the shuttle waiting for the ramp to drop. Cloak covering the entirety of your body, hood up over your head casting a shadow over your eyes. Fists in tight balls at your side, one firmly gripping the hilt of your saber. The shuttle’s ramp hisses open.
Your boots slap against the durasteel deck. The second your feet touch cruiser, you draw your saber, the pale ice-blue blade igniting in a sharp, clean snap-hiss. Its light cuts through the smoke of the hangar, casting flickering reflections on the white armour of the troopers now charging toward you.
Blaster fire erupts. A barrage of red bolts sear through the air, aimed squarely at your chest—but your saber spins in your hands, intercepting them with sharp, practiced movements. One bolt sizzles past your shoulder, scorching the skin of your upper arm with a hiss. You wince at the burn but don’t allow it to distract you. You pivot left and let the Force guide your step, sliding between two crates as the bolts light up the steel around you.
Bo-Katan and Reeves burst from behind you, jetpacks igniting in synchronized roars. They rise above the chaos, blasters trained, firing in controlled bursts. One trooper takes a shot to the neck and crumples. Another slams against a crate as Reeves drops into a slide, knocking his legs out before putting a bolt through his chest plate.
Cara is the last down the ramp, heavy repeater blaster slung across her chest, you know the moment it starts firing the troopers will have to call for more backup.
She fires in short, brutal bursts, mowing down a trio of troopers who had begun to flank your position. “Don’t stop moving!” she shouts over her fire, pivoting and dropping to cover behind a stack of fuel canisters. Her aim is ruthless—every shot deliberate, each one hitting center mass.
A squad rushes in from the east door. You raise your left hand and shove with the Force. The air around you shudders. The entire group flies backward in a heap, weapons clattering across the floor. Before they can regroup, you surge forward, saber cleaving through the last trooper still on his feet.
More troopers pour in. A klaxon wails overhead—short bursts of sound that rattle the walls and bounce off the cold durasteel floor. The troopers called for reinforcements—just like you wanted. You press forward, each movement deliberate, efficient. You duck under a shot, lunge forward, and slice a trooper’s blaster in half before spinning to knock him flat with your elbow. A backhanded swing drops the next one.
“Clear the bay!” Bo shouts over the noise. “Move now!”
Reeves rockets to the far wall and slaps a charge against a sealed entryway. The explosion rips the doors open in a burst of smoke and flame. You dash through the breach, saber leading the way.
The corridor beyond is narrow, dimly lit, and lined with flashing emergency panels. The lights pulse red now—alarms have gone full-scale. You barely break stride as another team of troopers appears ahead, raising rifles.
You leap.
Your boots hit the ceiling momentarily, your body twisting in a tight flip as you descend right into the middle of them. One trooper crumples before he sees your saber. The others spin around too late. You pivot, blade slicing low then high, dropping three in as many seconds.
Blaster bolts hammer the walls behind you. Bo and Reeves come in hard, laying down suppressive fire. A bolt skims your leg—you feel your flesh burn, but you ignore it. You grit your teeth and throw your hand forward again. This time, you pull.
Four troopers are yanked off their feet, skidding across the corridor and crashing into a wall panel in a shower of sparks.
Behind them, Cara barrels forward, slamming the butt of her blaster into a trooper's visor before riddling the last with point-blank fire.
“We’re close to the bridge!” Bo shouts, checking her ammo. “We need to draw more attention!”
You nod once and push ahead.
The bridge doors loom large, sealed tight, and reinforced with extra plating. You raise your hand, drawing a long breath, centering yourself in the Force. Metal groans under your will. You feel the strain through your bones, every bolt and gear resisting you.
Then—crack. The doors buckle and scream, then blow inward in a rush of smoke.
The bridge is full.
Two squads of elite troopers are already waiting, weapons up.
“Enough attention for you?” You mutter to Bo, to which her helmet tilts to the side in amusement.
The troopers begin to open fire—blasters scream with red fire the second you breach—but you’re already moving. You dive left, slide under a console, and return fire with a deflected red bolt that hits a trooper in the helmet.
