#or mandos' because I would love through subtle shade like him

[lamemaster]

Why am I just seeing this 😭 (I wanted to vote)

But I would totally play into the angst of watching them fall. Like Maedhros boy- how did you even make that happen? And who fights with hair down Mr. Balrog Slayer? (I cast myself as Melian in the relationship. The one with good and useful advice)

And if they break up with me, then sucks to be them because guess who saw it coming.

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

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[light-yaers]

No Saints: Chapter Four

This content is explicit and is 18+

Warnings: Graphic sexual content, violence, implied effects of PTSD, death and explicit language.

Read on Ao3 here | Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 5.6k

Chapter Four

“You’re angry,” Mando said plainly. He stood in the shop, door closed and obviously locked, a week later. You stood behind your work desk, glaring up at his chrome visor and saying absolutely nothing.

You pointed to the collection of credits on the desktop. Mando followed your finger, seeing what the supposed problem was.

“You’re angry because I gave you my last pay?” He questioned, stepping closer to you at the desk.

“I said I don’t want your credits,” You told him bluntly. “Your money is your money—,”

“That was before you saved my life,” He interrupted, coming to lean down on the desk opposite you. You inhaled deeply, feeling a subtle rush of excitement in your gut at his closeness, despite the scolding you wanted to give him.

“I don’t want your money, Mando,” You stated, staring straight into his visor. “It’s not fair,”

“It is fair,” He retorted. “I haven’t needed information for a while. You’ve given me whiskey, bread, company—,”

“I don’t do that because I want to be paid, Mando!” You erupted. Stars, was this your first fight? God forbid.

He stepped back subtly, almost as if he was trying to figure out your emotions. You could imagine the furrowed brow beneath his helmet, the look of confusion and trying to understand what you fully meant.

“Then hear this,” He began. You heard the tone of his voice as he became sterner, as he’d figured out his words for definite. “If you go bankrupt, what happens then?”

You couldn’t help it, you had to roll your eyes at him. “That’s not your responsibility—,”

He interrupted you with a muffled groan, but instead of a seething anger, you felt... butterflies. When before it had simply been you admitting to your silly wants or desires, he’d finally cracked—he’d finally admitted that something was affecting him. “Without you on this planet, what will I do each time I return?”

You stood up slowly, involuntarily dropping your mouth open from this fucking realisation. Was Mando giving you credits to keep you in business? So he’d still have you to return to between jobs?

You couldn’t help it. All of your anger dissipated into thin air, replaced by the intense longing to fucking hug him, or laugh in his face about being the vulnerable one this time, or take off his helmet with your eyes closed and kiss his actual lips.

None of which you actually did—

Well, apart from the laughter. Soft chuckles escaped your lips, making Mando step back even further. It wasn’t often you were the one laughing at him, but this time was different.

“What?” He let out. You could hear the rising anger in his tone, but you couldn’t stop yourself from chortling. “What?” He repeated, stepping forward to approach you at the desk. You looked up into his visor, cheeks a soft shade of pink, smile shoved all over your face.

You allowed yourself a few seconds to breathe, to calm down, before you finally cleared your throat, getting in close to his visor. “You like me,” You whispered, followed by cascades of laughter once more. You had to grip onto the desk for support, otherwise you were sure you’d drop to the floor, clutching your stomach as your abs started to hurt.

Mando didn’t move, he only looked at you—stars, he was good at looking at you. Stare unwavering, body unmoving, but eyes racing behind his visor as he fought to soak up the entire image of you in front of him.

He let you have your fun, laughing solely at his expense, or maybe just to stop yourself from body slamming him to the floor in a fit of absolute arousal. When you’d slowed to subtle hiccups of laughter, he reached out, grabbing your neck and pulling your face closer to his helmet—

Stars, you ceased to breathe. You flicked your gaze over his visor, from left to right and back again, hoping that maybe you were hitting his eyes beneath. Fuck, what you’d do to see those eyes. You craved to know the colour, the warmth, the looks that Mando actually sent you. You wanted to see him clamp them shut with absolute pleasure, you wanted to see them crinkle when he laughed.

“Annoying,” Was all he said, but you didn’t feel hurt from it. You knew he was fucking deflecting—because you did that often. You settled on sending him a slight smirk in return, but all levels of composure went out of the window—when your name trickled from his lips—

Your name. The one you’d blurted out last week, before he’d fucking put you to bed. You went to move back immediately, but Mando’s grip on your neck only increased. He brought his other hand to settle on the other side, keeping you stuck right in front of him.

