#Mentioned Din Djarin

[helpinghanikan]

There for you

Boba-Fett x reader

Sum: Your time spent under the Daimyo’s protection had made you cocky. Most of the planet knew you were Boba-Fett’s, what they didn’t know was that it came with vows and a ring. It’s better to let the people assume you were just a plaything the Daimyo liked to keep around. Supposedly it made you safer, obviously that didn’t work as well as Boba thought.

Tatooine has a reputation for being unforgiving at night. Not just from the pirates, smugglers, and all other types of shady characters. The weather would also be hard on any unprepared traveler. Harsh winds and low temperatures can turn even the most seasoned tracker around.

Your journey wasn’t supposed to take that long. You knew that path to the closest village and had crossed it many times. That didn’t stop you from being a target. By the time you realized the speeders were trained straight for you, it was already too late.

“Is this the right one?” A voiced asked, your captor faceless with the bag over your head.

“She matches the picture. Easier to grab than the sniper, definitely.” Another voice replied. This one seemingly female in it’s pitch. There’s a foot placed on your shoulder, pushing you down until your laying on your side. “Fett only has two. Let’s hope we didn’t grab his favorite.”

Your time spent under the Daimyo’s protection had made you cocky. Most of the planet knew you were Boba-Fett’s, what they didn’t know was that it came with vows and a ring. It’s better to let the people assume you were just a plaything the Daimyo liked to keep around. Supposedly it made you safer, obviously that didn’t work as well as Boba thought.

The male captor starts speaking again: “Takes us over past the ridge. Hide the ship while we work.”

“It’s not gonna be hidden for long once her master starts searching the dessert.” Another male voice said from further away. He was likely the pilot.

“We don’t need long.” The first male voice said. “Take her out, take the pics, dump the body. Done and done.”

Now you started screaming.

Smaller gangs and groups are always scrambling for what little foothold could be found. One way to show you mean business is through the girls and guys that tend to be on the arms of these groups. Capturing them, killing them, and then sending the pictures to the rival gang.

Usually these are side pieces or mistresses that aren’t hard to replace. Never spouses or mates that could cause harsh retaliation. When Jabba was still in control a few gangs had tried this with one or two of his slaves. They were quickly removed due to their annoyance, not for the attack on those women.

The boot on your shoulder moves to your head. Pressing down hard until you could feel the cool of the ship floor through the bag.

“Stop. Screaming.” She says, turning her foot to emphasize her point.

Both Fennec and Boba had offered to either get someone to make the run for you. But this village still needed a personal touch to keep the relationship between them and Mos Espa strong. Seeing the arm candy to the Daimyo coming up with the promised credits was one way to do it.

It wouldn’t take long for this ship to make it past the ridge. Long enough for you to think about how Boba would react when he got those pictures. That had you screaming all over again.

“I. SAID. STOP!” The female voice said again, a kick to your stomach.

You’re still recovering from the impact when the entire ship shakes. Metal and machinery rattles your entire world. Sending your head into jelly from being so close to the ground as it happens.

“Are you serious?!” The first male voice yells.

“Who is it? What is it?” Asked the female.

“If I knew I’d be firing back at it!” Screams the pilot. The ship rattles once more. “Kriff! Somethings’ hit the roof. Somethings on the roof!”

It’s suddenly much hotter inside the bag than it was just a seconds ago. Although the world is dark you can see the bright orange dot penetrating the ceiling. It traces into a circle, leaving behind a trail that lands with an outrageous THUD!

Panic erupts throughout the ship. You are only involved when the hood is ripped from your head. Leaving you staring straight at Fennec’s helmet.

“Just run, okay?” She says, smacking the wall just behind you. “Run.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Fennec cuts free your ankles and off you go. Sprinting into the endless sand and countless stars. Not having a direction in mind, only away.

Wind was kicking up sand, making you blind and keeping your path a mystery. You didn’t make it very far. Only about three hundred feet before running into someone solid as a tree and just as strong.

“Hold tight,” Boba says, leaning down just enough to grab the back of your thighs.

You don’t have time to thank you. As the ground is already disappearing from beneath your feet.

Boba Fett’s jetpack wasn’t made for someone without armor. Meant to be used while wearing full garb: without a helmet the already whipping sand was that much harsher. Digging into your skin and hurting your eyes. The pack was attached to Boba, making his arms and your grip the only thing keeping you from falling and, at best, breaking your legs.

You only fly for a few minutes before little lights dance at the corner of your eye. Down below the bright colors of Mod bikes were waiting down below.

“We’re landing, brace yourself.” Boba says in an attempt to give comfort.

Three of the Mods gang were waiting when you touch down. While they gave you a glance, one even allowing a smile, they were too focused on Boba to greet you properly. You should be used to this treatment by now, they really only cared about the big man with the gun. Not on his wife standing off to the side.

“Take her home,” Boba ordered, an arm still around you. “Do not leave her side until you reach the palace. Understood?”

“You got it; we’ll keep her safe.” One of the members said. The one who had actually acknowledged you.

Boba turned towards you. “This won’t take long. I promise.”

