#Lost Planet: EX Troopers

[g4zdtechtv]

Cinematech Reborn: Nocturnal Emissions #4 - Let Me Be Direct

You saw the title, and you know what we covering on this episode of Cinematech Reborn NE, as we give you highlights from the recent Nintendo Direct, plus more, including the famous Gangsta Mario, and a chocobo.

I mean, an ostrich. Same difference, really.

(watch on 4GTV!)

[everydaydg]

Yamato!

[casual-violinist-fangirl]

Just Call Me And I'll Be There (3,090 Words)

Injured and on the run, Omega is forced to run to the first person she thinks of... but will that person be wiling to help her out after all of these years?

Set after the epilogue of the Bad Batch, exploring Omega's life in the rebellion! This will be a two-chapter fic and I'll make sure to tag the second chapter when it is completed!

As always, the link for my AO3 page is here and the link to my Tumblr masterlist is here.

I hope you enjoy!

--------

Omega was typically good at getting out of uncomfortable situations; the prospect of being captured was no stranger to her, so when the Empire had eventually caught up with her squad she had hardly been surprised. Luckily, none of them could trace her back to Hemlock’s experiments on Tantiss (thanks, Nala Se) so those holding her hostage just assumed that she was some washed up orphan that had joined the rebellion on a whim…

… if only they knew the truth.

Needless to say, her escape had been pretty spectacular. Echo would have been proud if he could have been there to see the way the cruiser exploded as she flew away in a modified TIE fighter. He was still working on liberating clones, even though Rex, Wolffe and Gregor had retired years earlier. Age hadn’t stopped the ex-ARC trooper from fighting for the rights of clones, and luckily Senator Chuchi was still standing strong and by his side. 

If Omega had to be critical, the only downside of her escape this time was the nasty burn on the side of her leg from where she’d dodged some explosive flames on her way out, combined with the blaster wound on her shoulder; luckily she had been wearing a disguise at the time of her capture, not her lucky jacket.

Still high on adrenaline and fear, the young woman had managed to punch in hyperspace coordinates and class her way to the nearest neutral planet she could think of: Ord Mantell.

She hadn’t exactly been planning on going there, but it popped up on the navi-computer as being the closest by a long shot… Pabu was way too far for her to go now. 

Landing on the planet hadn’t been an issue, although some people had stopped and stared at her as she clambered out of the TIE fighter, ragged and bleeding. Where was she going to go now? Kriff, she hadn’t thought this far. Hobbling out of the spaceport, she surveyed her surroundings as she tried to think of a plan of action. As long as she put space between herself and the ship she guessed it didn’t really matter where she went. If this place had access to long-range comms and  med-kit that would be even better…

A nasty thought filled her head and she swore quietly to herself… there was one place she could think of going to, not that it filled her with much joy. Realising that she didn’t have much choice and that if she wanted to go under the Empire’s radar, she’d need to rely on a friend. 

If she could call this person a friend anymore… time would tell.

——

The last twenty(ish) years had not been particularly kind to Cid. After she had lost communication with the Bad Batch, she had been riddled with guilt. That guilt had only gotten worse when she’d realised that the creepy scientist had been after Tiny and not her brothers. She had tried her hardest to put all of that behind her, until Phee had come knocking on her door.

The pirate had yelled abuse at her, calling her a coward and declaring that she had no right destroying the family of clones in the way that she did. Cid had made some below-the-belt comments about Phee and Goggles, snapping about how she was only acting this way because of his death.

Needless to say, Phee hadn’t spoken to her since. Cid had lost one of the only people she could call a friend. 

Then, six months later, a dangerously skilled clone had rocked up on her doorstep, threatening to burn down her bar if she didn’t give him a way of finding Omega. So the kid had escaped? With the help of one of her brothers, she’d later found out. Not that Cid was surprised. She guessed it must’ve been Bandanna who’d rescued the girl; she was closer to being his daughter than his sister anyways.

Stuck in-between a rock and a hard place, Cid had said the only person she knew who might have contact with the Batch was Phee. Luckily for her, the clone had left, but not before firing a blaster bolt through her shoulder in an attempt to kill her.

After that, Cid heard nothing else about her ex-mercenaries, and she decided that was the way she liked it. She could run her bar undisturbed by clones and their issues. No whiny kids, no grumpy fathers, no loud, boomy brothers. No know-it-all clones who always interrupted her when she was talking… It was kinda quiet though.

That was until one day, nearly twenty years later, she was closing down the bar after a long night. The door beeped, a sign that the security code had been tapped into the keypad outside, and hissed open; it creaked a little, a sign that it needed oiling… or possibly outright replacing.

Cid scowled. She was the only person who knew the code to that door, so either someone had overridden it or it was….

… surely not. She hadn’t heard from any of them in years. If they were even still alive, why would they want to see her? She had betrayed them, sold them out to the Empire like they had been nothing to her. They hadn’t meant anything to her… or at least she hadn’t thought so until Tech had died. The day they’d rushed into her bar, injured and broken, her heart had hurt for them. It had hurt even more so when he’d seen the distraught look on Hunter’s face as he stooped over Omega’s injured form. 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts and back into the present, Cid grasped the blaster that she had clipped to the bottom of the bar. The woman clicked it out of stun mode; whoever was coming into her bar, they weren’t expected and they were unlikely to be friendly. 

She could hear laboured footsteps coming down the steps and exiting the shadows. There, stood in front of Cid with blood oozing out of her shoulder and smelling a little bit like burning, was a young woman.

“Long time no see, Cid,” the girl said with a small smile that instantly sent the Trandoshian back in time. 

“Tiny!”

Blaster dropped to the floor and forgotten about, Cid moved around the bar and towards Omega. Upon closer inspection, she noticed just how bad the blaster wound was, and realised that the smell of burning was coming from the scorched fabric on her trousers. This kid had been through the wars.

“What happened to you, someone try to barbecue ya?” she asked as she glanced down at the burn on the girl’s leg. That was gonna need some serious bacta, and even then it might leave a mean scar. Omega rolled her eyes as she moved to a bar stool, sitting on it heavily. 

“Got captured by Imperials,” she started to explain through gritted teeth. “Had to blow up their ship when I escaped.” 

Cid’s face must have held a bewildered look because Omega snorted humourlessly. “You haven’t changed much,” she muttered as she rested her head against the cool bar surface. She groaned as there was a pull in her shoulder but sighed contentedly as the cool metal met a bruise on her temple. Had she been hit around the head at one point? Who knew. 

Cid stared at the young clone in front of her, still not quite believing her eyes. 

“Where are your posse?” she asked, moving back to the other side of the bar. She reached back and pulled down two glasses and a bottle of liquor. The kid looked old enough to drink now… stuff it, even if she wasn’t, it would help ease the pain of her injuries. 

“That’s what I was coming to you about, actually,” Omega raised an eyebrow at the alcohol in her cup but didn’t even flinch as she knocked it back like a shot. Cid shrugged and poured her some more.

“I don’t know where your family are, kid, if that’s what you’re asking.” The Trandoshian’s voice seemed to be filled with sympathy that Omega didn’t know she possessed. She shook her head.

“I know where they are,” she replied. “I just need access to a long-range comm that I know will reach them undetected.” She looked at Cid pointedly. “… and a med-kit that’s well stocked,” she added, knowing that Echo used to put things into Cid’s med-kit that probably hadn’t been used since they were placed there. Out of date bacta was better than no bacta. “You owe me after what you put me and my family through.”

Cid sighed, knowing that the girl was right. She could hardly turn her away, not after she had done exactly that years prior. She had betrayed the child and her brothers more times than she cared to admit… it was time to make good.

She lead Omega through the bar, still carrying the bottle of alcohol and their glasses, and sat her down in the office. There she went about looking for the med-kit; Omega had been right. It hadn’t been updated since Echo had done it fifteen years ago. She sighed as she clicked open the box and began searching through it for what she needed. 

“Comm’s all set up,” the quiet voice of Cid broke the clone out of her concentration. “I’ve rigged it so no one will trace your call.”

Omega nodded in thanks and watched as the Trandoshian left the office before turning her attention to the machine. She tapped in the code for her family’s comm device on Pabu before sitting back and hoping that someone would be on the other end to pick up…

The comm hadn’t even rang three times before Hunter’s scowling face appeared. 

“Cid,” he started. “I don’t know why you’re trying to call us after all these years but…” his voice trailed off and cracked when he noticed who was on the end of the line.

“Omega!” he gasped, and the woman in question smiled a watery smile. 

“Hey, buir,” she croaked as she tried to hold back to onslaught of emotion she was experiencing upon seeing her father for the first time since before her capture. 

Of course Hunter had questions. “Why are you at Cid’s?” was the first, though it was swiftly followed by “are you hurt?” and “do you need me to come and get you?”

Omega had given him the shortened version of what had happened leading up to and following on from her capture. Her buir’s eyes widened when she said that she had been hurt and gave him the brief rundown of her injuries.

Before too long, Hunter was saying goodbye, promising to be there soon to pick her up. He hung up the call, leaving Omega alone once more; all of a sudden the wave of emotion was too much for her and she burst into loud, heartbreaking sobs. 

Cid, on hearing her crying, opened the door to the office and peeped in. 

“You okay, Tiny?” she asked, concern lacing her usually blunt voice. Omega nodded, but hissed in pain as she jolted her shoulder once more. The Trandoshian guessed that the call had been successful considering how long it had gone on for, and that one of Tiny’s brothers would be here soon. “Let’s get you patched up,” she carried on, walking further into the room and prying the med-kit out of the girl’s hands.

She worked in silence, carefully peeling away what fabric she could from Omega’s burn as the young clone breathed through the pain. She then sprayed a bacta-laced freezing spray over the wound; Tiny’s shoulders eased up as she sighed a little with relief. 

Then came the shoulder. All Cid could do was place out of date bacta over it and dress it neatly, hoping that it would stop bleeding soon.

“Sorry there isn’t more I can do, kid,” she muttered in apology as she stood away to admire her handiwork. Omega nodded, though her eyes were unfocussed and looked heavy. Cid swore quietly and waved a hand in front of the girl’s face.

“Hey, Tiny,” she spoke a little louder, snapping Omega out of her slump. “I reckon you’re concussed. No nap time for you, at least not until one of your brothers turns up.” The woman in question nodded in response, not being able to bring herself to speak. She was so tired, surely a small nap wouldn’t hurt…

… “TINY!” Omega jumped out of her skin, hissing at the movement in her shoulder. “Come on, kid,” Cid grumbled. “You gotta stay alive until Dark and Broody gets here. I’m guessing he’s the one who’s on his way?”

Omega nodded, a small smile on her face at the mention of her buir. Cid rolled her eyes; this kid had always been soft.

“Has he finally decided he’s your dad yet?” she asked sarcastically. “Or is he still pretending that his Jango Fett gene didn’t activate?”

She turned to face the wounded clone, only to see a frown on her face. 

“After my second escape from Hemlock…” Omega started slowly. “Hunter said that we were free to be whoever we wanted.” She smiled fondly at the memory. It hadn’t been long after that she’d started calling him buir. She had been so nervous, petrified of being rejected, but she needn’t have been. Hunter had practically burst into tears upon her asking permission to call him dad.

“He chose to be a father,” she finished with a fond smile on her face. Cid nodded, somewhat impressed with the clone sergeant. When she had known him, he had seemed so emotionally stunted that she thought he’d never admit to Omega how he felt about her, but here the pair were. Father and daughter… Cid realised she should have guessed this from the red bandanna the kid wore around her head. Yeah, there was no confusion as to whose kid she was.

“I’m glad he came to his senses,” she commented, making Omega snort a little with laughter. 

“You sound like Crosshair,” she replied with a laugh. “He’s the one who said I should talk to Hunter.”

Cid vaguely remembered the Batch talking about a Crosshair and she had assumed that he was one of their brothers, but had never met the man. 

——

Hunter barrelled through the door of the bar four fours later looking frazzled and… older than Cid remembered. Of course, she didn’t look the same, but she hadn’t been expecting the small streaks of silver running through Dark and Broody’s hair, or the way his battle-ready body had filled out… that probably came with being able to afford food, she thought to herself as she stood up to greet him. 

Omega was getting tired again, her eyes drooping as she complained about the pain in her leg beginning to come back; Cid had kept her busy with a caffeinated drink and multiple games of Djerik. Of course the girl had won every single came, even concussed; as they played she wittered on about the time she had won nearly 50,000 credits whilst on the run with Crosshair.

“Omega!” Hunter ran to the young clone, not even looking at Cid. He crouched in front of her, ignoring the twinge in his knees. Checking over her injuries, he frowned as he noticed the gunshot wound, treated but still painful. It turned out that out of date bacta wasn’t as effective as Omega had hoped. 

“Hey, buir,” she said in a voice that was suddenly choked with emotion again. “Everything hurts.”

Hunter breathed out a short laugh, though the concern on his face was still evident. “I’m not surprised, ad’ika,” he replied, cupping her cheek. “It’s okay though, I’ll get you home.”