Bo-Katan launches over your head, jetpack flaring, landing in the upper tier of the bridge. She lays down covering fire with practiced accuracy, her shots deliberate and deadly.
You spin out from cover and charge, saber flashing. You dodge a bolt, close the distance, and drive your saber through the chest plate of the nearest trooper. He drops. Another comes from your right—you counter with a clean diagonal cut. Sparks fly as your blade carves through armour.
Reeves flanks from the opposite side, blaster humming as she sprays the console row. A panel explodes, shrapnel taking out two troopers caught mid-run.
Cara stomps in behind you, tearing into the last line of defence. She grabs a trooper mid-tackle and throws him over the railing. Another gets a faceful of blaster fire before he can even turn. “Clear!” she roars as she boots the last rifle across the floor.
You and Bo meet in the center of the bridge. She drops the last trooper with a quick pulse shot to the visor. The air stills.
You breathe hard, sweat stinging your eyes, saber held low and crackling.
“Bridge is clear,” Reeves calls, kicking away a discarded rifle.
Bo moves to the controls. “Seal the blast doors. Lock down the entryways.”
You finally allow yourself a breath, the hum of your lightsaber ceasing as it disappears into the hilt. The ship may be in your hands—but your mind is already elsewhere.
“Now go,” Bo says, looking to you. “Go get your kid.”
And just like that, you turn and sprint out of the bridge and toward the detention level. You just hope it was enough to steer the guards away from Grogu.
Your boots hammer against the durasteel floor, every step echoing through the long, dim corridor of the cruiser. The flickering lights overhead paint the walls in a stuttering dance of shadow and steel. Light flashing over your face in a strobe—a symptom of causing so much commotion in the docking bay.
You keep your saber hilt clutched in one hand, thumb hovering near the ignition. The hallway stretches ahead in a grim blur, your breath loud in your ears beneath the hum of distant alarms and the rhythm of your pounding heart.
Then—you hear it.
A deep, mechanical thud. Followed by another. And another.
You freeze, ears straining. The noise grows louder, rhythmic, brutal—metal striking metal. You break into a sprint, weaving between the twisted remains of dead troopers and sparking wall panels. A mess left behind by Din—you bet. Sparks pop from the ceiling, casting momentary flares of light.
You round the corner—
And your stomach drops.
Up ahead, Din is pinned against the wall, a massive Dark Trooper towering over him. The droid’s vice grip is around his helmet, slamming his head into the wall again and again. The metal panel is already dented inward, sparks flying with every devastating blow. Din fights to break free, legs kicking, hands grasping for his blaster—but it’s knocked away, skittering across the floor—the droid is on fire which means he already exhausted his arsenal.
You don’t hesitate.
The saber snaps to life in your hand with a fwoom, bathing the hallway in the glow of cold, pale light. You sprint forward, angling your blade—
And slice clean through the trooper’s extended arm.
Sparks explode from the severed limb. The Dark Trooper staggers, turning its glowing red eyes on you now, its inflamed head cocked unnaturally as it calculates this new threat. It swings a metal fist toward your head, but you duck low, ready to drive the blade through its chest—
Before your saber lands, a spear pierces straight through the back of the trooper’s head.
The metal giant spasms, joints seizing, then collapses to the floor with an echoing clang. You whip around, breathing hard—Din is still standing but using the wall for support. The beskar spear abandoned inside the trooper as he stumbles back, chest heaving under the weight of the exertion.
“Din—” you breathe, rushing to his side, grabbing his arm. Your eyes rake over him for any sign of injury—eyes trailing up his chest, neck, chin—there's blood on his chin where his helmet sits slightly askew.
Quickly, so quickly, you grab his helmet and push it down, covering him before he notices. You pretend not to notice the tanned skin. You pretend not to notice the stubble you’ve felt against your own skin so many times that you’ve never been able to see—until just now.
“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his helmet in your hands as though that was your intention all along. He didn’t notice the exposure.
He leans his head back against the wall, catching his breath. “Yeah... yeah, I’m fine.”
