#the mandalorian xi'an | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prolix-yuy · 1 year ago

Note

Hello honey 💕 As promised, here I am submitting my request for the 500 follower celebration!

The list of prompts is amazing. I truly had a hard time choosing one, but after Chapter 2 of Both Side of the Door I need to know what happened between Mando and X'ian or I'll will never be at peace again. So I'll go for Heartbreak of betrayal with the two of them, hoping that you'll give us an insight into their relationship.

Ren's crew sees Mando as a sort of traitor, but I really can't see him act like that (as leaving Quinn behind) out of the blue. So who betrayed who? Who betrayed first? How? Why? And most importantly, what the hell happened on Alzoc III? S1E5 left us with so many questions. I need answers 🤯

Ma Chérie! My wonderful @amban-rifle! I have to start this off with an apology. I have held onto this ask for SO GOSH DARN LONG. This is from my 500 Followers Celebration OVER A YEAR AGO. I'm so sorry have kept you waiting but holy heck, what an ask! The drama! The complications! The holes in canon we all struggle with! Plus addressing one of the most confusing and complicated off-screen "relationships" many of us x Reader writers ignore. I wanted to do it justice, and it took a bunch of research, gorging myself on other Star Wars content, and staring off into space while that Spongebob meme of my brain being on fire danced in my noggin. But! It is here, finally. And for being so patient, it's an absolute monster.

Interlude: Burn in My Bloodstream

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader, Din Djarin x Xi'an

Summary: The Mandalorian has shared many secrets, but his greatest one is buried in shame and blood.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, canonical-type violence, allusions to sex work, rough sex throughout, oral sex (m receiving), gagging, voyeurism, fingering (f receiving), PiV sex (don't be a fool, wrap your tool), anal sex, creampie, choking, degradation, threesomes, semi-public sex, cuckolding, blood and descriptive gore, character death, genocide (what a tag that was to write), suicidal thoughts, a fuckton of angst, The Helmet Stays On and it's a Big Deal, a very toxic relationship dynamic.

Notes: This one was an exercise in researching and complicated storytelling, but now that it's done I am over the moon with how it came out. I know that the Din x Xi'an pairing is not many people's cup of tea, but if you want my take on how it came about and what I think happened to give us The Prisoner, here's it all as best as I can surmise. I'm staying as canon compliant as possible because it's fun to connect a bunch of dots, but obviously this is all speculation with some liberal fudging of timelines.

Takes place after Both Sides of the Door, with much of the story set pre-S1 and spoilers for S1 Ep6 The Prisoner. Our Reader character makes an appearance at the beginning and end, so she'll still have a place in this interlude. The title is taken from Ed Sheeran's "Bloodstream" and if you want to know where my mood was for most of this, that song is a good place to start.

Cross-posted on AO3

I Think of You Series Masterlist

After you retire for the night, Din contemplates telling you about the other woman who left marks on his life. Omera was easy; wrong place, wrong time, and no right time on the horizon. And if he was truthful with himself, maybe no right time ever. He could have loved her, loved the way she cared for him and allowed a softer life for himself. There are times when he lies in bed and wonders what a world like that might look like for him.

It’s…difficult.

Even thinking of a little plot of land, a space all his own tied to the earth of a planet, makes him yearn for the skies and space that surround you three on the Crest. He could never truly root in soil, so used to being a seed on the wind. There would always be bounties to chase, duties to fulfill, missions to complete.

Right?

And if he digs even deeper, he might find the clearest truth hidden among the memories.

His heart belonged to you longer than even he knew.

There were times when he let others touch it. Omera’s hands held it gently, too kindly for him to accept. And to keep it, she would need him to lift the helmet, the one thing he could not give her. Being a Mandalorian is all he knows. So he took his heart with him, and he’s sure she’s better off without it.

But there was another who reached into his chest with claws and teeth and left him bloody from her affections. One he tries not to dwell on as long as he can. A time in his life that brought more shame than any other, misted in blood and sex and credits.

He wants to share more of his world with you. You deserve to understand exactly why he is the man he is today.

But he does not think he can tell you about Xi’an.

“Got something special for you, Mando,” Karga says when he settles across the table. “You’ve been requested by name.”

Din cocks his head, one hand drumming restlessly.

“That’s new,” he says. He likes playing mysterious for Karga, embodying all that a Mandalorian is supposed to be, even when some days he feels like a small child wearing his buir’s armor. At least it hides the worst of his apprehension, impassive helmet masking how his eyes constantly dart around the room, legs tense and ready to spring.

“Ranzar Malk. Leads a small team of mercenaries.”

Din tips his head back, folding his arms over his durasteel cuirass.

“Didn’t think you liked sharing the spoils,” he drawls, watching Karga carefully. The man laughs, sipping back some spotchka and winking at a woman sitting at his bar.

“I don’t. I like my work without middle men. But they bring in very, very good credits. A percentage is more for both of us than the handful of riff-raff I could offer you.” Karga leans forward, elbow coming down and speaking lower. “They want the reputation a Mando can give their team. Help them get some bigger and better jobs. You lend them your striking silhouette, and you’ll be in enough credits to buy a whole suit of beskar. And my cut will be…barely noticeable.” The sly smile Karga schools off his face lets Din know it’s a lot more than unnoticeable, but the job intrigues him.

“What kind of work is it?” he asks. Flashes of memories play at the corner of his mind - Mandalorians coming down from on high to save him, droids shredded in their wake.

“Malk and I have a strict ‘no questions asked’ policy. You do the work, you get paid.”

Din rolls his shoulders, fingers itching to grab onto something solid and deadly.

“How long do they need my…reputation?”

Karga leans back and sweeps his hands wide.

“As long as you want. Open contract.”

Din considers the offer. Mercenary work has never been too lowly for a beroya, but he’d never done any. Mostly small-time criminals and shakedowns in return for credits. But if the money is as good as Karga makes it sound, it could help the covert ten times over.

“Deal.”

“You must be the Mando.”

The voice is snarly, raked over a steel timbre. Din turns to see a barrel-chested, long haired man with a thick salt and pepper beard to match. His face is folded into a smile but the light of it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Extending a short-fingered hand, he pumps Din’s gloved one vigorously.

“Karga said you were in need of reputation,” Din says, cooly delivering the lines he practiced on the flight to this no-name hangar in Outer Rim rubble.

“And what are you in need of, Mando?” Malk says, eyeing him with blatant curiosity. Din had planned for this question during his supply run. The covert wasn’t to be named, the last of a culture eradicated. So why was he still traveling, wearing the helmet if he’s not of an unseen world?

“Target practice,” is the dry answer he gives, leveling the helmet at the shorter man. Malk raises an eyebrow before a conspiratorial smile splits his lips.

“I like you, Mando. Man of few words. You’ll get along with the other chatterboxes I run with.”

Malk leads him to a hangar pad, small ships in various levels of disrepair scattered across the peeling floor. A sharp whistle brings three people into view, two purple Twi’leks and a human man.

“My crew,” Malk says proudly, gesturing for them to come closer. The female Twi’lek saunters over with a swing in her hip, the heavy forehead-first stride of her companion close behind. The human throws a grease-spotted towel onto a box of tools and comes to an exasperated stop in front of Malk.

“Can’t believe you shelled out credits for a tin man. I could have put a bucket on and we’d be just as well off,” the man says. His face is Malk claps him on the shoulder.