It’s hard to feel the warmth and affection when he’s all dolled up in green and Beskar. Inside the armor he’s the Mos Espa protector, former bounty hunter, and destroyer of enemies. Obvious this made him one of the hottest things walking, but not the kind you run to to feel better about your situation.

That is the only reason you could give for letting him go. His helmet pressing his forehead against yours for a second before letting you go. He’s gone from sight by the time you straddled one of the bikes.

------------

Fett had liked having his elegance and space, it would seem. It took a few weeks before Boba was comfortable with bringing his guard down within the walls. It took some weeks to get that massive slug bed out and replace it with a proper mattress. Boba Had conceded on a large bed after his bacta tank was no longer needed.

The stone floor made it hard to near impossible to be sneaky. There would always be an echo from moving around. Whether wearing heels, boots, or in bare feet. This made it easy to hear Boba arrive from the balcony.

There’s no point in turning around to greet him. He would be able to see you through the arch way. He’d know you were waiting; he also knew you were wearing his robe.

Of course you had your own. But after everything it helped to have a little bit of him hanging off of your shoulders. It kept away the chill from your naked body underneath. Even dressing felt like too much after the quick shower.

It didn’t take long for Boba to remove his armor and weapons. Droids scurried around him to get everything off and put away correctly.

“Have you eaten?” Boba asks from the doorway.

You shook your head. “I honestly forgot. No point in waking up the kitchen because I was so late for dinner.”

“That’s what I’m paying them for.” Boba replies, disappearing for a second.

From the balcony you could see most of Mos Espa. At this time of night most of the lights were starting to turn off. Being replaced by the streetlights and headlights from bikes moving through the alleyways.

Past the city the desert stretched forever. Every now and then there was a little flicker from somewhere outside of the walls. Although they were mostly white, much like the stars, a few blinked red. Even from here you knew it was blaster fir. Watching them for too long almost had you hearing them being fired.

“I was feeling bantha tonight.” Boba says, stepping up to your side. “I made sure the steaks will be medium rare.”

“The only kind that’s allowed.” You replied, still staring out towards the blinking red.

Boba hesitates before placing a hand on your back. When he does you immediately lean against him. Giving the needed permission for Boba to pull you closer against his chest. Embracing on the balcony for anyone still awake to see and be jealous of.

After a moment Boba breaks the silence by asking; “Are you hurt?”

“Not enough to matter. Just a few bruises, especially on my ego.” You reply, turning your head up to look at him. “Are they dead?”

Boba has made a habit of always telling the truth. But only if you specifically asked. Had you just let the moment last, and never brought your captors up again, then he would have taken care of them without a moments hesitation.

“Not yet,” Boba said, turning his head to kiss your cheek. “I had Fennec keep the three alive. They hurt you, insulted my position, and embarrassed Fennec by taking you so brazenly. An example needs to be made, otherwise others may try this again.”

He speaks as if he were on his throne. Regarding a room full of citizens and opportunists alike. With a tone that kept everyone’s attention.

He had been sitting on that throne when you left. Stopping by to lean down and whisper that you were leaving. He had taken your hand and offered an escort, but his focus stayed on the farmer in near tears in front of him.

You can’t fault Boba for focusing on those in need over you. Because of this you didn’t insist on getting a kiss or feel the gentle touch of his helm against your forehead.

You remember this now. Smiling sweetly in a way you hadn’t done the entire night.

“I feel like tonight was a good reminder that I need a kiss goodbye, my dear.” You say, looking at his lips.

“My mistake.” Boba replies, going in for a kiss to make up for the one he had failed to give earlier.

The kiss starting off chaste and sweet. Boba waiting a second to ensure you were alright before going further. His hands sliding up your back, splaying his fingers over as much space as possible.

He moans when you step to closer. As if he were pleasantly surprised that you had chosen to only wear his robe this night. Not that he could say much else. Only wearing his short after having his armor and weapons removed. He was too focused on getting to you than whether or not he should put on some new clothes.

“Will you have me?” He asks between kisses.

“Yes, Boba, Yes.” You reassure. Biting at his lip to get his attention entirely. “Next time I get tied up; I want it to be by you. Only you.”

That did it. Just like before Boba lifted the back of your thighs. Setting you on the balcony’s edge, holding your hips hard to ensure that you felt as safe as possible. Or to distract you while he opens up the robe, bracing your chest against his to ensure that your mouths left for the least amount of time as possible.

“I won’t let you be hurt; I swear on my life, on my armor, on everything. I’m going to kill them.” Boba says, more for himself than you.

“Still alive, are they? I assumed they’re in the dungeons then?” You say, moving your arms for the robe to fall further open. Nothing was hidden now. And it was evident on Boba’s face as he stared at the body he’s seen a hundred times.

Boba nods when he realizes that you had asked a question.

“Then I want them to hear us.” You challenge. “Make them know that they failed. That I’m alive and that my screams don’t just come from fear.”

Boba doesn’t say anything, but you can see the change happen. His eyes focusing on yours for the briefest of seconds. Not that it mattered whether you knew his next actions or not, you were already being pulled forward, until your butt say on the ledges very edge. And Boba went to his knees before you.

