Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

DAY ZERO

A girl—you’re just a girl. Barely a woman. 

You stand beside Karga, hair framing your face, and Din sees the haughty strength in your shoulders, the iron viciousness in your stare. He sees you—green and gung-ho and itching for a fight—and he bites his tongue to keep from groaning.

His hands clench to fists at his sides. Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this. 

Karga keeps talking anyway. “You owe me, Mando. You know you owe me.” He gestures to you, and your eyes slide to the side, for the first time breaking from the visor of Din’s helm. You pin Karga with that steely stare, all impetuous edges and self-important sheen, but Karga ignores the weight of your glare. “One year—that’s all I’m asking for here.” 

Three hundred and sixty-eight days? No. Din doesn’t do jobs like this anymore. Not for a long time.

Hooking his thumbs beneath his belt, he shifts his weight to the side and shakes his head. “I’m not a nursemaid,” he says. “I’m done carting children around for you, Karga.” 

Your gaze snaps back to the panel of his visor—and Din is almost impressed by the flash of raw, unbridled anger that sparks across your pupils. Almost. 

Anger is a good place to start for an inexperienced bounty hunter. It’s as potent and propulsive as any formal skills training, a breeding ground for guts and determination. Like a shot of hard liquor, it ignites the blood and swirls through the body, pushing, pushing, pushing until, in order to find reprieve, the only viable option is success against the enemy. Against the anger itself. Din knows the look you carry well, was practically a slave to his own ire in his younger years, but he’s older now. Older, and maybe a little wiser, but certainly not as convinced that the ways of his youth are as well-tried as he once thought. 

So much has changed in the last year. Everything he once knew, cradled in his palms like his own flesh and blood, is gone, ripped away like a seedling on a harsh wind. His hands, his thread-bare satchel, the sling above his cot—it’s all empty now, tinged with ghosts he doesn’t like to acknowledge in the light of day. He is left with himself and himself only, which isn’t much by his own estimation, but it’s what he knows. It’s what has always been. And it’s easier that way—going at it alone, silent and sure and guided by a carefully honed set of skills. He never falters, never bends to his humanity—that niggling, irksome part of himself—when he is alone.

No—the mess of it all… of existing alongside another… of crumbling beneath the weight of responsibility and duty and attachment … Din doesn’t have time for that. Not again, anyway. Karga needn’t of bothered to ask.

Your voice, sharp and curling, breaks his thoughts. “I’m not a fucking child, Mandalorian.” You mirror his stance—whether on purpose or on accident, he isn’t sure—but your hip juts to the side, your hands on the tac belt slung low around your waist. “I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself.” 

He laughs at this, at the naivety that swaddles you safe and warm. It’s a husk of a laugh, peeled from his chest like a tight bandage on tender flesh. The sound is awkward, sudden, in the cramped storeroom of the cantina, and Karga winces. True laughter—borne of friendship and shared memories and the luxury of a moment of respite—floats through the flimsy door separating the cantina from the storeroom to affront Din’s ears. He shuts his mouth, laughter swallowed, a hard lump in his throat.

“What’s so funny?” There’s no mistaking the sneer of your upper lip, and he has to hand it to you: you’re fucking persistent. Anyone else vying to be his apprentice would have beat the dust by now, dissuaded by his refusal and mockery alike, but you’re still here, still waiting, eyes set hard and fast. So, he has to hand it to you: you aren’t a complete poseur. Just ninety-nine percent one.

He needs to put an end to this. No way, no how, is he taking you back to his ship. He’s better off alone, and he doesn’t have the energy or patience to drag along a girl and teach her the ways of the Guild. The mere thought makes his shoulders droop with exhaustion and a sigh work its way through his chest.

Maker, he’s getting too fucking old for this. Whatever Karga hoped to achieve by baiting him through the storeroom door with the promise of an intense hunt, one rigorous enough to drown out the noise of his past—it ends now.

Din takes a step forward. Another—another— another. His feet fall heavy on the worn, uneven ground, and your eyes grow wide with each purposeful advance. Stretching to his full height, he meets your gaze head on. A muscle in your brow twitches, a beast caught by the leer of another beast. He notes the way your right shoulder shifts backwards, toward the exit, as though prepared to flee. Good—you’re scared. As you should be. 

Like the snap of a well-corded whip, he reaches out and curves his hand around the column of your throat. He’s vaguely aware of Karga’s protests— Mando! What are you doing? —but Din doesn’t release his hold. Doesn’t tighten his grip either. Still, the ligaments and cartilage of your neck give, bending slightly under his grasp. The leather of his glove catches on a stray thread of hair; your heartbeat thrums against his palm. 

When he speaks, his voice is naught above a rasp—deadly, slow, and smooth. “I could snap you like a twig, girl.” 

There it is again—that irate spark that shoots across the circle of your irises. A muscle in your jaw twitches; your chin lifts almost imperceptibly. “I could crush your balls in my palm, Mandalorian.” 

He drops his hand, skin singed under his glove. A hot rush of frustration surges through his veins, and he resists the urge to drop you to the ground with one fell swoop to the back of the leg. You’re fiery, angry, brazen enough to threaten him without a second thought. He’s seen it all before, in the bright eyes of other arrogant young recruits always dead before the end of a lunar cycle; you’re nothing special. 

Kargra grabs Din by the shoulder, pulling him further into the storeroom, away from you and your swirling cloud of disdain. It’s darker here, the single square window partially obscured by the corner of a cabinet; its door hanging on the last bolt of a rusted hinge. Dust mites drift through a pale beam of light casting the unlit portions of the room in shadow. 

“Mando, please,” Karga starts. He sounds conciliatory, but determined. Which is too bad considering his offer of one thousand extra credits isn’t enough. 

Without warning, the storeroom door opens on a thin creak, and a lithe Bith, armed with a crumpled sheet of paper, ambles into the room. He brings with him the sound of tinny, off-beat music from the heart of the cantina and the smell of overcooked meat. His food-stained clothes drape over his wiry frame, the stoop of his shoulders pronounced. His large head swivels as he takes in the tense air of the narrow closet, the clench of Din’s fists, and your wide, battle-ready stance. Muttering something in his native tongue, he backs out of the room as quickly as he came, waving his hands in dismissal. Karga curses—his time is running out.

Lowering his voice, he glances over his shoulder to where you stand, fingertips pressed to your sternum. You glare at Din through your lashes, and he grits his teeth. “The Guild is running low on bounty hunters. You know that as well as anybody.”

Din drags his eyes from you to Karga’s worn, haggard face. The older man isn’t wrong. The last year has been tough on the Guild, resources and willing hunters run thin, stretched like rations among too large a crowd. There’s more lucrative work to be found in the private sector, and Din doesn’t blame any of his counterparts for jumping ship and taking a post as security for some bigwig on Coruscant. He can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, either. 

He’s simply too tied to the stars, to the vast expanse of space and all he can forget there, for a job which roots him to the ground.

“Yes, I do,” he says. “You’ve run me like a dog.”

Karga grimaces, his eyes skittering to the floor. Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nods, shoulders seesawing in an admonition of guilt. “Can you blame me? You’re the best I’ve got.”

“I’m almost all you’ve got.” 

“Which”—Karga’s face lifts, and he points to you, the girl hovering in the corner—“is why you need to take her with you. Train her, make her out to be as good as you are, better even! The more bounty hunters that model their skills after yours, the sooner you can retire, kick back and—”

“I won’t retire.”

A pause, swollen with obstinance on either end of the debate. Karga works his jaw back and forth, focus tightening on the smooth curvature of the helmet, the center of Din’s forehead; Din tilts his head and, though his eyes are obscured, he’s sure Karga can feel the indifference in his unblinking stare.

Finally, Karga speaks. “Fine, take a day off, whatever.” There’s another pause, as though Karga expects Din to respond, but when the silence stretches a beat too long, he just gives a pinched-lip smile as he digs a hand deep into a pocket at his hip. “Take this as a down payment. There will be more at the end of the year. And consider yourself promoted with a fifty percent raise on every bounty, too.”

Din weighs the offering—a slim ingot of beskar—in his hand, brow lifted beneath his helm. The metal weighs heavy, appearing dull in the hazy light of the storeroom. He brushes his thumb over the seal in the bottom corner. 

“Where did you get this?” he asks. Never in all his years at the Guild has Karga offered him beskar. The sight of it now—unsullied, clean, weighty in his hand—twists his gut with something akin to… longing? Forlornness? He’s not sure. Sliding the ingot into his back pocket, he looks up, pushing the tug in his chest to the side.

Karga shrugs. “No matter. I have my connections, as we all do.” He again glances at you before swinging his gaze back to Din, eyes gone round and soft. “You’d really be helping me out here, Mando,” he says. “She’s good. I know it.” 

“She’s got a tongue on her.” 

Across the room, tucked between the door and a shelf that scales the chipping wall, you fold your arms over your chest. “I can hear you, metal man. And yes, I’ve got a tongue. I’m not afraid to use it either.” 

Din huffs. Little brat.

Only—he could use the money. Due to the untimely death of the Crest, he had to drain his accounts in order to purchase the Sunder. Not a cheap investment; not one he particularly enjoys, either. His pockets remain empty—the Sunder too—and, though he’s by no means a creature of comfort, with a new ship comes new burdens. Parts break more often on these sleeker, high-tech models; he’s learned that the hard way in the last year. So even with his regular bounty load, he’d be just scraping by, eking out an existence in the cosmos, after all is said and done and the Sunder kept well-maintained. A modicum of cushion where credits are concerned would be nice, he has to admit. 

He swings his head to the side. 

Fuck. It’s going to be a long year.

“I can see you thinking about it.” Karga grabs Din’s elbow. “I see those wheels turning. You need the money, I know you do. And after everything that happened with—”

Din yanks his arm from Karga’s grasp and skewers the old man with one long finger in the chest, the bluntest of knives Din is willing to use on his employer. For now. Through the orange fingertip, he can feel Karga’s heartrate ratchet higher. “Don’t talk about that. I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Okay, okay.” Karga lifts his hands in surrender, shaking his head in contrition. “My apologies, Mando.” 

“You want to be a bounty hunter?” Din’s addressing you now, his bulky frame across the floor in two easy strides. 

You push away from your spot against the wall and drop your hands to your sides; there’s no nervous twitch to your fingers, only clenched fists, knuckles tight and prepared. You nod once, resolute. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Most new bounty hunters are in it for the fun. The thrill of the chase and the excitement of weeks on end racing across the stars can’t be beat; it’s a drug as heady as any other. It’s not a terrible reason to join the Guild, but the high of hunting criminals doesn’t last for long. Soon the unending monotony of planets and foulmouthed villains and cuts and bruises that scar deep grates on the soul. The job wears the nerves thin and papery, like parchment withered with age. It forms the body to steel, rigid against attack. And the heart? Shit, Din can’t remember the last time he let himself get comfortable or—

A wrench in his chest like the twist of a butcher knife through the ribs. A pair of round, deep eyes between oversized ears swims before his vision, and he remembers. Yes, there was a time—recently, not so long ago—where the metal cage around his heart unlocked and he let someone in, if only for a moment. 