“Varlo,” Malk says, nodding to Din. He gives a polite tip of his head back. Varlo rolls his cold blue eyes and turns on his heel. His jaw is sharp and squared, matching his lithe frame as he climbs back into an open access hatch. The male Twi’lek approaches Din, soft footwork with his hands in his pockets.

“Qin,” he offers before Malk’s introduction, nodding his head at the amban rifle slung across Din’s chest. “Is it true weapons are part of your religion? Or is that all bedtime stories?” His smirk is condescending, not even veiled. A simmer of annoyance bubbles in Din’s veins but he tamps it out.

“Among other things,” he says instead, earning a sardonic smile and a handshake from Qin.

“All weapons?” the female Twi’lek says at Din’s elbow, running her fingers up the length of the rifle’s barrel. Din twists away, visor meeting the sparkling challenge in the Twi’s eyes.

“My sister, Xi’an,” Qin interjects as she circles Din with roaming eyes. She hisses at him, raising Din’s eyebrows under the helmet, before sharply switching to high-pitched giggles, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever done.

“Ohhhh, Mando, we’re going to have fun,” she says, finally coming to rest at her brother’s side.

Din should have walked away in this moment, saved himself a lot of pain and heartache and blood. They were volatile, waiting for a spark to burn everything around them, and Din was only more kindling.

The jobs were easy to start. Wealthy benefactors needing a little extra muscle to get their way. A handful of runaways returned home. One exceptionally smooth jailbreak. Din’s presence gave them a leg up on jobs, but his skills were where he became integral. Combat all done with the efficiency and proficiency of a Mandalorian, but flying was where he excelled. The Razor Crest, in her infancy when he first shook Malk’s hand, was a deadly bird under Din’s touch. Scrambling signatures aside, with Din piloting it was a ghost on the astral winds.

It also became a strange cramped home to the five of them while they traveled. After complaints of too many credits spent on lodging, Malk casually inferred that the Crest could be a better home base. “We’re in it more than out most days,” was his dry reasoning, and with four people staring him down Din agreed, pangs of discomfort pushed to the back of his mind. It made sense, after all. The Crest was a cargo ship. Might as well fill it with cargo.

So between jobs and screaming dogfights in the sky, the mercenaries found themselves within the durasteel walls. Hammocks strung along the hold allowed for sleep, belongings mixing and melding to become communal. There was comfort in that for Din. Individuality beaten out of him in training, he preferred not knowing who liked what ration bar or whose ‘fresher items littered the floor.

In that crush of company, however, he did learn about his family in arms. Not enough to urge him to reveal more of his own past. All of them lived in the present, their histories an inky shadow they let drag behind and paid no mind. He learned instead of their present, trial and error and observation his best tools.

Malk’s connections were far-reaching and unsavory, most bounties questionable in nature but not enough to turn down. He would choose jobs no one wanted, ones that were especially difficult or carried the highest price. A name for himself was the greatest goal, clawing for prestige in how fast, how deadly, how accurate the team could be. Din sometimes caught a feral glint in his eye when they returned, deed done. The crazier the escapade, the more he gloated in cantinas or to his associates. Rarely lifting a finger himself, he worked logistics and timing, connections and credits. And when the job was done, it was only his name that ever hung in the air as they walked away richer.

Varlo was quiet, calculating and cruel. Din thought the standoffishness was a front until he watched the man more closely and realized it was born of a distinct lack of empathy. He could not be bribed, or swayed, or bewitched. While Malk made connections and laid the groundwork, Varlo was the front man on foot. He could talk his way in, execute the seven councilmen sitting at a table full of secrets, and wipe the blood from a particularly valuable one before taking it as insurance. His carefully crafted armor of failsafes and blackmail let him sleep easy every night, no matter the strain Din might feel at the events of the day.

Qin was the strength of the operation. Not bulky like a Devaronian, but leagues stronger and more agile than his body could betray. With enough blaster cover he could incapacitate, maim, and kill anything in his path with his two hands. That surety in his body extended to his place in the world. His smile was always knowing, always scheming something behind the fangs. Time spent across from him could pass pleasantly - Qin could spin you a tale from thin air, wrestle someone into gasping submission, or share silence all in turn - but once he left there was the distinct feeling that he gained more than you meant to give.

And then there was Xi’an. Qin and her relationship was manic on a good day, volcanic on a bad one. They snapped at each other constantly, enough that Din stopped trying to understand if they were mad at each other or simply passing the time. Where Qin was strength, Xi’an was stealth. Her steps made no sound, the silvery whistle of her knives the precursor to bodies on the floor. The delight she took in her own prowess turned Din’s stomach more than once. Brutal hisses and snarls giving way to raucous laughter and almost childish giggles raised the hair on the back of his neck. She was competent and brash, and Maker help anyone who said no to her.

Behind all of them was Din, standing silent and glorious. His helmet parted crowds, murmurs and rumors following the swish of his cape. They wondered why he was running with this bloodthirsty lot, a member of one of the greatest warrior cultures. He let them guess. With his contributions his covert would grow, and one day the children - maybe even his children - would be able to stand in the sun on a world that they called home.

Until then, he hunts.

Din manages to maneuver the delicate balance of this crew living on his ship for over a month before tensions rise. A week without work has made everyone snappish and riled. Malk is hidden away in the cockpit making calls so Din has to remain with them, arms folded as Xi’an needles at Qin. His lip curls into a snarl, and Din braces for a brawl.

“Treating me like your baby sister isn’t going to make the men think you’re tough,” she hisses, sauntering by Qin and circling Varlo. “They don’t care about blood when it comes to close quarters, long hours, pent-up frustration.” She walks her fingers up Varlo’s chest, stroking her pointer along his leather jacket. “Care to blow off some steam?”

Varlo skirts around her touch, dropping down on a crate and leaning back.

“Hard pass, I don’t dip into crazy,” he spits out, Xi’an’s mocking smile chased by a wink of his own. For someone who barely experiences emotion beyond curiosity and satisfaction, he’s good at faking it. With a turn on her heel, she approaches Din instead.

“Ever felt the touch of a woman, Mando? Let someone polish your beskar?” she trills. Din keeps his posture loose, tilts his helmet and sighs.

“Quit dicking around, I’ve got something,” Malk says as he drops down the ladder. “Decommissioning factory has had some thefts. We’re doing short-term security until we catch the guilty party.”

Xi’an backs off, slumping down across from her brother as Din moves to set the Crest’s course. Out of the thick air of the cargo hold he can finally breathe.

He’d wanted to rebuff her, brag about the women he’s brought to the heights of pleasure with just his fingers, but it’s a dangerous path to wander in the barrel of rocket fuel the Crest has become. Shifting his hips in the pilot seat, he thinks back to the last time he fucked his frustrations into another person.

A Togruta, maybe? Or was it that sassy brothel worker?

(a girl on a desert planet that stopped time)

A shiver climbs his spine but he bats it down. In any event it’s been too long since he’s indulged in a soft body. He’ll take care of that after this job, ease some of the stress buried between his shoulder blades. It might make all of this strange arrangement more palatable.

Droids. It had to be droids.

Not the fact that the factory was decommissioning battle droids but that some were going missing, not turning up in the junk pile to be scrapped. The workers didn’t give two shits about it, but because the battle droids were so powerful and dangerous they had to have their chips pulled out and documented for the New Republic. Too many missing chips led to this group striding in like conquering forces.