“There it is,” He whispered, letting out a few amused modulated breaths. “That blush,”

Stars—you wanted to simultaneously kill him and snog him.

“That blush makes your annoyance tolerable,” You raised your brows suddenly as your gut coiled uncontrollably. His voice was nothing more than a low growl, disguising itself as subtle anger; but you knew the difference. You’d heard Mando be angry, you’d heard him be soft and gentle, but you’d also heard him when he was fucking gagging for it—gagging to put his hands on your body, gagging to have you wrapped in his embrace.

“Does it, now?” You trickled out, the rising feeling of warmth fluttering through your body. It started in your stomach and spiralled outwards, hitting your chest, your arms, your shoulders and your pussy. When it hit that, your brain all but shut down, replaced with only the need—the need to hear him moan again. “What else makes it tolerable?”

Mando immediately started shaking it head. “No. I have to meet with Karga,”

You pouted at him, sticking out your lower lip and sending him a sad frown. You started sniffling overdramatically, wondering if this blatant fake act would actually work on him. He only shook his head again, faster this time, as if he was trying to convince himself not to go there. “Karga may have fallen for it, but I won’t,”

Your face dropped into an actual frown as you sighed. Mando removed his grip from your neck, picking up his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder like always. You walked round from behind your desk, trying not to get sad about how short his visit had been this week—he was a busy man, especially after the lateness of last week. He was probably trying to build up trust with Karga again.

You stood in front of him as he stared down at you, small frown still on your lips and the blush still plastered on your cheeks. “Short visit,” He stated, but it made you smile slightly. At least you weren’t the only one thinking it. “Do you still have that communicator I gave you?”

Stars, if you’d been blushing before, you were fucking red now. Your hand instinctively went to your wrist, where the comm had been since he’d put it on you last week. You hadn’t taken it off. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

Mando noticed your awkwardness, looking down to your hands and seeing that you still had it. For once, he didn’t let out a chuckle, but you figured it was as a kindness to your tomato face. “Good. Keep it,” He demanded softly. “It means I can talk to you as soon as I land,”

You tried not to let out a squeal. Mando hadn’t just admitted to wanting to keep you on Nevarro, for his sake, he’d also just made it incredibly clear that he, maybe, missed you. Missed you enough while he was off collecting quarries to want to speak to you as soon as he landed on Nevarro once again.

This man—this man of steel and metal and cold, of violence, who could definitely snap you in half in the blink of an eye, was one of the most gentle and kind beings you’d ever come across. The Mandalorian.

Maybe that wasn’t saying much, considering the people you’d been surrounded with for your entire life; but you felt the good in him. You felt his kindness, his warmth, his want to be there for you, next to you, with you. Fuck—don’t fall for him completely. Don’t you fucking dare.

If only he’d fuck you soon. That would be the cherry on of everything.

But there was something so quenching and satisfying about the build-up—the tension, the stares, the wonder of what part of your body he’d touch this time round, of which part of himself he’d reveal to you next. Stars, you loved it.

Mando nodded at you once, going to leave the shop, but you stepped forward abruptly.

“I’ll... see you next week?” You let it out in a rush, afraid that he’d dip through the door too fast for you to say a goodbye. No—it wasn’t a goodbye. It was a “see you later”.

Mando strolled back to you slowly, silently, as every step hit you like a brick. He let out a sigh, or a moan, or a whatever—it sounded half-way between pained and lost for words. Before you could figure out its meaning, he wrapped two Beskar clad arms around your shoulders, bringing a gloved hand to the back of your head and pushing you forward to rest upon his chest.

You gasped at his initial touch, not yet being used to this intimacy with him. Stars, you’d wrapped your legs around him before you’d wrapped your arms around him? It was enough to make you laugh, but all you felt in that moment was a softness that almost made you cry. It was an embrace that you hadn’t felt in years; a simple hug.

You’d forgotten all that could be fixed with one simple gesture of arms wrapped around your body. You’d forgotten the feeling of a chest rising and falling, of hearing a subtle heartbeat as your ear rested right over it. Mando’s was no different—it was a soft badum, over and over again beneath his Beskar.

You closed your eyes, guiltily realising that you didn’t want to let go, not anytime soon. But that time was cut exceptionally short, when Mando pulled himself away first. He gently peeled you from his body, extending you to be an arms-length away before dropping his arms.

“See you next week,” He said lowly. And then he was really gone, gently shutting your door from outside and leaving you to stand in the Mando-less silence of your shop.

Stars. This fucking sucks.