But it’s easier—so much easier—to lock that part of yourself away for safekeeping. Fresh bounty hunters don’t know all that: all the job takes out of you, all it forces you to become against your own will.

Din isn’t surprised when you do not hesitate before responding to his question; he anticipated as much from someone with your ego. He is, however, intrigued by your answer and the calmness with which you speak. 

“Because the people you catch take advantage of people like me. I intend to stop that.” 

Naive—foolhardy—idealistic.

As he did Karga, he levels his finger at you, though he keeps his distance. You stiffen, face folding in a frown, and push his wrist away with a swat of your hand. He lets you. 

“I’m doing this for the credits and the beskar. I don’t care about your personal goals, however lofty you think they are.” 

You lift one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug and return your arms to cross beneath your breasts. “Doesn’t bother me.” 

“You default to my orders. Is that understood?”

You blink, slow and syrupy, lashes fanning your cheekbones. Your lower lip disappears beneath your teeth as you consider his request. Din sets his jaw, leaning forward, his chest expanding on a deep inhale. 

“I said: is that understood?”

It’s another moment—Karga seething, Just say yes —before you nod, chin dipping toward your collarbone in a single sluggish movement.

Din backs off. “One shit move and I throw you off the ship without a second thought.” Then, turning to Karga, he motions to the door. “Now give me those fobs. I’d like to get out of here while it’s still light.”

//

DAY ZERO

Five fobs—five bounties—the start of the rest of your life. The pucks clatter against one another, strung together on the Mandalorian’s hip. A red light, solid and small as a pinhead, winks at you from the center of each fob—on, off, on, off. 

Find me, find me, find me. 

A smile tugs the corner of your mouth. Stars, you’re excited.

You trail behind the Mandalorian, a lone duffel thrown over your shoulder. The bag, half-filled as it is, slaps against your back as you navigate the uneven terrain. You keep your eyes forward though, despite the roll and twist of your ankles over the hardened edges of liquid fire; you won’t let him —that hulking mass of gleaming metal and boorishness—out of your sight. 

The lava fields of Nevarro smell like shit. It’s the sulfuric lava running hot beneath your boots, you know that, but damn, the scent curdles in your nose like rotten yolk. Everything on this planet is dim and gloomy, cloaked in a heavy shroud of darkness: the landscape, the sky, the small outcrop of buildings. You are as eager to leave as you are eager to smell something sweet. 

You hope the Mandalorian’s ship doesn’t smell like shit, too. 

Since leaving the cantina, he hasn’t spoken a word, and neither have you. You don’t have anything to say, and polite conversation has never been your strong suit, so it’s easier if you keep your mouth shut—for now. You get the feeling there are plenty of arguments to be had, plenty of words that will cross like swords, over the next year. 

Your skin still burns with the ghostly remnant of his hold on your neck. He hadn’t even so much as flexed his finger muscles, but in that moment you felt it—the insane depth of his strength. He could crush you like a glowbug, squeeze until you ooze pus and blood like an irritating insect to be wiped away. He wouldn’t even break a sweat pressing and folding and pinching your neck until you died of suffocation, face blue and eyes bulging from their sockets.

Okay, so at least you know who— what —you’re dealing with: an asshole with zero people skills and brawn to spare. Sounds like every other man that has come and gone through your measly, sad existence. Par for the fucking course.

Unannounced, the Mandalorian stops walking. You catch yourself, tilting forward on your toes, before you can ram forehead first into the solid plate of his back. 

“Hey—watch it!” You clear your throat at the shrill sound of your voice and step to the side, out from behind his towering form. A harsh tug to the strap of your bag bites the flesh of your armpit, but it distracts your focus from the heat rising to your cheeks.

He casts you a sideways glance, and hell, for a helmet so masking, you can practically see the loathing in his stare. He’s unimpressed by you on all accounts. Which, you think, is fair enough considering you know the bare minimum about everything in relation to bounty hunting. He’s got his work cut out for him. 

Turning away, he pushes a square button on his vambrace, and the ground beneath your feet shudders. You careen your neck back, releasing a low whistle as the entry ramp to a behemoth transport ship lowers to settle on the cracked earth. Pressurized steam swirls around the gaping mouth of the ship, and the Mandalorian strides up the length of the steel tongue, tattered cape swinging behind him. You hurry up the ramp in his stormy wake, only pausing long enough to admire two blaster cannons stacked atop one on opposite sides of the incline. Outfitted for a fight, apparently. The excitement settled at the base of your stomach swirls to life.

The Mandalorian closes the ramp as you step into the ship. He’s halfway across the cargo hold when the ramp thunders shut and daylight is snuffed out like a candle. Pale blue light filters from the floorplates, and a frosty chill skitters across your skin. You resist the urge to rub your arms for warmth. 

There is little time to survey your surroundings before Metal Man disappears behind a glass door at the far end of the cargo hold. In a whirl of sucking air and mechanics, he is lifted to the upper deck, and you are left alone, to wait in thick, angry silence until the turbolift is prepared and ready for your ascent. When you exit the turbolift, you step into a curved common area.

Your teacher or tutor or instructor—whatever he is—stands at the far end of the room, shucking his weapons into a narrow compartment built into the bulkhead. He does not turn when the turbolift whooshes back to the lower deck, empty.

“Dick move,” you say, dropping your duffel to a padded bench against the closest wall. “You could have waited.”

He says nothing. Just drops the five fobs onto a circular table by his side. You eye them with interest. And you’re sure he knows—he’s probably got eyes in the back of his helmet—so you look away, shoving your hands behind your back as you stroll about the anteroom.

“Nice wings.” You poke your head down a narrow hallway to your left. “Smells new. Is it new?”

He sighs, the sound grating, like durasteel dragged over sharp rocks. You startle, spinning around on your heel to see him standing directly behind you. Fucker moves like an apparition, silent despite the pounds and pounds of heavy armor on his person. You’ll have to get used to that.

“Yes, it’s new.” He flicks a switch on the wall upwards, and the hall is bathed in warm white light. You count four sealed doors, two on either side.

“What happened to your old ship?”

He pushes past. “Nothing that concerns you.” 

You frown. Fine—be that way. Asshole.

The Mandalorian opens the first automatic door on the right side of the hall. He faces you as he swings his arm across the threshold. “You’ll sleep in here.”

Brows lifting with anticipation, you walk forward. You’re sure the accommodations are cramped, as is customary on most starships, but nearly everywhere beats the shithole bed you rented on Nevarro and anything beats where you came from. This is a nice ship, afterall—a hell of a lot nicer than anything you’ve ever set foot on before. Maker, you can already imagine the clean sheets and the fluffy pillow and—

Your jaw drops when you look inside the room. 

It’s the galley. He’s offering you the fucking kitchen .

Your head whips to the side. “This big of a ship and you’ve only got one room?”

“No, there are two. You’ll sleep in here.”

You scoff, open your mouth to respond with something snarky and rude, but he’s already moving up the hall to the cockpit. You grit your jaw hard enough to send a sharp pain lancing through your skull.

Gripping the doorframe, you call after him. “Where is your fresher? I want to shower.”

The Mandalorian lifts your duffel from the bench in the anteroom and tosses it down the hall with a flick of his wrist. It lands with a thud halfway to the door; a bra strap slips from a small opening where the zipper won’t shut. 

“It’s there,” he says, pointing to the door directly across the hall. “Don’t use too much water. We have to conserve between the two of us. I’ll give you ten minutes before we take off.” 

You bend to scoop your belongings from the floor, clutching them to your chest. A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over you, and all you want more than anything in the entire galaxy is to shut the door to your room and sleep. 

But the Mandalorian isn’t done talking.

“Oh, and don’t touch anything in the galley. Everything is—” 

You slip into the fresher before he can say anything—demand anything—more.

Nary a thought tumbles through your head as you stand beneath the scalding shower. Just the suds of a body wash you bought at Nevarro’s open-air market and the steam and the pounding water to drown out the voices in your head and your mounting hesitations. 

You shower for twelve minutes and towel dry, dressing in your only spare outfit, before slipping back into the galley. You seal the door behind you, careful to lock it from your end, though the thought does cross your mind that the Mandalorian can likely go anywhere he wants on his own ship, lock or no lock. He surely has all the override codes. Still, you hope the keypad in the hall now illuminated red is something he can respect.

The galley is modest in size—bigger than a shoebox, smaller than the least expensive room for rent in Coruscant. A steel table bolted to the floor, two chairs on one side, another padded bench against the wall on the other. On the far side of the room, a squat conservator tucked beneath a long counter and one cabinet scaling floor to ceiling. 

You drop the damp towel from your hair and the open duffel in your hand when you spot it: the caf machine, still snug in its packaging. 

Stars above! You haven’t had a good cup of caf in eons. Your fingers fumble as you rip the box open and unsheathe the magnificent hunk of white plastine. It’s a cheap model, one you’ve used before, and you’ll be damned if you let it gather dust in a box on the counter. 

You find caf beans included in the machine’s box, and it’s enough to prepare a single cup of caf. (You make a mental note to purchase as big of a bag of caf beans as you can get next time the ship lands. This year is bound to give you headaches, and nothing staves off the dull ache at the base of your skull better than some bitter bean water.) Drink made, you slouch on the padded bench and rest your head against the cold wall. Steam curls from the mug in your hand; it’s chipped at the rim, and you run your nail over the imperfection.

The ship has long since lurched into space. It glides through the stars with ease, and your eyes flutter shut as the hum of the engines vibrates through the vessel. A lullaby of old, from a long time ago, when things were better.

This is good. This will be good for you. 

You couldn’t exist on Inora anymore. Not as you were, anyway. Offering yourself up to the Guild seemed the only way out of that mess, and now here you are, secured an apprenticeship with a faceless Mandalorian who definitely has the skills and the weaponry to make you out to be the warrior of your imagination.

So you might be sleeping in the galley and your teacher might be a raging asshole, but you’ve dealt with worse. You have the scars to prove it, too. 

You want this. You need this. 

Defending the defenseless, protecting the prey—maybe this is how you make up for the loss of Jeelia…

Three hundred and sixty-eight days. A full year by the Galactic Standard calendar. 

Leaning over, you withdraw a datapad from your duffel. It’s cracked at the edge, but still usable. You open a new note and make a tally with the keyboard. 

You’re already counting down the days.

Chapter Text

DAY ONE

You wake to the sound of dishes clattering in the sink.

Jolting upright, you suck in a ragged breath, fingers scrambling for the small blaster tucked within the fold of your duffle bag. It’s automatic: the fear that comes with waking in a strange place, when unfamiliar sounds and sensations barrel through the relative safety of a good night’s rest. You’d been dreaming of home—of Inora—of the blue wheat fields that sway, sealike, churning, churning, churning—

That bowl hitting the side of the sink ripped you from home yet again. Unceremonious. A sucker punch to the gut.

The blaster slides between your palms to settle into a well-practiced hold, the metal chilled and worn. You know the grip and barrel of this weapon better than you know your own body; it is an extension of yourself, molded by years of horror and the curvature of your fingerprints. Before you’ve even adjusted to the harsh light of the room, vision still groggy with sleep, a shot rings out, your finger caught on the trigger without a second thought. 