Few in the galaxy had the privilege of experiencing both sides of Boba Fett. To know the difference between being fucked by Boba and making love with him.

He usually fucks when the day is long and there is nothing to say. The silence will be painful before he reaches your shared chambers. When you’re following right behind he’ll quickly take hold of your wrist, pulling you into the room as if you may escape if he’s not careful. If you’re already in the room he’ll be against your back without bothering to say hello.

His kisses are biting, and hands are rough on your skin. There won’t be enough time to get him armor off. Barely enough time to remove his gloves before he’s finding the opening in your clothes. Say nothing and every bit of his armor and weapons will be left on. The harsh material of his gloves pressing against your neck to keep you in place.

Making love is much more common. He’ll look at you with a slight tilt to his head. As if he couldn’t believe that this beautiful woman was his to have and to hold. He’ll verbally say this too, but only when he knows no one else can hear.

Everything will already be off when he comes to you. His hands are softer, they travel further, and take their time in mapping out the body he already knows.

Right here and now it’s somewhere in between. He bites the inside of your thighs but is gentle in guiding your leg. Resting it over his shoulder to stay out of the way as he travels forward. Nipping and biting while you grabbed onto the balcony for dear life.

“Oh, please.” You gasped out when his lips met your lower ones.

Starting off with soft, wet, bites between your lips. His mouth is so hot it boils your bloods. His hands squeezing the inside of your thighs send the entire world into overdrive. Your system working to make sure your body doesn’t shut down from all the licks, kisses, and touches that Boba wrecked through your body.

His tongue finally joins in and the teasing is over. He pushes up until you’re flat onto your back. The thick balcony edge able to cover your entire back. Making the only thing hanging off the edge.

He rumbles into your skin. Tip of his tongue exploring your entrance as if he were nervous to plunge in completely.

When he finally penetrates your sounds come out sharp. Gasping out into the open air, not caring if anyone down below stopped to hear. Boba moaning at the sounds you made. Sliding his hands up slowly in appreciation.

He builds your orgasm slowly. Wanting more so to taste, to feel, and to know this woman he was worshiping. In doing that he worry about going faster to reach the end. He didn’t want to.

Thick electricity and warmth travels through your body. Growing from your pelvis to your legs and chest. Pressing against your breasts, making your nipples sensitive to the light touch of the soft robe.

You don’t realize the orgasm has reached it peak until your eyes aren’t able to focus. Your thighs closing around Boba’s head without your permission. He grunts at the squeeze but doesn’t stop. If anything he starts to go faster, lick deeper, and downright bite softly at your lips until he gets his goal of your voice.

And voice you did. Head thrown back, crying out to Mas Espa. What you were saying didn’t make much sense. You were calling out Boba’s name, thanking him, begging for more, and pleading with him not to stop.

You wouldn’t have known it at the time, but three passersby had stopped just below your balcony. Young people heading home after a late-night shift. Stopping when hearing the sounds of a loud woman. Taking a moment or two to realize they were shouts of pleasure rather than distress.

“Good for her,” One of the passersby had said. Continuing on her way, now more excited than ever to make it back to her own husband.

Boba stays close as your orgasm finally dies down. Slotting firmly between your thighs, gently stroking the outside of your thighs. Only reaching further up when you finally found the strength to bring your head up.

“Do you feel any better?” Boba asks, reaching out to help pull you up into a sitting position.

He’s so sweet when he allows the concern to reach his face. It reminds you of why you took the risk of becoming more than just a lover to Boba Fett. He had looked at you with such genuine emotions that it was intoxicating. And you were drunk on him.

“Yes, my love, so much better.” You sigh, reaching out for his head. Pulling him in to press your foreheads together. “Now let me do the same for you.”

He doesn’t take advantage of your want to please like he usually would. In the large bed he lays you down gently. Finally taking away the robe and dragging his lips and his hands over every piece of you that he was allowed.

Although it was only the other that you were taken by him, it felt like an eternity. His cock slid through your folds once, twice, before finding your entrance. Pressing in with gentle pressure that through your head back and opens your legs for whatever Boba could dream of doing.

“Love you, love you so much.” Boba whispers in your ear.

You don’t need to reply, he already knows. Instead you place an arm around his neck. Keeping him close as his thick cock splits you open. He rubs your insides raw with powerful thrusts that jiggles your entire body. Keeping a tempo that reaches the deepest part of your body.

Sex with Boba wasn’t always this good. Your first time was fast, clumsy, and ended with dissatisfaction on your end. Something that Boba rectified when he realized, but it felt more like a responsibility rather than part of the fun.

It took time to figure eachother out this well. Your wedding night Boba had asked you to explain what you liked, what you wanted, and what he could do. The first hour coming off like a business meeting you had to attend before being allowed to leave for the weekend.

“Ready?” Boba asks with a husky voice.

“Yes, please.” You reply, body already singing with want for another orgasm.

He leans back from you. The room now freezing without his body to lay against. Still you kept your hands on his wrists, keeping contact as he takes hold of your hips. Pushing you up and down the bed to slam into his hips with a vigor that couldn’t be made from the previous position.

You made a move to massage your own clit, but Boba practically growled. Using his own hand to do the job for you. Although he moved sloppily, with barely a sense of rhythm. But that almost made it better.