The first night is uneventful, Din passing patrols with Varlo and Xi’an. Varlo looks at him like another droid, the cold boredom on his face inexplicably boiling Din’s blood. Xi’an’s constant prowling only makes it worse, still determined to crack his stoic demeanor. He’s tired the next day, body running on too little sleep and too much adrenaline. Malk offers him caf that he refuses. He doesn’t like lifting the helmet in front of them.

The second night the issue comes into sharp focus. Not theft, but escape. A droid spray painted in yellow stripes enters the facility to reactivate its brethren. For what purpose they don’t know, and Din doesn’t care. Putting the droid in his sight, muscles tight around the amban rifle, Din squeezes a lifetime of pain behind the trigger.

A cloud of dust. No more droid.

He thought that would satisfy the roar in his chest, but back in the Crest he’s more of a caged animal than before. Malk tells them to enjoy a day on-world, and Varlo and Qin follow him out to the industrial maze of the city. Din knows he needs something tonight, a fight or a fuck or both, so he gathers enough credits to cover his proclivities and makes to leave the ship.

“Where are you biding your time, Mando?” Xi’an’s voice purrs in the low light of the cargo hold. She’s draped over a storage crate, inspecting her nails and flashing a devious look at him when his visor turns. “Going to finally lose your virginity?”

He doesn’t know what compels him to say it. Maybe the constant pressure on all sides, or the neverending sniping at his expense. He knows it’s a mistake the moment he opens his mouth.

“Been a long time since I called myself that.”

Xi’an’s eyes flash up to the visor. It spikes in his stomach.

“I find that hard to believe, Mando, with all the…” She waves her hands around her head, pulling a serious face that she can barely keep on. He should stalk off, leave her to pouting and him to pounding into something softer and sweeter than whatever this was.

But it’s been too long, and he’s itching for confrontation in a way he’s never desired before.

“I’m good with my hands,” he says, one coming up to rest on his belt buckle, tilting his head to the side. Xi’an lifts off the crate, circling him with the serpentine swish of her gait.

“Oh I can believe that. Seen you with those weapons, your ‘religion.’ Man who keeps them that well cared for must be attentive in…other ways.” She slinks around to stand in front of him, dragging her eyes over the broad expanse of durasteel on his chest, flaking paint and silvered scratches. She walks her fingers down his chest, stopping at his trim waist. “But that doesn’t mean you know how to use this.” Her hand flashes out to grope at his crotch but he snatches her wrist, jerking her hands up as she squeals. For a moment he thinks it’s in pain, but the glint in her eyes and the flash of tongue between her fangs reveals it’s excitement. Releasing her, he moves to exit the cargo hold and find something, anything, to calm the rushing of his blood.

“Oh Mando, come on, wait,” Xi’an pleads, skipping back in front of him and adopting an apologetic expression. “We’ve all been cooped up here too long, rubbing each other the wrong way.” This time her hands glances down his side, nails lightly scraping along his hips before she drifts them feather-light over his cock. The electricity of her touch burns in his groin, filling him quickly. “Let me make it up to you, Mando. Rub you the right way this time.”

“This is…not a good idea,” he grits through his teeth, common sense screaming at him to leave, but the many-toothed monster that lurks in the back of his mind drools at the feeling of her fingers getting bolder, now stroking her palm over his stiffening cock. The helmet tips back a fraction as Din’s eyes flutter, excuses melting back into the delicious heat of her touch.

“The best ideas are the bad ones,” she teases, sidling closer to him. Her breath is hot on the edge of his cowl, soft little sighs zinging down his spine as she swipes her thumb over the clothed head of his cock. He tries to suppress the groan but it comes out a whine instead, spurring her on more. “You could use some release. Let me suck your cock, Mando. I’ll trade you for a kiss.”

This is a monumentally bad idea and his survival instinct kicks in just before the monster waiting in the darkness claws his way to the forefront.

“The helmet…stays on,” he grunts, backing up a half step. She rolls her eyes but triumph lives there now.

“Fine, fine, your precious Creed. Then how about I give you a hand, and next time I’m in need of one you return the favor?”

He struggles to take in a full breath, her fingers now wrapped around him and adding just enough pressure to spark in his pelvis and surge into his chest. He nods, fists clenching, as Xi’an’s smile breaks across her face.

“Oh Mando, how long have you been wanting this?” she purrs, sliding down his body to rest on her knees. Alarm bells sound in his mind. It’s too out in the open, too vulnerable. If Varlo or Malk or Qin, Maker forbid, came back he’d be caught and probably gutted. But the lap of her tongue along his waist as she opens the plaquet of his pants dissolves the worries into heady arousal as the monster he’s suppressed so long rears to life.

“Kriff,” he curses, tilting the helmet down to watch her pull his flushed cock out of his pants, thighs flexing when she coos over it.

“So you’ve got the goods to back up all that swagger,” she sing-songs, looking up at him through her lashes as blood pumps loud in his ears. The arousal he’s feeling is unlike his usual encounters. In those he’s simmering even when his frustration is at an all time high, his pleasure delayed in favor of watching them writhe and gasp with the force of the orgasms he pulls out of them. It gets him harder than anything else. But now, looking down at someone who makes his blood boil at any given moment, his libido is at a roar screaming at him to fuck and bruise and take. The force of it makes his heart pound, unfamiliar and exciting.

“If you’re only going to look at it, I’ll go somewhere else,” he growls, keeping his voice as level as possible. It does the trick, her smile sly before she licks a long path from base to tip. The shudder is involuntary, a hot wet mouth not something he usually seeks out. He prefers a dripping pussy to bury his frustrations in but the power this position yields makes all the lewd cantina talk he’s scoffed at come into focus.

“Patience, Mando,” Xi’an lightly scolds, but the thin wire of restraint he was still holding onto snaps. One large hand palms the back of her head, fingers digging into the edge of her head wrap for leverage. Her eyebrows lift in surprise just before Din presses his hips forward, breaching her lips with the head of his cock. He groans at the slick heat and the brush of her teeth over the ridge as he thrusts shallowly against her tongue. He thinks he sees a wrinkle of anger in her brow before her eyes flash with vengeance. She wraps her lips around him, sucking his head.

“I’ve had enough of waiting,” he grits out, pulling back a fraction before sliding in deeper, pressing her further down his shaft. Her hands come up to his hips, fingernails digging in as a warning. The sharp points of pain focus his arousal, the mix with pleasure intoxicating. “You wanted it so karking badly, you….take it,” he growls, his thrusts deepening again as she takes him even further. Hissing around his intrusion, teeth come down enough to scrape along his cock just shy of unpleasant.

“Oh no you don’t,” he punches out, his other hand pinching her jaw to force her mouth wide. The lack of resistance drives him down her throat, a loud gag heaving her chest. The sound shocks his system, pulling back quickly as drool drips down her chin with her gasps. Uncertainty falls heavy over his libido now.

“Are you…?” he starts to ask, but Xi’an yanks him back to her face, pumping his cock quickly with the thick saliva she’s left on it.