The more time you spent with the Mandalorian, the less you wanted him to leave. With every passing, it was becoming more of a battle on your emotions. Get it together. You berated yourself incessantly, telling yourself to get over it, to keep going forward, but with the passing time without him, you realised—

You were thinking more and more about your past.

And that was something that you never liked to do.

Despite the years, the change of perspective, the countless hours of repression and years of work to get yourself away from it, it was becoming impossible. You saw flashes while you worked, when you shot in the firing range, before you slept. It haunted you, seeping into your bones, as if you’d never fucking left it all behind.

Debilitating was a whole different ballpark, but this was debilitating. When you looked in the mirror, you couldn’t differentiate between your older and younger self anymore—behind your eyes, you still saw her; cut-throat, unremorseful, naïve.

What you always seemed to forget were your morals; you’d never wanted to do what you’d done. You’d never wanted to become what they made you, but it was all you knew, all you had, until you’d managed to get yourself out of there.

Maybe you’d picked Nevarro to settle as eternal punishment for your actions. Maybe you’d picked it because the danger, the griminess, the dirt and blood reminded you of the only home you could remember as a child.

You stifled a gasp as you dragged your hand down to your boot, sticking your fingers under the leather to feel the jagged, scarred skin on your right ankle—the mark they’d given you. The mark of your abilities, your absence of mercy, your creed.

Only when you got older did you realise it was never a creed—it was a cult, a gang—and you’d simply been one of many children trafficked to work for their ranks. If you hadn’t grown such a tough skin, you would have died alongside the ones that didn’t make it. So, you grew, you trained until you couldn’t stand, until your stomach ejected its contents, until the agony of the hits you were taking turned to a numbness that you’d learned to expect and persist through.

Fuck. Stop thinking about it. Stop.

You endured. You continued your work, you refused smiles from customers and repaired blaster after blaster, sometimes stopping to stare at the communicator on your wrist that only served as a reminder that he was gone. Stars, don’t get soft now.

It was a week later when his voice rang through the band on your arm. He said your name, and dank farrik, you freaked the fuck out. You shot out of bed, half asleep, afraid that they’d found you—that they’d scoured the universe to find you, to capture you, to torture you for your desertion—

You flailed wildly, picking up your blaster as a reflex and squinting into the darkness of your room. You were alone. “Did I wake you?” His modulated drawl spoke up again. Fuck—it’s just Mando. You clutched your heart painfully, feeling the rapid pulse of its beat throbbing throughout your entire body.

“No,” You replied breathily, trying to calm yourself down. “Where are you?”

Mando groaned on the other end of the line, but it wasn’t a noise of his that you’d ever heard before. It wasn’t strained from arousal, it wasn’t the hungriness you knew he could possess, it was pain. “Outside the city,” He replied, only confirming that something had happened.

“What’s wrong?” You bleated through the comms. “Are you hurt?”

Mando chuckled once, before letting out a colossal groan in agony. Now, you were panicking. It’s not that you thought he was indestructible, but he’d never wavered with his strength, and with all that armour you’d never know how someone could actually strike him where it hurt.

“Do you have any Bacta shots?” He asked, groaning even more. You clambered up immediately, going to check your first aid supplies. You shuffled through them all, throwing gauze and bandaids and surgical tape behind you before letting out a frustrated huff.

“No, I—I don’t have any,” You stuttered, still overcome with the adrenaline you woke up to.

“Sewing kit?” He persisted. You nodded quickly to yourself, before you realised he couldn’t fucking see you.

“Yes, I have one,” You shuffled through the cupboards beneath your work desk quickly, finding the small sewing kit that you rarely used. Weapon repairs didn’t use thread.

“Can you—,” He groaned between words. “Bring it— to the Razor Crest?”

You were already slipping on your sweats and a light jacket, nodding to yourself feverishly, before you managed to stutter out a response. “I’m on the way—be there soon—,”

“Be careful,” Mando forced out. “Sending you my coordinates,”

You followed his coordinates to the outside of the city. You’d never walked around Nevarro after dark much and for absolute good reason. It was grimy and mysterious, with dark alleys and even darker individuals. You had a constant grip on the blaster clipped to your waist as an understandable precaution, grasping it all the way to the outer sections of the city.

When you saw his ship in the distance, you broke into a run. You pumped your arms like you had no other agenda, embracing the adrenaline coursing through your blood and using it to your advantage.

“I’m outside your ship,” You breathed down the comms. His answer was opening up the hatch of the Razor Crest. You jumped in before it reached the floor, looking on the walls to close it right back up again. You stamped the controls and the ramp began to close once more, but you weren’t interested in it—

You were interested in the mound of Beskar on the floor that you recognised as Mando’s chest, shoulder and arm plates. You scanned the darkness of his ship, catching your eye on the subtle light reflection of his chrome helmet.