The blast hits metal on a sharp ping , and you open your eyes to ascertain the damage. 

And pinpoint your target.  

You’d shot with your eyes closed, the adrenaline of such a rude awakening moving your limbs on their own accord. Probably not the best start to your training as a bounty hunter, you can admit that. If the Mandalorian ever finds out… 

The Mandalorian in question is looming over you when the dazed, unsteady curtain parts from your vision. You don’t need to sneak a peek beneath his helm to see the anger oozing from his body. Muscles taut and formidable, he towers over you, wide shoulders blocking the harsh glare of the galley’s overhead light. You squeak when he grabs your wrist, leaning hard into the back of the bench in a piss-poor attempt to shrink yourself beneath the weight of his anger. A singe mark—small, barely there, inconsequential—mars his right pauldron.

Oh—so he’d been your target. Shit.

Like the ill-aimed shot of your blaster, it is instinct that drives you to fight the Mandalorian’s grasp. He yanks your wrist as though he means to pull you to your feet, but you resist with a petulant humph , digging your weight into the base of your tailbone. You kick outwards when his right hand moves to catch your free arm, bare foot connecting with the hard armor covering his chest. Pinpricks of pain shoot through your heel, and you grit your teeth against the fuzzy sensation crawling from your foot to your upper thigh, a wave of tickling discomfort.

“Let go of me!” you shout.

“Give me the blaster.” 

Fuck, he doesn’t sounded at all winded or frazzled by your attack. You, on the other hand, are gasping for breath. Your throat runs cold with the crisp air of the galley and the violent storm rolling through your veins. Still, you don’t hand the blaster over. You keep your fingers curled around the grip—a dare, a challenge. Come and take it.  

Though you know Metal Man could snap your arm in half and end this if he pleased, he doesn’t. He merely holds firm to your wrist, vacant helm boring down on you. Time stretches, drips white hot tension to the floor; you half-expect the steel plates to fizzle with corrosion and peel back until a gaping hole swallows you both. 

Maybe this is a test? Maybe he’s figuring you out, determining whether or not—

He drops his right hand to your ankle. The leather glove bites the dry skin of your shin when his grip tightens. You set your jaw hard.

The Mandalorian wrenches you from the bench with one easy tug. You drop to your back on the unforgiving floor, limbs sprawled outwards like a newborn orbaks, air whooshing from your lungs in a hard puff. Your skull connects with steel, and spots swirl before your eyes in a blur of gunmetal grey and dancing black blobs. Oh shit, that hurts. It really kriffing smarts. The tempting urge to wave the white flag of surrender vibrates through your weary limbs, but you shove it down. You aren’t a quitter.   

Above you—knees on either side of your hips, head tilted to the side—the Mandalorian sighs. “Are you done?” 

Boredom—it drapes over his words like a warm blanket. He’s bored of this, bored of you. The indifferent edge to his voice stokes the embers in your chest and curls your hands to fists at your sides.

Are you done? Not by a fucking long shot. 

With practiced ease, you hook your feet around his boots and buck your hip upwards and to the right. You relax your shoulders, prepared to gain the upper hand as he rolls to his back; only—he doesn’t move. You frown, repeating the process, throwing your weight full force against his hips. 

He shoves an oversized palm to your shoulder, and you’re pinned to the ground. “Quit that.” 

“No! Get your heavy ass off me!”

“Not until you hand me the weapon.” He reaches for it again, but you flip to your stomach on a sudden roll and slide the blaster beneath the thin material of your tunic, wedging it between the floor and your breasts. 

Digging your elbows against the floor, you shimmy forwards, uncertain of your destination or direction. All you know is anywhere is better than beneath the hulking mass of a Mandalorian. 

Metal Man squeezes his fingers into the flesh of your calf, and you think he’s going to pull you down the floor by your leg, but you twist, withdrawing a thin knife from the waistband of your pants. It’s narrow, a curved blade with more sentimentality attached to the metal than striking power. Even so, you flick your wrist on a prayer, and the knife arcs through the narrow space between yourself and your supposed sage. 

You hold your breath.

The dagger hits the center of the Mandalorian’s chest plate and clatters to the floor with a pitiful thump. It spins like a child’s top until falling still, useless. 

So, that didn’t work. Red hot embarrassment burns from head to toe.

Your gaze drags from the blue hilt of the knife to the blank stare of the Mandalorian’s helm. He’s frozen, watching you as a predator hovers over its half-dead prey. He’s bored, unimpressed, calculating when it would be worth his time—worth the energy and the struggle and the sidestep from his daily duties—to put you out of your misery. 

Well—fuck that and fuck him. Fuck all of this.

Pressing your palms flat on the floor, you strike—one final time, just for good measure. Your heel collides with the sharp edge of his helmet, and he topples backwards finally, blessedly, hitting the deck on his ass. He cups the edge of his helmet as though you struck flesh, and, truly, you hope you did manage to knick him somewhere beneath all that metal. 

Your glee at felling him only lasts so long.

Like a snake shedding its skin, the Mandalorian’s posture changes in an instant. The uninterested sheen of his beskar fades, replaced by a glittering anger that blinds. His shoulders seem to expand as he rises to his feet. He steps forward, footfalls echoing in the poorly furnished room. He reaches for you, and you flinch. 

Cold dread douses any satisfaction clinging to your empty stomach. You’ve woken the beast.

“Okay, that’s it. You’ve had your fun, little girl.” 

Reaching down, he fists his hand in the front of your tunic, lifting you from the floor as if you weigh no more than a sack of chopped meat. Shrieking, you clutch his forearm with both hands to keep from losing balance. Oh Maker, your head is aching, spinning, pounding. He handles you like an inanimate object, but you aren’t. You aren’t. You feel it all. Every tight-fingered grip, every forceful nudge to your back, every disgusted glare. 

This is not what you imagined would happen when you volunteered for the Guild. 

Hand to your shoulder, he spins you on the ball of your foot and crowds you against the wall with his bulky frame. You twist your face to keep from cracking your nose, but your cheek catches on the head of a cockeyed bolt and tears the tender flesh. Tears threaten to spill onto your cheeks, but you swallow them down, down, down. You won’t cry—no matter how much your head hurts and your heart wants to shatter with the weight of your disappointment.

The chilled end of a blaster— your blaster in his grasp—presses against the small of your back.

“Why—the—fuck—did you shoot me?” He drags his tongue over the words, and you can taste his outrage. It’s thick, meaty, old and hardened like an ancient scar. 

You inhale a thin breath. It’s hard to talk with your face screwed up against the wall, but you manage to say, “Old habits die hard.”

He scoffs. The blaster digs deeper into the base of your spine, and you flatten your hands on the wall, arching your back to seek relief. “You’ve made it a habit to shoot the first person you come in contact with every morning?”

What a loaded question. It almost makes you laugh. 

Your body tenses, rigid against the onslaught of memory his question unearths. Mornings of pain, afternoons of despair, evenings of frantic, fruitless planning. It all feels so long ago, lost to the vacuum of space and time and your burning desire to forget.

When you speak, you will your voice not to shake, not to betray any of the treacherous emotion lurking beneath the surface. Easier said than done.

“I do what I have to in order to survive.” You bend your shoulder inwards in an attempt to loosen his grip; he holds fast. “Now, will you let me go, Mandalorian? I know it’s you. I won’t shoot anymore.”

Today anyway. You won’t shoot him anymore today.

His fingers extend, retracting again to pinch your arm, as he mulls over your concession. The toe of his boot nudges your foot, and you lock your knees, waiting in the heavy silence. You strain your eyes over your shoulder to pierce the visor of his helm, and though you know it would be easier to simply wait for release to skewer him with a dark look, you’d like him to know there’s still a fire burning within you yet. Even smushed against the bulkhead, powerless as you are, you won’t lick his boots just to heal his wounded ego.

Finally, he releases you with a shove to the shoulder. “Fine.” Your chin knocks the wall with a crack, and you bite down hard on your tongue. A thin stream of tangy blood sours your tastebuds. 

Whirling on your heel, you release a strangled groan of frustration. Your eyes squeeze shut and, before you can stop yourself, you stamp your foot on the ground. His words of moments before sling back at you, taunting and true, to slap your wounded cheek: little girl. Maker, what a soothsaying prick.

“You—” Your throat catches on an emotional warble. Fine then—even if your voice trembles, at least your gaze will remain steady. You open your eyes and level him your hardest stare. “You’re a fucking animal! ” 

The Mandalorian doesn’t deflect the sharp accusation. “I know,” he says and bends to lift your knife from the floor. He turns it over in his palm, inspecting it, judging it, before sliding it in an open spot on his tac belt. He tucks your blaster there, too. 

“Hey—those are mine!” Desperation claws at the edge of your voice as you step forward, hand outstretched, despite the fact that you’d rather be launched into space than a mere inch closer to this behemoth. The knife however, simple as it is, is one of the few things you have left of home, of family. You aren’t sure you can live without it.

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “And now it’s mine for the time being. I can’t trust you with weapons. Not after that stunt you just pulled.” 

Turning his back, he moves to the sink and resumes whatever chore started this mess, a disturbing silence blanketing the fall of his heavy boots. Another bowl dips beneath the faucet with a gentle splash. His right arm moves back and forth, back and forth. A steady rhythm, like the tick of a clock, unswayed and unmoved. Still pressing forward despite your indignation.

He must be under the false presumption the conversation is over. 

Not likely. 

Heavy and purposeful, your feet stomp against the floor as you follow him to the counter. You plant your hands on your hips, chin tilted upwards in such a display of childish arrogance your stomach curdles with self-loathing. (When did you become like this: harpy and shrewish, made of hate and disdain? Some days—most days—you barely recognize yourself.)

Still, you press into the anger, clutching the ragged feeling tight in your fist, and lean into his space with a glare. “You can’t teach me if you don’t arm me.”

The bowl he’s washing sparkles beneath the square light over the sink. He scrubs it anyway, circular pad scraping over the chrome, and you get the feeling he’s imagining you beneath that course brush. You get the feeling he’s imagining scraping you to pieces, washing you down the drain with a jet of water. 

“I can’t teach you if I’m dead,” he says, eyes rooted to his task.

A rush of emotion loosens your tongue, and you speak before you can stop yourself. “You also can’t teach me if you stay in the cockpit all the time, fucking your own hand.”

The air in the room thickens to paste. The Mandalorian stops washing the bowl.

Too far? Maybe. You have absolutely no idea what he does in the cockpit; haven’t been on the ship long enough to find out. Shit, you haven’t even seen the cockpit interior yet. And truthfully, you haven’t known the Mandalorian long enough to determine if he is more man than beast, capable of any such human urges. For all you know, there’s nothing beneath the armor but a ghostly vapor, a spectre sent to haunt you for the sins of your past.

But your cheek hurts, and your body aches, and your heart still races from your initial wakeup, and for the moment—for the moment, you believe he’s real. A real fucking asshole who looks at you with such contempt you feel like a bug scurrying out of reach of his steel-toed boot. He’s bigger than you, yes, but he’d said it before: you’ve got a tongue, and you aren’t afraid to pierce him with it at any chance you get. He doesn’t scare you. Not too badly, anyway.