Cid raised both eyebrows at the mention of ‘home.’ She had just assumed that the boys would still be wondering the galaxy. She was surprised that they had found somewhere safe enough to settle down.

She was broken from her thoughts by Hunter easing his kid to her feet and slinging her good arm over his shoulder. Omega hissed as the pair took an unsteady step forward, Bandanna whispering soothing words to her as a couple of tears leaked down her cheeks. The pain really had come back with a vengeance, huh. 

As the pair reached the door of the bar, Hunter still having not knowledge Cid’s existence, Omega put her hand out to stop them both. She shuffled around, nodding at the Trandoshian.

“Thanks, Cid,” she said and for what it was worth, she sounded genuinely grateful. Cid nodded in return at them both. 

“See you around, Tiny,” she replied. “You too, Bandanna. I’m glad you got to live your lives in peace. You deserved it.”

For the first time, Hunter looked at her. Cid could see the bitterness in his eyes, not that she could blame him. As he observed her, his eyes softened a little. She knew he was grateful that she’d looked after his little girl. After everything she had put their family through, that was as much as she could ask for. The pair nodded at each other before Hunter re-adjusted his grasp on Omega. The pair shuffled out of the bar, slowly making their way back to their ship.

——

“You were smart to go back to somewhere you know,” Hunter commented as he settled Omega in the co-pilot’s chair of his ship. His first move had been to give her a dose of pain medication; she had no idea when she’d hit her head, but it was safe to say that she was coherent that Hunter wasn’t worried about her falling asleep. As the pain medication kicked in she began to doze off. Her buir took the opportunity to re-dress her arm with bacta that would actually do its job, and put more spray on her burn before dressing that too.

“You trained me well…” Omega slurred slightly, her eyes drooping. “Missed you, buir,” she added in a pitifully small voice as he finished up re-dressing her injuries. Hunter stood back to his full height and sighed at the sight of his grown-up daughter falling asleep in front of him. He stooped down and pressed a gentle kiss against her temple.

“Missed you too, ‘Mega,” he whispered, not wanting to make her jump. He sat down in the pilot’s chair before tapping in the coordinates for Pabu. Upon entering hyperspace he finally breathed a sigh of relief; they were going home.

[thistechnologicalterror]

What did you think of Geonosis?

IT WAS A HOT, DRY, DUST BOWL OF A WASTELAND PLANET, WITH "FRIENDLY" LOCALS, THAT WERE VERY FOND OF INTRODUCING TOURISTS WITH ARENA GAMES... USUALLY BY PUSHING THE TOURIST IN.

OH THEY WOULD CHEER FOR YOU... AS YOUR OPPONENT WINS WITH HALF YOUR DETACHED LIMBS IN ITS MOUTH.

( I ALSO LOST MY ARM ON THAT PLANET. IRONICALLY TO A COWARD OF AN EX-JEDI, AND NOT TO THE AFOREMENTIONED CREATURES. BUT WOULD NOT THAT HAVE BEEN SOMETHING. )

I WOULD HAVE BEEN SHOCKED THAT THE WASTELAND ALSO HAD A FORM OF BRAIN PARASITE, AS I FOUND OUT THROUGH REPORTS FROM MY PADAWAN, DURING THE SECOND CAMPAIGN OF GEONOSIS. ( AND OF COURSE, INEVITABLY ENCOUNTERED DEEP IN THE BOWLS OF THAT FORCE-FORSAKEN WORLD. )

... BUT COLOR ME NOT SHOCKED. POPULACES WHO TEND TO FEED THEIR GUESTS AND OUTSIDERS TO ANIMALS AS ENTERTAINMENT, WOULD OF COURSE HAVE A TYPE OF "ZOMBIE PLAGUE".

THE WORST OF THAT PLANET (NO, IT WAS NOT THE SAND, CALM YOURSELVES) WAS THAT IT WAS A SERIES OF LION-ANT TRAPS. SO MUCH SO YOU COULD RENAMED GEONOSIS "AMBUSH".

THE HIVES OF THE NATURAL POPULACE OFTEN EITHER STRETCHED INTO DIRT PILLARS (NOT UNLIKE A GIANT ANT COLONY), OR WERE IN CANYONS, OR IN SOME PLACES, AN OUTRIGHT PYRAMID.

( THE PYRAMID WAS SHOCKING. APPARENTLY GEONOSIS USED TO BE VERY FRIENDLY OUTSIDERS, AND HAD AN ARTIFICIAL HIVE FOR OTHER SENTIENTS TO RESIDE IN. AN EX-TRADE POST AND SPACE CENTER, SEVERAL HUNDREDS YEARS ABANDONED. )

EITHER WAY, YOU WALK YOUR SQUADS IN, AND GET SWARMED, WHICH IS EXACTLY HOW THE CIVIL WARS STARTED--THEY WALKED IN, AND EVERYONE GOT SWARMED. IT IS CONSIDERED ONE OF THE WORST DISASTERS OF THE WARS.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL THE SECOND CAMPAIGN, THAT WE FOUND OUT THE NORMALLY FLYING DRONE-SOLIDERS HAD A FAVORITE CALVARY--WHICH FLEW ON GIANT FLYING TERMITES THAT SPAT ACID STRONG ENOUGH TO EAT PLASARMOR, AND SPENT A CONSIDERABLE AMOUNT OF TIME CHEWING TROOPERS IN HALF.

( MY PADAWAN WAS NOT AROUND FOR THAT. THANK THE GODS, THE FORCE AND EVERYTHING. HER REFUSAL FOR EVEN THE MOST BASIC OF ARMOR, OR EVEN APPROPRIATE CLOTHING IN WAR, WOULD HAVE MEANT A GRUESOME END AGAINST THOSE THINGS. )

GEONOSIS IS SOCIALLY, GEOGRAPHICALLY, ECONOMICALLY, SOCIETALLY, A NIGHTMARE OF A PLANET.

ZERO STARS ON PLANETARY-SERVICE REVIEW. WOULD NOT EVER VISIT AGAIN.

[ludwigfanfunkoven]

capcom keeps making hd remasters of games and rereleases of shit like megamane but wheres  the lost planet HD trilogy

[cc-0420]

sometimes i feel like obi-wan was meant to fall

the emotional kid in the crèche and had a tough time controlling his anger

rejected by qui-gon

sent to bandomeer and ended up being a slave in the mines

finally becomes a padawan

then, the mission to melinda/daan

he leaves the jedi order (the place he tried so hard to belong) to help the young in the war

the amount of distrust that grows between him and qui-gon

when anakin comes along, obi-wan is basically disowned publicly by qui-gon so he could take on anakin as a padawan

(not that he blames anakin, because he is a kid who has no clue what’s going on)

yet when maul comes to fight, obi-wan is still willing to die for qui-gon because he is so loyal (and attached)

the fight with maul is the first time he touches that anger to use the dark side. there is no way a padawan can just beat a sith apprentice without the dark side

when the fight ends and he “kills” maul, i think he suppresses it enough because he wants to complete qui-gon’s final wish to train anakin

(wtf, why would you put that burden on him it’s basically a soon to graduate high school kid now having to raise an elementary student)

so obi-wan suppresses any darkness to become the perfect jedi to train anakin

when the war starts, things begin to change

when arriving at kamino, obi-wan feels the millions of lights, with different personalities

obi-wan is introduced to his commander, cc-2224, who, when asked a name, is hesitant due to pure fear of what happened to past troopers

he slowly learns of the horrors of kamino, the reconditioning and decommissioning of former troopers. the clones are afraid of the jedi due to stories heard from the kaminoans, i mean, they’re just products to be sold

obi-wan goes out of the way to make an effort to learn all of the 212st’s names. yet as the war goes on, he feels the lights blink out on the battlefield

then his ex-padawan gets his own padawan. now, ahsoka is bright, but her training is very different from past generations. instead of learning about cultures and preserving life, they are taught to fight separatists and serve the republic (and that is the exact reason he got kicked out in melinda/daan)

than umbara happens. right under obi-wan’s nose. he was on the planet, sending his troops into massacre

pong krell was a jedi, yet treated the clones like droids, not the life forms they were. while filing the report, obi-wan let himself truly grieve for the first time in the war

when before, obi-wan was rolling down a hill to the dark side, he begins to fall on kadavo

each action obi-wan did wrong became punishment for the tortugas. as they worked pointlessly for “training” the tortugas lost all hope on the jedi. they were the ones to blame for the punishment

the mission was to get the citizens of kiros back. any other action could be seen as an act of war for the republic

this is what the order has become is all obi wan can think, the republics slaves. jedi are supposed to protect the people, not whatever the republic demanded

his spirit begins breaking down. no physical torture can match the guilt of not being able to save others.

unlike bandomeer, he is not the one getting punished for his actions

when he and rex get free, obi-wan wants to kill agruss and his eyes flicker yellow for a moment. but, like canon, rex does it for him

afterwards, rex and obi-wan talk about the horrors of the facility and the lack of faith for the republic and what they are fighting for

rex points out that the clones are a slave to the republic anyway and that they have no other options with their lives (he would never say it straight out to a commanding officer, but this is a headcanon)

“what would you do if we weren’t fighting this war?” “i wouldn’t exist, but i sometimes think many of the vod would prefer that”

that’s when obi-wan snaps. the clones deserve rights more than anyone, yet they will never get it from the republic

the 212th join him with no questions asked cody would follow obi wan till the end of time

obi-wan offers the idea to anakin. he says he is betraying the republic and the chancellor. obi wan says anakin is betraying his troops, yet makes sure he knows that he and ahsoka would always have a place with him

“why?” “the jedi have lost their path. in zygarria, it was get in and out with the tortugas, yet so many remain in slavery.”

“what about my mom?” “what about your mom?” obi-wan was never told anakin was a slave

“i need to stay here. padmé, the chancellor, ahsoka. they need me.” “ok anakin. i am always here for you if you want to reach out about anything” ahsoka stays for anakin

rex wouldn’t leave anakin and ahsoka, but allows for the vod to make their own decision and half of the 501st leaves

so obi-wan, with a battalion and a half leaves the gar and the jedi unannounced. he travels the galaxy picking up clones (who want to join) as well as anyone in need

it is uncalled for and brings the senate and the order to chaos. how can the perfect jedi leave?

as a sith, he isn’t fighting for power or revenge. he is fighting for freedom and justice for the people in the galaxy

the only reason he would fall would be to help others

(he tried so hard to be the perfect jedi, which makes it impossible in his eyes to leave, but is also a great excuse for falling)

he wears armor b/c he wants cody to be happy (the only reason he wasn’t before was b/c it was unjedi-like and straying too far from his beliefs)

he keeps the blue saber, yet also uses blaster now because he became uncivilized

he does read about the powers of the sith and explores what he can do

obi-wan was always good at force suggesting people

while the senate and the public panics (how could they not, the great negotiator has deflected with the best battalion in the galaxy), the order uses the time to reflect. no one joins obi-wan, but there is an unspoken agreement to support his cause

he never explicitly fights against the republic, but doesn’t mind fighting separatists when ever he gets a chance

if a jedi was asked, they didn’t get mysterious help when they were previously losing. yeah, a bunch of clones disappeared, but we won. the senate doesn’t know the difference

falling is a disgrace, but that doesn’t mean plo koon and shaak ti doesn’t send some troopers kenobi’s way as the vod’s honorary buirs

palpatine’s plans begin falling apart

it allows windu and yoda to sooner recognize the flaws in the order and in the senate

barriss leaves the temple sooner, but goes to obi-wan instead of bombing the temple

anakin is now able to trust obi-wan with his and padmé’s relationship, in which he can voice his approval and anakin doesn’t have to feel guilty

when palpatine promises anakin a way to save padmé, he asks obi-wan if that’s true

obi-wan kills palpatine for being a pedo (or he lets fox a clone do it if they want ceaser style)

everyone lives happily with palpatine dead

anakin leaves the order to become a trophy husband (and learn more from obi-wan)

as does ahsoka

the clones get a vacation

i got this idea from @curioscurio ‘s sith!obi-wan fan art

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

The Spice Runner Story

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: None.

Summary: You have a history with the planet Kijimi. Poe knows about it. Rey and Finn, however, find themselves with a curious need to uncover why you’re both being weird.

“I hate this planet.” You frowned as the cold wind hit your face, frosting the tip of your nose.

Walking down the ramp of the ship into the frigid environment, you clutched the coat tighter as a light shiver spread across your body.

Rey heard the comment and walked to the side, securing her own gloves and patted down the lightsaber in her belt to ensure that it was firmly placed.

“Really? The whole planet?” She asked as Finn and Poe joining the pair in a small huddle.

Your eyes glossed over Poe for a fraction of a second before you turned to Rey to reply. “No, you're right. Not the whole planet, just some people on the planet.” 

The snark didn’t go unheard and Finn’s curiosity perked up again. “Okay, what happened on Kijimi?”

“A spice runner.” You discretely frowned at Poe and folded your stiff arms to retain body heat.