You rushed forward to see him crumpled on a rickety medical bed, slumped and breathing harshly. “Fuck—Mando,” You let out, approaching him quickly. You placed your hands on his armour-less forearms, but it only made him flinch in pain.

“S’okay, just a stab wound,” He whispered out coarsely.

It’s okay? This fucking idiot.

You looked at him in a panic, knowing that he most certainly wasn’t okay. He was putting on a front, maybe for your sake, or for his. You could tell he was worried; otherwise he wouldn’t have contacted you to meet him on his ship.

“Did you—bring the kit?” He stuttered out. You fumbled with the kit, pulling it from the pocket of your jacket. He only nodded, lying back onto the bed in flinches and staggered movements until only his legs dangled off the end, the rest of him laid down. “Stitches. Needs stitches,”

You stood up straight immediately, spotting a storage box by the cockpit ladder and grabbing it swiftly. You dropped it by the side of the bed, slamming yourself down on top of it and ignoring the shake in your fingers as you flicked your eyes over his body.

He’d taken off all of the Beskar on his chest, leaving on the leg armour. His undershirt was black and thick, but even that didn’t stop you from seeing the unmistakable slick of blood, gushing from beneath a spot on his stomach. Tentatively, you curled your fingers beneath the shirt, pulling it up his chest slowly, exposing the wound—

Stars, it was deep.

It was deep and gushing with red, as every breath Mando took only accelerated his blood loss. You were surprised he hadn’t passed out from the loss yet, let alone still been able to talk and just about move.

“Stars, Mando—I—,” You stuttered out, clutching the sewing kit in your fingers and wondering what the fuck you were meant to do. You weren’t a seamstress, and fuck, you’d never given anyone stitches before.

“I trust you,” The words trickled from beneath his helmet. You only indulged in his confession for a second, before tearing open the sewing kit. You spotted Mando’s first aid kit on the floor by the bed, taking a bundle of gauze and wipes as you fought to stop yourself from shaking.

You wiped down his wound, clenching your jaw as you saw the agonising way he tensed his entire body as you cleaned his flesh, ridding it of all of the blood you could. You picked up a needle then, choosing the biggest and most curved of the bunch, and threading it through with the strongest stuff in the pack. You had no idea if this would hold, but it would have to do until he started to heal, or until he could find a Bacta shot on Nevarro.

“I’m sorry,” You breathed out. “It’s going to hurt, Mando,”

He fucking laughed, spluttering out an agonising groan afterwards. You wanted to kick him, to shout at him to stop fucking doing that. “I know. Just do it,” He let out. You could tell it was through clenched teeth. He was preparing himself for immense pain.

With every groan he let out, you wanted to cry. With every stab of the needle next to the wound, you were sure he was going to slap you; you wouldn’t have blamed him, honestly. You saw the way his entire body was shaking, was going into shock slowly and agonisingly. Yet he stayed awake. You saw the subtle twitch of his fingers with every pull of the thread, with every pent-up breath you let out after another successful stitch was added to the wound.

You alternated with wiping the wound of excess blood and pushing the needle through his skin, making sure to keep it as clean as fucking possible with what you had. God forbid, infection set in afterwards. He would have been better off without you in that sense.

You were sweating profusely by the time you pulled the last stitch through, sealing up the wound as tightly as you could against his painful moans.

“Okay—okay, almost done. Hold on, Mando,” You didn’t let yourself celebrate just yet. You dropped the bloody needle and thread to the floor, picking up the roll of gauze. Stars—you needed him to sit up for you to wrap it around his torso.

Mando knew what you needed before you’d ever said it, as he tilted his helmet in your direction. Stars, you didn’t want him to see you like this. Sweating, on the brink of fucking tears, his blood beneath your fingernails.

“Up?” He let out, but you heard the regained strength in his voice. You nodded at him morbidly, but nevertheless, he did it. It was a fucking struggle; you had to give him your arm and stars, he was fucking strong. He gripped onto your arm and bit through the agony as he hoisted himself up to a sitting position. You didn’t take your eyes off the wound, too afraid that it would suddenly burst, but it held.

His shirt fluttered down his torso, covering the wound when he’d finally made it to sitting. There was no way in hell he’d be able to hold it up himself, not with the core strength it would take him to do it in his exhausted state.