Boba has a powerful body. And he uses it to destroy you in a way that can’t be replicated anytime soon. Mixture of the rapid penetration and the massaging of your clit brought that electric warmth traveling through your body once more.

This time you were fully aware of it. Arching your back as if this would make it travel faster, reach your goal at the same time that Boba found his.

Although this didn’t happen it was close enough. Your clenching pussy from another orgasm was just enough for Boba to reach his own edge. Sending him hunching over your body as he orgasmed. Slowly pumping into you as his orgasm rolls through him.

He speaks so softly, so deeply, that you didn’t understand all that he was saying. Although you caught the tail end of terms of endearment and your own name. That was really all you needed to know.

“Come here,” You demand of him when he rolls off.

He does as you ask. Rolling over to make room for you to slide into his arms. Your head tucked under his chin. Sweat and cum staining the sheets that would need to be cleaned later. In a few hours the feeling of it between your thighs would become annoying, but that was for later.

In only a few moments Boba kisses your hairline and says; “I want you in armor.”

“What?” You ask, lifting your head to look at him properly.

He’s looking over you the same way he does when planning. “You need better protection than I can provide. You need armor.”

It’s almost a show how he throws the blanket off of himself. Getting out of the bed and taking his robe with him. Leaving you naked in the bed, a little confused but also excited.

-----

It took a week for your armor to be ordered and finished. Boba spared no expense on materials and design. Getting his new buddy Din Djarin involved when Din started asking questions about your husband’s sudden need of beskar.

Your former captors were kept alive during that week. Fennec made it a point to personally stop by everyday to deliver their food and water. She never said anything, just made sure they knew their deaths would come eventually.

That day came in the late hours of the day. Your captors dragged from their cell by Fennec and marched into the throne room. Standing side by side in chains before the Daimyo.

With Fennec taking her place on Boba’s right, you stood on his left. Staying quiet behind your new helmet of refined beskar. The breast plate, shoulder pads, and leg protection hid your identity pretty well. Especially since you hadn’t gotten the chance to paint and personalize it in your own style yet.

“My lord, we didn’t mean-.” One of your captors started but was quickly silenced by Boba’s raised hand.

“Don’t insult me further by lying.” He said. “You three have already done that enough. Not just to me, but to my right hand, and to my wife.”

This was the moment you chose to remove your helmet. It was a dramatic moment to see your captors become the ones with fear in their eyes. When they came in they just assumed you were some random mercenary, not their victim.

“They made me!” The female captor shouted. “Please, I didn’t want to do it!”

“Oh, shut up. It was her Kriffing plan!” Shouted the captor in the middle. He had been the pilot.

The two started to argue with raised voices and begging pleas. Only one of the captors stayed quiet. His eyes downcast and body lax. A man who had accepted his fate.

Fennec stops the argument with a single shot at their feet.

“Watch the fire to the ground,” Boba told Fennec. “I don’t want you hitting him by mistake.”

“My apologize,” Fennec says, smiling at her prey.

Down, below the captors feet, Boba rancor waited. He didn’t get his breakfast this morning, and it was only now that he decided to whine about it.

“Please,” The captor, the pilot, whispered towards you. “I’m sorry.”

“Three insults, three prisoners, three punishments.” Boba says, calling their attention to him although he was talking to you and Fennec. “Only fair that we each get to pick a fate.”

You nodded in agreement, but it was still hard to find your voice in this moment.

Boba turns to Fennec first: “What would you-.”

He doesn’t get to finish. Fennec leaning forward and pressing down the throne’s switch. Instantly the middle captive, the pilot, dropped from this world. His screams echoed through the halls in a way that hadn’t happened since the age of Jabba the Hutt.

You don’t have to look over to know that Boba’s pet finally got his breakfast. A loud crunch and the silencing of screams confirmed that.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Boba told Fennec.

“I’m sorry, I got excited.” Fennec explained.

At this point the female captor was sobbing. Begging for her life and screaming at her co-conspirator for getting them into this mess.

 She only stops when a blast fire from Boba’s hand. A single shot between her eyes that threw her body backwards. Slamming onto the floor in a head the shape of a corpse. Her tears were still wet when she died.

You couldn’t look away from her body. Staring at was once the greatest threat to your life, now gone from this world thanks to your husband. The name that now reached out for your hand and took it so gently you were surprised.

“You don’t have choose,” He says, pulling you closer to whisper properly. “You don’t have to do anything. Ever.”

The last captor still stands without looking at anything. He moves slowly to stand over the trap door. Although his slow movements don’t keep Fennec from drawing her weapon.

He now looks up at you. Knowing what you wanted to do, and practically begging you to do it.

It’s quiet in the throne room. Boba not wanting to push you, Fennec too curious to say anything, and the guests far too scared to make a single noise. Only the moving of the rancor down below kept the world moving.

Without thinking, or even trully deciding, you pressed down on the trap door. Leaning across Boba’s lap to do so. Looking away as your last captor drops through the door and into the hands of a beloved pet.

It was only then did the throne room make noise. Someone cheering and another joining in started the party that you weren’t expecting to happen. Fennec looked over to Boba, waiting to be told to shut it down.