He caught the scowl and cleared his throat. “Uh- I can get us to an old contact and he’ll be able to help us translate the message in C-3PO’s circuitry.”

The rest of your tale was dropped but Finn could sense the frustration. You ducked and weaved through the night snow, careful to cover your tracks from patrol units.

It wasn’t easy, each turn deeper into the city presented new risks.

You eventually fell into step with Finn and Rey while Poe kept his eye on the droids ahead. He exhaled, letting a puff of cold air dance in the air which oddly fascinated you.

“So what happened on your mission here?” Finn wondered, drawing your attention away from the fading cold.

Rey chuckled quietly. “You really have no control.”

“What?” The ex-trooper defended. “There’s so much we don’t know.”

You turned to the pair and rubbed your gloved hands together for some heat. Kijimi nights were never pleasant but finishing your story wouldn’t hurt… much.

“I brought a small team here to stop the illegal mining of kyber crystals in the mountains. We set up base and stayed in the town for a month before making our move of destroying their operation. It was all planned - from destabilising their outside transmissions to physically stopping the machines.”

“What happened?” Finn frowned. It sounded like they had it all worked out and it was airtight.

You clenched your jaw when memory flashed of the past.

“There was a spice runner. We crossed paths many times and, while I knew he didn’t consume the drug, he was committed to the trade. Eventually, we got to talking and I thought I had him on our side as a recruit but things flipped. Someone leaked the plans and there was an assault on my base by the First Order. I was forced to fall back or lose the team.” 

Shaking your head, you huffed. You had been sabotaged before but the Kijimi Chaos (as it was embarrassingly coined at the Resistance Base) hit differently. 

Rey had been listening very carefully to the story and glanced over at you as you all descended down a narrow staircase. 

“Did you find out who leaked the plans?”

You stared holes into the back of Poe’s head. “The spice runner.” Your tone was bitter until you shook your head and tried to lift the mood. “But I’ve made my peace with it.”

Finn squinted, suspicion building, as he thought back to the way you snapped at Poe after learning about the planetary visit. You had practically marched off the ship.

Poe stopped up ahead suddenly and sighed.

“Please don’t tell me we’re lost.” Finn whispered quickly.

Poe looked at the buildings and then at his map. “No, but we’re going to need some help. It’s taken longer than needed to get here and there’s a patrol inbound.” He informed.

Someone would be needed to distract the stormtrooper unit and lead them astray while the rest of the group sought out Babu Frik.

Stepping forward on the freshly fallen snow, you pressed your blaster into Poe’s hands. “Meet point?”

Poe scowled at the idea of you going on your own but ultimately decided that it was a necessary move. “Two clicks east from here.”

Nodding, you silently disappeared between the buildings.

Finn noticed the slight distress on his friends face and inquired about whether you would be alright. Poe waved the concern off and plastered a stoic expression. “They know the area. Let’s get going.” 

Marching east through the next set of deserted streets, they kept their eyes and ears peeled for the enemy.

Thankfully there were no complications until a band of Kijimi’s rebel forces broke from the shadows and surrounded them. 

There was a hard metal pressed into Poe’s back which made him tense up and hold his arms high in surrender.

“We’re not looking for trouble.” He announced, turning slowly and lowering his hood.

Poe recognised the fighters in the area and had hoped that they’d drop by for help.

“You.” The person holding them at gun point scathed at Poe.

He opened his mouth and started to negotiate their reason for trespassing. He informed them of the urgency in which they needed Babu Frik appeared to be working until the ex-comrade let slip of his previous title. 

“You were a spice runner?” Finn exclaimed, failing to hide the excitement in his voice.

Poe snapped his head back towards Finn. “Were you a Stormtrooper?”

Rey grinned at his defensive tone. “You were a spice runner.”

“Were you a scavenger? We can do this all night.” Poe frowned at his friends. It’s not like he didn’t have a life before the Resistance.

Finn suddenly gasped and pointed at the pilot. 

“You were the spice runner in Y/n’s story!” He realised and looked to Rey whose eyes also widened as the pieces fit together.

“You leaked their plans? How could you?”

In that moment, Poe wished he was being faced with a dozen storm troopers instead.

It’s not like he was proud of creating havoc for you back then. He was a desperate spice runner who had decided to lay waste to the Resistance’s operation in an attempt to draw away First Order attention while he escaped unscathed…

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t properly apologised for the event that set the Resistance back for months. Even when you both were paired up for missions, you ignored the incident and Poe never poked at it.

It was decided - when you all got off the planet safely, Poe would clear the air. He didn’t like when you were upset with him. He also didn’t want Finn and Rey to pester him further on the matter.

Masterlist here

[mandoalorian]

Brown Eyes [Din Djarin x Reader]

!! SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 15, SEASON 2. !!

*Hi. The episode has been out for three hours. The devil works hard but I work harder. I hope you enjoy! xx*

Summary: Din has always wanted to confess his love to you— but with his devotion to the Creed and with the risk of losing you, he wonders if the revelation would really be worth it. Would you even consider being with him if he refused to remove his helmet? When Grogu is taken away from Din and in the fiendish hands of Moff Gideon, Din realises there isn't anything he won't do to get his son back.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: descriptions of anxiety, *SPOILERS FOR Season 2 Episode 15: The Believer of The Mandalorian*

Word count: 2.6k

Permanent taglist - let me know if you want to be added: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos

Masterlist

gif credit: @siennablake

"Din," you froze up, backing away from the Imperial who was sitting at a table drinking caf. "I- I can't do it."

Din's head snapped to face you, masked by the Imperial Shocktrooper helmet he was doting. "Why not?" His voice was firm, but the tone of his question dripped with concern. You bawled your fingers into a fist as you squeezed your eyes tight shut, beginning to anxiously pace around in circles.

"That's Valen Hess," you muttered, trying your hardest to regulate your nervous breathing. "He- I used to serve under him. I- can't… go in there. Din, he'll recognise me." the thoughts in your head were jumbled. Din placed two hands steady on your shoulders.

"I'll go, hand me the dataspike." Din told you calmly. You felt like putty under his touch. Usually, his firm grip would calm you down and ease any of your troubles away— but not this time. You felt completely nauseated.

Grogu was at stake. When you met the Mandalorian, it took him some time to find the confidence in introducing you to the child. You were Ex-Imperial after all. But he warmed up to you, seeing the way you cared so deeply for the children on Sorgan. When he introduced you to the little green bean, who did not yet have a name, you were enamoured. That's when Din knew he was in love with you. Ever since that day, he'd only fallen in love with you more and more. His feelings became stronger with every waking second he spent with you.

Of course, he never acted on his feelings. He wished he had, he wished he could say something. He knew that if something happened to you and you didn't know how he truly felt, he'd regret it for the rest of his life. There had been countless times where you and him brushed paths on the Razor Crest. Plenty of times to say something, plenty of times to mutter the three words that had consumed his mind, body and soul. ‘I love you’. The words were like a broken record in the back of his mind. He looked at you through his visor, seeing your distress and his heart aching and he wanted— no, he had to do something.

His son had been kidnapped and suddenly, Din was an unstoppable force. Nothing could hold him back— not his friends, not the Creed, nothing. The regret ate him up like flies on a corpse. If there was one thing he learned from Grogu's disappearance, is that you never know what is coming around the corner. Din began to treat everyday with you like it was your last because there was no way of telling what the future was holding. And that only stirred him on, the desire of telling you how much you meant to him.

"You can't go," you removed your finger from your lips where you had been anxiously biting your nails. "The security system is biometric facial recognition. There must be another way." you tried to rack your brain for a solution, but Din's mind was already made up.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes in search for an answer. You steadied your breathing. "Din," you whispered. "What if we distract them? You go in there and speak to him so he's looking the other way and I'll use that moment to sneak past and access the terminal."

No answer. "Din?" you asked, cautiously opening your eyes. He was already gone. Your mouth began to open and close like a goldfish as you watched his approach the terminal. He paused, midway between two tables, shakily saluting Valen Hess. Din turned back to the terminal, held his head up high and carried on over to it.

Upon examining it, Din found it was no different to any other information point— whether it had been New Republic or Independent, Din was lucky enough to already know how to navigate the system. He clicked a few buttons on the keypad, bringing up the facial recognition scanner. He stood still, letting it roam down his face. He didn't have much faith, but it was worth a shot.

Din cursed under his breath as the scanner light lit up red, beeping ecstatically.

"Error. Error. Facial scanning incomplete. Ten seconds until system shutdown." An automated voice informed. Din felt a few gazes burn into his back, no doubt Valen Hess noticing the commotion. "Ten, nine, eight-"

You watched as the timer went down, your hand fingers curling around the blaster in your holster. You didn't know what Din was going to, but you knew if anything— he was a man with a plan.

And that was when he removed his helmet.

It hit you like a ton of bricks, it took the air from your lungs leaving you gasping in silence. You felt like a criminal, looking at him with your own eyes. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't tear the gaze from the back of his head.

Brown hair. Dark brown hair, slightly messy from the helmet. Although you were some distance away, you noticed the little waves and the way it curled at the nape of his neck. The cut of the Imperial armour revealed just a sliver of his skin. It was golden tan— surprising to you.

"Facial scanning complete." The dataspike ejected from the terminal, a small light lit up in green, validating that the information had been processed and Din was now the owner of Moff Gideon’s co-ordinates. Just as he was about to put his helmet back on, a voice interrupted him.

Your heart sank when you saw that Valen Hess had approached Din.

"Trooper, where are you stationed?"

"Transportation."

"What?"

"My designation is transport— co-pilot."

"No son, what's your TK number?"

Din felt his throat dry up as he looked the man in the eyes. Valen Hess stared at Din right back, looking into the eyes that nobody had gazed into since Din had been sworn to the Creed. Din swallowed the lump in his throat, only for it to return immediately.

"He's with me." you announced, walking over to Din and Hess. A wash of relief shuttled through Din's body upon hearing your voice, but that was completely blown away when he realised you had seen him. It was true, you had seen his face— but there was no time to act up. Din had sacrificed everything for Grogu and you weren't going to let this go wrong. "This is my trooper, sir."

"Who is he and what's his TK number?" Valen Hess repeated, clicking his tongue between his teeth.

"This is my commanding officer TK-0402, and I'm TK-0322. I'm afraid he doesn't speak much. Ever since his vessel lost pressure on Tanaab." You explained with confidence, sighing apologetically and placing a hand on your hip.

Din found the courage to look at you, making brief yet bewildered glances between you and Valen Hess. He had a thousand questions but he knew he could trust you, and so, he smiled wearily, nodding his head in agreement to your little story.

"What's his name?" Hess inquired.

You took a deep breath, and turned to face Din. He looked at you too, his face softening as your eyes met for the very first time. You felt your heart rate slow down as you took in his appearance. You were nervous, and tensions were high, but as you looked into the Mandalorian's sparkling eyes, you felt a familiar sense of belonging. You felt complete.

"Brown eyes." you whispered, feeling the tears pool up as you tried to choke back a sob. Din smiled at you, just a small smile, but enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. It gave you the reassurance to know that this was all worth it.

"Well, brown eyes," Valen Hess adjusted his belt. "You troopers were both on the transport that brought in the valium, correct? The only surviving shocktroopers, might I add." he grinned, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-yeah, that was us." You answered hesitantly.

"Please, come join me for drinks. We must celebrate." Hess said, approaching the table he was originally sat at and ushering you over with an exaggerated gesture.

You and Din exchanged a look before walking over to the table and sinking down into the chair. Hess poured out two cups of caf and slid them over. Din stayed silent for most of the conversation, briefly making utterances of affirmation and nodding his head to suggest that he was indeed listening.

Although, he wasn't listening really. His mind was racing and he couldn't concentrate on anything. Although it wasn't necessarily true, he felt like every head in the room was looking at him. Staring at him. Judging him breaking his oath. Was he a failure? Was he a disgrace to the Creed? Dishonourable? A monster?

"I could blather on 'to health' or 'to success', but… tell me TK-0322, where do you come from?"

"Alderaan." you said without hesitation. Din looked at you with furrowed eyebrows, wondering why exactly you had given Hess the details of your real planet.

"Ah, I see…" Hess frowned. "Well, to Alderaan!" he grinned, raising his glass in the air.

"No." you deadpanned and Hess shot you a confused look.

"No?"

"No." you repeated. "Alderaan was a peaceful planet destroyed by the Empire."

"And those on the Death Star, those who aided in the destruction of Alderaan became heroes of the Empire. I was there." he said with pride.

Din watched your face harden as your cheeks burned up with rage. "Heroes?" you croaked out. "For attacking and murdering innocents? Hundreds of thousands of people died on Alderaan. I lost my family."

"Losing the ones we love is simply part of life," Hess revealed with a sigh— and Din felt his heart shatter at his words. He stiffened up, his gaze fixating on the concrete wall as his surroundings began to faze out.