You placed the gauze between his legs, curling your fingers beneath his shirt once more. “I need to take it off,” You gulped. If this was any other occasion, you’d be blushing. Seeing Mando’s hands was one thing, but seeing his chest, the gleam of his sweat, the tan of his skin and the subtle scarring from past battles—you wanted to place your hands all over it.

Fucking hell. He’s wounded. Stop it.

Mando obeyed, helping you slightly to lift the shirt over his helmet. You would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so tense; it got caught over his visor, leaving you with the image of him with his shirt stuck over his head, arms up and chest bare. God—it was sort of funny. You’d definitely laugh about it later, if he didn’t fucking pass out before you were done patching him up.

“This is not—,” He groaned. “How I imagined being—half-naked— in front of you,” The softness of his voice, despite the fucking pain, the agony, the panic that he obviously felt, filled you with a warmth that steadied you for the first time since entering his ship.

He was trying to make you feel better. Trying to calm you down, despite him being the one who should be worrying immensely. You ignored the tiny amount of blush that you felt on your cheeks, picking up the gauze and placing it over his wound gently.

You wrapped it around him several times, having to stand up and over him to wrap it behind him. You wrapped it around him four times, before you felt his fingers find your waist. You gasped slightly, but didn’t stop coiling gauze around him up. Only when his head dropped onto your chest did you stop—

You looked down at him, gauze still in your hands, just to savour this image. You were stood in front of him, while he sat beneath you, utterly encased in the protection of your body. His fingers were gripped onto your jacket tightly, feeling the fabric between his fingers and allowing his thumbs to gently fumble around your waist. His head on your chest was new altogether—the helmet was heavier than you’d ever thought it would be, and stars, you had to stop yourself from imagining his face beneath—

Eyes closed, mouth ajar as he took in gentle, calming breaths, feeling the comfort that the sound of your heartbeat offered him beneath your ribs.

You smiled to yourself, ignoring the pooled sweat that sat atop your cheeks and above your brow. Wrapping the gauze around him once more, you tucked the end back in and tied it securely, testing to see if it would budge easily. You were satisfied.

“Done,” You spoke, letting all of your panic flood away with that single word, before you slumped yourself down on the storage box next to the bed, after Mando removed his grip from you.

Fuck. You felt dizzy.

You felt utterly spent, overcome by the rapid heartbeat in your ears and the feeling of your blood beneath your skin and flesh. All you could feel was the anxiety that riddled your body, despite knowing that you were done, finished, that Mando would be okay with some rest and a few changes of gauze over the next few weeks.

You looked at your trembling fingers, seeing every little spot of dried blood that had turned to a muddied brown. All you could feel was his writhing body, his pain, his groans—

But that stopped as soon as Mando placed his hand on your cheek.

You looked up at him, flittering your eyes over his helmet and travelling them down to his, now mostly gauze covered, chest. God, that chest. You couldn’t believe you’d just touched his chest freely, but not for the reasons that you’d ever wanted to before. Stars, you never wanted to see him wounded like this again, let alone have to sew up his skin a second time.

“I was right to trust you,” He said softly, circling his thumb rhythmically over your warm cheeks. You let out an abrupt scoff, needing to find comedy in this situation before you utterly exploded into tears and cries.

“Stupid decision. You’re just lucky that I’m good under pressure,” Good under pressure. What a blatant fucking lie, evidently.

“No,” He spoke up. “You’re good in general,”

Stars. If only he knew all that you’d done in your life. He would be a saint in comparison.

You allowed yourself to let go, to feel only the touch of his fingers upon your cheek. Those hands, you loved the roughness, the coarseness, the gentleness of the ridges between his fingers and his palm. It was enough to calm you down tenfold, sucking away the anxiety and the fear that had settled within you over the past week.

“It’s late,” You spoke, sending him a small smile. “I should get back before dawn,”

Mando went stiff, so abruptly that you thought something had happened with his wound. You frowned, reaching out to the gauze, but he kept you in place by swivelling himself round on the bed to face you fully. You gasped when he raised his other hand to your face, holding your head in his hands and staring directly into your goddamn soul.

“You could stay,” He whispered it, allowing his voice to penetrate the entire space around you, filtering through your ears and travelling down your spine, causing you to involuntarily shiver. “Till morning, when it’s safe to go back into town,”

Safe. On Nevarro? That didn’t exist. But he was right—daytime in the city is better than the dark.

You tried not to visibly squirm. This was new, this was... unexpected. When before, Mando had been so quick to turn down staying at your shop, he was suddenly offering you the same on a silver platter. But this was different—both of you knew nothing could happen that evening, not with his wound, not with your exhaustion.