The Mandalorian’s helm snaps to the side, and you can feel them—his eyes, his true eyes—boring holes into your skull. “I don’t—that’s not—” He shoves a finger in your face, as accusatory as his rigid tone of voice. He’s practically spitting on you. “You need to learn to watch your tongue.” 

You release a sharp breath, arms dropping to slap your legs in exasperation. “I want to learn! You brought me here to learn, and so far you’ve taught me nothing.”

With a rough shove to the counter’s edge, he pushes away from the sink to face you. You inch backwards, craning your neck to maintain some semblance of eye contact, however false it feels. “I brought you here for the credits. You’ve haven’t even been on this ship twenty-four hours and you’ve already fucked up. I don’t intend to waste my time on a lost cause.” 

You reel as though struck. “A lost cause? You don’t know anything about me or my abilities! You can’t judge me as a lost cause!” 

“I can do as I please. I told you: I brought you here for the credits. Nothing more. Get that through your head before you drown in disappointment.”

He steps back, but not before tossing the bowl to the counter. A sharp crack whistles through the room, and you wince, teeth grinding together hard. The sink faucet still runs strong as he blusters toward the door. 

But you catch him with another jab of the tongue, one you hope winnows its way between the gaps in his armor and pierces his gut. “Aren’t Mandalorians bound to some greater code of honor?” 

He freezes, though he doesn’t look over his shoulder in acknowledgement of your voice. No matter. You know he’s listening; you can tell when his chin turns ever so slightly in your direction. Good—let him hear you. 

Your tone hardens, though your lashes are heavy with unshed tears. “You spit on your own code by denying me, Mandalorian. Your ancestors must be rolling in their graves.”

The words hang—bloated, ugly, and vile—suspended like a marionette on frayed strings. You clutch the cross bar with gnarled fingers. Dance for me. Show me what you’re made of, boogeyman. 

If the words are your puppet and the Mandalorian your audience, he does not react as you thought he might. No jeers, no rotten fruit, no clambering for more, greedy fingers reaching for your painted creature. His hands merely flex as his sides: long fingers extending, curling into tight fists. His shoulders lift as he inhales; they drop when he exhales. 

You wait, heart thumping in your throat, perched on your toes, prepared to continue the show. Encore, encore —your blood pulses with the command.

To your disappointment, he doesn’t take the bait you so cruelly dangle before him. He simply leaves the galley. He doesn’t spare another glance, doesn’t offer a parting word. He leaves, and he takes your weapons with him.

The string snaps. The puppet falls. The door hisses shut, and you are left alone once more. 

A tense breath shudders through your lungs, and you sag against the counter. You glance down, wiggling your toes. All there; all accounted for. You remain whole, alive another day.

You lift a hand to touch the tender spot at the base of your skull and wince when a burning sensation skitters over your scalp. You don’t think you’re bleeding, but you did take a pretty hard wallop to the head.

It’s easier to tend to your bumps and bruises than sit with the reality of your petulance. 

You find a dusty medkit in the cabinet. It’s nearly empty of supplies, but there’s enough gauze to dab away the blood clinging to your scalp. As you hold the bandage to your wound, you root through the galley for anything of use or interest. There’s not much, but you do find a threadbare blanket, a bag of some dried vegetable that has a truly nice crunch to it, and—

—a child’s toy? You frown, wadding the gauze in your hand, as you pull the small stuffed creature out from under the bench. One ear of the blue monster is missing, a tuft of stuffing poking out of the hole. The stitched eyes are lopsided, the thin line for a set of lips equally as askew. A sock, you realize. It’s a stuffed sock with a hole at the big toe. Handmade, clearly. Forgotten—shoved?—beneath the bench to collect dust mites and hide vulnerabilities. 

You glance toward the door. It seems, like you, the Mandalorian perhaps has secrets of his own.

You don’t see Metal Man for the rest of the day. To be fair, you don’t leave the galley, and, so far as you know, he doesn’t leave the cockpit. It’s better that way.

Come nightfall—or whenever your eyelids begin to droop and you’ve rewatched every holofilm downloaded to your datapad—you lay down with the stuffed creature tucked beneath your arm, and you think of home as sleep threatens to overtake you. You think of your sister— Jeelia, Jeelia, Jeelia —dead, buried beneath the rocky Inoran soil. 

Dead by your hand.

You shudder at the wretched memory, pushing your face into the itchy blanket, clutching the stuffed sock all the tighter.

You need this. You need this to work.

Today—yeah, you’ll admit, your fault entirely. Though the initial response to waking in a strange place was beyond your control, the Mandalorian is right: you need to learn to hold your tongue—even if he is aggravating and mysterious and so unearthly broad. You can do better; you must do better. If not for yourself, than for the memory of that raven-haired saint who loved too hard and trusted too much. For her—always for her.

“I promise I’ll do better, Lia,” you whisper, words swirling into the empty darkness. 

She doesn’t answer. No matter how many times you will your fragmented thoughts and sorrowful apologies to reach her, she never answers. Is she no longer able to hear you call? Has the dirt surrounding her corpse choked her ears, filled her mouth, rendered her deaf and mute? Has her body withered away and returned to dust so quickly? 

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Too soon for a girl of Jeelia’s quiet, unassuming grace.

You call out to her anyway in the hope that, wherever she is, she knows. Knows that you love her, that you miss her, that you’re sorry… 

Dragging the back of your hand over your wet cheeks, you clear your throat. Tears—useless things. Better to act than weep. Jeelia taught you that. 

“I promise,” you say again. 

And this time, you mean it. 

//

DAY THREE

The Mandalorian doesn’t take you on the first hunt. He leaves you behind with the ship—though it’s not without your fair share of bellyaching. In the end, you suppose it’s only reasonable. You did shoot him two days prior. 

A timeout though you never really got the chance to start. 

Fuck, he really thinks you’re a child, doesn’t he? And perhaps your actions thus far have danced too similar to the behavior of a snot-nosed kid, but… You aren’t a child; you never had the chance to be a child, carefree and dirty and happy. Your youth—that fresh-faced, pudgy time of innocence—was ripped from your grasp before you even had the chance to realize what was taken and trampled by the feet of people bigger and more powerful than you. People like him… 

The day is embryonic, developing before you like a living thing, a fresh start. This planet—you didn’t catch the name, didn’t ask either—boasts a triad of suns, each more radiant than the last. Despite the early hour, you have to squint to keep from losing your eyesight. You wonder what high noon looks like here and if your eyes would fry in your skull if you looked directly at the sunlight sky. Some place the mark picked to try and shake the tail of a mythic beast. You’re sure that chrome bucket over Metal Man’s head renders the suns impotent. 

Arms over your chest, you lean against the bulkhead of the cargo hold, silent as Jeelia’s grave. A cool morning breeze drifts through the open loading dock and slips through the gaps in the weave of your lone sweater. Across the hull, the Mandalorian readies himself for pursuit, standing between the open doors of a weapons cabinet. He dwarfs the thing, his size made all the bigger by the narrow opening. Each weapon—a vibro-knife, the rifle strapped to his back, the thermal detonators he slides in his pocket—seems miniscule in comparison to the intensity radiating from his person. He stands there, unaffected by you and your presence and the task laid out before him, and he says nothing. Rote memory and gut instinct propel him forward as he moves, an automation wrapped in flesh. He is the calm before the storm. 

No—He is the storm, and the serenity with which he prepares to capture a villain and freeze them within carbonite ices the blood in your veins. How fitting—a steel grey beast, a harbinger of tempestuous doom. 

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you are more afraid of him than you care to admit. 

“I’ll be back by nightfall,” he says, strapping a second pistol to his hip. “Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

You arch a brow. “You sound awfully confident.”

Head turning on a slow swivel, he pins you with an irritated stare. You shift, gaze lowered, the bulkhead uncomfortable against your back. Stars, who knew a visor the color of pitch could be so expressive?

“When I say don’t touch anything”—he shuts the cabinet doors with a metallic clang—“I mean don’t touch anything.”

Nodding, you drop your arms and slide your hands behind your back. Your fingers tangle together in a tight wad. “Yeah, okay.”

A pause as he lifts the blinking fob—the heartbeat of his prey—from a nearby crate. “Okay.”

He pivots, curling his hand around the fob, and makes for the loading dock. 

“Wait!” You take a single step after him and cringe when the suns’ rays hit his armor. You lift a hand to block out the blinding glare. “What do I do if you don’t come back?”

He sighs and tilts his head back as though he’s cursing the Maker for ever strapping him with your sorry, uninformed ass. Placing one hand on his hip, he shifts his weight to the side. “I’ll be back,” he says.

“Yeah, you say that, but if you aren’t…” At his silence, you roll your eyes and imitate his stance, fingers curling into the loose fabric by your hips. “Look, Metal Man, if this mark happens to get the best of you and you wind up dead and burnt to a crisp beneath those suns, I don’t know shit about flying a ship like this. I’d at least like to have a backup plan of some sort.”

He points to the turbo lift. “In the cockpit. Set a course for Nevarro and the Sunder will take you there on auto-pilot.”

“Sunder? That’s her name?”

“Yeah.”

You smirk, pulling a wry grin. “Doesn’t that mean… like—”

“Split apart.” The Mandalorian pulls a pistol from the holster at his side. He unclicks the safety and hooks his finger over the trigger. “It means split apart.”

He stomps down the loading dock, closing the door behind him, before you get the chance to ask for further explanation.

Split apart? Your bicep burns with the weight of the stuffed sock you clutched all the night long. A shiver curls around your spine, viny and marked with thorns. 

You don’t want to know. Whatever it is he lost, you don’t want to know. It’s none of your business, and, frankly, you question whether it likens to the depth of your own tragedies. Though you don’t know for certain, you doubt he played a role in the death of whomever— whatever —he seems to mourn. You can’t say the same for yourself—and that is all the greater weight to bear. 

You hack through the unsettled feeling in your gut with a quick turn on your heel. You’ve got the whole ship, the entirety of the Sunder, to yourself now. The world is your oyster.

Growing up, your mother often chided you for your insatiable nosiness. Truffle hunter , she’d called you once. Like a fattened pig searching for hidden delicacies, you made it your mission to search for hidden secrets. Over time, that urge faded as you learned some secrets are best kept in the dark, locked away for no one to see. But even now, when you’re older and only a bit wiser, that desire to discover still remains, a glowing ember in your chest.

You poke around the cargo hull first. 

The assortment of crates and footlockers strewn about prove unexciting; the mainframe for the ship, too. There’s only so many mechanical parts you care to see, only so many blinking lights of which you can’t figure out the purpose, and to your utter boredom, there is nothing remotely personal, nothing tinged with some fragment of humanity, that might illuminate the man beneath the beskar. 

Perhaps he is composed of vapor and steel as you once thought. That would explain why you’ve never seen a sliver of his unarmored body, and why he hasn’t eaten in your presence, and why you can’t seem to get him out from under your skin . He’s haunting you, surely; his sole purpose to aggravate your soul until you collapse inward, a bright star made vacuous and dim by his arrogance.