"At what cost?" you whispered. "You know, every day I think about it. I wished there was something I could do to stop it. But no, I was here, fighting for the Empire. While the Empire was out killing my people." You gritted out as tears pricked your eyes. You felt Dins hand manouver under the table and take place on your thigh, as his gloved fingers rubbed comforting circles into the thin material that covered your skin. His hand was large, fitting around your leg perfectly. He held you down, stopping your anxious shaking and you immediately calmed down. Din wasn't going to stop you, but he did want you to not let your feelings intrude on what was really happening right now. Valen Hess, however, looked mortified. You picked up the glass and forced a smile. Din copied your movement and you clinked your glass with his. "To family." you toast, and Din smiles. He smiles so wide a dimple appears in his cheek.

"To family." he confirms, thinking about his son and how close he was to getting him back.

You put the glass of caf back down on the table and quickdrew your blaster, shooting Valen Hess in the chest.

Din knew better than to question you. He took out his own pistol and helped you take down the remaining troopers and Imps in the room before you both raced out of the base.

Of course, you knew that there'd be commotion. You heard the TIE fighter engines as soon as you stepped foot outside. Din grabbed your hand, pulling you along as you both sprinted into the depths of the forest. Once deep enough, you looked up. It was dark, strings of light beaming through the gaps in the trees. But it was enough to illuminate Din. You had envisioned what Din looked like beneath his beskar helmet every single day, and now, you had your answer.

Din took one look at you. He pulled off his leather gloves, dropping them to the ground and placed his hand on your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into the warmth of his palm as his fingers tucked the strands of hair behind your ear. You closed your eyes, humming in delight as his bodily warmth transferred to you.

"Din, when we return to the ship you can put your helmet back on. I never saw you." you promised, your voice barely above a whisper and your eyes remaining closed.

"Cyare," Din mumbled, his heart yearning. The pad of his thumb traced your face, following the height of your cheek bones and the arch of your eyebrows and down your nose. "Open your eyes." he requested. Cautiously, you obeyed, your eyes fluttering open as you drunk in his appearance once more.

Brown stubble with a patch of grey graced the lower portion of his face. You reached out, this time your own hand cupping his cheek. Din didn't let go of you, and he let you touch him. Your finger nervously brushed over the coarse hairs and you let out a small giggle as you remembered him telling you from the Fresher room on the Razor Crest that he was going to shave. He had, and now you could see for yourself that it had started growing back.

"Do… do you like what you see?" Din asked nervously, his gaze only temporarily lifting from yours.

You nodded your head. "I do," you admitted. "You're… so handsome."

Din felt his cheeks heat up as you watched the small blush creep upon his face. You were enthralled, seeing him like this. Seeing his humanity— his emotions and expressions. You knew you loved Din, with or without the helmet— but this confirmed everything.

"May I?" Din asked, leaning into you slowly and closing his eyes. The curve of his nose bumped against yours as and the softness of his lips touched you so delicately.

You mumbled a small 'yes' and as your lips parted, Din kissed you. Soft, sweet, but passionate and with heart. You tangled your hands in his hair, tugging at it and encouraging Din to kiss you deeper and further. He done so, willingly, a groan of pleasure escaping his mouth and vibrating through your body.

He pulled away eventually, breathless and his eyes dark and glazed. "I-I…" he was speechless, looking at you with the utmost adoration. "I love you." He sighed in defeat, knowing now was a better time than any to admit his true feelings. He had to do it one day, and it just so happened to be in the depths of a forest as you hid from Imperials.

"I love you too." you exhaled shakily, thrusting forward into his arms and letting him hold you tight to his chest. He pressed a kiss into your hair.

"I love you so much." Din sobbed, his grip around you tightening like he was afraid that if he let go, you'd vanish just like Grogu did. "Please, never leave me. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere Din," you promised. "Now c’mon, let's go get Grogu."

PART TWO

[mandoinevarro]

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k 

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun. 

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose.  Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.  

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”  

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”  

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga.  “Who’s they?”  

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.  

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”  

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.  

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you.  You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames  your knees with his legs “—armchair.”  Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.  

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.  

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.  

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done���he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”  

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.  

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you?  Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon​ @benedrylcumbersnatch

[aeonborealis]

Movies/Shows Spectra

Cowboy Bebop FLCL Neon Genesis Evangelion Princess Mononoke Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Adaptation Being John Malkovich Minority Report Waking Life 2001: A space Odyssey Parika The Matrix Blade Runner Alita Battle Angel John Wick 1, 2, & 3 Inception Clock Work Orange Good Will Hunting Apocalypse Now The Godfather The Dark Knight The Green Knight Pulp Fiction Fight Club The Empire Strikes Back Se7en Interstellar Spirited Away Leon: The Professional Alien Momento Django Unchained Joker Synecdoche Jurassic Park Akira The Grand Budapest Hotel World War Z The Big Lewbowski Logan Terminator Back to the Future Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse Dune PK Her Donnie Darko 12 Monkeys Ghost in the Shell Soplaris Elysium Cowboy Bebop: The Movie Children of Men Brazil Rogue One Big Hero Six Moon Serenity Predator E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial Fantastic Planet Gravity The Girl Who Leapt Trhough Time Ex Machina The Fifth Element Guardians of the Galaxy Watchmen 28 Days Later Robo Cop Close Encounters of the Third Kind Godzilla: Shin Source Code Doctor Strange Contact Total Recall Tenet I Origins Cloud Atlas Looper Limitless K Pax 2046 Pi The Shape of Water Black Panther I Am Legend A.I. Artificial Intelligence Treasure Planet Starship Troopers The Andromeda Strain Robot and Frank Dredd 9 A Scanner Darkly Blade Oblivion The Adjustment Bureau Passangers Independence Day Starman Finch Another Earth Primer Flight of the Navigator Repo Man Altered States Chappie Cypher eXistenZ Spring HarcoreHenry Venom The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Resident Evil Short Circuit The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Idiocracy Titan AE Ad Astra Space Jam Lucy Alien: Covenant The Cell Dune Solaris World on a wire Le Jetee Kamikaze 89 Liquid Sky Aeon Flux Reign the Conqueror Megazone 23 Neo Tokyo Class of 1999 Crime zone AD Police Files Circuitry Man Cyber City Oedo 808 Hardware Megaville 964 Pinocchio Until the End of the world Wax, the discovery of television among the bees Fortress Freejack Nemesis Machine Girl Mimbo: The Subtle Art of Japanese Persuassion Prototype Shadowchaser Split second 8 man After American Cyborg: Steel Warrior Ghost in the Machine TC 2000 Crystal Fortune Run Cyber Tracker Cyborg 3: The Recycler Armitage III Automatic Cyber Bandits Cyber-Tracker 2 Cyberjack Hackers Johnny Mnemonic Nemesis 2: Nebula Screamers The City of Lost Children Virtual Combat Nemesis 3: Death Angel Omega Doom Rubber's Lover Gumo My Own Private Idaho Full Metal Gokudo Gattaca Andromedia The X Files Webmaster The Thirteenth Floor I.K.U. No Maps for These Territories Thomas in Love Vritual Nightmare Avalon Electric Dragon 80.000 V Reboot: Daemon Rising Reboot: My Two Bobs Xchange Dead or Alive: final Resurrection of the Little Match Girl Returner Teknolust Natural city Paycheck The Animatrix Appleseed Casshern Cyber Wars The Bottled Fools Immortal Malice Doll Automatons Puzzlehead Chrysalis Vexille Sleep Dealer Technotise: Edit & 1 Tetsuo: The Bullet Man Tokyo Gore Poilice

[imperial-topaz2003]

SWTOR Alliance Commander Ask Game

@dishonored-pendletwin came up with this ask game, so I figured I’d give it a try with my Sith Warrior Tyrrnith

1) Who’s your Alliance Commander? What class are they? Alignment? Random other facts you wanna share? Tyrrnith Zarmahan is my Alliance Commander. Sith Warrior, neutral (leaning slightly on the dark side), and generally a strict but honorable-type of leader

2) What’s a reason or two you like that this character is your Commander? Tyr’s been my oldest and favorite character of my SWTOR bunch. In universe, he also has the most leadership experience and arguably the closest ties to the Emperor, apart from Yulizzia.

3) What’s a reason or two you don’t like about them being Commander. Tyr can seem rather aloof and distant, and isn’t the best with understanding people on an emotional level. He tries, but he isn’t that good at it.

4) Why did this character of all your OCs become Commander? See 2.

5) Who did they side with? Did they stay loyal or go saboteur? Or maybe you headcanon they defect properly? Tyrrnith still remains loyal to the Empire. However, he doesn’t trust the new administration fully. He’s even slightly cautious around Vowrawn and Acina, his friends. However, he is still loyal to his homeland and remains dedicated...for now.

6) Are there any NPC’s from the class stories you’d like to see/HC join the Alliance? Ex: Master Timmns, Ardun Kothe, Watcher One, etc. Wouldn’t mind seeing Lord Rathari, since Tyr did spare him. And he became friends with Timmns.

7) How’s your OC feeling about the current Malgus situation? Tyr is definitely not the biggest fan of Malgus, and wants him to at least be restrained. He might’ve seen eye-to-eye with Malgus during his New Empire Revolt years back, but now, Tyr is convinced that good ol’ Mal is just insane by now.

8) Are any of your other OC’s part of the Alliance? If yes what do they do for the Alliance? Do they get along with your Commander? Let’s say all of them are. Yulizzia (Knight) is the Alliance’s Deputy Commander and  A'vash'l (Agent) works as the Alliance’s Spymaster alongside his husband Theron.  Baduenda (Trooper) and Hadisha (Hunter) act as frontline commanders and/or enforcers, Ascillan (Consular) and Lavissia (Inquisitor) are advisors to the Force Enclave, and Aellisu (Smuggler) works in the underworld with Hylo. Tyr gets along with some better (Yuli, Ael, A’vash’l), but is a tad bit distant with others (Badu, Lavi). 

9) How does your OC feel about Odessen? (Bonus: how do you feel about it) Tyr’s not a real big nature guy, and tends to prefer civilization to wilderness. Despite this, he has grown fond of the planet, even considering it to be a home.

10) How does your Commander feel about being the Commander? He’s had his doubts, absolutely, but for the most part, he’s been able to keep them underneath a confident exterior.

11) Favorite place in the Alliance base? Tyr really likes the cliffs just above the personal starship landing pad (the one connecting to the hangar) as a good meditation spot.

12) Favorite mission in KotFE? Why? The Hunt, because it gets across the tone of the expansion perfectly and acts as a great opening.

13) Favorite mission in KotET? Why? The Dragon’s Maw, mainly due to just how different it is from other missions in the game.

14) Least favorite mission in either? Why? Anarchy in Paradise, because good GOD those fucking Skytroopers and Knights.

15) Is your Commander successful because they’re skilled? Or are they perhaps just really lucky? Definitely because of skill and his ability to inspire people, though I like to imagine Tyr’s been lucky on occasion

16) From our OC’s point of view, SoR -> KotET wasn’t a fun experience, did they develop any fears as a result? Tyr lost his homeworld of Ziost, which killed off a lot of his family, too. One of his biggest concerns is losing anymore members of his family (especially his brother Aellisu), or any world in the Empire suffering the same level of destruction as Ziost.

17) AU time! If your Commander wasn’t Commander, which of your other OCs would have likely taken their place? Quite a few. The best contenders would be Yulizzia, Baduenda, Lavissia, or A’vash’l. Wouldn’t imagine the Alliance lasting long under Lavi’s rule, though.

18) Who’s someone your Commander hopes they never have to deal with again? Valkorion. Hands down. As well as any former member of the Dark Council that’s not Vowrawn or Acina.

19) Does your Commander hold on to/still use any titles they earned before KotET? (Darth Nox/Jedi Battlemaster/Cipher 9/Wrath/etc) Or have they completely replaced them with the Commander title? He still uses his Empire’s Wrath title from time to time.

20) Share something, anything at all, you want about your Commander that you’ve not really gotten the chance to share before but really want to! Tyrrnith doesn’t admit it, but he’s quite fond of animals and caring for them. His Whitefang, Mal, has been one of his most trusted companions, and the Alliance’s official mascot.

Tagging @swtorpadawan​ , @vexa-legacy​ , and @starknstarwars​ if this interests them and they wanna give it a try

[everydaydg]

E.X.Troopers End Of Conversation - Original Soundtrack (CPCA-10395/4, 2015)

Main art

[nebytheneb]

Imagine being Kidnapped along-side Grogu

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader

Summary: You were protecting Grogu when the Dark Troopers came to take him away, and they took you as well.

Author’s note: second time writing for this blog. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Slight angst? Fluff near the end, PERHAPS BAD WRITING WHO KNOWS

Not my gif!

———————————

Din Djarin sat off to the side, fumbling with his thumbs while intensely staring at the floor. A lot ran through his mind at the sudden absence of his foundling and his close friend. He had found you not long after taking back Grogu for the first time; you were on the run and were able to convince the Mandalorian to take you with him and his newfound Foundling, and the rest was history. 