You nod quickly, hands moving to rest briefly on his chest plate, grounding yourself. “Okay, okay, good.”
“Are you?” His hand lifts to your chin, holding your face up and turning it to the side, but his helmet moves down to your arm. “What happened?”
You had completely forgotten about your arm, glancing down to see angry flesh glaring at you. You instinctively move your hand to cover it, instantly regretting it as it screams with a stinging pain.
“It’s nothing a little bacta won’t fix.”
“I don’t like you getting hurt.” He says earnestly, pushing off the wall to glare down at you.
“And you think I like seeing you hurt? It comes with the job. You’ve said it yourself, occupational haz—”
“My occupation. My hazard.” He quips at you, causing you to shrug.
“If I remember correctly, this whole thing started because you hired me. So, it kinda is our occupational hazard.” The exchange pulled you from reality for just a moment. The first moment since you lost the kid that you’ve managed to almost smile. Almost.
“You secured the bridge?” Din asks in concern.
“We secured the bridge, but Gideon wasn’t there.”
Din’s jaw tightens beneath the helmet, the weight of what that means heavy in his silence.
“We need to find him,” you say, voice low and urgent, reality setting back in, burning more than the skin on your arm.
He nods once, gripping the end of the spear still buried in the trooper and yanking it free.
You and Din stalk through the corridor, breath tight in your throat. The heat from your lightsaber still radiates in your hand. Din moves just ahead of you, spear held tight in his grip. Steps silent despite the weight of his armour.
Then suddenly—two stormtroopers round the corner and you both jump to action. As you cut through one and Din blasts the other in the chest, you round the corner to see a squadron of troopers turning to meet you with open fire.
Your saber flashes, spinning upward to deflect the bolts. Din charges straight through, using the spear like a battering ram—he drives it through one trooper’s chest plate with brutal precision.
You slide low across the floor, blade angled upward. One clean swipe and two troopers collapse with smoking injuries.
More come at you. Four—five—maybe six.
You plant yourself at Din’s back as they surround you, back to back. A Jedi and a Mandalorian.
He moves with that deadly calm, all instinct and power. The beskar spear slashes through one helmet, then another. You catch a trooper trying to flank him and slam your saber through his gut, twisting the hilt upwards to yank it free—splitting him in half from belly up. It’s violent and fast.
The last trooper charges at Din, yelling beneath his helmet. Din doesn’t flinch. He steps in close, catches the man’s blaster arm, and twists it with bone-snapping force. The trooper struggles—but Din shifts his grip on the spear, spins it, and drives the shaft across the trooper’s throat. Sliding behind him within a fraction of a second and pulling hard. The trooper’s boots kick uselessly as his body is hoisted off the ground.
Your breath catches. He’s holding the full weight of another man off the floor, legs not even locked. You’re frozen for just a second, watching the sheer strength in him, the exactness of it. Brutal and controlled.
The body goes limp as he jerks the spear—snapping his neck.
Din releases him and he crumples to the ground. He steps back, catching his breath as though it were nothing, securing the spear back on his spine. You don’t say anything, but he glances at you. You’re not sure what emotion he reads on your face. You’re not sure what you’re feeling—you’re not scared or disgusted. Something about that feels wrong.
Without a word, you turn away, stepping toward the cell door.
Your saber hisses back to life.
You drive the blade into the locking panel. Sparks explode from the frame as the mechanism gives, metal hissing and curling. You kick the door open.
You barely have time to register the scene before you, but your heart drops to the cold floor.
The first thing you see is Moff Gideon, standing, holding an ignited saber—only it’s not a lightsaber. It’s dark and flat. Glowing unnaturally. This must be the Darksaber Bo-Katan told you about.
The sound of a thrilled squeal pulls your eyes down and your heart leaps back up into your throat.
Your baby.
Grogu sits in small shackles, looking between you and Din with a trill, wriggling against his restraints with joy.
Instinct wants you to smile back at him but your eyes are trained on the Darksaber humming just inches above his perfect little head.
The Darksaber hums menacingly. Nobody moves. And Moff Gideon smiles.