“What’s the matter, Mando? Afraid of a little mess?” she taunts before swallowing him down again, the rough gags of her throat beginning in earnest. He can feel her spit dripping down his length, sliding over his balls as she rolls them roughly in her hand. It’s nothing he’s ever felt fucking a woman before, frustration and anger burning him inside out. He palms her head again, thrusting with her own bobbing rhythm as she hums around his cock. His hips pump, thighs clenching, stomach quivering at the onslaught of sensations driving him closer and closer to his high. Hazarding another look at her, she laughs around his cock before pulling off.

“If I’d have known it would be this easy to make you fall apart…” she begins to say, but Din shoves his cock roughly back into her mouth.

“Shut up,” he pants, fucking into her face in earnest. His orgasm is on the brink, body convulsing around her prone form as the monster ruts and chases his end selfishly. His teeth are clenched so hard he tastes blood, puffing air through his nose and snarling behind the visor. Vision red around the edges, his control is long gone as he fights her sharp nails and encroaching teeth and wild eyes. The tiniest voice begs him to stop, to look at what he’s doing, but when he sees her kneading at her mound over her pants, bucking her own hips in time with his punishing thrusts, everything lets go. He cums with a bellow, holding her there as his spend empties into her mouth. He gasps, sweat rolling down his neck and spine, the helmet almost suffocating with the heat trapped inside.

When he pulls out Xi’an gasps and the gravity of the moment makes him stumble back. Tucking himself away he watches her cough on her knees, white streaks of his cum dribbling down her face to drip onto the durasteel floor. Once she catches her breath she looks up at him, and in her flashing eyes and feral smile he realizes something dark and devastating.

He wants to do it again.

Striding past to slam open the cargo bay doors, her roughened voice calls after him.

“That’s one on the books for me, Mando. I’ll come calling soon enough.”

His hands don’t stop shaking for hours.

Xi’an is right. It doesn’t take long for her to come to him.

A simple job gone bad, the target fleeing into hyperspace too quickly to follow. Xi’an had been seducing him in a flashy racetrack before he fled. Din had followed as her backup, watching her writhe on the target’s lap and whisper in his ear. Every now and then her eyes would flash to Din, holding the expressionless gaze of the visor as she guided another man’s hand to knead her breast.

He told himself it wasn’t supposed to affect him. He didn’t care what she did, or who touched her. The scene from that night played in his head wrapped in nausea and regret. No partner he’d ever laid with drew out that much uncertainty and self-loathing, and he wasn’t keen to return to it.

But her curves still called to him, now straddling the mark’s waist. Familiar stirrings pulled up hard against disgust as he pushed the ravenous monster back down. It had gotten louder, fiercer after taking his pleasure so brutally. It screamed to take her again.

All of her work led to nothing. The target caught Varlo stalking up to apprehend him and make a quick exit. Even with four highly skilled mercs after him his resources won out. A faster ship, quicker access to his speeder. He was just within their grasp when he blasted off and into the atmosphere.

Xi’an shrieked her frustration into the air as the team re-entered the Crest. Malk confirmed there was no point following. They’d try again when he showed up at whatever gambling circuit he fancied next. She couldn’t stop prowling the ship, head down, glaring through her lashes. Varlo got a few sharp swipes for giving away their plan, but he threw up his hands and moved into the engine bay to let her cool off. Qin reclined in his hammock, watching bemused as she tried to self-soothe with no luck.

“Mando!” she finally hisses, jerking her head sharply as she strides past him and out of the Crest. His shoulders stiffen instantly, her brother’s hot stare branding his back. Hazarding a look back, Qin’s raised eyebrow and smirk make his face burn. But he still follows.

Xi’an is around the front of the Crest, leaning against the landing gear and seething. Din comes close, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. Her eyes rake over the helmet, snarl less playful and more agitated.

“I’m cashing in your debt, Mando,” she says, whipping her belt out of the loops so quickly it cracks. Din’s hands tighten on his, stance faltering.

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” he murmurs, bracing for the impact of his words. They land hard on her skin, quick steps bringing them chest to chest.

“I don’t give a flying kark what you think. I gave you my throat to cum in, it’s your turn. Give me your cock.”

Din balks, trying to disentangle from the swirling vortex of rage, but her hands are small and quick to grab at the fabric around his neck.

“Or you can give me something else, Mandalorian. Show me your face if you won’t fuck me,” she snarls, grabbing for the edge of his helmet. He yanks her arm away, but the other tries just the same. He snags it in his fist, whipping his head back when she tries to knock the helmet off. Both wrists captured he pushes her back, pinning her against the landing gear. Her hips jerk against his own, legs kicking at his shins. Some blows land, leaving dark reminders for days to come. Her bared teeth and hissing finally push him to pin both of her hands with one of his, the other coming to firmly wrap around her throat.

That finally stops her, eyes fluttering as he puts just enough pressure on her windpipe to quiet her. Hips rolling against his hardening cock, he leans in to crowd her against the durasteel mechanics.

“Is this what you want?” he husks, removing his hand from her throat to shove into her pants. The fit is tight, his thick forearm and vambrace stretching the waistband, but his skilled fingers cup her hot cunt. Even with the gloves on he can find her clit, roughly circling as she gasps and rocks against him. “Needed this attitude fucked out of you?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” she moans, hooking a leg behind his thigh to pull him closer. He yanks his hand out of her pants and pushes slick-soaked leather between her lips.

“Take them off, or I won’t,” he growls, waiting for her teeth to tug his gloves off his fingers. She stares at the tawny skin, all the silvery lines cross-crossing his knuckles and fingers. He tries not to dwell on this, on how she’s already pushed him past what he knows he shouldn’t do. Jamming his hand back into her pants he buries two fingers in her wet cunt, setting a fast and firm pace that has her crying out against his overwhelming hold. The monster snarls inside him, salivating at the prospect of rucking her pants down and…

“Mando, need your cock, need you to fuck me,” she whines, just short of begging. It knots his stomach that she knows how much she’s making him lose control. The rhythmic slap of his palm on her intimate flesh has him full and hard, grip tightening as he feels her walls spasm around his flexing fingers.

“Cum like this first and I’ll see if you deserve my cock,” he rasps, buying himself enough time to calm his raging libido a fraction. He shouldn’t fuck her, shouldn’t let this go on any longer than it already has, but his body is thrumming, snapping and snarling into her as she beckons him to let go, to find something blinding in her soaked cunt.

Her orgasm clamps down on his fingers suddenly, the raw shriek making him clap his hand over her mouth. The loss of his hands pinning her wrists gives ample opportunity to rush open his pants and find his weeping cock. A few well-placed strokes has his rational mind dissolving into the single-minded concept of fucking.

He bends her over the landing gear, tearing her pants down over her ass to expose her glistening pussy. Normally that sight makes his mouth water. Instead he tugs on his cock a couple times to prepare.

“Hurry up, Mando,” Xi’an whines, arching her back higher to present her hole to him. He pushes her chest down hard, a whoosh of air escaping before he sheaths his cock in her tight pussy. The momentary ecstasy of his slick entrance washes over him, planting both hands on either side of her head. His first thrust punches a moan from her lips, followed by a litany of curses and whines as he snaps his hips fast and hard. The loud smack of skin pulls out a thin moan of his own.

“Karking Maker, Mando, you feel so good,” Xi’an croons, a momentary lapse in vitriol. It makes Din chuckle as he grunts at her wet clutch.