Near the loading dock, an arched doorway separates the main cargo hold from—Well, you aren’t sure what. The pale yellow light emanating from tracks on the ceiling does not extend into the side room. There is only darkness beyond the doorway, a darkness thick with something twisted and ominous. Something you’d like to investigate—if only for a moment. 

Your feet pad across the floor, slow like the suspended rhythm of your heart. Your ears prickle with the ship’s unearthly quiet; in and out , you breathe, but even that’s too heavy in the fragile atmosphere. You’re walking on thin ice, willing yourself lighter and lighter so you can reach the other side of the lake. One wrong move and you plunge beneath the icy depths, caught in a bony-fingered deathgrip by your own inquisitiveness.

The muscles in your shoulders grow taut as you near the archway.

Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.

You won’t touch anything. You just want to look.

A motion sensor in the annex catches your hesitant step across the threshold. Harsh light floods the room, and you blink as your pupils contract in response. When you are able to see again, the air in your lungs runs cold.

The carbon-freezing chamber.

Of course. 

Of course, you shouldn’t be surprised. Bounty hunters and their affinity for carbon-freezing is hardly new information, least of all in this parsec. It’s quick, relatively inexpensive once the proper mechanics are installed, and a hell of a lot easier than carting around ornery marks from planet to planet. It’s just—

Shit, you really didn’t think you’d ever stand so close to a carbon chamber itself. 

It’s a tall thing, set back into the wall like an open coffin laid upright. A series of nozzles jut out from the interior sides, and a control panel on the left blinks white, primed and at the ready. Your finger hovers over the panel, but you curl your hand into a fist before curiosity gets the better of you. The last thing you need is for Metal Man to return to the ship and find you encased in carbon. How fucking embarassing that would be. 

Turning from the chamber itself, you shriek when you come face to face with a Gamorrean, his jaw wide, teeth bared, and talons curved outwards in a fight. You stumble backwards, tripping over your heels, stomach clenched in fear. (Maker, what you wouldn’t give for your blaster right now.) However, before you can defend yourself against sudden attack, your back slams against the freezing chamber. A high-pitched beep emanates from the control panel. You whirl, oncoming Gamorrean momentarially forgotten. 

“No! No, no, no, no !” 

Your hands slap wildly against the sides of the chamber, as though your palms could hold the carbon back, giving you a moment to step out of harm’s way. Panic claws at your stomach as you wait for the noxious gas to release and freeze your body in an immortal picture of your greatest screw up. Leaning back, hands pressed to the round openings of the closest nozzles, you slam your skull against the chamber on an angry whine.

Fuck. Fuckfuck fuck. The Mandalorian was right: you are a lost cause.

A moment passes, and you wait for the inevitable. Only—the hiss of the carbon gas never comes. The Gamorrean never slashes his claws across your face. There is… nothing. Nothing but that same steely silence and air bloated with mystery.

You open your eyes. False alarm—on both counts.

You drop your hands from the chamber nozzles. The perfect circles grooved within your palms taunt you when you turn your trembling hands over. Coward—fuck up—useless.

You look up. The Gamorrean hadn’t been as lucky as you. He floats, suspended in carbon, his lowest moment on display for any and all to see, like the strangest of home decor. A conversation starter, perhaps. Tell me: where did you get this piece?—I wrestled him into the chamber myself and drank my finest Daruvvian champagne as he froze. An experiential art piece you might say—Oh, how vogue! 

You shiver.

Once sure the threat of immediate danger has passed, the adrenaline coursing through your veins settles, replaced with a sick roil. You drop your full weight against the back of the chamber, chest rising and falling with considerable effort. Your mouth is dry, and your eyelashes feel wet and heavy.

A question bubbles to your lips, and you find yourself asking the Gamorrean, “Are we really so different?” The query falls to the warrior’s feet, unanswered, unacknowledged. You answer for yourself. “I’m not sure we are.”

It strikes you that bounty hunters and their bounties are not entirely unlike one another. From what you’ve seen of the Mandalorian, he is as brusk and angry as the Gamorrean frozen in an angry snarl before you. He is violent and vindictive and made hard and unyielding by a life of hard-won victories. He runs, too, running as though he has something to outwit and outlast. 

Will you become like him—like either of them, predator or prey—despondent and self-righteous and always running, running, running ? 

The ship creaks, a low groan breaking you from your reverie with a soft gasp. You look left, look right, shake the unsettled foreboding from your mind. What matters more than your unattractive future is that you’re lounging in the kriffing carbonite chamber. A premature corpse testing its own coffin. 

Not if you can help it.

Stepping free of the chamber, you give the Gamorrean one final glance. You are different from the bounty. Different from the Mandalorian too. This isn’t about running for you, not anymore. Your days of escaping the past are over. This—this running to find rather than running to hide—ignites a sense of justice curled deep in your soul. (For Jeelia; always Jeelia.) 

You can do it. You know you can.

You just need to be given the chance.

//

DAY FIVE

Another planet, another bounty, another hunt.

You wake after the Mandalorian. 

You don’t know if he sleeps. Though you know he frequents the room on the other side of the galley, you’ve never had the chance to see what he does there. For all you know, he enters the room and dissolves like smoke. For all you know, he is a figment of your crazed imagination, a demon clinging to your back as you slog your way through the deepest pit of hell. 

Still—no matter the hour, he always seems to be awake and moving. It’s downright infuriating. 

This morning, he stomps his way through the cargo hold, preparing for his— your —newest hunt. The sound of weapons and hard footsteps and clanging doors grows louder, more insistent, as the turbo lift descends into the hold. When you exit the lift, he does not pause in acknowledgement of your arrival. He merely continues a routine check of his blaster, pulling the weapon apart piece by piece, before reassembling. Rote skill; mechanical movements; a fucking droid if you ever saw one. 

Drawing in a sharp inhale, you squeeze your hands to tight fists. A chance—he just needs to give you a chance.

You step forward, heart thumping in your throat. Closing in on the open weapon’s cabinet, you slap your hand against the wall, adjacent to his head; near enough to startle, far enough to give you a chance to run. The thud echoes in the cold chamber of the cargo hold and jostles the unsecured weapons in the cabinet. His head turns to the right, and your reflection—angry, determined, brazen—stares back at you.

“You’re taking me with you.”

Chapter Text

DAY FIVE

“You’re taking me with you.”

The Mandalorian stills, lifting his visor from the dismantled blaster in hand. “What did you say?”

Swallowing the sick lump of fear in your throat, you drop your hand from the wall. A sweaty palm print remains, slick and glistening on the bulkhead. No matter. You push your shoulders back against the impassive sheen saturating his helm. Chin reared and brow raised, you remain stalwart in your determination, regardless of the tremble in your knees. 

You only need to be given a chance. Like Jonah in the belly of the great fish, you cry out for an opportunity to show him—that stinking, clanging metal god in the sky—your worth. He picked you, didn’t he? He chose you for this mission, and yes , you fucked it up, but—

He picked you. 

And he’s going to give you that second chance, whether he likes it or not.

“You’re taking me with you on the hunt.”

Quiet—thick, clogging the back of your throat with anxiety.

After a moment of apparent consideration, Metal Man shakes his head. The barrel of the blaster clicks into place as he resumes his work. “No.” His tongue scrapes across the word like sandpaper, and you wonder how often he speaks of his own accord. Rarely, your surmise. It’s any wonder his vocal cords work at all.

He fiddles with his weapon a moment more before sliding it in the hostler at his side. With a quick flick of his wrist, he slams the weapons cabinet shut. A clang echoes through the steel hull, reverberating through the ship like an angry wave. You bite your tongue to keep from jumping in surprise. 

“No, I’m not taking you,” he says; each successive word rings the valves of your heart like a wet rag gripped between unforgiving fingers. “Forget it.”

The Mandalorian turns his back, programming a series of coordinates into his vambrace. 

This morning, hair wet from a shower and steam fogging the ship’s lone mirror, you’d stood in the fresher, arms dead weight by your sides. You’d blinked, worked your jaw back and forth, wiggled your nose. The girl in the mirror—with her bloodshot eyes after a shitty night’s rest and a scab on her cheekbone from an incident days before—moved along with you, a duplicate version of yourself. Only this girl—this you —a smoother, more sensible version. A version more like Jeelia.

Do it, the girl in the mirror had said. Whatever he says, do it and don’t complain.  

You’d frowned. I can’t let him win. Not so easily. He’s been nothing but a shiny ass.

The girl in the mirror frowned back. And you’ve been any better? Put your wounded ego aside, and he will see you are teachable. You used to be a—

You’d swiped your hand across the clouded glass, gaze cast to the side, away from your reflection. Fuck the girl in the mirror. It will take more than one brawl in the galley or scare in the carbon-freezer to squeeze the fire out of you.

You cross your arms, searching for something— anything —that might compel him to bring you along on the hunt. Sure, the girl in the mirror might be right: you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar. But you’re fresh out of honey, and you can’t be bothered to release the walking tin can from your well-sealed vat of vinegar. 

You toss the only chip you have left to the table, face calm and collected against your roiling insides. All in.

“I’ll notify Karga if you don’t take me.”

The Mandalorian all but snorts in derision. “Really?” He swivels on his heel to face you, and you picture a brow arched beneath the bucket on his head. “What are you—seven? Going to tattle on me and hope you get your way?” 

Hot blood rushes to your ears, embarrassment a chalky feeling on your tongue. The arms folded over your chest no longer feel iron-clad with defiance; now more soft and shielding, like a mother’s long-felt protective embrace. Your lower lip worms its way between your teeth, and you tear your eyes away from the distorted rendering of yourself—cretinous and oblong, deformed in a stark picture of your own self-image—reflected in the Mandalorian’s armor. 

Sucking in a short breath, you huff before returning his stare with one of your own. “Karga needs me,” you say—and you both watch the lie spill from your mouth and coat the hull with a fine layer of slime, putrid with desperation. “He needs me trained and he needs me ready for the day your old ass ultimately gives out. You don’t train me and you’re putting him in the lurch. He won’t take kindly to that.”

To your surprise, the Mandalorian ignores your logic, ignores the obvious falsehood, and centers on his vanity, clutching it like a broken mirror in his hand. He pushes one hip to the side, fist on his waist. “Just how old do you think I am, girl?” 

You shrug with an ambivalent shake of your head. “Old enough you won’t be pick of the litter much longer. Not with Karga hinting at retirement.” 

“I’m not that old.” He reaches for the bounty’s puck, head lowered and body twisted to the side, but you swear—until the day you inevitably wither like a leaf under his unending hostility, crushed to flaky dust in his palm—you swear he mutters, “Young enough to still put you over my knee.”

Your heart squeezes with a sudden rush of fear. “What?” A frosty whisper, tight with crystalized uncertainty. He couldn’t have meant… Surely you heard him wrong… 

An image of you—ass bared in the dim light of the Sunder, draped over his knee, cuisse dug deep in the space between your ribs—flashes before your eyes. You can almost feel his hand, naked and unforgiving against tender flesh, if you think hard enough, if you allow yourself to dissolve in momentary fantasy. 