“Let them enjoy,” Boba says, “Join them if you’d like.”

Fennec does just that. Stepping down where one of the twi’lek beauties were waiting for her.

You stay close to Boba, maneuvering to sit on his lap. Your helmet being placed back on to rest against his shoulder. His arms pulling you close with a hand on your shoulder and another on your knees.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. Although it wasn’t his fault it’s nice that he still wanted to make it better. In everyway he can.

[martyfive]

canon? found dead in a dich far, far away

i bumped it with my x-wing

[kraftykelpie]

Ouughhh him

[334iwatchshit]

people on tiktok crying cuz someone ships something gay and not canon...

let me tell you about the dinluke era of 2020-22

[mintyimperiatrix]

listen i love Din to bits, he’s one of my favourite Star Wars characters and he was a fucking badass with the Darksaber. HOWEVER…

clearly Bo-Katan owns this weapon. its hers, there is no competition. she held it for one minute and did everything the Armourer said Din should be doing with it. it is simply Hers and we’ve never seen anyone flow so well with that weapon. i love you Din but the Darksaber was reunited with it’s true owner this week

[cloudyysworld]

If they want to spice thing up this season they should have a recast Luke or CGI Luke appears in the last episode, a space starbuck in his hand and a lightsaber in another going "Alright lads where is my HUSBAND and SON???" and start cutting up bitches

[kalevalakryze]

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter two

live to rise series

two: morning will come soon

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: As the Mandalorian makes himself a more permanent addition to the barracks, you get to know the elusive man a little more while grappling with the reality of the arena. [We get to know everyone a little better before things kick up a notch in chapter three :) ]

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, prisoner of war, slavery, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide & war, graphic descriptions of violence & injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, major character deaths, minor character deaths, angst, helmetless Din Djarin, themes of grief and loss, slow burn

Please heed the warnings.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

He doesn’t notice until his forty-eighth fight, but there are children in the stands. It’s not their mere presence that simmers his bile. 

It’s the glee.

Violence is a wet nurse for Mandalorian children. They witness the raw essence of life turned to food and know the gush of a foe’s blood early in life. But they respect it. 

They respect the fight and honor the lives they take. They weigh each kill and hang it from their ribs. They know what it means to be capable of exposing a being’s innards to the sun, what it means to hold a creature as blood froths in its lungs. 

These children are reared to crave it. They’ll never feel the touch of violence, he thinks, but they’re fed by it. They play with these lives like it's a game.

The distraction costs Din a chunk of flesh but gains him a rotted tooth on the edge of the gash. 

You’re in the barracks when they bring him back that afternoon. You go still and quiet, ducking into the shadows, but, as usual, they don’t bother to check the cells. He saw you, though. You’re inside C-6, and he has a clear view through his window into the cell opposite. 

Once the guards leave, you pick back up mid-sentence into what must have been an already brewing rant.

“—pride. So stupid. The only—punished when you resist—is you.”

The humanoid grumbles something Din can’t quite hear. 

“Yeah, well, —bacta, and I don’t, so—” you retort.

When you slip out of the cell, the automatic lock snaps shut with a resounding clunk. Your hands are wound up in the underbelly of your skirts and come back out dry, at least, if not spotless. 

Not that Din notices right away. His mouth had gone fuzzy when you hiked up the layers to reveal the length of your calf. He shoves the feeling away and watches as you check carefully around the corners before slipping into the chamber between the barracks and the rest of the facilities. 

He shakes it from his fingertips. It’s the post-fight adrenaline, he knows. Mandalorians are no strangers to fucking out their feelings as the world burns around them. He cannot—will not—entertain these thoughts of you, lest he become more of the monster they make him out to be.

And every part of him is too rough for the likes of you. He won’t be responsible for marring you with his too-tight grip and desperate cock. He wouldn’t press his pain into your cunt and learn to breathe again through your cries and moans. 

He wanted to preserve you somehow, press you like a flower between the pages of a book. Even his protection would see you crushed by his selfish desire. 

So instead, he funnels the feeling into righteous anger and determination, pushing himself in his exercises until his muscles ache and scream for oxygen. He slumps against the wall, not bothering to go to the cot, and dreams fitfully of his son.

He had made the call in his own chambers. The ship had left two hours ago, tracking along the path with no issues—yet.

“Who is this? How did you get this line?” snaps a voice he does not recognize. 

“He’ll know. Tell him we’re going forward with operation esk, and the package is on-route.” 

“Message received,” cuts in the voice he was waiting for. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the stars light your way,” Din returns, and cuts the line. 

Grogu’s fast asleep when Din tucked him into the pod. He slipped the stuffed blurrg under one of the baby’s arms. It’s to be a short journey, but there’s a canteen and a tin of snacks.

The rest of his son’s belongings are carefully packed in the small cargo hold of the StarSpeeder 1000 they’d managed to salvage, complete with an RX pilot. Din didn’t favor leaving the child’s fate to a droid, but it had been thoroughly reprogrammed to override its tourist-geared protocol. 