A pat on his shoulder had broken him out of his staring contest with the floor as he looked up to see Cara Dune walk past him and head over to Fennec.

Cara leans against the inner walls of Slave I, “I have never seen him this quiet before.” She says after observing the Mandalorian for a good while.

“Well,” comes the muffled voice of Boba Fett in the cockpit who was overhearing Cara, “he lost his child and her. Anyone as deadly as him would be deathly quiet.” Fennec just nods along, thinking back on when she was being hunted by Din on Tatooine.

“That Moff Gideon is going to get quite the treat with whatever Mando is planning.” Boba added.

“Or whatever I have planned,” Cara just cracks her knuckles, ready to knock out some Imperials.

Din djarin barely hears the others talking about him, too busy thinking to himself again. He couldn’t imagine what was happening to you or Grogu right now. He could almost say he seemed worried or even scared, with the feeling of tightness in his chest and constantly looking back on memories of you and the child smiling while playing together. Oh, how he has missed your smile in the hours you have been gone, you helped him in every way possible, to where you have nursed him, showed him how to take care of little Grogu and helped with fixing the Razor Crest... When it wasn’t destroyed. 

They had just left Mayfeld behind on the planet where they got the coordinates to Moff Gideon’s ship and the Mandalorian had sent that message to him basically telling him he was on his way to which they were.

Boba flicked a few switches upon realising they found the small imperial ship with the scientist that has been working on Grogu. “Found it,” Boba speaks out to the others. 

—————

The surface was icy; the room was dark and hardly lit. You had been awake in the cell for a few hours now. There were no visitors in those hours until now when the door had slid open.

Two stormtroopers entered the room, followed by a man you knew all too well,

“Moff Gideon,” You immediately stand up and try to get at him but a chain connected to the handcuffs stopped you from getting any close, “Where’s Grogu!” You almost yell at him. You could feel the rage bubbling up inside you upon staring at the man, the one man you wish to never see again.

Moff Gideon waves away the two stormtroopers and they leave, before one returns with the child in arms. “Your... Friend has sent a message, and he is coming,” he takes Grogu from the stormtrooper’s arms and a metal mouth-gag. “I suspect that he has a little gang with him,” he continues on as he approaches you while you slowly back up, falling back into a sitting position on the cell bed. “I deduce he will come for this,” he gestures to Grogu, “and you.” He then gestures towards you.

Any other situation. This would make you cheer with joy and laugh in your capturer’s face, but you knew Moff Gideon.

“And what do you plan to do?” You finally reply, confidence lacking in your voice.

“What do I plan to do? I’m going to wait...” He places Grogu down next to you, who was in handcuffs, and you could only imagine they restrict his powers.

After putting the child down. He faces you, holding up the metal mouth-gag and puts it on you. “You’re close to the Mandalorian, but does he know who you are?” You only stare daggers into him.

“I will say that’s a no.”

All you could do now is wait, wait to be rescued by your Mandalorian in shining Beskar armour.

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

Din had just taken out the two stormtroopers outside of the cell using the beskar spear. After doing so, he puts the spear away and takes out his blaster before opening the cell door to see Moff Gideon holding his darksaber up to your neck, close enough for you to feel it but far enough for it not actually touch your skin and seeing this made Din’s blood boil but he had to remain calm if he wanted to get you both out alive.

“Drop the blaster,” Moff was the first to speak, “slowly.” Din complied and reluctantly leaned down to put his blaster onto the floor. “Now kick it over to me” Moff added to which the Mandalorian kicked it towards him. “Very nice,” He nods in approval. 

“Give me them,” he gestures towards you and Grogu. “They’re just fine where they are.” Moff then waves the darksaber closer to your neck, getting dangerously close. “Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” He admires the way the saber glows with the black and white contrasting each other. “Used to belong to Bo-Katan.”

The conversation continues between the two. They could cut the tension in the room with, well, a darksaber. You had Grogu in your lap. While waiting he had made his way into it to which Moff Gideon didn’t care. Your cuffed hands had been patting his head for a while now. Probably the nerves and Grogu was your comfort. 

“I understand the child, but why her? Do you realise who you’re trying to save?” You immediately look up at Moff, with pleading eyes. “She’s a friend.” Din replies, voiced muffled by his helmet. “Did you know she is an Imperial officer? As I’m aware, you have been working with some ex imperials but she, she is different.” You shake your head, not wanting to hear this. 

“This doesn’t matter to me.” Din says, just wanting to get you two out of here. 

“Oh, oh, but it does, because she was the one who help start this project, to get the child and use his blood, to study it.” A faint smile was on Moff’s face. 

Some tears fell down your cheeks, afraid that Din would no longer wish to save you now knowing that this was all your fault. You shook, looking down at Grogu apologetically. You heard nothing else after that, only melting in your own sorrow, until suddenly you saw Moff move away and Din approached you two, you looked up and as you did; the Mandalorian reached his hand out to try wiping the tear.

You saw Moff Gideon behind him, and you try screaming out about him but muffled by the mouth-gag, Din got the message anyway. They both got to battling.

After a while of saber vs beskar, Din reenters the cell with darksaber in hand and he uses it to cut the chain and moved to remove the cuffs and the mouth-gag, also moving Grogu off of you. You desperately wrap your arms around his neck to hug him, tears fall onto his shoulder as you feel relieved when Din wrapped his arms around your waist. 

They break the hug off, “Din, I’m so sorry, I never knew this would happen a-and I should have told you e-everything!” You desperately try getting out an apology. “It’s okay, I don’t blame you, nor do I care.” And all you could do is hug him again. 

“Don’t leave me again.” You mumble to him.

“I’m not leaving you two, ever.”

[captainrexforever]

Trials and Tribulations 1/2

Rating: T

Word Count: ~4k

Summary: The reader discovers that she has formed a force bond with her Mandalorian companion. This has some unforeseen complications during the events at the Imperial refinery on Morak.

Warnings: cannon typical violence, reader is seriously injured, mentions of blood, Dad! Fett, fluff, angst

Notes: I was planning for this to be wayyy more angsty, but I just couldn’t bear to put poor Din through any more hurt. I hope you enjoy! Don’t forget to comment if you have a suggestion or an idea. 

Pt. 2

It seems like only a moment ago Din disappeared down the mountain to assist Fennec. You grab a hold of the child, thanking the stars that he has finally emerged from his trance-like state, and cradle him gently as you check over his vitals to ensure he is not injured. 

Once the sound of blaster fire begins to fade, you prepare to make the trek down the mountainside as well. It looks as if the remaining stormtroopers are in full retreat, their transports blasting off from the surface in a hurry. A final explosion-wait, was that a rocket? did Din have a rocket launcher and not tell you?-wipes the ships out of the sky, and you let out a sigh of relief. Although it would be best to leave the planet as quickly as possible, you can’t resist enjoying the view for a moment. It’s been a long time since you or Mando have been able to take a break. There is always a new danger, a new threat, that compromises the safety of your small group. 

A red laser bolt screams past your ear, slicing through your peripheral vision like an omen of death. You can only stand there, helpless, as you witness the bolt strike the motionless Razor Crest. The ship that has served as your home for months is suddenly reduced to a smoking crater of ash. There is a good chance that you’re in shock, and by the time you notice the dark troopers descending on your position it’s too late. Before you can draw your blaster, a droid sweeps your feet out from beneath you and you fall to the unforgiving ground, cursing as stones pierce into the skin of your back. 

Mando is still running up the mountain side when he notices your body crumple to the ground, and he’s overtaken by blind rage, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he wills himself to move faster. Blaster shots ring out in the silence and his whole body seizes up in pain when he hears your screams. 

You grit your teeth as you fight the pain flooding your body. There’s already blood flowing from the blaster shot in your chest and the one in your left leg, but you refuse to give in to the pain. Your fingers close around the child’s robe, struggling to secure their hold as a droid tears him from your arms. Biting back another cry of pain, you will yourself to stand, only to come face to face with the barrel of a wrist-mounted blaster. 

It would have been your last breath if Mando hadn’t arrived at that exact moment. The droid standing over you wirrs in distress as a searing laser bolt catches it in the throat. With every last ounce of strength you crane your neck towards the direction of the blast, vision swimming as you register the presence of a familiar beskar-clad figure. 

~~

Din curses his poor timing as he rushes towards your prone figure. One finger is already bare, falling to your neck to check for a pulse even as the digits of his other hand connect with his helmet to activate long-range vision. The child is too far gone, he’ll never be able to reach him even if he retrieves his jetpack. His ship is nothing but a pile of ashes, the medical equipment necessary to assist with your condition lost along with the Crest. For just a second Din allows himself to feel despair, loss, anger...love. A tear rolls down his cheek, concealed beneath the beskar that shields the world from his emotions. 

What is a man with nothing left to fight for?

In the next second he is back to his impassive, stoic self. He needs a plan. Fennec, where’s Fennec…

“They’ve got the baby, don’t let them get away.” She’s speaking into her comm.

“Affirmative, I have a lock.” Fett answers.

Din can feel his heart seize, threatening to break through its emotional barriers again. He can’t suffer another loss. “Stop him, I don’t want the child hurt.”

She gives him a terse nod. “Abort pursuit, disengage, do not harm the child.”

“Copy, I’ll do a loose follow, see where they’re headed.” A pause. “They’re back.” Fett’s tone is clouded in disbelief. 

“Who?” Fennec questions, but Din already knows the answer.

“The Empire, they’re back.”

“That can’t be, the outer rim is under the jurisdiction of the New Republic.”

“This isn’t a spice dream. I can see the imperial cruiser with my own eyes. Heading down.”

A ship, Fett has a ship. “Tell him to hurry, my companion might not make it without immediate medical attention.” Din demands, realizing he’s taking liberties, but it’s your life on the line damnit.

“The girl’s been injured, she needs medical attention.” Fennec relays.

“Copy that. I’ll prepare the med bay.” 

Din breathes a sigh of relief, perhaps this man really is a true Mandalorian. He brushes several stray hairs out of your face, grounding himself for a moment before he checks how bad your wounds are. He chokes on a breath when he lifts your duraweave tunic up slightly. There is a fist sized hole in your abdomen, and although he’s treated wounds far worse during his career as a bounty hunter, the sight of the wound of your body has him feeling light headed and nauseous. He’s spitting curses under his breath as he moves to check the wound on your thigh. It’s not much better off. 

Shit.

Fett better have some damn good medical supplies on his ship, because there is no way Din is going to allow you to be patched together with machinery like the ex-mercenary currently standing to his left. 

As gently as he can manage, he slides an arm underneath your torso, desperately trying to ignore the way your blood coats his vambrace and the duraweave cloth beneath it. His other arm slides underneath your legs, settling into the bend between your thigh and calf. As gently as Din can manage, he lifts you from the ground, panicking when your head lolls backwards at an awkward angle. He feels awkward, out of place, and completely unequipped to be handling a situation like this. Fennec must decide to have pity on his poor soul because she steps over to him with a knowing glance. 

“I know you’re a damn good fighter, but I can’t help but notice that you’re not accustomed to holding a woman in your arms.”

It’s true, and he shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but it still makes him flush red underneath the helmet. 

“May I?” She gestures towards your still form.

A possessive growl rises in his throat at the thought of Fennec carrying you instead of him. 

“Relax Mando, I’m just going to adjust her positioning.” 

She’s muttering under her breath, low enough that not even the microphones within his helmet can detect the syllables, but he does catch her mumble ‘what a couple of lovesick fools’. The words have his face erupting into flames once again. 

Din stills pins her with a glare as she reaches for your head, tilting it up so that you can rest your cheek against his arm, right below his left pauldron. Then she takes a hold of your left arm, which currently hovers in the air, and sets it on your abdomen.

“There, I’m sure she is much more comfortable now.” Fennec finishes. 

Din just nods, still half-heartedly glaring at her from beneath the helmet. 

“Let’s go, I’m sure Fett has landed already.”

He nods again, gesturing for her to lead the way. His gaze falls to you and he can’t help but notice that your face is twisted in discomfort. That’s the last thing he wants right now.

“Are you certain she is comfortable?”

“Mando, stop fussing, women love to be held. It’s probably your stiff posture that’s making her uncomfortable.”

He feels like growling at her retreating figure, but resists the temptation. Instead, he drops his visor back towards your face, scrabbling for something-anything-that will help you feel more comfortable. 

“It’s alright, I’m here ner verd’ika. (My little warrior) You can rest, I’ve got you. Don’t worry about the kid, we’ll get him back, I promise.”

Maybe it’s coincidence, but the moment he finishes speaking you let out a breathy sigh, the frown on your face relaxing into a neutral expression as you nuzzle further into his shoulder. 

~~

You wake up later in an unfamiliar location, startling yourself into full consciousness as you try to take in the surroundings. Tears sting at your eyes and you bite back a sob. The Crest, your home, it’s gone. 

“I heard you had a rough day.”