“This is the part where you drop your weapons,” He looks between you two, eyes flicking down to the ignited saber in your hand. “Slowly.”
Din moves first. Lowering his blaster to the ground. You can’t seem to move.
“Do it,” Din mutters under his breath as he stands. You bite back every instinct as you allow the saber to disappear into the hilt. You crouch slowly, eyes never leaving Gideon as you place the hilt on the ground.
“Now kick it over to me.” He says as you stand. Din kicks the blaster and you have no choice but to kick the saber. You want to grab him with the Force and throw him against the opposed wall. Collapse his throat in on itself—but as much as you hate it—you don’t know what you’re up against. Each time you think you have Gideon figured out he throws something else at you. First the Darktroopers, now the Darksaber. You are not willing to gamble your kid's life.
Gideon notices your eyes on the saber and he moves it back and forth slowly.
“Mesmerizing, isn’t it? Used to belong to Bo-Katan.” He smirks. “Yes, I know you’re travelling with Bo-Katan. A friendly piece of advice, assume that I know everything. Like the fact that your wrist launcher has fired its one and only salvo. And that you, my dear, have come across a new and exciting gift.”
“Where is this going?” Din cuts him off, seething with anger at the man staring you down.
“The simple truth. All I wanted from this child was to study his blood.” The amusement leaves his face as his features harden. “This Child is extremely gifted and has been blessed with rare properties that have the potential to bring order back to the galaxy. He is the key—was—the key.”
“Was?” You question, not trusting a word out of the man's mouth.
“I watched you take the bridge. I must say you were quite impressive cutting down my men. Unfortunate, yes, but I have to say I enjoyed the spectacle.” Gideon continues, despite the calm tone you feel the tension in his firm hand. “You in mere months have accomplished more than this child in years. I’ll admit… I am impressed.”
“Then hand him over. If he has no more use to you.” You spit back but Gideon only chuckles.
“You see, my dear, that is not how negotiations work.” He smirks again. “I show you my leverage and you agree to my terms.”
“We don’t negotiate with you.” Din steps forward suddenly, Gideon’s eyes flashing over to him with interest. His blade lowers, inching closer to Grogu and you grab his arm, pulling him back.
“No, no, stop!” You hold your hand up at Gideon. “Just, stop.”
“My terms,” He says again, sterner this time. “You hand yourself over to me, and I allow your Mandalorian friends, and child, to leave this ship unharmed.”
Din’s arm hardens like steel under your grip. The air leaves your lungs as you inhale his words and feel them scrape down your throat like ice. Give yourself over. It’s everything in you not to look at Din—because you already know what he will say.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
“What?” Din growls instantly, stepping in front of you. “No, no—”
“We don’t have a choice.” You grab his arm and pull him back again, firmer this time. You tilt your chin toward Grogu, who stares back at you with those impossibly wide eyes, the shackles heavy around his wrists. His lip trembles. “Please.”
He looks at you—stiff and silent—and you can tell he wants to argue, to punch a wall, to do anything but stand down. But after a long beat, you step forward, and he doesn’t stop you. That’s all you need.
You turn to Gideon. “But you remove the blade first. You get nothing until that thing is away from him.”
Gideon pauses. His face ticks—somewhere between amusement and annoyance—but then, to your surprise, he obliges. “Fair enough.” He lifts the Darksaber from over Grogu and steps to the side. In response, the saber is now pointed at you, humming just above your ribcage.
With a flick of his hand, a small silver key lands on the ground in front of Grogu. His hand reaches back into his belt, this time pulling a set of cuffs, the same as the ones on Grogu, but larger. You can feel the Force dimming as he approaches with them. Suppressing cuffs.
You lift your wrists, but your jaw tightens. “You let them go unharmed,” you remind him.
He doesn't respond. He just snaps the cuffs over your wrists—tight and cold—and steps behind you, one hand still holding the ignited Darksaber.
“Of course,” He says, lifting the blade so it flickers just below your chin. “Those were the terms.”
“Din,” you say, voice steadier than you expected, “Take him. Now.”