“This all you needed? A cock to make you bearable?” he teases, angling his hips to drill into a spot inside he knows will make her scream. She gathers air before he shoves his sticky fingers into her mouth, pinching her jaw open as he penetrates her here too. Everything is dripping and liquid and hard and soft at the same time. His own orgasm is fast approaching, a roar in his ears that he chases with fervor.

“Gonna cum again,” Xi’an gasps around his fingers, slamming back against Din’s thrusts as she chases her own end. Two people so far inside but so far apart.

Din dutifully reaches between her legs and pinches her clit, sending her toppling over into a shuddering orgasm that clenches his cock so hard he has to pull out and cum all over her other tight hole. Lightheaded and heavy-limbed, Din tries to regain a semblance of control over the situation.

This is just returning the favor.

This won’t happen again.

He doesn’t want this to happen again.

Shuffling back, he uses his bare hand to scrape his cum off her ass and flick it on the ground. Xi’an pulls her pants back up as Din tucks himself away and turns to stride back into the Crest.

Stepping outside looking to be without a care in the world is Qin, licking Jogan fruit juice off his fingers as he discards the peel on the ground. Din’s whole body locks up, fight or flight response screaming at him to get away.

“Get a good eyeful brother?” Xi’an singsongs behind Din, walking past him to re-enter the ship. Qin mock-glares at her as she passes and saunters away. When his eyes land back on Din he waits for a fist or a blade to connect with his flesh. Instead Qin just shakes his head with an amused expression and follows his sister.

Dread lands heavy in Din’s belly. His grip is slipping and he’s not sure whether he’ll hang on or fall into something even harder to climb out of.

That was the last time, he says to himself as he leaves a freshly fucked Xi’an in the ‘fresher.

This time it’s over, he says as he splatters his cum on her tits.

Never again, he promises after he spills his load into her tight asshole, cursing to the Maker about how good she feels choking his dick.

He tries over and over to stop it, to tell her no, but every time she whines and needles and baits until he can’t help but bury his frustrations in her body.

It’s been months since he joined Malk’s crew, and the spoils of their missions were fat in his pocket. He knows he should sneak off to the covert, give them the credits needed to keep them safe. Or to Karga, pay him his cut of whoring out his Mandalorian. It itches in the back of his brain, the duties he’s supposed to be performing.

Instead, he ignores Karga’s messages on his holo. He spends the credits on upgrades to the Crest and Corellian whiskey and brothels. The last is in a desperate hope to rid him of his addiction to the purple Twi’lek plaguing his bed.

She stalks his days and haunts his nights, rarely away from each other. It makes it easy to let her straddle his waist in the tiny cubby of a bed and ride him until he’s dripping out of her. Sometimes she follows him when they’re on-world to the places where he spends his credits. The first time he caught her he made her watch as he fucked a plain but skilled prostitute. The following times, she joined him in his debauchery.

He tells himself it’s the last time every time, but the fire always returns. The itch under his skin. The monster that roars under Xi’an’s sharp nails and sharper tongue batters the inside of its cage and howls until Din can leave more marks on her skin. It’s feral and bloodthirsty. Definitely unhealthy.

He still can’t stop.

The bounty they lost finally turns up in a swanky hotel on Coruscant. Xi’an goes to complete the job, her cover not blown enough to approach the target again. Words and drinks pass between them before his hands are groping her beneath the table. They slink away together, Din’s helmet following their heat signatures. The man’s crotch is white fire, but Xi’an’s registers no hotter than her body temp.

Couldn’t even get her wet. He’d have her blazing by now.

Din waits for the signal to apprehend the target outside the closed hotel room. Long minutes tick by, Din’s imagination spinning wildly as he imagines the man’s fingers in her pussy, licking her clit like he can never do, spitting in her mouth like he sometimes imagines with a frightening tightness in his groin.

A trill sounds. Time for action.

Din bursts in, blaster pointed ahead of him to take in the lewd scene. Xi’an is naked on the bed, the target thrusting into her from behind. Her face is bored until she sees Din enter, lax posture trading for silky and sexy.

“What the kark-!” the target shouts, hands shooting up in surrender.

“Took you long enough, Mando, I had to put up with this paltry cock for much too long,” she sighs, arching her back and presenting her heavy tits between her arms.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” he rasps, modulator hiding the strain in his voice. Xi’an tuts, shaking her head.

“This is my mission, Mando, and I get to decide that.” She cocks her head at him, backing up against the target.

“Does it make you jealous, knowing he’s inside me right now?” she purrs, circling her hips to elicit a choked gasp. Din’s hand tightens on the blaster, forcing his posture to be neutral.

“You did what you had to,” he grits out. Xi’an shrieks out a laugh.

“I didn’t have to fuck him. I wanted to, because I wanted to see what you’d do when another man tries to cum inside me.”

Din’s arm begins to shake, and the monster snarls inside him. Mine, it roars. My fucked up little thing to break.

“What are you going to do, Mando?” she taunts, rolling her hips on the terrified man’s cock.

“What you want.”

Xi’an’s eyes flash in triumph.

“I want to bring him in cold.”

Din shoots a blaster bolt between the man’s eyes, toppling him over and onto the bedroom floor. Xi’an wastes no time crawling to the end of the bed and turning around, round ass in the air.

“Fuck him out of me, Mando.”

They pull orgasm after orgasm out of each other with a dead man on the floor. His blood stains one corner of the bedding, crimson as regret. When Din has her splayed out below him, tits bouncing at the force of his thrusts into her abused pussy, she croaks out a request.

“Take it off.”

He stills inside her, fire in his veins replaced by ice cold clarity.

“No.”

Xi’an snarls at him.

“Show me the face of the man that’s fucking me, Mandalorian.”

His hand comes up around her throat, a warning squeeze rougher than the ones he normally doles out. She quiets, but he has to flip her over to drill out his last orgasm. The disdain on her face is too much.

Seventeen missed holos from Karga. Shadows that follow him when he strides through town. And yet Din can’t pull his head above water. The light get fainter every time. During one mission he freezes in front of a snarling attack massiff and for a blissful moment wonders if its bite would kill him if he bared his throat. Varlo fells it instead, giving Din a confused look as they return to the Crest.

“You been sleeping, Mando? You seem off.”

Din bristles, stride widening.

“Don’t pretend that matters to you.”

Varlo shrugs, veering off to speak to Ranzar. The anger masks the anguish until later that night, when Din begs for the thoughlessness of sleep.

“Need some company, Mando?” Xi’an asks, like she does most nights.

It’s better than guilt, at least.

It’s not long after Xi’an’s hunt that Qin climbs up into the cockpit while Din is piloting. They just entered hyperspace, the streaks of light soothing Din. The quiet sinks into his bones, contrasted against the dread of re-entering the cargo hold. The air is thick with boredom and potential energy waiting for a spark.

He’s turning to leave, find somewhere to escape for a few more moments of peace, when Qin clears his throat. He stands in the doorway, leaning against it with folded arms. Din stills, a standoff between the two men. He was wondering when he might have to endure this conversation.

“Whatever is going on between you and my sister,” Qin starts, right to the meat of the matter. Din respects that he doesn’t pull punches. “You need to figure it out soon. You may be having the time of your life fighting…and fucking.” He sneers at this, making Din’s face scorch under the helmet. “But the longer she thinks something is going to come out of it, the worse it will be when you tell her no.” Qin shifts to stand chest to chest with Din. They’re close in height but in this moment Din feels small and sacrificial.