Your gaze snaps forward towards the doorway, and you feel like crying all over again. Cara, your lifelong friend, is propped up against the doorframe. You’re not usually one for sentiment, but you open your arms as wide as you can manage, meeting her eyes as you plead for a hug. She rushes towards you, wrapping you up in an embrace so tight that you think she might crack a rib. 

“You had us worried for a while. It’s been a few days.”

A few...A few days. A choked out ‘huh?’ is the only response you can manage with her arms crushing your frame. 

“Sorry.” She pulls back, releasing you from her grasp. What the kriff, is she wiping a tear from her eye? “You had us worried. Your condition was so poor that you needed a blood transfusion.”

“What? That’s impossible. The chances of finding someone with my blood type within 100 parsecs are slim to none.” 

“Well…” 

Why is she hesitating? 

“Turns out you and I have the same blood type.” 

Kriffing hell! Your heart jumps into your throat. There have only been a handful of times where Din has made a dramatic entrance without practically frightening you into cardiac arrest. This is not one of them. A quick glance around the remainder of the room reveals the Mandalorian seated in a booth in the far corner. 

“You frightened me half to death Mando!” There’s a spike of surprise-not your own-that tickles at the back of your brain, and the feeling leaves you a little tense. 

“Well that’s not a very nice way to greet your saviour.”

“What?” You inquire. 

Mando grunts at you, impassive as always. The visor of his helmet betrays none of his feelings. “I said, you and I have the same blood type.”

Beneath the helmet he’s a little worried, you’ve never asked him to repeat himself. Don’t panic, he instructs himself. It’s probably just because you’re still a little out of it after the anti-pain stim you received. That’s all. He decides to jump straight into business before his worries get too far out of hand. 

“We’re going after the kid.”

You nod in response, you figured as much. A fuzzy memory plays out in the back of your mind like a worn out holotape, ‘don’t worry...we’ll get him back...promise.’

“What’s the plan?” You ask, looking to Cara. 

“The kid is on Moff Gideon’s cruiser. We need to acquire the coordinates for his position.”

“Ok, whatever you need, I can do it.”

“I know,” she shoots you a grateful glance, “but we are going to need imperial help, ex-imperial help, to be specific. We’re on our way to pick up a New Republic prisoner who is serving a sentence in the Karthon Chop Fields. You might remember him, Migs Mayfeld.”

“Oh, I remember him.” Specifically, you remember wanting to dropkick him into the nearest star system for being such an arrogant bastard. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as you get your ass out of bed and get dressed.” 

You sputter indignantly, hurtling the nearest object in sight-which happens to be a roll of bandages-at her head. She just laughs at you as she sidesteps the projectile and darts out of the room. 

Huh, there’s that tickle in the back of your brain again. Annoyed, you scratch at your head for a second, puzzled when the sensation doesn’t go away. You decide to opt for a different tactic, concentrating on the feeling until it becomes a little clearer. It’s a sound you realize, the sound of...laughter? 

Wait just a minute. Why that no good, beskar wearing nerf herder! You swing your head around, so quickly that you can hear the bones of your spine crackle in protest, and pin him with a deadly glare. Only to realize he’s not even looking at you. In fact, he’s in the process of polishing his blaster. 

You shake your head, baffled. You must be imagining things. A moment later Mando re-assembles his blaster with a practiced ease, twirls it lightly in his hand, and then holsters it as he stands. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” 

Then he too is stepping out the door with a swish of his cape. 

“Oh, and I think you’re gonna like Fett’s ship.” 

By the time you open your mouth to respond he’s already gone. 

~~

“So what’s your story? How’d you and the big guy meet?” 

You glance up, hoping to catch Cara’s gaze, an unspoken question radiating across your face. She nods her head subtly in silent confirmation. 

“Cara and I were both New Republic shocktroopers. We grew up together, enlisted together, fought together, eventually went into early retirement together. (The last part was only mostly true, but Fennec didn’t need to know that). That’s how we ended up on Sorgan, where we met the Mandalorian. He enlisted our help in mopping up a group of raiders for a job he’d taken on. After our payment we were planning to go our separate ways, but the kid formed quite an attachment to me, so I decided to tag along with him and Mando for a bit. At the time, neither of us understood why the kid was so attached. I’m not very good with children anyways.”

Fennec nods her head as you continue.

“Well apparently, according to this Jedi that we came across a couple weeks ago, I have a connection to some magical force, similar to the child. That’s what drew him to me."

“Huh, interesting.” 

“I know, right.” 

Here’s the thing though. What you hesitate to tell Fennec is that Ahsoka also informed you that you possessed a special gift as a result of your connection to the Force. Although your gift had not yet presented itself, she was certain that it would become apparent in your near future.

Sure enough, after the struggle on Tython and the resulting blood transfusion, you have started to hear voices in your head. You are sure that they are thoughts, since they are often disjointed and oddly phrased. And, maybe you’re crazy, but the voices sound oddly similar to the modulated voice of your beskar-clad companion.

For example, if you concentrate really hard right now you can hear noise, not like that of an engine (because you’re on a ship), but that of a conversation. Right now the voices are chattering about...ammunition charges? You snort in amusement. That sounds like something Din would be thinking about. Fennec gives you a funny look, but you just play it off, saying that the filtered air in the ship was irritating your airway. 

It makes you curious though, is it possible that he may be able to sense your thoughts as well? If you concentrate really hard on one single idea, will he notice? It’s definitely worth a try, and you’re really bored right now. Hmmm, what about a...jetpack. Ok, no response from Din. What about...beskar. Oh, that’s a good idea! After five whole minutes of thinking solely about the metal there is still no response from Din. Ugh, fine. Your obviously imagining things. Typical. 

“What are you doing?” A voice echoes.

You let out a squeak, quickly cover it up as a cough, and then glare at the Mandalorian seated across from you. This time he’s looking right at you. 

Fine, two can play at this game. You keep a straight face and then will your voice to travel across the space between you and into his mind. “What are you doing?”

He just stares at you and you think maybe you are still imagining things. 

“Sigh.”

Oh no he did not. He did not just...just sigh at you through his mind! Why that little…

“Relax, you’re jumpy. And bored.” 

If looks could kill, he would be a pile of sizzling beskar right now. “It’s not my fault you’re boring.” You huff back. And without warning he’s laughing at you through the bond. Full-hearted, chest-rattling laughter, but without the ‘chest rattling’ you note dryly, as you glare even harder. 

“So that was you laughing at me earlier today! You are in so much trouble Din. Just wait until we land, we’re gonna fight this out like warriors and I’m gonna kick your ass.” That shuts him up and you are feeling quite smug about your comeback, basking in your victory for the space of a few seconds until something else starts tickling at your brain. 

It’s another voice, one that is slowly growing louder, but it seems...guarded. You nudge harder, eager to solve the mystery, and the answer becomes a little clearer. It’s a feeling, you realize, a powerful feeling. As you weave closer and closer, Din’s other thoughts attempt to sidetrack you, to distract you from your self-proclaimed mission. Just a little closer...

You don’t even notice that Din’s physical body has tensed up, his hands balling into fists, telltale signs of his nerves. More thoughts whiz by you, trying to knock you off your narrow path, but you’re persistent as you trudge forward. The feeling abruptly smacks into you like the rays of a thousand suns, blinding you, and you’re gasping, suddenly ashamed of your curiosity. 

“We’re here.” Fett’s voice rings through the hull, breaking your concentration for only a second, and you feel Din forcefully throw you out of his mind. He’s out of his seat in a second, making a beeline for the cockpit without throwing so much as a glance your way. You’re left to wallow in your seat as Cara and Fennec shoot you questioning glances, but you just shrug.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” You offer, choosing not to elaborate on what just took place. But your blood boils. You know exactly what happened. You just ripped away the most important barrier Mando possessed. The one that guarded his heart. 

The feeling you laid bare? 

Affection. 

You don’t even leave your seat as the others step outside to recruit Mayfeld. “Just wait until we land, we’re gonna fight this out like warriors and I’m gonna kick your ass.” You spoke those words to Din only moments ago. Now, after what you’ve done, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to look him in the face again, much less challenge him to a sparring match. 

It’s not until everyone but Din and Mayfeld re-enter the hull that you realize there are only four seats in the hold. You curse your bad luck, there’s no way you are gonna share a seat with any one of these clowns. Oh sweet springs of Tabet, if you remember correctly there’s an extra seat in the cockpit. Before anyone can question your behavior, you’re rushing towards the ladder that Fett is still scaling. With a little luck, he won’t question your presence, and you might even be able to learn a few maneuvers. 

~~

Din sucks in a breath as he enters the hold once again, just in time to catch a glimpse of your back as you disappear into the cockpit along with Fett. He scowls, if Fett wasn’t such a good man, Din would probably be jealous. He takes his seat once again, except this time instead of looking up and being rewarded with your face, he’s greeted with Mayfeld’s ugly mug. There’s no way this day could get any worse. 

It is only after everyone takes a seat that he remembers there are only four chairs in the hold. He curses himself over and over. He had already factored that into his original plan. The original idea was to invite you to share his seat with him after Mayfeld joined the crew. Then he would be able to bask in your closeness, your liveliness, for just a short time before his mind began to dissect the details of the mission.

He knows he hurt you earlier, unintentional as it may have been. He hadn’t meant to throw you out of his thoughts so quickly, but you scared him. If you had been allowed to peer into his emotions for just one more millisecond you might have seen his most closely guarded thoughts, the ones that keep him lying awake at night. 

Within the confines of his mind he often pictures you and him, the kid, and sometimes children of your own. In those fantasies he doesn’t hunt anymore, learns instead how to be a father and a husband, a family man. The intensity of his feelings frustrate him, and rightfully so. As a hunter and a Mandalorian, any emotion he feels can easily be turned into a deadly weapon. This situation involving the kid is a perfect example of how quickly his affection can twist into desperation.

~~

“I’ll go.” 

Those two words are all it takes for you to know that Din is absolutely desperate. Mayfeld blathers on, ridiculing Mando again, so you just shut his voice out. 

“Mando, I can go.” You speak up, fuming a little at the thought that he hasn’t yet offered you the mission. 

“No, it’s too dangerous for you.” He doesn’t even look at you properly, gazing instead towards the juggernaut that passes.

You pin the side of his helmet with a glare. Not wanting to start a scene in front of the others, you dare to brush delicately against his thoughts, and you want to cry in relief when he immediately let’s you in. 

“Din, I can go. Let me have this mission.”

“No, you barely made it out alive last time. Besides, the New Republic will recognize you.”

“I don’t care about the New Republic, it’s not like I currently hold a position of importance like Cara. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you’re not going. You haven’t even fully recovered, and there is no way you’re going if you’re not 100% combat ready.”

“You of all people should know better than to tell me what I can and cannot do. I will not, I repeat, I will not let you go in there and risk your Creed when I am perfectly capable of taking this mission!”

“My decision is final.” 

Then for the second time that day, he shuts you out. 

“You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you, but I won’t be showing my face.” Din announces aloud to the rest of your crewmates. 

You growl under your breath, furious with his decision. You want to scream at him, ask him what exactly he is thinking, but you know you can’t. You have never been able to change his mind. Instead, you resign yourself to your allotted role, begging the stars that nothing goes wrong even though you know that is a fool's hope. 

Once Mayfeld and Din are seated within the juggernaut, you and Boba prepare to split off from Fennec and Cara.

“We’ll head back to the ship while you two make your way to the ridge.” Boba Fett speaks up as he shoulders the canvas bag holding Din’s armor.

“Alright. I’ll inform you on when to begin your run.” Fennec responds. 

You exchange a glance with Cara, then move to follow Fett through the forest.  As you trudge back to the ship alongside Boba, numerous questions spring to mind. 

“Fett, you are a Mandalorian right?”

“You could say that.”

“Why is it that you can remove your helmet and go by your real name, but Mando can’t?”

“How do you know that Boba Fett is my real name?” He questions.

Well that shuts you up.

He continues on as if expecting that response. “Mandalore has a complicated history. Often the very people who call themselves Mandalorian are not even born on the planet itself. My ancestors believed that any man, woman, boy, or girl could imbue the spirit of a Mandalorian warrior, it didn’t matter who they were or where they were born. From what I can gather, your friend was not born on Mandalore either.”

“Well, I wouldn’t really call him a friend, but yes that’s true, he mentioned it once. That still doesn’t explain the helmet thing though.” You gesture to your face as you finish your sentence.

He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he’s dealing with an overly inquisitive toddler. “The helmet thing is harder to explain.” A beat of silence passes. “Mandalorians live in clans, as groups of warriors that are bound together by a common name and a central ruler. The clans all support different beliefs, or Creeds, as they call them. The beliefs of one clan may be wildly different from that of another clan.”

That makes sense. There is a long tick of silence, and you’re certain he is finished so you ask the one remaining question that sits at the tip of your tongue. 

“What clan do you belong to?”

He obviously doesn’t expect that question. Surprise envelops his features, then it morphs into fondness. “I belong to Clan Fett.” Another pause. “Why, would you like to join?” It’s accompanied with a head tilt and a humorous tone. 