Din hesitates. He doesn’t move. His visor is locked in on you. On your neck. Lit up and glowing from the reflection of the saber.
“Din,” You say, without seeing his eyes you know where he’s looking. At your voice he looks up at you, seeing your eyes open, pleading, trusting him.
You watch as nods once. He turns toward Grogu, walking slowly, carefully. Gideon follows each step with the tilt of his blade—you feel the hum of it close to your neck, not touching, but you can feel the heat—can hear it echoing in your ears.
Grogu wriggles, chirping excitedly now that Din is so close. You let yourself breathe—just once.
Din crouches, eye level with Grogu. For just a moment.
And then, all at once, he moves.
The beskar spear swings from his back in a blur, and with the power of a coiled spring, he lunges across the space.
You drop to the floor the second the blade swings over your shoulder.
The clang of metal against pure energy crashes through the room as spear meets saber. Gideon grunts, stumbling backward from the sheer force of the blow. Din presses forward, relentless.
You scramble to your feet, wrists still bound, heart in your throat. Then you're running—straight to Grogu. He squeals at the sight of you, reaching out with those tiny cuffed hands.
“I’ve got you,” you breathe, grabbing the key from the floor. You unlock his cuffs with shaking fingers. They hit the ground with a small clang, and Grogu immediately lifts his hands, placing them over your cuffs.
“Can you help me?” you ask softly. His ears twitch. Then his eyes narrow with concentration.
You feel it—the warm swell in the air, that electric pull as the Force thrums between your skin and his. The metal around your wrists groans, creaks—splinters—then bursts apart with a loud snap.
The cuffs fall.
You grab Grogu and hold him tight, hand cupping the back of his head, pressing your nose into the top of his bald little head and breathing in. Breathing life back into your lungs.
You pull away and look into his eyes. “You stay right here. Don’t move.”
Spear and saber clash behind you, over and over, fire and fury ricocheting through the room as you stand and turn toward the fight.
You lift your hand.
Gideon’s body jolts like a puppet on invisible strings. His feet lift from the floor. He gasps once, his eyes wide in shock, but no air makes it to his lungs—not with your grip closing around his throat. You’ve restricted movement across his entire body. He cannot fight. He can’t claw at his neck. His hand holding the Darksaber, still ignited in his hand, is locked in place.
Din pulls back instinctively, spear lowered now, his helmet turning slowly to you. He doesn't interrupt. He recognizes that look in your eyes.
You twitch your fingers. Gideon spins, midair, turning slowly until his eyes find yours and this time, they don’t gleam with arrogance. Or smugness. Or hatred.
They are wide. White-rimmed.
Fear.
You take a step forward, lifting your chin, one flick of your other hand and your lightsaber skitters across the ground, flying back to you like metal to a magnet. It ignites the moment you catch it. Eyes never leaving his.
“You tried to tear my family apart,” you say calmly as everything rushes back to you. This man. This man in a black cloak tried to rip the universe away from you. Everything.
He chokes again, trying to speak, but the Force crushes the words back down his throat.
And then—without warning—you drop him. He crumples to his knees with a clang, gasping, coughing, spitting on the floor like a man who just clawed his way out of drowning.
Din steps forward and pulls the Darksaber from his hand, disarming him as Gideon gains control of his body, released from your hold but too weak to fight, the blade slipping from his fingers without protest.
You move your saber under his chin—just as he did with his own only moments before. The irony of the moment might have made you smile in any other situation. The end of the saber hovers so close to his mouth he barely dares to swallow. He lifts his eyes to meet yours and you feel a crack in your chest.
His lip curls faintly, a pathetic echo of a smile. “What now?” he rasps.
Your face doesn’t move.
“Was it you?” you ask suddenly.
He blinks, caught off guard by the question. “What?”
You hesitate just a moment. One moment.
“Were you the one who killed my parents?” you repeat, voice flat. “Who lit fire to an innocent Sorgan village?”
Din takes a step forward, not interrupting, only prompted closer by your words. The air is thick with a tension that coils and tightens, humming in the silence.