“She doesn’t like being told no. I’m sure you’ve seen that.”

He has. The helmet is the symbol of his refusal, and Xi’an seethes at it. More than once he’s had to pin her hands down, too bold in her touches. Some days she playfully grabs at the lip, pulling him down to her level, but doesn’t let go quick enough for Din’s liking. Other times she lays her hands on either side and it feels tender. Her eyes soften, and Din wonders if there’s a hurt girl under all the posturing that wants proof that he cares for her.

He’d told her once, as they laid in a post-coital tangle. The Creed, the helmet, why it meant so much to him. He didn’t speak of the covert, or of any other Mandalorians. They both have their own secrets.

“It’s a symbol of my fidelity,” he said. Xi’an lifted up on one elbow and studied the sharp lines and curves of the helmet, fingers tracing the impressive profile.

“How beautiful it must be, to have someone so devoted,” she murmured. “What a gift.”

It’s one he can never give her, and she can never forget it.

“If you aren’t planning on giving her what she wants,” Qin husks, leaning in with a steely gaze. “Don’t drag it out. Make it professional.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrived, the weight of his words now on Mando’s shoulders. Qin has never been kind, but his ultimatum is a balm to Din’s anguish. He needs to end it. If he believes her to have any gentleness underneath her posturing it would be cruel to continue. There is no room in his devotions for her.

The monster inside his chest finally soothes, curls into a ball and sleeps.

She doesn’t take it well.

“You want this to stop?” she laughs, lounging against a tree. Din had deigned to tell her away from the others, wanting privacy and space for her anger to hit a flash point.

“We’re professionals. This is too messy,” Din says, keeping his voice as even and calm as he can. Her face changes from incredulity to anger.

“This isn’t over just because you get a crisis of conscience.” She pushes off the tree and stalks towards him, suspicion coloring her demeanor. “Did my brother say something to you?”

That’s a trap he’s not going to walk into.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Din says, holding his ground as she comes chest to chest, much like her sibling. How alike they are in their ruthlessness.

“Of course you can. You’ve got a perfectly good cock and talented fingers and some Maker-blessed stamina. Plus you’re filthy,” she purrs, raising goosebumps on Din’s neck. “What else does a girl need?”

Din tilts his head, watching her closely as he sees the shroud of the lie settle.

“The helmet,” he sighs, exasperated. His words hit the target. Xi’an’s features twist, shocked out of her feigned nonchalance.

“You’re ending this over a stupid little symbol?” she spits out, circling him like a prowling loth-cat. Din tenses, tempted to follow her path but knowing she’ll take advantage of it. He prepares for a blade.

“I won’t remove it for you. And I’m done fighting you trying to do it yourself.”

There’s a moment where he sees the hurt girl he’s trying to spare. It’s quickly raked back with fury. She hisses, digging her fingers into his cowl and yanking him backwards. He stumbles to his knees, his cape now wrapped around her forearms as she cuts off his air .

“All your morals and high ground as you’re spilling as much blood as we are, Mando. Defiling my body as you pray to your Creed. You’ll be crawling back to my cunt in no time, and I’ll slit your throat before I let you make a fool out of me.” Just as his vision begins to darken she releases her hold, letting painful lungfuls of air back into his chest. One boot kicks him square in the back, and he topples forward into the dirt.

“You’ll regret this, Mandalorian.”

She storms off to the Crest, leaving him gasping and coughing. He wishes, not for the first time, that he never shook Malk’s hand, never let them onto the Crest, never let Karga talk him into this.

He wishes for time to stop, to take back everything the last months had carved out of his soul. For a bed, and a soothing touch.

(where is she now? Could she ever look at him the same way, after all he’s done?)

“New assignment,” Malk calls down, a groan of relief lifting the mood in the hold. “Big yield, and even bigger hush money.”

Qin grins, jostling his sister as Malk descends to them. She nods, listless since their argument. Din prefers that to the rage. It still pulls at a confusing feeling in his chest, something akin to regret.

“Where we off to? I’ve been itching to get out of this karking morgue,” Varlo gripes, taking the holopad from Malk.

“Cleanup effort on Alzoc III. There’s some mines infested with a local species the mining company needs cleared out. Not sentient, but territorial. Mando, need you in the air. Varlo, running logistics. Qin, Xi’an, you’re with me doing ground work.”

Din rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles. A big haul should set everyone up for a good while. Improve spirits, and maybe give him the boost to break away from this group that only becomes more hostile by the day. His silence will cost him, but with enough credits he may be able to buy himself back into the covert, and the Guild’s good favor.

Alzoc III it is.

The planet is icy and hostile, vast snow-swept tundras and sharp peaks slicing up into the permanently gray skies. The harsh weather eats up heat from the outside in, the Crest’s life support systems working overtime to keep the interior above freezing. Din had to pull out a heavier flight suit, the other crew members donning furs and goggles in preparation for the mission. Xi’an had taken to glaring at Mando any time he was in the room, so he’d stayed in the cockpit for most of the trip. Malk had scoffed at him, standing behind the pilot’s chair as Din maneuvered them out of hyperspace.

“Women problems, Mando?”

Din did not deign to give him an answer, but Malk persisted.

“Not a good idea to mix business and pleasure. A man of your experience should be more careful,” he says, clapping a hand on Din’s paudron. He tenses, but Malk releases him quickly after and heads into the tense hold with a snicker under his breath.

Din can’t wait to have the Crest to himself. Months of close quarters were making him itchy with tension, a constant frenetic thrum under his skin that he can’t even fuck out now. Varlo’s company would be silent at least. Plus a simple point-and-shoot mission has its appeal. The rest of the dossier states that the mines are overrun to the point that they can’t send in crews to extract the planet’s precious commodities.

Varlo plots a multi-stage assault; Malk, Xi’an and Qin would place bombs at mine entrances and pick off anything that could tip off the plan. Once at their sniper posts, Din would aerial attack the mines from above, detonating the bombs and dropping his own payloads to collapse strategic parts of the tunnels. The mining company provided blueprints, and designated the choke points that would create the least amount of cleanup effort for them after the fact.

In retrospect, when Din’s nightmares push into this shadowy period of his life, it was so well thought out it should have made him pause. They didn’t need highly skilled mercenaries, they needed bodies to carry out this plan. What the company really bought was silence, and anonymity.

Din circles the Crest just out of range of the mines, waiting for the go signal from Malk. Varlo lounges in the jump seat, occasionally speaking through his communicator. Din doesn’t much enjoy conversing with Varlo, so of course this is the time he decides to be chatty.

“So, was she purple like…all over?” Varlo says, raising the hackles on Din’s back.

“You can ask her yourself. I’m sure she’d love to tell you,” Din replies calmly, banking a little harder to the left than he means to. Varlo chuckles low in his throat, his gaze burning into Din’s back.

“I mean I could, but it’s more professional curiosity. I’m surprised she hasn’t gutted you in your sleep yet.”

“Mando, time to shine!” Malk’s voice rings from the Crest’s holocomm.

“Roger,” Din murmurs, the muscle memory of his training kicking in as the Crest dives into the valley. Everything that’s plagued him for months - the loss of control, the cloying atmosphere, Xi’an’s magnetic push and pull - all fades into the background when he’s flying. His shoulders loosen, grip on the controls firm but relaxed. The lift and dip of the Crest is a familiar dance, lapping waves on a beach he’s never visited but somehow always knows.