The thought of sleeping on the floor of a ship had never appealed to you before, until you factored in the fact that Mando would be there, too. Whether he stayed on the sad excuse for a bed with his legs dangling off the end, or whether he joined you on the floor, you’d be next to him.

It was an offer that you, unapologetically, weren’t going to say no to. But you also didn’t want to reveal just how much his offer had set you alight. You felt it in the tips of your fingers, electricity shooting its way up your arms and out from your chest, igniting all the senses in your body until your hairs stood on end at the mere thought of being this close to him for a night.

When before, you’d stolen time with him between his jobs, lucky to get a few hours with the hunter a week before he had to leave and you were left with the wondering worries of his safety; now? This was a different level. He’d invited you to stay.

And you said the only answer you could think of—

“Okay,”

Before you had the chance to move, you heard something from behind you—it didn’t sound like a person, it sounded like... gurgling? It made you jump out of your skin, forgetting about the comforting touch of the Mandalorian before you. You saw Mando’s head drop in defeat, but you didn’t know what for.

“Click that button,” He said lowly, pointing to a control pad beside a built-in closet space in the hull. You got up tentatively, standing before the doors of the closet, before pressing the button Mando had gestured to—

What met you were the biggest eyes you’d ever seen. Black, deep, and absolutely adorable. Its ears were something else. Huge, compared to the tiny body it possessed, covered in a potato sack of a robe that was far too big for it.

“Stars...” Was all you managed to let out. “What—what is it?” Your brain was struggling to determine whether or not it was cute or ugly, but when it let out the most adorable of gurgles, you ultimately landed on cute—cute as fuck.

“Baby,” Mando replied, as if it was obvious.

“A baby?” You let out in disbelief. “Mando—why the kriff do you have a baby in your closet?” You turned back to him, acknowledging the way he didn’t even seem bothered about the little green, hairy, monster baby in his ship.

You shot your gaze back to the kid when he blurted out a confused laugh, almost as if he was asking who’s this?

“I need rest,” He replied. “I’ll... explain in the morning,”

The morning. Stars, you’d get to see him in the morning. And you’d get to see... his baby. As much as you wanted to object, to know everything right that second, you were also fighting off your own exhaustion. You couldn’t imagine the physical strain that Mando was feeling, and that was enough to get you to stop with the questioning.

You strolled back to his bedside, picking up his bloodied shirt on the way and folding it up, before placing it on the floor by the medical bed. “You take the bed—,” He began, but you cut him off immediately.

“No way, you’re the one with fourteen new stitches,” You scoffed. You looked around the ship, spotting a bundled blanket by some open floor space on the hull. “I’m fine on the floor,”

“Just—,” He went to protest, but you placed a finger over where you assumed his mouth would be on his helmet.

“Don’t fight with me now, Mando. Not after I’ve given you stitches and met your son,”

Maybe he wanted to object further, but at that moment he simply accepted your word. He laid back on the bed, stretching his long torso out until most of his body was being supported by the rickety mattress. He turned his helmet towards the closet, staring at the kid. “Be good. We have a guest,” You ignored the violent blush of your cheeks at his parenting voice. Stars, why was this sexy? “Can you... shut the door...” Mando’s voice trailed off, as you realised the exhaustion and shock was full taking over his body.

You did as he asked, carrying the blanket you saw earlier while you approached the kid once more. You gave him another once over, not being able to help the small smile that appeared on your lips—god, he was cute. He was green and hairy and had wrinkles, but fuck, he was cute. You couldn’t wait to hear this story.

With the click on the control panel, the door was sealed again once more, keeping the kid safe and sound for the night. You settled yourself on the floor of the hull, spreading out the blanket and lying yourself out on it, before wrapping the excess around you like a sleeping bag. Honestly, you’d slept in worse places, and knowing that Mando was mere meters away from you meant you didn’t give a shit.

“Goodnight, Mando,” You whispered, knowing he wouldn’t hear you at all. The sound of subtle snores was already trickling from his modulator.

You knew then, as you settled onto the cold, metal hull of the Razor Crest, that for the first time all week, you weren’t thinking about your past. As you shut your eyes and sleep began to take you, instead of that naïve girl for seven years ago meeting you on the other side—

It was Mando; asking you to stay forever.

[jabbajambler]

3

Human

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x f!OC

Word Count: 1,988

*GIF by @fluffyapplecat​*

         The golden sun was beginning to set behind the rolling hills of Arvala-7, causing the sky to turn all shades of purple and pink. It was a beautiful sight, for sure. I couldn't help but wonder why there were so few inhabitants of the planet.