All in all, it’s an innocuous ship with a registered pilot and route. The chain code would suffice under basic examination, and the manifest is set with a handful of false identities. 

He may not understand the Force, but he has to draw faith that it will ferry his son safely into the waiting hands of Skywalker at some destination unknown.

Skywalker had sent the coordinates directly to the droid so they couldn’t be tortured from Din. 

A wise decision, Din thinks wryly, but they haven’t interrogated him yet. 

It makes sour hope bloom—perhaps they think there’s nothing to be gained. In the darker moments, he worries they know there’s nothing to be gained. 

As it was, each of the four of them only knew part of the plan. Din had the main strategy. Vizsla, the backup. Kryze, the route. And Fett—the rendevouz. For a man who claimed no ties to the Mandalorians, he was risking everything. 

Even the loneliest striil is loyal to someone, he supposes. 

He loses count after 60 fights or so. That’s about when he stops hating the idleness of his off days and starts longing for more rest. 

It’s not just the physicality. He does seem to be perpetually bruised and bleeding, but that’s not so much different than his bounty-hunting days. He’s loathe to admit that he’s perhaps beginning to feel the effects of aging. To grow old is an honor for Mandalorians. It means you’ve emerged victorious from your battles. He doesn’t feel he can wear that pride, though.

But no, his weariness is from the killing. He tried to see his opponents as quarry, but it was too hard to maintain. Not when he’d see their sallow faces and sunken eyes. Beings with broken tusks and battered limbs. Rebel starbirds. Shock trooper stripes. Prison numbers and slave brands. 

Yesterday’s fight had him facing a Miraluka who couldn’t have been much past her girlhood. And she wanted to live; oh, she wanted it so badly he could taste it. 

She didn’t know a thing about fighting. Worse yet, their weapons for the day were flails, something even he hadn’t much experience with. He could wield it, but instead, he let it fall to the sands. 

What a terrible way to die.

He saw it before it happened. Telegraphed in the arc of the chain, his brain completing the motion before it became real. She swung her arm out hard, trying to strike him in the chest, but he pushed back on his heel and easily dodged. Without something to crush, the momentum carried.

She grappled at the chain, trying to stop it. If only she had dropped it and moved, Din thought. If only, if only. 

Instead, it wedged itself in her back, spikes between her ribs. She gasped, wavering for a moment in shock, and dropped to her knees. The crowd moaned a collective “ooh” at the turn of luck.

He knelt in front of her, grasping her shoulders. 

“Just finish it,” she said, the trace of a whimper on the end. 

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Biala.”

“Biala, is there a prayer I can make for you? Any rites for your journey?”

She shook her head and coughed. Blood dribbled, and they both knew.

“I’m so sorry, Biala,” he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. 

And then it was over. He laid her body down as the bell rang and rose to his feet. Stomps and cheers from the stands fell muffled around his shoulders, and he sneered into the crowd. 

It only made them chant louder. 

He’s brought back to the reality of today at your entrance, voices buzzing as trays clattered back and forth.

“Come here, girl,” calls a voice from across the way. Din watches as you pause, his own tray of food waiting in your hands.

The gruff old Devaronian in C-4 is reaching his large hand between the bars of the window. 

“One sec,” you tell him, making your way to Din. You go to knock before you spy his shadow between the bars and avert your eyes. 

“Good evening,” you say, sliding the tray through the slot against the floor. “Need anything?”

It’s the same old song and dance. “No, thank you,” he says. 

“Okay, have a good night,” you tell the door politely. 

He doesn’t grab the tray right away. He watches instead as you go back across the hall. 

“Whatcha need, old man?” you tease. Vrar is your favorite, mostly because he’s been around for nearly a year, and you’ve had a chance to know him.

But something about his expression gives you pause. 

Din feels suddenly intrusive as you step closer and let the warrior touch your cheek, his palm much larger than your face. 

He can’t hear what’s said, but something terribly sad comes across you as you close your eyes and shake your head. 

“No, you can’t just give up,” you say, loud enough that Din can hear. 

His heart sinks. He had wondered how many were lost to hopelessness. 

“I’m not giving up,” Vrar tells you. “I’m an old man. I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired.”

“No,” you say, a harsh but quiet protest. You want to yell, but the guards will make you leave if they hear you. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. 

“You can’t change my mind. I just wanted you to know before it happens. To know that I made this choice, that I will be at peace. You’ve been the one spot of kindness in this life.”  

Your voice is softer, breaking, crescendoing at the end as it pitches alongside your urgency,“—how much more you need; I’ll trade another year, please.”

“Absolutely not,” Vrar says. “When your time is up, get out and never look back. Look at me.” He waits for your focus. “You can’t save us.”

You break down into tears. Din feels something sharp pricking at his eyes, too. He shuts them and sits down on his cot, food forgotten. 

He doesn’t need to look to know you stay at Vrar’s door until the guards make you leave for the night. You sit against it, skirts splayed out around you like the rising sun, and talk to him, listen to his stories, even the ones you’ve heard over and over before. Especially those, as you try to commit them to your memory, to carry him with you. 

When you bring Din his breakfast in the morning, your eyes are bloodshot, and lips cracked from biting back your grief. For the first time, you don’t say anything. You rap your knuckles and slide the tray under. 