You just laugh. “I don’t know if I will qualify.” It’s freeing to let some humour slip into your tone after your recent argument with Din.

“Well, it seems like you already forgot the history lesson.” He chastises you, but he’s still smiling. “Now, let’s prepare to pick up these friends of yours.” He adds, as the ship becomes visible in the distance.

~~

Ending Notes: Originally this part was going to be much longer, but I made some changes to my original plot. I had also planned to end it on a more angsty note, but let’s be real, we want to avoid angst as much as possible. Part 2 is already written and will be coming soon, give me a follow if you don’t want to miss it!

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Star-Crossed: Bound by Blood

Chapter Five

Master List / Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Warnings: Canon divergent during Chapter 13 of The Mandalorian, serious pining, much angst, violence

A/N: I make this stuff up as I go along, if I screw something Star Wars-y up, apologies in advance, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m new to this Fandom. I will be cross posting this story between AO3 and Tumblr except the smutty bits. Those chapters will only be available to registered users on AO3. (I’m trying something new for people who want to read here on Tumblr, but to also avoid the smut for minors controversy. We’ll see how it goes.)

*I do not have a tag list* Please follow the story on AO3 if you want email updates, or follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library where I post the new/latest chapters of all my stories.

Din watched Baast with growing concern. She'd withdrawn after Nevarro, spending the majority of her time with Grogu or in the sleeping hammock she'd strung between the walls of the Razor Crest. She refused to take his bunk, wouldn't even hear of it. When she slept - which he knew wasn't often as he could hear her prowling quietly around his ship - she did so in fits and starts and bad dreams. 

By the time they arrived at the Tribe's new home, he was genuinely worried. He didn't know enough about Zentari biology to be able to say if this was normal or not, but with how worried Grogu seemed, he was going to go with not. 

But Din couldn't focus on Baast as he navigated the high winds and icy blizzard of the Tribe's new home. The planet was damn near inhospitable, but that was why they liked it. 

This was his first visit since the massacre on Nevarro, and he was both excited to see who remained and dreading it. There had been far too many Foundling helmets in the Armourer's pile. An old outpost carved into the rock served as a place to land ships and keep them from being snowed in. Blast doors slid open, appearing to welcome him home. Mandalorians waved him forward, and he recognized the armour of Paz Vizsla.

"That kriffing bastard would live," he muttered as he maneuvered the Razor Crest around and set it down. The blast doors were already closing, not that those who worked on their ships appeared to care either way. 

Descending into the belly of his ship, he found Baast growling at her hair and tsked when he snaked the comb from her fingers. "You're making matters worse," he huffed, quickly separating the tangle. He twisted the mass into a long tail, then wrapped it into a knot at the base of her skull, where he tucked two long sticks he'd picked up in the market on Nevarro. They were made of hardened steel, sharpened to a deadly point, and would make a handy weapon if she ever needed one. She kept her eyes down and didn't look at him when he helped her into her cloak. 

While they'd been on Nevarro, he'd been careful to pick out clothing she could layer for cold weather rather than buying winter gear. He had no desire to lead the Tribe's enemies to them again and made damn sure they weren't followed. The one thing he couldn't avoid buying were boots, but Dune came through on that one. 

After Baast damn near killed her, they spent a mostly pleasant few hours with Dune while she'd cooed over Grogu and listened intently as Din told of his run-in with the Jedi. They said nothing of Baast's origins and wouldn't. What Cara didn't know couldn't get her killed. Of course, the ex-shock trooper would attempt to kick his ass if he said that out loud, so Din hadn't, remaining silent as Dune fumed for being "out of the loop."

Before he drew up Baast's hood, he lifted her chin with gloved fingers. "Baast, everything will be alright."

She gave him a wane smile, her vibrant eyes too dull for his liking. "As you say, Mando."

He gritted his teeth. That, too, had changed. She no longer called him by his name when they were alone. He was back to Mando. It was the first time in his life that he hated hearing anyone utter that word. 

"Baast, we need to talk-" He cut himself off when loud pounding came at the ramp and flipped her hood over her head. "We're not finished," he warned, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with her. 

She picked Grogu up but said nothing. There was no defiance, no strength, no beskar spine left to her. 

He clenched his fists and headed for the ramp, where he punched the release with more exuberance than was needed. It lowered to reveal Paz and another, weapons trained on the doorway. 

"Nice greeting," Din grumbled.

"You've too many bodies on your ship."

He held out his hand, and Baast joined him, her hand sliding up his arm to his elbow. "We seek the Alor."

Weapons slowly lowered, but he could tell they remained suspicious.

"This way." Paz turned and headed across the hanger. 

Din didn't bother to hurry. Paz would wait because they'd piqued his curiosity. He would remain once they reached the Alor to see just what Din was up to. Suspicion followed them like a red wave as they made their way through the rock corridors. The deeper they went, the warmer the air grew, indicating the Tribe had found lava flow or hot springs heated the base.

It was good, secure. Hopefully, they could remain here for some time.

Paz stopped at an open doorway and indicated inside. "Leave the child with the other Foundlings."

"Nu draar," Baast growled, her stance defensive as she rolled onto the balls of her feet. 

"He will be safe and happy with the others," Din encouraged. Looking inside, his heart plummeted. Where once there were thirty or more Foundlings, now fewer than fifteen remained. "Is this all?"

"Sabine has the older ones. They train." 

"This is The Way," Din murmured. 

"This is The Way," Paz agreed. "Leave the child."

Baast hissed at him, and Din stepped between them before things escalated. Already he could tell Paz wasn't impressed.

"Baast, udesii," he murmured, laying his hands over hers on Grogu. "He will be safe and far happier with the Foundlings. No one will touch him, I swear it."

She held onto him as if her very life resided in the little green menace, and leaving him behind was allowing a part of herself to be torn apart, but with gentle coaxing, he managed to remove Grogu from her hands and set him down to join the others children. Grogu cooed happily and toddled off to play while Din urged Baast onward after Paz. 

The giant warrior peered at Baast for a long moment before continuing away from the Foundling Nursery. 

Finally, after more twists and turns and stares from other Mandalorians, they arrived at the Foundry where the Alor waited in her golden helmet. She didn't bother to look up as she worked on polishing a pauldron. 

"You dare to bring an aruetyc here?"

At any other time, he might have flinched at such a reprimand coming from her, but not this time. "She is not an outsider. She is Baast'mal, last of the Zentari."

The pauldron slipped and clanged against the forge before she caught it and set it carefully aside. "The Zentari are no more."

"She knows The Way," Din insisted. "We completed the greeting."

The Alor turned then to face them as Baast pushed back her hood. The sharp intake of breath Paz took did not escape him. 

"I am Baast'mal, daughter of Sengor'du and Lin'talia of Zentarus." She tilted her head. "Great Alor, I greet thee. Holder of the Creed, blessed of the constellations. May you raise warriors strong in the Way and find your riduur. Your cyar'ika. Your ka'rta." 

Din had never seen the Armourer show surprise in her body language before. "I greet thee, Zentari of the Bright Star, though it saddens me to learn you are the last. Can you be certain of this?"

"I felt the only other of my kind die three years past," Baast murmured. 

The Alor bowed her head. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.” 

Din knew how she felt. It was like a gut punch without warning to know they'd lost something so damn special. 

"Be welcome, Baast'mal. Perhaps among our Tribe, you will find the one you seek." 

Baast said nothing, looking away as if in shame, and Din reached for her elbow before remembering they were no longer alone on his ship where he could take such liberties. Now, she would be courted by every able-bodied male of the Tribe to see if they proved worthy to be her riduur.

"Leave us," the Alor commanded. 

Din hesitated, but when Baast didn't look at him, he stepped back and walked away.

***

"Shut the door, Vizsla," she commanded as the big one followed Din out.

Used to Din's t-shaped visor, the Alor's eye slits were almost disconcerting, but Baast didn't allow it to show.

"You are of a great lineage, Baast'mal, daughter of Sengor'du. The Tribe will see this as a great omen, a reason to rejoice when we have so little."

"Not so great," Baast sighed. "I cannot be what I was born to be. I am no riduur. My fated mate will never complete the bond."

She tilted her head. "Oh?" Then motioned toward a table next to the forge. "Sit. Tell me your story, Baast'mal."

Baast, knowing her future depended on her honesty, spoke the truth. She told the Alor of her kidnapping as a child, her brutal years as an experiment, and the wretched way the Empire forced bonds with the Sand Cat and Manka. She showed off her Snake Tooth and admitted how broken she felt knowing she would never have the one thing she yearned for. 

"I was bred to grow warriors, but I will remain barren," she whispered, unashamed of the tears streaming down her cheeks.

The woman across from her tilted her head, having remained silent through her entire recitation. "They took you from Zentarus too young. There are… things missing from your education, knowledge you have yet to acquire."

"There is?" Baast was surprised and yet not completely. She had been very young when they ripped her from her family.

"There is. I can teach you, but it will take time."

"I am not sure Di- Mando will be alright with a delay. I promised I would help him find a Jedi for Grogu."

If she was surprised Baast knew Din's name, she didn't show it. "Hm, for the child you took as your own. You will find parting with him to be like death. I do not envy you the position you have placed yourself in."

"I know," Baast whispered. "But he may be my only chance at a child."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." She stood and motioned for Baast to follow her to the forge. "For now, you will sleep. Rest, Baast'mal. You are safe here, and I can see you have not been sleeping."

"Not because I felt unsafe," she snapped. "Mando is not to blame."

"Isn't he?" 

She stared, but Baast refused to look away. She would give the Alor no reason to doubt Din. 

She chuckled and turned to the forge, her hands busy out of Baast's view. "I have long considered Djarin one of our finest warriors. I am pleased to see him living up to his potential."

When she turned back, the mark of the mudhorn was in her hand, dangling from a leather thong. The Alor stepped forward and tied the cord around Baast's neck, settling the shiny bit of beskar against Baast's chest.

"There. Now, none who see you will challenge that you belong. I will have one of the others deposit you in a family suite so you may remain close to your Mandalorian with your child."

"He is not my Mandalorian."

She looked at Baast, and Baast swore she could feel the amusement rolling off the woman. "Isn't he?" she asked before going and opening the door. "Vizsla. Retrieve the child and take her to the home set aside for Djarin."

"Respectfully, no." The one called Paz crossed his arms, radiating defiance. "If she is Zentari, she should not be living with him. She should be available to all to choose."

Baast was too tired and too stressed to deal with his macho bullshit any longer and walked into the corridor with long smooth strides. She let her cloak fall behind her as she stalked the male keeping her from her child. 

"And do you think you are worthy?" she asked, soft, cold, and deadly.

"Baast," Din warned.

She could feel him now, more and more; even with the beskar, his emotions were starting to bleed through. Being with him was agony; her soul cried out for his, but being apart would likely be even worse.  

"I could be," Vizsla snickered.

Baast smiled to show off her fangs, then kicked him down the corridor. "You do not choose!" she roared. "I choose!"

When she made to stalk after him to teach the too proud Mandalorian a lesson he would not soon forget, she found herself captured against Din. 

"He means no disrespect, but he is right. You... you must find your fated mate." The words sounded like they pained him. "You can't stay with me and do that."

Baast felt herself crumble and swayed into him, distraught at causing him such grief. 

"She is clan of your clan as the child is the child of her heart. Baast'mal wears your sigil. Until she says otherwise, she will remain Clan Mudhorn. Collect the child, take her to your home, and return to me, Djarin."

The Alor's command was not one they could ignore. Din bowed his head and pulled Baast away, past Paz, who radiated wary respect. 

The traversed corridors in reverse until they came to one deserted of others, and Din spun her into the wall. "Are you alright?"

She clung to him, clung and shook as every cell and fibre and atom of her body begged for his until she could hardly bear it. "Your Alor has information for me. My knowledge is incomplete. I must stay until it is no longer this way."

"Then we stay."

The easy acceptance shocked her into searching the t-visor for his unseen eyes. "But, Grogu. The Jedi."

"It can wait."

"Mando," she sighed.

"Din," he growled low, pressing his body closer. "You will use my name with the Tribe and in private, Baast."

She closed her eyes, the pain growing. 

"Are you sick? Do you need a healer?"

His concern broke her a little more. "No. I am fine."

"You're not fine!" he snapped. "You're fading! I can see how much something is hurting you, Baast. What is going on?"

She dredged up every ounce of self-preservation she had left to stare him cooly in the visor. "That is not your concern."

He stepped away as if she'd hit him. "Fine. Use my home. I will find somewhere else to sleep."

She watched him walk away, her heart cracking with each step until he turned the corner, and it shattered. 

Baast landed hard on her knees, unable to catch her breath, gasping and dry heaving, tears spilling freely down her face. When the hands came, they were gentle, but she would not have cared if they brought pain. Nothing hurt as much as Din walking away. 

"I'm Sabine. Allow me to offer aid, Zentari."

Baast could only nod as she allowed the female to help her up and lead her away.

***

He stalked back to the forge with angry strides but a heavy heart. Baast was breaking down, and her continued refusal to let him help would drive him insane.