Then the first explosion appears through the transparisteel, and he dives into action.

The entire assault lasts maybe a quarter hour. Each explosion triggered by Malk is timed with another bomb Varlo releases out the cargo doors. The more powerful weapons hit their mark, miles of tunnels collapsing with shifting snow to fill in the depressions. Sometimes a small group of moving creatures - barely perceptible - burst from an entry, and the on-ground team quickly eradicates them. Din isn’t even sure he feels the cold creeping into the ship, too wrapped up in the warmth of a skill he’s honed for decades being used to its utmost ability.

“That’s it, Mando, we’ll bring her down to pick up the rest at the hanger pad.” Varlo indicates a vast stretch of buildings, no doubt some shipping operation, with a generous landing zone. Din wonders how much trade must happen on this desolate planet, and how pitiful their price must be compared to the credits the company rakes in.

Once landed, Varlo leaves to speak with their contact and provide a final report. Malk gets the payment, but he’ll be a little while traipsing across the frozen grounds. Din takes the lack of anyone on his ship as a brief moment of respite, checking for any potential damage and wandering through the cluttered living space. His annoyance at the mess is less than usual, the silence after a job well done vastly improving his mood.

Deeper in the ship checking on engine function, Din hears a clatter. His shoulders slump again. He’d hoped for a little more peace and quiet before they returned. Trudging out to the cargo bay, he’s met with an even stranger sight.

Varlo left the cargo door open, the windbreak from the surrounding buildings keeping the elements at a minimum. Instead of the crew ascending the ramp, two furred creatures freeze just inside the warmth of the Crest. The larger one puts its body between Din and the smaller one, four black pearl eyes locked on him. His hand itches to grab his blaster, absolutely certain these are the creatures infesting the mines. They’re supposed to be hostile, ferocious and powerfully strong. He might be able to take one, but two could be a problem. He steels himself for a charge, but the larger one holds up one long-clawed hand, three fingers spread in the universal symbol for wait.

Din stops, confusion and a cold pit of dread opening in his stomach. The larger creature looks back at the smaller one, stroking its face as they make high pitched chirps and buzzes at each other through strange tubular mouths. Their fur is matted white and gray, easy to blend in on the tundra, as they tower taller than most bipedal creatures Din has encountered. The brief conference concluded, the larger creature rummages in its fur.

Din snaps his hand to his blaster, unholstering it in a flash to point at the creatures. The smaller one squeals - Din swears it’s in terror - and the larger one whips its head up to look at Din. It stills, one hand now held out overflowing with baubles. Din’s blaster falters as the creature takes a tentative step forward, offering lustrous milky pearls. His throat closes up, but his training keeps his weapon on them. At his lack of movement the creature looks back at the smaller one, urging it forward. It holds their faces together, foreheads touching as plaintive whines cut through the air. The pearls transfer, and the larger of the two urges the smaller forward.

Din can’t breathe, chest banded with horror. The littler creature holds out the offering, clicking and chirping as the larger one waits back. It’s all too clear to a man who lost his family in a war he did not understand what this transaction is, and what the consequences of his actions means. He drops the blaster, stepping towards the creatures. They shrink back in fear, but the little one still holds out shaking hands, pearls dropping to clink on the durasteel floor.

“I…” he says, heart hammering in his throat. The larger one - the mother, he thinks - raises its head with something like hope.

“What the kark?!” Varlo shouts, ascending the ramp. Din tries to speak, to explain that everything has gone so wrong in a handful of moments, but Varlo’s blaster is already out.

Three bolts, loosed with deadly efficiency, and the smaller creature falls, pearls scattering on the floor and rolling away. The shriek of the larger creature will haunt Din for years, as clear as the day he heard it when he finds another pearl lost in the ship.

“No!” Din screams, but Varlo is already turning to the charging creature. Three powerful swipes knock him down, blood spurting into snow, before he fells the creature with another series of blaster bolts. Then it’s just Din, gasping amongst the gore. Sobs wrench his throat, hot tears running down his cheeks as he shakes on his feet.

“Fuck, Mando…need…kit,” Varlo gasps. The creature cut him deep, flashes of white bone peeking through the layers of flesh. Blood dribbles from his lips, teeth stained red as he struggles to breathe. His voice is faraway and tinny, but Din’s body answers. He walks numbly to Varlo’s side, kneeling beside the man’s mutilated body.

“They were sentient,” he says, and the horror blends into anger, one hotter and more encompassing than any he’s ever felt.

“Get me a Maker-damned bacta shot!” Varlo burbles, a rough cough spraying blood on Din’s chestplate. He’s not sure when he decided to slit Varlo’s throat, but one moment he’s alive, the next he’s laid out with unseeing eyes, the messy slash of a vibroblade mimicking the brutal claw marks.

He doesn’t remember moving the creatures’ bodies, laying them down on the icy ground outside the Crest.

He doesn’t remember what he tells the others when they return. Xi’an and Qin stalk by, barely affected. Malk chews the inside of his cheek, staring at Varlo’s corpse for a few moments before entering the Crest.

“Split is four ways now. First come first serve to his things. We take off in 5.”

Din doesn’t recall where his body was during takeoff, or once they got into hyperspace. The events play like a holovid missing an actor, feelings and sensations eerily absent. He thinks he piloted them off world, attributed to muscle memory. He remembers a conversation, but not with who, or why it began.

“The species was sentient. They tried to barter to get on the ship.”

“Mando….”

“One attempted to sacrifice itself for the other. An animal can’t do that.”

“We got paid not to ask questions.”

“That wasn’t a mission. That was genocide.”

“You’ve done worse, Mando. We all have.”

Except that wasn’t true. In the song of Din Djarin, this would always be his greatest sin.

One tip to the New Republic was all it took. A set of coordinates and a date and time. Malk wanted to gamble and whore after Alzoc III, and Qin and Xi’an had no qualms. Din only sat silently, the days since the genocide bleeding into one another. Xi’an had tried to tease him about it - seems like you lucked out against those claws - but his cold turn of the head and quick exit quieted her tongue.

He waited for them to leave, credits in hand, before reporting their whereabouts to the New Republic garrison. He conveniently left himself and the Crest out, detailing his crewmates’ crimes and exactly where they would be. Then he laid low, waiting for enough time to pass so as to not arouse suspicion.

He would not see Qin or Malk for many more years, though he’d hear of their escape from some Guild contacts. Not much could hold either of them for long. Xi’an didn’t leave him so quietly.

“Karking traitor!” she screams, leaping on his back outside of the Crest. A blade sinks into his shoulder, ripping a cry from his lips. She pulls it out and drives it back in his bicep, his hands scrabbling to throw her off. She gets him two more times before he crushes her against the Crest’s hull, knocking her grip loose. His left arm is screaming, blood pouring down his fingers.

“After all we did for you, you turned us in?!” Her knife hits home again, swinging to stab into his calf and the meat of his thigh in quick succession. Din disarms her, skittering the knife away, before landing a blow in the center of her chest that, with a little more force, could have stopped her cruel heart. She lies gasping on the ground, eyes wide and wild as they look at him towering over her. For a moment that uncomfortable feeling pulls at him again, something like regret and remorse and a mourning of what could have been. It weakens him enough to kneel down, body screaming.