No, he couldn’t have meant that. And you— you —couldn’t want that.

“What did you say?” you ask again, though your heart hammers with an unspoken plea: please don’t answer, please don’t answer, please don’t answer.

By the Maker’s great grace, Metal Man has moved on, comment forgotten. He tosses the fob across the hull, and in your stupor, it clatters to the floor. “Pick that up,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “I’ll take you, but on two conditions.” He waits until you hold the fob in a vice-like grip, back straight and eyes sealed on his helm, to continue. “You listen to me. You do what I say. No questions asked.”

Shoving aside the image of his fingers kneading the plush of your ass, you clip the blinking puck to your tac-belt with rigid fingers. You nod once, and he appears satisfied enough to lower the loading ramp and begin his descent into sunlight. 

You, however, hesitate at the top of the decline. A stiff breeze toys with the hair at your brow, and your breath hangs suspended in your chest.

The Mandalorian breaks his stride halfway down the ramp. Turning, hands on hips and shoulders taut, his head tilts in that sarcastic, irritated way that makes your blood boil. “What is it?” he asks, tone clipped.

You don’t answer. Instead, you wheel around, stomping for the weapons cabinet as quickly as your legs can take you without running. You’re working on borrowed time here—he’ll only let you dawdle for so long before he leaves you behind—but you won’t run. Not for him. 

Tucked along a narrow shelf at the top of the cabinet, you find what you’re looking for. As predictable a hiding spot as any. Drawing the object out of the darkness, you grip the bone handle of your dagger— I can’t trust you with weapons. Not after that stunt you just pulled —lips quirking upwards in a ghostly smile. That smile widens as you lift the knife, inspecting the knicks, the dull edges, the secrets the weapon holds that you know so well. The sun hits the curved dagger, and light shatters over the wall in jagged lines; a kaleidoscope of fragmented histories all forged in the metal of a single blade. 

The Mandalorian’s conditions ring hollow in the empty hull: You listen to me. You do what I say.

Listen to him? Yes, you’ll listen. But as you turn the dagger over in your hand, feel the rush of pride that comes with its history, feel the power that surges from head to steel-toed boots—

You can’t promise you’ll do as he says.

//

“Okay, this place is officially a shithole.” 

You push the fluorescent green drink on the bartop aside, at once regretting the choice to order something in an attempt to blend in with the locals. It was a waste of credits to purchase a drink that smells so foul, with a dead insect lounging on its back garnishing the foamy top. But more than that, it was a decision made on unsound logic. You want to blend in? Fat kriffing chance. No matter what you do, say, or buy, there’s no blending in anywhere. Not with a hulking Mandalorian beside you, anyway. 

If the trek from the Sunder to this backwater cantina is any indication, you need to get comfortable in the limelight—and fast. Your skin still crawls with the lingering, pervasive gaze of dozens of eyes, visible and invisible, that tracked your every step as you entered town. Curious eyes; suspicious eyes; eyes that could barely touch upon the Mandalorian’s boot before skittering away in fear; eyes that beheld you, judged you, wrote your story before you even had the chance to offer it. 

If you could tell them— 

If only they knew—

The Mandalorian huffs, breaking your thoughts. “Get used to it.” 

His arms rest on the counter, one hand curled around a vibrant blue drink. Spotchka, he’d said; he’s yet to take a sip. He shifts his weight, and from across the cantina, you might mistake him for nonchalant and at ease. Just a guy with a helmet out for a nightcap. But you know him. Or, at least, you are beginning to know him. 

He is always hunting. 

He scans the room, chin of his helm twisting almost imperceptibly; a smooth, effortless rotation. He listens over the clamor of tinny music to the nearest conversation, ear tilted close to a pair of jabbering Twi’leks. A steady drum against the bartop, his pointer finger counts the cantina’s newest entry and their slow footsteps. One—drag of a lame foot—two—drag—three…

You roll your eyes. Show off. 

Turning around, you drop your elbows to the bar and press your back against the rough wooden edge. You sweep your gaze over the room and the undulating unwashed mass within, eager for a drink and a moment of respite from the ever-swirling struggle outside. The cantina being lit only by waxy, dripping candles strung from the ceiling, it’s difficult to tell one creature from another. Not that it matters. The Mandalorian hasn’t provided you with a shred of information about the quarry. No name, no description, no species. You are playing poker with empty hands, and Metal Man—the dealer—keeps his cards close to his chest. You’ll have to bluff your way to a victory, it seems.

“So.” He visibly stiffens at the sound of your voice, and the girl in the mirror’s admonishment floats back to you, clouding your ears with superfluous fluff. Let him see you are teachable. You look away, focusing on the three-species band to keep yourself from piercing him with an angry stare. “Do we just stand here all day until the target waltzes up and asks to be taken in?”

“No.”

“Then we—what? Announce ourselves and hope they obey? Gather everyone together and take them all in for good measure?” You cringe as you survey the crowd once more. The place stinks of crime and ne’er-do-well filth; a blight on an otherwise beautiful planet. “There’s bound to be more than one bounty in here.”

The Mandalorian shakes his head, his visor trained on you for the first time since entering the cantina. “I’m sure there is, but we’re only here for one.” 

“And you’ve yet to tell me their name, by the way. Or even a description.” You arch a brow in his direction. “Really, for someone who is supposed to be training me in the art of bounty hunting, you’re not giving me much to work with.”

For a long moment, he remains silent. The music swells, laughter squalling in the intoxicated atmosphere; yet your universe shrinks until it is him and you and a wide canyon filled to the brim with disdain. You hate it when he does this, when he says nothing and lets the impenetrable helmet do the work of a stern lecture for him. Shame creeps up the back of your neck like a pillbug, but you crush the insect between your fingers until sticky goo stains your fingertips. He holds no power over you.

Finally, he breaks his silence with a dreary, “The bounty is—” 

But you beat him to the reveal, pressing onto your toes with childlike arrogance. “The guy in the far left corner. The one with blond hair.” A nonchalant wave of your hand toward the back of the room punctuates your first in, hopefully, a long line of wins. He may hold all the cards, but you have a few aces tucked up your sleeve.

The Mandalorian does not so much as move a muscle in surprise, but you do hear a threadbare note of shock when he asks, “How did you know that?”

“He’s nervous, antsy. Has been since we entered the place. He even got up and moved so he could watch you rather than have his back turned to the bar.” A wicked grin catches the corner of your mouth. “I don’t think he likes you, Mandalorian.”

The sigh that punches through his voice coder sounds like a boulder tumbling over a cliff: aching and tense, tired too. “Mando… please. I hate when you say that.” 

Your gaze swings away from the mark, back to the Mandalorian, incredulous. “What? Mandalorian?”

“Just—call me Mando, okay?”

“Okay. Whatever you want, Mando .” 

You shake your head with a snort of amusement, daring to reach across his arm and pilfer the untouched spotchka from his stiff fingers. First success of the evening, and maybe you’re letting it inch too close to your ego, but after days of failure, simply being right is enough to loosen your tight muscles. Appraising the blue drink, you toss it down your throat, eyes locked on his helm until the bitter liquid lands heavy in your stomach.

You run your tongue over your lower lip. Quirk an eyebrow in challenge. Slam the shot glass down on the bar. 

Let him underestimate you now. 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t do that.” 

—He moves, slow and serpentine, so that his hip presses against the bar’s edge, his body angled toward yours. His hands fold near his waist, and you are again struck by the familiarity of his stance. Before leaving on the hunt, you imagined him swallowing the room with his presence, stopping the galaxy and all its inhabitants in their tracks with his cold exterior alone. You never imagined him leaning in, voice lowered to a velvety rasp, words dripping with spiced honey and— 

“Because I don’t have time to put you over my knee like you deserve.”

You gasp. Like a child caught with her hand in a tin of sweets, you gasp, sharp and edged with outrage. Gods teeth, he knows . He knows you heard him in the belly of the Sunder, knows it stopped your heart and turned your muscles to iron. He knew all along, and he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. A snake slithering after its prey, silent but sure, until the moment it pounces, jaws locked in victory around a helpless victim. 

Your stomach heaves. Heat—a fiery, mortified inferno—melts your flesh until it hangs on your bones, listless. The smug bastard chuckles, insidious like the Devil himself, and you know he’s smirking in triumph beneath the metal bucket obscuring his features.

You will your voice not to shake when you find the nerve to speak again. “That’s him?” You nod to the tow-headed man in the corner. “That’s the quarry?”

Mando’s head turns as he follows your pointed stare. “Yes, that’s him. Gavyn Kiminn.”

Gavyn—poor, unfortunate Gavyn. Neither he nor Mando will know what hit them before you’re through.

Shucking off your sole pair of gloves, you drop them to the bar with a hard, leathery slap and pin Mando with a fierce look. “You’re going to wish you never said that to me.”

You step away from the bar, already working your jacket down your arms, but he grabs your elbow, wrenching you backwards. Hard beskar meets your back, and you release a tiny oomph before a steel-edged growl fills your ear. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Wiggling free of the jacket, you step out of his grasp and away from the impossible heat of his body. Despite layer upon layer of cool, unfeeling armor, his anger pulses through the rigid covering in pungent wisps of raw emotion. It’s stifling. 

When you turn to offer one last glare, the brown leather droops in his clenched fist. He looks bewildered, even with the helmet, and a shot of pride washes through your veins like a healing elixir. 

“I’m getting the fucking quarry. Without your help.”

He grits out your name—no longer girl , but the title your mother gave you at birth, when she first beheld your round eyes and dewy skin. You would cry sacrilege, make him beg for atonement for daring to speak to you thus, but you’re halfway across the cantina before the sound of your name on his lips settles in your mind like sin. 

You force it aside—the indignation, the embarrassment, the single filament of curiosity that weaves its way through your psyche. All of it goes to the wayside, left to rot in a heap, as you step onto the dais and into Gavyn’s booth. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt…” You push a hint of anxiety into your voice—that light, fluttering wave that ignites a man’s protective instincts. 

The quarry looks up from his conversation with an angry Zabrak to examine such a bold intrusion on his conversation. His gaze drags from your face to your boots, paying special attention to the most feminine parts of your figure. He leans back and arches a brow.

“Can I help you?”

You smile, move to speak, and smile wider when Gavyn lifts a finger to silence the Zabrak’s burgeoning protest. “Actually,” you say, leaning over the table. The collar of your shirt hangs low, and Gavyn’s eye falls to the cleft of your cleavage. “There is something you could do for me.”

//

Din can barely breathe. His lungs shrivel inside his ribcage, useless sacs rendered paper thin by some invisible force mocking him from on high. He wants to retch, to violently expel the toxins that sour his tongue and corrode his stomach, but he can’t. He must remain motionless lest he fall to the floor and shatter into a million jagged pieces.

This is the Way.

A good bounty hunter learns by trial and error. Some of Din’s finest lessons were born from his deepest failures. He knows—he remembers —what the heady rush of power did to him in his youth. How it drove him to stupidity and foolishness. How it nearly cost him his life. And though every muscle in his overworked body screams for him to stand, to cross the cantina and put a stop to your nonsense , he cannot. He will not. You must learn—on your own.