Paz nodded as he went by and shut the door to the forge as he left.

"So, you have brought us a Zentari. This is well done of you."

He said nothing, knowing she needed no response.

The Armourer held up the pauldron of earlier and discarded it. "But she is soul-sick."

"Soul-sick?" He'd never heard of it before.

"She believes she is damaged. Too long was she with the Empire. Too long has she battled the mind games of the demagolka. They could not break her spirit, so they poisoned her mind. This poison sickens her soul. She needs mirjahaal."

"Demagolka…" Din whispered, horror filling him. The Demagol was the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, a real-life monster and war criminal. He was known for his experiments on children and was hated by all Mandalorians for his perversions. Children were to be cherished, never tortured. "Are you sure?"

She looked at him. "What else would you call one who experiments on children?"

He felt foolish for not seeing it himself and tilted his head in apology.

She hummed and returned to the forge. "You will help her find mirjahaal."

"She doesn't want my help."

"But she needs it. You will do this. I have spoken."

He sighed but made sure the sound didn't leave his helmet and drew the ingot of beskar from his pocket. "For the Foundlings."

The Alor hummed. "This is The Way."

"This is The Way." Din turned and left, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. 

He stormed out but only made it as far as the turn to the first hall, where he stopped to sigh and closed his eyes. How could he help Baast find mirjahaal when she didn't want anything to do with him anymore?  

How could he help her find healing and peace of mind when he no longer felt it himself?

***

Nu draar - no way/ not on your life

Udesii - calm

Aruetyc - traitor/outsider

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la - not gone, merely marching far away.

Mirjahaal - peace of mind, *healing*, general term for emotional well-being especially after trauma or bereavement. 

***

Next Chapter coming soon

[miceenscene]

Star-Crossed

din djarin/female oc | soulmate AU | pre-canon

wc: 2.2k / 4.9k (so far)

summary: The Way was not supposed to be a solitary one. People, house, clan. And when all else failed, your Match. “Fits like a Mandalorian Match” was the old saying. Though it wasn’t so long ago that it stopped making sense. But what's a lost Match to a man like Din Djarin?

warnings: canon-typical violence

Previous Chapter | Masterpost | ao3

Chapter Two: The Question

Din Djarin did not have a Match.

Din Djarin did not have a Match.

He couldn’t.

How, why didn’t matter…

He just couldn’t.

Right?

This Woman with a small dark spot high on her cheekbone and finely calloused hands and wearing his shirt couldn’t be his Match.

She just… couldn’t.

It was just coincidence that he was pulled into her orbit, like a comet desperately seeking gravitational equilibrium.

And it was coincidence that she apparently felt the same. Even foggy as she was.

She still had not said a word, did not reply or even react when addressed, but she always floated in Din’s direction when he stepped away.

Which wasn’t very often.

The urge, or ‘bond’ as the Armorer called it, was only satisfied if she was near.

The pair of them were something of a side-show in the covert for the evening.

Even through beskar and dark visors, gazes felt heavy on Din’s shoulders.

Outside the covert, curiosity – whether hostile or benign – was expected.

But here? Never before.

He thought about leaving. But as confused as she was, dragging her, barefoot, back through the streets of Nevarro, even just to the ship seemed unwise.

So Din found a spare room in the covert–The Woman following in his wake, fingers still threaded with his.

It was barely more than a door and two stone benches that could pass for beds if needed. But solitude was necessary for his kind.

He found himself hoping she’d speak once they were alone.

She didn’t.

But she did grow tired before too long. Not surprising given her recent clinic visit.

“You can sleep here,” he said, gesturing to one of the benches embedded in the wall.

She did not reply. Or move.

He was not used to being the verbose one.

“Here.” He offered her his cape, threadbare at the bottom but warm enough. She took it, thumbs brushing across the fabric.

Nodding once, he moved for the door.

She followed.

“You need to sleep. I’ll be outside.”

He stepped back and she stepped forward.

“No–” he huffed in minor annoyance. Turning her around by the shoulders, he guided her to one of the benches and sat her down. Gently by firmly. “Sleep. ...Please.”

He stepped back once. Twice. She didn’t move.

On the third step, she made to rise, but his hand outstretched stopped her.

He at least made it to the door before she stood back up.

He surrendered with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay here.” Sitting down on the opposite bench from her. “Satisfied?”

She apparently wasn’t as she drifted to sit on the bench, hand fitting into his as she curled up next to him.

A beskar pauldron couldn’t have been a comfortable pillow, but it might as well have been down-filled silk for as quickly as she dropped off.

He waited an hour, then two, just to be absolutely certain she was completely asleep, listening to her gentle breathing turn deeper and slower. Then he eased her off his shoulder to lie down, leaving his cape for her blanket.

She didn’t stir as he headed to leave the room, the door hissing open in front of him.

Stay.

A fist pressed to the front of his helmet for a minute in frustration.

Stay.

There’d be no peace if he resisted.

So he sat down in the furthest corner of the room from her, tipping his helmet back to rest in the crook of the walls.

Her sleeping form was the last thing he saw as his eyes drifted shut.

But when they opened a few hours later, the bench was empty.

His head jerked up only to realize that The Woman had simply moved.

Her head now rested on his collarbone, his arm wrapped around her, her hand clasped in his, pressed tight to his cuirass.

Something high in his chest cracked, fissures reaching magma flow far below, and his next breath quaked.

Beskar cautiously pressed to the top of her hair was not perfect, not even ideal.

But the alternative was terrifying.

The next morning dawned and The Woman still had not spoken, still drifted in a haze where Din was her only heading.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” he said, in the early afternoon, back in the Armorer’s forge.

This time with The Woman at his side, hand in his as always.

“I have work to do.”

“Take her with you,” the Armorer replied.

“I can’t do that.” His work was dangerous enough without spacey tag-alongs who did not listen to reason.

“She won’t be happy to stay here. And neither will you.”

Silence seemed the better reply than admitting how correct she was.

“Can you keep her here while I get supplies?”

“Yes.”

Din was never a meandering purchaser, but it was perhaps the shortest supply run he’d ever made. And that was with the addition of finding clothes and shoes he hoped would fit her.

Karga even made mention that he ‘seemed awfully anxious to get going’. But he coughed up four new pucks after a solid minute of silence.

The Woman was waiting at the western entrance of the covert when he returned and followed along happily back to The Razor Crest, now dressed in nondescript pants and tunic that suited the weather.

He set her down in the co-pilot’s seat and started the engines. Cleared for take off. Coordinates plotted. But first––

Turning back to face her, she looked his way, eyes still distant. “If you want to be taken somewhere, just tell me.”

As if that diffused the uneasy energy of leaving a planet with her.

Again.

She seemed entranced by the pulsing blur of hyperspace, eyes wide and unmoving from the windows.

Seeing as there was just one bed aboard, it made sense to sleep in shifts.

Though every time, he woke to her sitting at the cabinet opening, holding his hand.

He really couldn’t bring himself to mind.

He’d never had many passengers aboard his ship before, at least ones not stored in carbonite. But when he had, they felt like an intrusion. Something to be stepped around and removed at the soonest possibility.

It made very little sense why The Woman didn’t fall into the same category.

The first quarry was on Felucia. Seemed a group of bandits had been making life difficult for the local villages, difficult enough to pay Guild rates to have the base cleared out and the leader brought back in carbonite, ideally to be left in there.

The Woman was sleeping when they arrived. He hoped she’d remain that way in the time it took him to finish the job, which he didn’t think would be long. There were two dozen bandits at most, ill equipped and even less trained.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and paused to rest a hand on her shoulder.

Stay.

“I’ll be back,” he said in a low tone, before forcibly ignoring the bond and heading out.

Return.

Unfortunately, in his admittedly distracted scouting of the base, he missed the patrols they were doing of the surrounding forest.

Which is how his nest was stumbled on by some truly lucky trandoshans, who just happened to have back up already on the way, and Din was disarmed, cuffed, and taken into the yard behind the walls of the base.

Not ideal, but he’d been in worse setups.

Though the odds tilted out of his favor when the head of this bandit ring was revealed to be an ex-storm trooper sergeant. That had not been in the briefing.

No wonder there were forest patrols… and imperial grade handcuffs.

At least they let him keep his helmet for the time being.

However, they were unfortunately interested in how he’d gotten to them. A search party was immediately dispatched to find his ship.

They hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when suddenly,

Danger.

Oh no.

The Sergeant’s comm link activated. “Ship not yet located, but we did find something else, boss.”

“What?”

“Kursan is bringing her to the base.”

No. No. No.

“Well, well, well. This yours, Mando?” the Sergeant laughed as The Woman was brought into the yard at blaster point. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The Woman did not answer. She tried to step away from Kursan, but his grip on her arm stopped her, blaster pressing to her back.

“Let her go,” Din said. “She’s not part of this.”

“Oh, so, she’s up for grabs then?”

The Sergeant chuckled when Din did not reply. “‘Cause, ah… I know she’s not a local. And it’s not everyday beautiful women come wandering through the forests of Felucia.”

Danger!

He grinned. “This just got interesting. I know you Mandalorian types. Torture doesn’t bother you. Rip your lungs out and you still wouldn’t talk.” The Sergeant swaggered over to one of the weapons racks, picking up a bo staff. “You’re big on honor, loyalty. But more importantly, Protection.”

The Sergeant turned back to face The Woman, regarding her closely. “I wonder how pretty her face will be after I’m through,” he said quietly, steadily.

Rage breaking through control, Din pulled at his cuffs but they held strong.

“Leave her alone!” Din snapped.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

“Tell me where your ship is.”

Din gaze swept through the area, hopping from his restraints to his captors, seeking alternate routes. Desperate ploys. Anything.

The Sergeant did not wait, bo staff meeting The Woman’s ribs with a crack. She cried out and dropped to her knees, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Tell me where the ship is.”

With a swift inhale, the Sergeant lifted the bo staff for another swing–

“It’s on the ridge. A klick and a half due south.”

The Sergeant grinned again. “There. Now was that so difficult?”

He swung the bo staff down towards her–

“NO,” Din yelled–

The Woman’s hand caught the staff, mid-swing.

Her head snapped up. Snarl on her mouth.

She snagged the staff sideways, through the Sergeant’s grip, and gouged it into Kursan’s stomach.

His blaster fell to the ground. She grabbed it.

One shot, Kursan was down.

Second shot, hit the middle of the Sergeant’s cuirass, making him stumble back, and she got hold of the bo staff.

One quick swing knocked him to the ground.

Din used the cover of surprise to knock his blaster out of the hands of his guard.

Grabbing it, one shot to kill that guard and a second to kill the other.

The rest of the battlements finally caught on and opened fire into the yard.

The Woman ran for cover behind a parked imperial shuttle as Din tried to draw as much attention as possible away from her. Still cuffed, but at least he had the beskar.

A post under the battlements was as best cover as he could find. But it gave him a clear view of the opposite wall. Another shot, another guard fell.

A body dropped right in front of him, shot down by The Woman on the other side of the yard.

Who was she–no. Curiosity could be dealt with later, right now he was just kriffing grateful.

In tandem, they methodically took out the guards on the wall.

But Din lost sight of the Sergeant in the chaos.

He found him again when the Sergeant and The Woman came around the shuttle, bo staff and axe swinging furiously.

Din rolled out of cover, getting the last few guards she left behind above him.

The Sergeant blocked her high swing, but wasn’t ready as she brought the bottom up between his legs.

Then around to sweep his feet out from under him again.

Din turned and fired, hitting the gap between his cuirass and pauldron. The Sergeant collapsed.

The Woman turned on Din, gun back out and pointed his way.

One last guard, buried in cover, popped out and got off a single shot that pinged off Din’s armor.

Without looking away from Din, The Woman fired and the guard fell.

Oh.

Silence filled the yard as she turned her gun back on Din.

Her eyes were clear now, scorching in their fury. He was far more likely to die by her hand than any of the bandits.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Din had never seen anyone more miraculous.

He dared a step closer, still cuffed, blaster in one hand but lowered.

Her grip tightened on her gun.

Probably best to stop moving so the conversation didn’t begin in gunfire.

Her grip flexed again, and her brows flickered together.

Help.

“It’s alright,” he said in a calm, low tone.

She didn’t care much for that, fury flaring brighter.

Frustration became palpable as her mouth opened but no words came out.

She was straining for something, tension pulling her muscles taught. The hand on her bo staff shook once, till finally–

“VAII,” she demanded, the single word wrenched from her mouth with a great deal of effort.

It’d been so long since he’d heard mando’a outside of the covert, it took a moment for the word to register.

“Vaii me’bana?” he asked when she didn’t clarify. Where-what?

“Vaii!?” she repeated, after a shorter struggle.

“Felucia.” He hoped that was what she was asking.

Frustration and fury simmered down into confusion. Mouth opening again but no words coming out for a moment.

“Tion?” How?

Somewhere inside the compound, an alarm sounded.

Next: Chapter Three: The Promise

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