You stay until they come for him. You wait and stand with your hands wrapped around the bars of his window. When they take him to prepare for the arena, you watch down the hall until he’s gone. As he passes Din’s cell, he looks straight in. 

Neither man says a word, but their eyes meet, and Din nods. Vrar returns the gesture, satisfied. 

When Din looks back, you’re gone.

When you return two hours later, as his own turn in the arena nears, he doesn’t have to see your face to know. 

You’re not crying. But you move so quietly, held so tense, as you open the cell and scrub it clean, fitting it with new bedding. It’s the same routine as a deep cycle, but there was just one yesterday, and your sadness, though smothered, is palpable. 

They take him up before you’re done. Din lives to fight another day. He scrubs clean of his opponent’s blood in the cold fresher and tugs on the stiff, starched clothes left behind for him. When they take him back to his room, it’s been cleaned, but you’re gone, and there’s a new prisoner in C-4.  

You’re quiet again when you bring dinner, and though you do speak this time, it’s void of your usual softness. 

“Need anything?” you say, muted tone bristling his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in lieu of an answer. 

You look up at the window out of reflex before quickly looking away. He’s not close enough for you to see, anyway. “What?” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “for your loss.”

Your eyes close tight, and you cover your mouth for a moment. “I—thank you,” you whisper. Your voice cracks a little, and he feels terrible, like he shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have upset you. 

But you hesitate there, outside his door. You swallow hard against the ache. “Thank you,” you repeat, but it’s stronger, now, and laced with the heaviness of recognizing oneself in another. 

Which is why, when you pass by the newcomer’s door, and he tells you to smile pretty for him, Din snarls, “Shut your fucking mouth.” 

You freeze and look back at his dark door. The man is saying something idiotic, but Din can’t hear it from the pulse throbbing in his ears and his single-minded focus on you. 

You shake your head minutely, and he accepts the request to stand down. Before you turn and leave the barracks, you give his door a small, sorrowful smile. 

He worries a little about the newcomer. You shouldn’t have to be harassed and accosted like this. 

When you had brought breakfast, the man had tried to reach through the bars to grab your face. You had recoiled and dodged his grimy hands but otherwise ignored it. 

It turns out he doesn’t need to worry. The next day, the guards take both him and the creep up to the arena. 

When Din returns, your relief is unmistakable. 

You never ask about the fights, so he doesn’t have to lie to you. He doesn’t have to tell you the truth, either; doesn’t have to tell you how it’s the first one he’s dragged out on purpose. How he broke the man’s hands in his own for daring to try to touch you. How he broke his jaw for talking to you like that. 

It’s unlike him, and he hopes he can shrug it off, that the endless killing of beings he knows are fellow prisoners builds a layer of beskar in his bones each day. But Vrar was right. 

You’re a spot of light here, like the yellow blossoms that push up between duracrete. He’s not sure how you’ve kept it up this long, not after seeing how deeply you’re cut when “your” fighters die. But he’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t lose that. Including keeping lowlife scum away where they can’t contaminate the barrack.

He dreams that night of taking you with him when he leaves and isn’t sure what to do with the thought in the morning. 

You paint him, too. Nicolai. The one who made your skin crawl. Even the portrait comes out predatory, and you wish you wouldn’t have to look at it every time until the page is full. 

It’s not the first time a resident has made you feel unsafe. Won’t be the last, either, you reckon. Unlike those of you who are serving criminal sentences, the fighters are all prisoners of war. But just because they were an enemy of the Empire does not make them a friend.

Most of them are good. Not all even raised a weapon against the Imperials. Some were support—medics, pilots, suppliers. Some were strangers who stood up to protect a Stormtrooper’s victim in the town square. Some were no one, who had the unfortunate luck of being related to or seen with a known insurgent. 

But some, well. Some were grifters playing both sides. Some were mercenaries, assassins, slavers. Some, like Nicolai, were druglords who couldn’t be bought—too busy running their own empires to respect the government. 

It’s funny, in that way that makes your stomach bile bite and claw at your throat. Everyone thought you needed to be afraid of the fighters. You have to shut and stow the book, not wanting to smudge Vrar’s portrait any further by thinking of him.

He never liked you being in the servant’s barracks. And for some reason, he never liked your bunkmate. Didn’t like Eli, who had never been anything but kind. Who was maybe your only friend. 

“Just something off about him,” Vrar had said. “But you shouldn’t trust anyone.” 

You had shaken your head. “I’m one of them,” you insisted. 

“Oh, how could I have forgotten,” he deadpanned, “you and your criminal record of… what was it again? Stealing from your own farm to feed hungry children? Being too polite to a trooper?”

“Shut up,” you groaned. “Evading tariffs is considered very serious, I’ll have you know.” 

When he was done teasing you, he had sobered right up. “I still don’t like it. Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t trust someone dangerous as a caretaker.”

He hadn’t been so sure, but it’s not like they let just anyone work down here. You had done a stint upstairs for a while, like everyone else, serving drinks in the sponsor’s lounge. 

After all, caretaker neglect could (and did) prematurely kill their stock. And it granted access to much more of the complex than most other roles. 