Grogu is tucked in the shadows, wide eyes shimmering in the low light. But he doesn’t just watch—he feels it. The tremble in your voice beneath its steel. The current of grief and rage humming just beneath your skin. He senses the storm within you long before it breaks. His ears dip slightly, a physical echo of his distress, but he makes no sound. It’s not fear of Gideon that holds him still—it’s worry for you.
To him, you are the warmth he runs to in the dark. The one who sings to him when the stars are quiet. And now, something in you feels wrong. He can’t name it—but it vibrates through the Force like a fraying thread.
You’re standing tall. You look strong. But Grogu feels the weight in your chest. The tremble you’re hiding in your limbs. And so he waits. Watching. Wishing he could do more. Wishing you’d look back at him just once so he could let you know.
He’s here. And he knows this pain—because it’s his too.
Gideon stares at you. His expression shifts—just a flicker.
“Child...” he says, exhaling. “I don’t know who you are.”
There is no mockery in his voice. Just a man who knows the ending is already written in stone.
Your jaw flexes. You stare at him for a long time, reading him, letting the silence stretch. Then you take a step back. You lower your saber, the light vanishing into the metal with a hiss.
You don’t say a word. You look up at Din and nod once.
He raises his blaster in one smooth motion. No hesitation. The shot rings through the chamber. Sharp. Echoing.
Gideon slumps forward, head down, body lifeless. Silence returns.
The only sound is the soft hum of the ship and Grogu’s quiet coo as he toddles toward you, arms lifted. You drop to your knees and scoop him into your chest as he burrows into your shirt. You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding him until the warmth of another presence comes to your side. Din.
He kneels beside you silently, the weight of everything unspoken and heavy in the air. His armour creaks with the movement. His visor tilts down to Grogu, and for a moment he just… looks. Taking him in. Breathing.
Then, gently, his hand reaches forward. He touches Grogu’s head—fingers gliding softly over one of those long ears—and Grogu lifts his head to look at him, wide-eyed and smiling. A chirp escapes him, small and joyful.
Din’s shoulders drop. Just a little. Relief flooding through him.
You look up at him just as he reaches out and cups your cheek. The leather is warm, grounding. His thumb brushes over your skin as if making sure you’re really here.
“Never do that again,” he says, voice low, rough with everything he isn’t saying.
You press your hand over his, holding it against your face, your lips trembling. You nod once, unable to speak.
Grogu shifts between you, nestling close, his tiny hands gripping the front of both your shirts like he’s anchoring himself. Din pulls you both in, his arms circling around the two of you, your bodies drawn in tight. Your face tucks against his neck as he holds the both of you like he’ll never let go again.
No one speaks.
You just sit there—arms tangled, hearts pounding. There’s a peace in it. A stillness that makes everything else fade away.
Grogu sighs softly, finally calm, cradled between the two people he loves most. You press your lips to his forehead, then lean into Din’s hold, his hand still cupped at the nape of your neck. His chest rises and falls against you, his thumb dragging a slow, reverent circle against your skin. His other arm never loosens from around the both of you. And then—suddenly, like a dam bursting open—he speaks.
“Marry me.”
Your heart stops.
You pull back slightly to look up at him, stunned, your mouth parting but no words coming out. Your breath catches in your throat.
Din’s hand cups your cheek again, firm and grounding, and his voice is rough with conviction when he repeats, “Marry me. Right now.”
You blink, your chest rising with a sharp inhale. “What about—?”
“I don’t care,” His thumb dances across your cheek. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome,”
You stare at him, lips trembling. “What… what does that mean?”
“They’re vows,” he says softly. “Ancient ones in the language of my ancestors. We are one when together, we are one when parted.” His gaze never leaves you. “Mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde—We will share all. We will raise warriors.”
Your eyes burn. You nod. You nod even though your voice has gone. Even though the moment is so much bigger than you can comprehend.
You clear your throat, voice trembling. “Say it again.”
He does. He speaks the vow slowly this time, each word deliberate. You take a deep breath.
“Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar’tome. Mhi me’dinui an. Mhi ba’juri verde.”