This is the Way.

So he watches, eagle-eyed, as you usurp Kiminn’s attention and sidle into his booth. He watches as you smile, as you toy with a long-chained necklace around Kiminn’s neck, as you rest your chin in the palm of your delicate hand. He watches as Kiminn offers you a drink and you toast the squat glasses of rubbish, tossing your head back on a laugh. He watches as Kiminn leans close, murmurs something, and you nod, eyes sliding in Din’s direction. He watches as Kiminn seals his lips over yours, lifting a hand to caress your collarbone. 

He watches, and he does not move from his place in the shithole cantina, seated in a booth obscured in darkness. He drapes both arms across the back of the seat and keeps vigil, ire in his stomach molten and bubbling. You must learn—on your own—and he must allow it.

This is the Way.

Your reception to Kiminn’s kiss is an eager one: mouth opening without hesitation as the quarry angles closer, scarecrow arms tangling with your supple flesh. Where Kiminn is boyish, adolescent in his wanderings, one palm kneading your breast with a white-knuckled grip, you are graceful and lissom, flower petals unfurling despite his hurried touch. 

Din has always known you to be agile, both in mind and body. Since meeting, your sharp tongue, quick reflexes, and dogged persistence have plagued him, infected his ship, torn him inside out with disdain. You are a mold growing over the body of the Sunder, sprouting noxious bulbs that bloom and spread cancerous filth. Everywhere he turns, you are there—scowling at him, bating him with your snappy one-liners, defiling his threadbare Creed with your ignorance.

He’d kiss the ever-present, haughty smirk off your face if he could.

He has always known you to be agile—he can concede this is your strength—and yet, as he watches you enmeshed in Kiminn’s embrace now, he is reminded of the first thought that crossed his mind upon seeing you in that backwater bar on Nevarro: Just a girl—barely a woman.

He was wrong, then. He knows that now. You are Woman indeed. 

Your head lolls to the side as Kiminn drags his mouth over the line of your jaw. Eyelashes fanning high cheekbones, you open your neck, pressing your fingers into the other man’s shoulders as he pulls you onto his thigh. You seem unbothered, unphased, by your suggestive position and the swirling atmosphere of the cantina. You kiss Kiminn as though the booth is hidden behind swathes of rich fabric; you rut your clothed core over his leg as though you are bare beneath the candlelight. 

Just a girl—barely a woman. Wrong—wrong, wrong, wrong.

Din grits his teeth. Too much time has passed since he indulged and felt the vice-like grip of a slick pussy around his cock or spilled his seed in something other than his own hand. And after so long, this show you perform sets his skin on fire with need. He knows your game—a flytrap luring her dinner before swallowing it whole—yet he watches, enrapt, as much prey as Kiminn himself. 

Loathe to acknowledge the tremble of his finger, he taps a series of commands on his vambrace before he can stop himself. The electronic panel within his visor centers on you, blurring anything in periphery. His audio sensors stick to your voice, and the frenzied noise of the cantina splinters apart, forgotten.

It’s condemnable, watching you like this, his attention solely on your writhing hips and gentle sighs, but Din has never claimed to be good. 

What was it you named him? A monster? Yes, he is monstrous. Of that there is no doubt.

Kiminn drags his palms from your back to the gentle motion of your hips. For a moment, he stills your movements, whispering something Din cannot decipher around the focus on his helm. You cock your head to the side in thought, and a purple bruise flowering on your neck catches in the room’s warm lighting. Then you nod, and he hears you clearly— Yes, I think I’d like that —your voice viscous. Not with lust, but vengeance. 

You rotate on Kiminn’s leg, bracing your forearms on the round table. You set your gaze forward, into the congested depths of the cantina. With the onset of night has come more patrons, and Din strains his neck to see over the room full of heads and laughing shoulders. But you are there, poised above the throng in your booth, much like his own. Your actions, though half-shrouded in shadow, remain on display for all to see. For Din to see. And you must want that—for him to watch you unravel at the hands of a mere child—because your sights find him with unsettling quickness, and he swears you look into his eyes hidden beneath the helm.

Kiminn lifts his hips beneath you, and your mouth opens on a low whine. He does it again, again, each time the bulge of his cock pushing into your wanting heat. You flatten your hands against the table, eyelids half-mast in pleasure. A perfect circle, your lips, wet with moisture from your tongue. The swell of your breast pokes free of your shirt as the quarry bounces you against the table’s edge.

Kiminn must be… well-endowed for you to moan with such truth. The sounds that fill Din’s helm ring with clarity and a starting honesty. He’s heard those sounds before, and he’s seen the glassy look on your face before too. At his own hand—those sounds, that look—in the throats and eyes of the women he’s taken after the heat of a fight or in a moment of destitute need.

Now you, at the hand of—

His heart hammers out a painful beat in his chest. His tongue balloons in his mouth, cracked and dry like the sand dunes of Tatooine. He can feel his blood pulse pulse lower, lower, lower , his cock aching in his flight suit. His mind—a wasteland, empty and throbbing.

Arms spread nonchalant behind him, he lifts one foot and presses it into the cracked seat covering of his booth; and when he drops one hand to adjust the growing protrusion in his pants, you whimper. The broken sound freezes his hand in place, and he squeezes himself. A rush of relief skitters over his skin, blissful and agonizing at once. He goes to do it again, to toy with you as much as you are toying with him, but—

Kimmin slumps to the side, temple knocking the table on his downfall. You drop too, away from him to the other end of the bench, chest heaving, breast on full display as you stare at your defeated mark. 

The galaxy stills—Kimmin, passed out cold; you, a rising glow of pride on your face as you sit in the silence of your victory; Din, hand on his cock and lips parted in shock.

He scrambles to undo the honing features on his helm as you slip from your booth and jump from the dias with a heavy thud. Gaze locked forward, you saunter across the cantina, waters parting in your wake. There’s a natural sway to your hips, one Din has noticed before in passing, but tonight, he can’t keep his eyes off of you, the back and forth glide of your body, the bobbing of your breast.

You reach his booth and step through his hazy cloud of want, dropping your palms to his table. The corner of your mouth lifts in a smirk. “Go get him,” you say. “He’s all yours.”

Din rises from the bench with creaking muscles. His blood runs hot, the shameful lust of moments prior ebbing to a churning disgust. Flexing his fingers, he reaches out—and your back pulls straight in fear, eyes wide, distrusting. He holds his hand in placation until your shoulders drop from their defensive hunch.

Then he glides his thumb and forefinger along the displaced neckline of your shirt. He adjusts the green fabric until your breast is covered, once again a mystery. Your brow furrows in a question he does not answer.

He walks across the cantina and gathers the bounty. 

Chapter Text

DAY FIVE

You flop to your back, kick your legs out from beneath a threadbare blanket, scrub a hand over your cheeks. Below your narrow bedroll—the one you found squirreled away in a hidden compartment, the one you felt no compunction stealing for your own use—a buckle in the steel floor scrapes your spine. 

Sleep seems a foreign concept, a scheme of the nebulous past. You cannot find rest when your blood pumps hot through your veins. You cannot doze, however uncomfortably, with this warmth in your gut, this churning thing that claws at your stomach and makes fuzzy your mind.

We—don’t—fuck—bounties , Mando had said upon returning to the ship. He’d shoved the incapacitated bounty into the carbonite freezer with scarcely a glance, his movements wavering, unpracticed for a hunter of his talent.

You open your eyes. The ceiling, formed of grey unbreakable iron, stares down at you, mocking in all its similarity to a certain helmeted mass. 

So long as you’re under my training, we don’t fuck bounties into submission.

You huff into the night. And just why not?

Gods, Kiminn.

Thinking of him now brings a repentant pang to your chest. Somewhere below, in the belly of the Sunder, he hangs in a block of carbonite, slumped at the waist, head bowed and arms drooped at his sides. A limp, incognizant fool, tricked by the oldest scam in the books. And though his body froze with ease, forever marking him as malleable and gullible, his erection remains, hard as ever, never quite diffused despite the drug you slipped and watched fizzle in his drink.

Thinking of him then, though, in that muggy cantina with the bad liquor and crummy music… 

You roll to the side, squeezing your legs together. Best you don’t think of it anymore.

Only—it’s a challenge to keep your restless mind from wandering the well-worn path to him and the feeling of his girth folded beneath you. It had been quite some time since you felt a pair of warm lips caress your own, and Kiminn kissed well. It had been quite some time since you experienced the delightful pressure of a rigid cock against your clothed core, and Kiminn presented himself as an eager offering, one you would have drank to the full and discarded without care. Stars, you would have ground your clit against his bulge until you shattered, never mind his sour breath and sweaty palms. Simply his presence, his willingness, his size, was enough for you.

Your ruined orgasm lingers between your legs, an incessant buzz that grates your nerves more than the buckle beneath your bedroll. 

Mando says you can’t fuck a bounty, can’t risk lowering your guard and ending up in a pool of your own blood? Fine—but he didn’t say you can’t fuck yourself.

Turning to your back, you strip your lower half and settle your head in the relative comfort of the folded sweater you use as a pillow. The wan light of the galley drenches your bare legs in a soft glow, and you sigh, eyelids fluttering shut as you skim your hand over the valley of your stomach. Instinctively, your muscles tighten at the feather-soft touch, but you will yourself to relax. The door stands locked to the outside; you are safe here.

The galaxy slows, narrowing to a pinpoint as your fingers find your damp heat. A residual wetness from the evening’s earlier escapades remains cornered at your entrance. It’s not much, only enough to coat your first two fingers in sticky slick. 

It will have to do.

Planting your feet on the floor, you swirl your fingers over your clit, pushing against the nub at each new swipe. You hum in delight to feel the bundle of nerves so sensitive already. Hello, old friend. A beaming grin cracks your face, and you giggle, low and intoxicated. 

Oh, you’ve needed this. Since before Kiminn you’ve needed this. All those torrid emotions of the last five days—anger, anxiety, fascination, suspicion—seem to melt as sparks of pleasure ignite your carnal senses.

The pleasure mounts as you work your wrist faster. Over and under, a dip of your finger to the growing wetness at your pulsing hole. You squirm, jaw dropping on a quiet moan as your fingers nudge the place you feel most empty. You tickle your finger there, thrumming the delicate chords of your body. Back and forth, up and down, but never in, never quite enough.

Your chest heaves, head tilted back against your pillow, as your hips buck upwards in desperate search for release. But you want this moment—this sacred, vulnerable moment—to last. Each time you find yourself at this place, this precipice of glory, you will yourself to stay— staystaystay. There is nothing better than this, surely. If something better than this exists, you don’t care to know of it.

When you can stand the emptiness no longer, you anchor your free hand to your clit and slide your drenched fingers within the tight cavern of yourself. Your throat hiccups around a moan. So tight, so wanting. Dank farrik, even in your contentment with yourself, a thread of desire for something more—something thick and stretching and masculine—niggles the back of your mind. 