When you deliver dinner, the Mandalorian speaks to you again. You try to take it in stride. 

“If there’s another like him,” he says, voice like the creak of trees at night, “are you safe? Can you defend yourself?” 

It’s not what you expected. You purse your lips, frowning as you weigh your answers. “Harming a caretaker is prohibited,” you say after a moment.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firm and compelling in a way you can’t explain. Maybe it's the regality that he can’t contain, a tone leftover from negotiating and persuading or whatever kings do. 

“I don’t have to worry about being hurt by a fighter,” you say. 

He hums, accepting your answer.

You wonder if he heard the unspoken words you swallowed back. 

You eat with them again at Disdraa’s request, though it’s a quieter affair without Vrar’s booming voice. You find you don’t have it in you to joke around. 

She takes mercy on you, setting aside her meal to regale the hall with a story from her childhood on Ryloth. It’s not a happy story, exactly, but it ends with hope. 

You feel warm for the first time since Vrar’s death. “Thank you,” you murmur through her bars when you stand. 

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “For what? I just like to hear myself talk, little bird.”

You make a show of returning the gesture, including the solemn smile she gave. 

It wasn’t the story, really. It was the way it reminded you of home. When you would visit the families of the dead and dying. When they would share themselves while sharing their love, how they would leap to comfort despite their own grief. 

Even for you, a stranger until that moment, someone they could easily hate for only arriving while someone was leaving. 

But that was not the way of things for your people. They allowed you, for however small a time, to be the vessel for their loved one, to gather and hold the memories until you could spill them on your canvas. To stand between their spirit and the void of the forgotten. 

To love and be loved, even fleetingly. 

Did you wish that just once, that love would stay? That you wouldn’t love knowing it was to be lost? In the dark of night, though you’d never admit it, you ached for it. 

next chapter

*title from "Prayer of the Refugee" by Rise Against

[mytardisisparked]

Today's Mando episode has me convinced that the writers must be allergic to the name "Satine Kryze"

[fanfoolishness]

[omgahgase]

idk man but i just picture din as this amazing cook who can whip up an delicious, healthy meals for grogu out of like 3 lame ass ingredients and luke is just never allowed in the kitchen bc he somehow burned water so din told him one day "i'll do all the cooking" and he does. and he's good at it.

but give this man a recipe for a cake or pie? no. absolutely not. he will serve you a blackened brick and think nothing is wrong with it. din's homemade cookies? this man is a mandalorian, he'll make the spiciest space chocolate chip cookies you've ever tasted. and that's if they make it out of the oven edible and not charred. not even grogu can stomach his baked goods. boba, cobb, and fennec have all told him that he's a terrible baker, and din's response is always, "you guys are just picky."

"yeah, vod, i choose to keep my teeth. not chip them on those abominations."

"bo is right—"

"don't call me that."

*chuckles* "bo is taken. call him booba."

"can it, shand."

din just shrugs and plops his horrendous snickerdoodles on the coffee table like they didn't just rattle the entire surface. meanwhile luke is in the kitchen with han saying that he "absolutely baked this bread! i'm capable of it!"

han takes another slice and gives luke an incredulous look, eyebrow arched and overly bushy. "sure, kid."

"i did!

"this is best kirffing bread i've ever had. it tastes like the holy land and carbs had a baby. i don't even believe if there's a holy land, but dank farrik, this bread can take me there."

"han...it's just bread."

and just like that, luke discovers that he can bake like a man mad. whatever he envisions, he can make with ease. cookies, snickerdoodles, cupcakes, pastries. he can bake it without so much as reading the recipe twice and din is flabbergasted.

"how can...how do you do that?"

"do what, my love?"

din waves his hand in a blobby, misshapen circle with luke—and his disaster of a kitchen whipping up some sort of blue macaroon for grogu that din knows comes out perfect every single time—in its center.

luke chuckles and moves around the island to place a floury kiss to his cheek, smearing some left over batter into the scruff of his chin.

"call it a gift."

"is this some sort of...force thing?"

luke laughs again and din hopes he kisses him one last time bc he deserves it for bringing forth such a lovely sound.

"no, it's just a me thing."

din hums, still not 100% convinced it's not luke and his confusing, space wizard magic, offers to help. only, luke shoos him out of the kitchen, brandishing his batter ladened spoon, dripping sticky all over the floor din just cleaned that morning.

"absolutely not. the last time you helped me, you mistook the sugar for garlic powder. chewie threw up, my love. i've never seen chewie throw up.

"...that was one time."

luke pats his cheek with delicate fingers, and if din wasn't already leaning into his touch, he would've griped about the batter trickling down his jaw.

"one time too many. it's fine, i can handle myself in here. now, get going. go on, out of my kitchen."

luke hops up onto his toes to press a fleeting kiss to din's lips and—really, it should be criminal how easily luke can turn off din's brain with one simple touch bc he didn't even notice how he ended up in the living room with both grogu and the family loth-cat trying to lick the drying batter off his face.

[djarindykes]

[thejediandthemandalorian]

Every week I watch the Mandalorian. Every week my fears/concerns get a little bit closer to happening