         I suppose I always had a fascination for these sorts of things, you know? Bits and pieces of beauty even in the most horrendous times.

         I was beginning to fall in love with the deserted planet. Granted, we had only been here a few hours, but it was beautiful nonetheless. There was no one to bother you, no distractions or problems to run from. You only had yourself.

         Which also made it very lonely.

         Mando and I had joined the Ugnaught in his small, strange home. It was dark and we had to crouch or sit the entire time to avoid hitting our heads on the low ceilings.

         Mando sat by a small lamp that cast a dim light through the home. The shadows emphasized the well-sculpted curves of his helm and left a vague outline of his face through the tinted visor. He was distracted by his wrecked vambrace, completely unaware of my staring from across the room.

         I stuck by the entrance to watch the pastel sky. The serenity of the planet tempted me to stay, but I would just be running away once again.

         The Ugnaught entered his home, paying no mind to me while he turned to talk to the Mandalorian. "Many have passed through. They seek the same one as you two."

         "Did you help them?" The Mandalorian's muffled voice cut through the air.

         Now that I had time to sit back and listen to him, his voice was somewhat enchanting. It was a tenor sort of voice and despite the modulator's muffling, it sounded smooth and relaxing.

         It wasn't what I expected from a man of his reputation, but at the same time, I wasn't sure what I expected. He held this aura of confidence, even after being beat down to his lowest point. It was admirable.

         Honestly, I was kind of jealous.

         "Yes... They died."

         I scoffed and began walking towards the two, my arms folded across my chest. "Well, then, I'm not sure we really want your help." I spat.

         "You do." He put a hand on my shoulder, patting it comfortingly and pulling me down to the seat across from Mando. His subtle arrogance was rather irritating. "I can show you to the encampment." He stood before the Mandalorian, his hands on his hips.

         "What's your cut?" Mando spoke, staring down at his crushed vambrace.

        His armor was worn and sort of gross, I hadn't noticed it before. Most Mandalorians were kept pristine and up-to-date. His armor was kind of ugly.

          "Half."

         I choked a bit on the air in my lungs. "Half the bounty just to guide? Are you insane?" I watched as he pulled up a little puff seat next to me.

         "No. Half of the blurrg you helped capture."

         "The blurrg?" I questioned.

         "You can keep them both."

         "No. You will need one... To ride. The way is impossible to pass without a blurrg mount."

         "I don't know how to ride a blurrg and I doubt she does either."

         "Don't speak for me." I snapped. I didn't necessarily want to be on Mando's bad side, but I didn't have a choice after I held him hostage.

         "I have spoken."

         The Mandalorian sighed and stood up, walking outside of the house. I quickly moved to run after him, refusing to let him out of my sight, but was pulled back by a small hand on my arm.

         "You are welcome to stay the night here if you two would like."

         I stared down at the Ugnaught with wide eyes. He had been friendly the entire time, I suppose I hadn't expected it to continue with our coldness towards him. I offered a small but friendly smile and nodded my head. It would be nice to rest for a few hours.

         "We would appreciate that."

         "Then I'll prepare something for my guests." He stood, making his way towards a small kitchen. I opened my mouth to stop him, to refuse his generous hospitality. "Go talk to your Mandalorian...I have spoken."

         I took a deep breath and turned, walking out the door to follow Mando. He kept looking around, his fists clenched and shoulders slouched. He looked so tense, I thought he just might burst from the seams.

         "Someone on this planet has to have a speeder or something." He growled and looked around, seeing nothing but sand for as far as the eye could see.

         "Yeah and it'll take you two days just to find someone else." I rolled my eyes and stepped towards him. "We have no choice. You might as well relax." I placed my hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch and pull away at the sudden touch. "Take a breather and get some rest. I promise I won't try to kill you in your sleep."

         He looked over at me and let out a quiet sigh. He must have known that I was right.

         "Why did you do it?"

         I felt my eyebrows furrow together as I stared at him. "What do you mean? That's a pretty vague question, obviously you need to add some details to it."

         "Why did you attack me on my ship? You can do anything you want, any mission, task, reward. Greef would do anything for you."

         "Except give me this mission. Listen, I'm not simply handed things because I live under his roof, okay? I have to work for what I get..." I paused. If I continued this any longer, I would have been talking for hours. "Go get some rest. He offered to let us sleep in his home and I think we should take it... No funny business though, okay? If I wake up with a blaster to my face, there's going to be hell to pay."

         "Don't worry. I think I've learned better than to cross you." He teased with a whisper of sarcasm filling his voice.