“I’m sorry…” he tries to say, the next words lost in his turmoil. Sorry for starting whatever fucked-up thing they had between them? Sorry for not being able to give her what she wanted? Sorry for how it was destined to end?

Another blade sinks into his side, ripping down as she screeches.

“You are nothing but a traitor, Mandalorian. Betrayer of your allies, of your Creed. I hope your Maker-damned helmet ends up in the gutter with your corpse.”

He yanks the blade free, head dizzy at the realization that much of his blood is on the ground instead of inside him. He puts one hand around Xi’an’s neck and squeezes down. She’s out in seconds, dragged to the hangar entrance for the New Republic guards to find. Safe or not, he takes off with the Crest and manages to close up enough of his wounds with the cauterizer to stop the bleeding, burnt flesh singing his nostrils. He blindly dials in coordinates for Nevarro, barely staying conscious through the jump. Once autopilot kicks in he dips into darkness.

The Guild takes him back. Begrudgingly. He pays his dues and offers them the pearls the creature spilled across the hold. Their value surprises him, almost annoyed he didn’t save some for himself, but the thought of his own pockets lined with treasures given by the dead chills his blood. He leaves them all with Karga, and waits for the distrust to fade from his face.

The covert welcomes him back with disapproval. His wounds spare him for a few weeks, sequestered from the rest of his people. It makes him ache, the obvious disappointment of his alor and the wariness of his fellow Mandalorians. The rumors swirl about where and why he was gone so long, why their beroya would betray them. He takes his penance, every blow and setback and humiliation. It is no worse than how he punishes himself.

When he returns to the Crest, tucked in the back of a trusted hangar, the mess strewn about the hold claws at his throat. He removes every memory of those months, setting belongings and refuse outside the cargo doors for scavengers to pick through. Even his own personal items make it into the pile, the memories attached to them too painful.

He cleans the ship top to bottom. No more hammocks strung from every corner. No more constant noise. No more ever-mounting tension. Just durasteel and silence.

It takes a full day to bring the Crest back to pre-Malk condition. The darkness surrounds Din, and after weighing the pros and cons of returning in the night he closes the cargo door. Shuttling open the small cubby sleeping space, he crawls in and settles on his side. The door slides shut with the lights dimming soon after.

Din lies there as his body slowly quiets, his armor digging into his sore shoulder, tender ribs and neck. Piece by piece he removes it, laying the shining examples of his honor beside him. The helmet is last, and it’s the first time in months he’s been able to breathe without it inside his own ship. The pillow is measly under his head, but he sinks down with a sigh. Arms tucked into his chest, knees pulled up to his stomach, surrounded by the walls of his ship and nothing else, he lets himself mourn the deeds he’d done. It will be far from the last time, but this is the rawest, the most painful as he let the shame grip him. Once exhaustion wins the hums and whirrs of the Crest lull him to sleep.

Din doesn’t tell you about Xi’an. It’s a lie of omission - you never prod him on his past, and he rarely asks about yours. There’s no reason to dredge up pain. If you want to offer something you do, and if you truly ask him he’ll offer pieces of his own. But you’re not swapping stories around the fire. So he sees no reason to tell you.

Until one day, he does.

It was the perfect sandstorm of triggers. A child snarling at her brother, then squealing out a laugh that cuts through his head. The singing of blades through the air as some men toss them at a target. A purple Twi’lek between you and Din, reaching out a hand to clap your shoulder. Din’s hurried steps bring him to your side in record time, helmet tilted down in challenge but the Twi just looks at him curiously and takes a step back. Your own brow knits, a bag of supplies in hand.

He tries to center himself back on the Crest, busying his racing thoughts with jump calculations and messages to contacts about the Jedi. It works until you climb up to the cockpit, leaning against the console as he turns his attention to you.

“Bean found something in the ship, I thought it might be important,” you say, holding out your upturned palm.

A pearl.

He thought he’d found them all, but the child’s nosiness unearthed one last bloody memory. He freezes, hands tight on the console.

“Been holding onto some treasure?” you tease, but your face is uneasy as you sense the tension in the air. “I’ll put it somewhere safe, maybe we can barter it…”

“No,” Din rebukes sharply, snapping the visor to you. Your eyes widen, chest curling in on yourself.

“Okay,” you say quietly, hand closing around the painful object. Din slumps, leaning forward and hanging his head.

“I’m sorry, it’s…nothing good will come of that. It was bought with blood,” he says quietly.

“So are most things on the Crest,” you say, wrapping your arms around your middle. Din heaves in a breath.

“Not the same kind.”

And so he tells you the story of Ranzar Malk and his employment, of the acidic crew and the six cloying months he spent with them. Of Xi’an and her allure, and the pain it caused. Of Alzoc III. Of the pearls.

You listen in silence, watching as Din relates his darkest story. The shame burns his skin, eats at his stomach, sours his tongue. How can he possibly redeem himself in your eyes after this? Would you ever look at him the same again?

Once he finishes, and the quiet of the ship pervades, you move to stand between his parted knees. Two hands settle on his shoulders, and without reservation he wraps his arms around and lays his head just below your breasts. The rhythmic inhale-exhale of your breathing cools his pain.

“Have you seen any of them since?” you ask. Din huffs out a sigh.

“Malk hired me for a job a few months back. Didn’t tell me the mission, just relied on a debt being repaid and the Crest still flying.” Din shifts against you, considering leaning away, but your firm hands keep him held to your chest.

“Was it bad?”

“We were rescuing Qin from a prison ship. Xi’an was there, set me up to be killed by the new team. I left them there.” After the draining retelling, he can’t bring himself to extrapolate on the tense reunion.

Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand.

I did what I had to.

Oh, but you liked it.

You were hired to do a job, so do it.

Isn’t that your code?

Aren’t you a man of honor?

“Thank you for telling me,” you finally say, stroking your thumbs along the line of his shoulders. “That was…difficult. To tell, I’m sure. It was hard to hear.” Din fists your shirt, squeezing his eyes closed at what will surely come.

“You made decisions and you’ve suffered the consequences of them.” You cup the back of his neck through his cowl. “And if you think I haven’t made a terrible decision about who to trust, I have stories I can share. Later,” you say, lightness in your voice. It makes Din lean back to look at your face. If you could see his, you would know his mouth is dropped open, eyes wide and wet, as you stroke the sharp lines of his helmet. You’re the only one he trusts to touch.

“Did you think I would hate you for this?” you ask, and Din’s nod is barely perceptible but you feel it. “You’ll surprise me, and terrify me many more times Mando, but you’ll never drive me away. The galaxy is only shades of gray.”

He lets you hold him for a time, hands soothing on his worn body. Your acceptance doesn’t heal him. By now he’s not sure anything will. But it balms the wound enough to breathe easier.

It’s the beginning of letting himself know you, and be known by you. When you say that your best friend taught you how to skip rocks, he asks how you met her. When you look on in wonder as he dresses a piece of game, he explains how his buir taught him survival hunting. And when the child wraps his tiny claw around Din’s thumb and he strokes it gently, you ask him if he has a son somewhere.

“No,” Din answers, the child warm in his arm and your body close enough to coax into his, if he would dare let himself want it. “But the Creed states the importance of caring for foundlings, and raising warriors.”

You hum and smile, turning back to your task, and for a moment much longer than fleeting, Din lets himself wonder if this is what a clan is supposed to feel like, and when it grew from two to three.

END

Interlude 2 of the I Think of You series

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