Your lips tremble as you repeat the words. And, with each word he falls in love with you all over again. Your voice wraps around his tongue, the language foreign and beautiful on your lips. And something in his eyes—behind the visor—shatters with it.
Din takes your hands, his touch careful, reverent. He carries them to the sides of his helmet. And for a second—just one—he pauses, breath held, hands over yours over beskar. You hold your breath too. And then you move.
Your fingers slide up the edges of the helmet, cold beskar smooth beneath your touch. Slowly, with trembling hands, you lift. The seal releases with a soft hiss.
And then—there he is.
Din Djarin.
Your heart stutters at the sight.
His face is flushed. A faint sheen of sweat and blood along his brow. His hair is dark and thick, curling gently where it’s grown out along the nape of his neck. There’s a scar high on his cheekbone, another cutting just beneath his lip. His nose—his beautiful nose—slightly crooked, healed from some old break. Stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and soft, and his eyes—
Stars.
His eyes are deep brown and raw. They blink at you like he can’t quite believe this is happening, that you’re here and seeing him. In some way, he’s seeing you for the first time too. The first time without the filter or scanner in his helmet blocking the way. The first time with more than a faint light across your features. The first time your eyes connect with nothing between them but air.
You notice the sudden anxiety in his eyes. Fear. Like maybe you’ll turn away. Like maybe, you won’t like what you see. But your hands lift instantly, cupping his face with awe. Your thumbs brush over his cheeks, into the soft stubble, and your voice—barely there—breaks the silence.
“You’re beautiful.”
Something in his face crumbles. His eyes close for a moment like he’s steadying himself.
And then you lean in. You kiss him.
It’s not your first kiss, but gods, it feels like it. There’s no more mask. No more hiding. No barrier between skin and breath and soul.
Your lips meet his with reverence—slow, aching. Like the whole galaxy has paused around you just to make space for this. Like you’re not on an Imperial cruiser but in the hull of the Razer Crest, encased in the safety of hyperspace. You’re favourite place in the world. Between worlds.
His hands slide to your back, one palm pressing between your shoulder blades as he deepens the kiss. He tastes like salt and iron. The warmth of him seeps into you, anchoring every piece that ever broke apart. He kisses you like it’s a promise. Like it’s forever.
Grogu lets out a loud, happy gurgle beneath you, and you both break away with quiet, breathless laughs. Din leans his forehead to yours, panting, smiling. And then the two of you glance down together.
Grogu stares up at Din, wonder bursting across his little face.
His mouth opens in wonder, those huge dark eyes sparkling with awe. Din chuckles—soft, low—and leans down toward him. “Hey, kid.”
Grogu chirps in disbelief and lifts both arms, touching Din’s cheek with those tiny, clawed hands like he’s making sure he’s real. You laugh with a slight sob, brushing away the tears from your cheeks, heart full to the brim.
Din looks back at you, something gentle and absolute in his eyes. His voice comes quiet, certain.
“Let’s go home.” And you understand.
He doesn’t mean the Razor Crest. Or Takodana. Or anywhere in the stars.
dins little chuckles when he finds out grogus name and realises he can get grogus full and immediate attention by saying his name and then keeps saying grogus name to get his attention in between chuckles like he's learned a magic trick or smth
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ATTENTION ATTENTION!! HEAR YE HEAR YE! MANDO LOVERS!
For all of you waiting for the next chapter of my fic A Work In Progress I have some good (or sad, depending on how you look at it) news!!!
I JUST FINISHED WRITING THE FINALE CHAPTER‼️😮💨
I did not realize it was going to be the last chapter but I found myself in the flow state and I wrote the entire thing just now and it’s perfect. I don’t want to add anymore because I’m so happy with it as a conclusion to this story I’ve been working on for YEARS now.
To those who have been with me since the beginning, thank you so much for sticking around, and for those finding my story right now.. LUCKY YOU! It’s a complete work you can binge from start to finish without waiting for an update (I’m still so sorry about disappearing for over a year—my bad)
I’m going to finish up the editing now and hopefully have it posted tonight!!
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