         The Ugnaught had made us a small meal, something I don't think either one of us had enjoyed in a long time. He even showed Mando to a separate room so he could eat in privacy. It wasn't long until we were all asleep.

         Tomorrow was going to be a very long day and the rest was absolutely needed. If our encounter with the blurrg tomorrow is anything like the one today, we had a big storm coming.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

         I laughed. I laughed until it was painful to breathe.

         I know I shouldn't have, but it was so funny to see him thrown off the back of the blurrg for the fifth time that afternoon. My stomach was aching from laughing so hard. It was difficult to believe that the 'cold, merciless Mandalorian' was so easily tossed around by a harmless animal.

         Well, sort of harmless.

         "Perhaps if you removed your helmet." The Ugnaught joked, knowing that he wasn't capable of doing such.

         "Perhaps he remembers I tried to roast him." Mando snapped back. I couldn't help but chuckle at that. Especially the word, 'tried.'

         "This is a female. The males are all eaten during mating."

         The Ugnaught was just as quick witted as us. I liked him. I couldn't help but wonder if he had a name. I mean, I'm sure he does. Just like Mando's name can't actually be 'Mando.' I'm sure his name isn't actually 'Ugnaught.'

         The blurrg stood in front of the Mandalorian, watching as he pushed himself up from the ground with a grunt.

         Geez, how old was this guy? Seventy? I thought at most he was thirty. A seventy year-old would make for a very poor Mandalorian.  

         She growled at him when he set his hand on her back, throwing himself on top of her. She roared and began thrashing around, trying to throw the yelping Mando off of her. With a few spins, he was finally knocked off once again.

         Mando had quickly jumped to his feet, his hands raised high in surrender. For a second, I thought I could see him trembling in his boots.

         "We don't have time for this." He began stomping towards us. "Do you have a Landspeeder or Speeder bikes that I could hire?"

         "You are a Mandalorian!" The Ugnaught exclaimed. "Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur. Surely you can ride this young foal."

         He turned to look at the blurrg, causing it to growl back at him. I couldn't stand to sit around and watch this any longer. It was almost painful. I rolled my eyes and stepped through the fence, taking the Mandalorian's hand in mine.

         "Come on."

         I pulled him towards the animal that stared back at him with a menacing glare. My fingers drifted up, brushing against the skin of his wrist as I held his hand out. He tensed up next to me, trying to rip his hand from my grasp.

         "Easy now, okay?"

         "Easy... Easy." He repeated my words as he relaxed.

         A small smile played at the corners of my mouth, suddenly feeling a bit shy in his presence. I shouldn't have, I had the advantage, but there was just... something. Maybe it was the delicacy he spoke with to the animal, it was such a drastic change from his usual tone.

         The blurrg growled again, forcing Mando to take a small step back. I was quick to grasp his arm, pushing him towards the creature once again.

         "Be gentle with it." I leaned up towards his helmet, whispering.

         Taking another step forward, I led his hand to rest on top of the blurrg's head with my hand laying on his with a soft pressure.

         I expected him to be consoling the animal, relating to it and finding peace with it. When I looked up, I found him staring down at me. I know I can't really see his face or expressions but he seemed different. It was a sort of soft, curious gaze.

         At least it felt that way.

         "What? Don't you have an animal to tame?" I quickly stepped back towards the fence, leaving him with the blurrg.

         He watched me leave before he hopped on the animal's back with surprising ease. She allowed him to lead her around and take control. The sun was beginning to set again and the Mandolorian took that as a signal to end his training.

         "Good. Very good. We'll leave in the morning." I opened my mouth to protest, but was quickly stopped by him holding up his hand. "I have spoken." The Ugnaught left for his home, presumably heading to sleep.

         "Thank you." I heard Mando's raspy voice behind me.

         I spun around to meet him, but that might have been a mistake. Maybe I spun too fast or maybe I was shocked he was so close, but I stumbled back only to be caught by his hands grasping my arms.

         "Oh. Right. Don't worry about it." I shrugged off his hands, wrapping my arms around myself. "You were just too pitiful not to help. Honestly, that was sad. I thought hunters and fighters like you were supposed to be better educated."

         "I thought girls were supposed to have less bite in their bark." I could detect a smug grin behind his mask.

         "Most girls haven't had to deal with you. If they had, they would grow tired of your stupidity as well."

         "You've spent one day with me."

         "One day too many."

          I spun on my heel, swiftly making my way back to the Ugnaught's hut. Something about the Mandalorian made me feel small and shy. Not in a bad way, don't get me wrong. It made me mad, though. I don't like not understanding things.

         Especially when they are beyond my control.