“Later,” you whisper, uncertain of your own meaning. “Later—oh gods—”

In and out you pump your fingers, pushing yourself to the brink of ecstasy with each forward motion. Your left hand worries your clit in a steady circle, and you scissor your fingers against your pulsing walls. Hot breath leaves your mouth in aching gasps, murmured whines. So—close—so—close.

Teeth set in determination, you open your eyes. The room’s low light doesn’t illuminate much, but it is enough to watch yourself unfold. Watch the hedonistic slip of your hand between your legs. Watch your hips jerk against your swallowed fingers.

With little warning, you burst. Pulse after wrecking pulse of energy rips through your body. You shudder through it, a supernova peeling you apart, and a broken mewl parts your lips as you come down from the peak of pleasure.

In the afterglow, you smile, soft, edged with stardust. Your heart rate slows, your breathing evens. You stretch your arms over your head and smirk at the twitching muscles in your thighs.

That was good. You needed that. Kiminn’s cock—any man’s cock, for that matter—might have satisfied your need all the more, but you are content with your own abilities. For now.

Pulling your shirt over your head to ward off the galley’s persistent chill, you find your discarded blanket and snuggle beneath the musty, dust-ridden weave. Sleep seems tangible now that you’ve soaked your fingers and eased the flurry of desire in your cunt. A quiet dream laps along the current of your mind, and you step, bare foot and sated, into the stream—

—and for the first time in five days, you find rest with ease.

//

Din lies naked on his bed.

A bed—yes, a bed. Has he had one before? He cannot remember, but here, on a bonafide mattress complete with soft sheets and a plush pillow, sleep evades him night after night. 

It is a rote occurrence—his spiraling descent into some pitiful excuse for sleep—a tragedy performed for an audience of one:

He comes unglued as the door seals shut on a whoosh. Separated from the armor he wears as a second skin and the mask of apathy that defines his features, he falls to the bed, broken and bare. The mattress molds to the length and contours of his body, the pillow shrouding his head in downy comfort. The bone-deep maladies plaguing his limbs soften in this tender, delicate place; and he is cocooned by a warmth and an opulence he has never before known. 

He hates it.

The tall, arched ceilings throughout the upper deck—the triad of circular viewports which bathe his bedroom floor in streaks of starlight—the cockpit with stuffed leather seats—the fresher with textured glass and a chrome-gilded mirror.

Kriffing hell, it’s excessive. He never wanted this, never asked for a ship painted in luxury. He gave up the bulk of his credits for the Sunder on the promise of her speed and agility. He paid without stepping inside, too eager to leave the star system that took his child—his ad’ika—from the palm of his trembling hand. Had he known how plated with frippery the Sunder was he might’ve reconsidered. 

In the sole place he can bring himself to acknowledge the flesh beneath the armor, he feels alien, ousted by his own incompetence. He is gargantuan and ambling, an overgrown child toddling on unsure feet. He was not made for this—for smooth linens and well-stocked galleys and a living apart from subsistence. He was made for struggle: hand-to-mouth, tooth-and-nail. Breaking bone and bloodied hands and running, running, running.

This he knows. 

This is the Way.

Tonight, however, Din is too distracted to fight. The angst which carves through his bones—tells him this is too much, he is unworthy, he is nothing but a glorified butcher—knocks at the door, but he ignores the siren call. 

Later, he thinks, uncertain of his own meaning. Later.

Hair dripping from a shower, body slack atop the cotton-soft comforter, his length strains against his stomach, pulsing. Needy.

Later, he thinks again. This is now.

He feels a measure of shame upon wrapping a hand around his throbbing cock. It’s not the physical act of finding release which floods his face with a flustered heat; in that purely human act he finds no regret. No, what skewers his gut are the images that flash before his mind, unbidden, delicious.

In his mind’s eye, he sees you. Like a glittering moon, cratered with feminine mystery, awash in the galaxy and tied to nothing but your own inhibitions—he sees you. Perhaps for the first time.

The cantina is empty, silent, bloated with a fragile sense of peace. The room glows, heavenly lit by dripping candles swung over wooden beams. Splat—splat—hot wax dripping, worming its way between the ancient floorboards. 

Din lounges in his booth, as he did before, when reality forced him to remain in his place, hard and aching. Only now Kiminn sits blanketed in obscurity, and there is naught but you and the Mandalorian. In this fabrication, Din’s head—free of its metal cage—rests against the wall behind him, his legs spread, propped on either side of the bench. He strokes his cock as he watches you, as he drinks you in. 

You writhe against the boy’s leg like a bitch in heat. Your hands pressed flat to an invisible table, he sees it all: the swirl of your hips, the brush of your cunt against Kiminn’s bulge, the rise of your breast as it inches closer to the neckline of your blouse. You are laid bare before him, a thing of ancient lore. All woman , oozing power and might and everything that brings a man of his caliber to his knees. In this place, he willingly kneels.

You meet his gaze across the room. You see his face and your hands lift—shaking, perhaps; yes, shaking—and you pull at your blouse. Your breasts spill like soft fruit from a basket, and you are moaning, tugging your hands through your hair, eyes shut and mouth open. You are cumming at the sight of him, he thinks. 

Din sucks in a sharp breath, and the image fades, rippled like disturbed water. It doesn’t matter. He’s close. 

He brushes a thumb over his weeping tip, jerking his length faster, harder. The galley—you—on the other side of the wall yet he cannot stop. He grits his teeth as he works himself to the edge. The sound of his hand slapping along his wet girth propels him closer to the chasm of release; he imagines the sound belongs to you and your hot, sticky cunt. 

He will cum to the thought of you tonight. Then no more. 

No more. 

He spills over his hand, his stomach, with a guttural whine. Good—it feels good, like a burden lifted from his shoulders. Mind empty, ringing with pleasure, he massages his length until there is nothing left to coat his skin. When he is spent, his cock remains stiff in his hand, and he holds it, fingers wrapped tight around himself.

Oppressive silence. It threatens to swallow him whole.

Din looks away from the white liquid curling around the hair on his pelvis and releases his cock with a heavy sigh. He is tired; more than anything, he is tired. He’s getting too old for this. Maybe not in his physical body, but in his heart. He can’t take the constant fight and wrenching ache much longer before he crumbles to dust and is blown away on a western wind. 

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and finds a discarded rag on the floor. After wiping himself clean, he stumbles on shaking legs to a small dresser against the wall. The glass of water he left there—how many days ago now?—tastes stale, but he welcomes the hydration. It’s not often he truly nurtures the human side of himself. Bracing his hands against the low furniture, he ducks his head between his shoulders.

He wonders if Grogu is sleeping better than his far-away father.

//

DAY SIX

You wake at the witching hour, when all hangs suspended in viscous, amber tension. The galaxy—all of creation—holds its breath in anticipation of something. Something wretched, something divine. Who can say but the stars themselves? You dare not attempt to predict the future anymore. You’ve learned your lesson. 

It is not uncommon for you to rouse in the middle of the night in search of a snack. Long days call for good meals, and though food on the Sunder remains in consistent supply, it is less than exciting. Tasteless and bland, more salty than sugary. It does the trick in silencing your hunger pains when they rise, but you miss the delicacies of home: hearty cuts of sugared wriklu, tea-smoked silk bread, dragonturtle salad. You crave something ripe with flavor, but you’ve yet to locate the Mandalorian’s hidden stockpile of sweets. Not due to a lack of trying, though. You’ll find it—eventually. Everyone, even droid-esque grumps, hordes candy. 

Your muscles ache, body worn thin by your less-than-comfortable sleeping arrangements. Rolling to your side, you sit up in a stretch, groaning through the pops and pulls of your joints. You rub your eyes as you stand, a small yawn parting your dry mouth. Water—you’ll get water first then hunt for sweets. 

The galley door opens on hiss, and you pad into the dark hall. The tap water from the fresher faucet tastes fine, if not slightly tangy with metal. New ship, you remind yourself. 

Holding the glass of water to your chest, you wander down the hall into the small annex leading to the cockpit. You like it here, have often found solace beneath the overhead viewports when you can’t sleep for fear of the past coming to haunt your dreams. Though no anxiety hounds your spirit tonight, simply standing beneath the swirling stars, tilting your head back to appreciate your smallness in the immensity of space, sets you at ease. You hum in appreciation, a smile curving your lips. You never thought you’d leave Inora, much less see the galaxy. So perhaps, as your mother once said, good can come from bad. 

Or perhaps fortune simply favors the wicked…

The annex shines with the lambent blue of the emergency lights laden around the ship’s baseboards. It’s enough to see by, but only darkened silhouettes, hazy outlines of things you know to be vivid under proper lighting. You lift your hand toward the viewport. Starlight sketches the width of your palm and the lengths of your fingers, and when you curl your fingers inwards, the light follows, glimmering, magical. A tittering laugh bubbles to your lips and escapes before you can swallow it. A bird free of its cage; a child, somewhere deep inside of you, reveling in a moment of levity. 

“Find something amusing?”

Whirling on your heel, the glass of water in hand clatters to the floor. Liquid wets your bare foot, and the cup rolls away, knocking against the wall. 

“Mando!” You clutch a hand to your chest. “Shit, you scared me.” 

The Mandalorian sits at the narrow booth in the corner, clothed in darkness, arms draped over the back of the bench. Not eight hours ago he’d sat in much the same position and massaged his own cock while watching you in the cantina. Your cheeks grow warm at the memory you haven’t allowed yourself to revisit. You shove it away once more.

Later.

“What are you doing out here? Skulking around?” There’s more bite to your tone than you anticipated, so you clear your throat and cross your arms over your chest. Defensive, yes, but who wouldn’t be before him? 

His helm tilts in question. “I could ask the same of you.” A pause. “It’s late.”

“I was…” You frown. What were you doing out here? You can’t remember. His stare penetrates to your very soul, carding through your hard layers with ease. “Thirsty,” you finally say. 

He gives a noncommittal hum then goes silent, staring. Staring. 

You remember the nakedness beneath your sleep shirt with no aplomb. Any self-assurance you felt upon waking evaporated the moment the Mandalorian broke your reverie with his graveled voice. It’s too late—too early—for this, for him. You aren’t strong enough to withstand his presence when the memory of what he did as you bagged Kiminn tickles the forefront of your mind. 

Maker, he’d touched himself when watching you in the cantina. You’d seen it—a simple squeeze of his cock, an adjustment of his hard length—and it was over as soon as it began, but you’d seen it. And you think he’d wanted you to see. A chill prickles your skin at the thought. 

Had he—truly? Had he wanted you to know your sensuous playacting sent blood rushing to his cock? Had he wanted you to see him press his palm to himself in search of relief? He must’ve because he hadn’t been discreet. You can conjure the image of him rolling his hand over his bulge with little effort. It stands in stark relief to anything else you saw throughout the day. 

Maybe… Gods, maybe you should have fingered yourself to the thought of him, not the bounty but the Mandalorian in all his silent surety, palming himself as he watched you hump Kiminn’s leg.

A nervous lump rises to your throat, and you fist your hands at the hem of your shirt, tugging the fabric closer to your knees. 

“I was thirsty,” you say again, answering a question he never asked. 

Silence stretches thin like gauze, porous and delicate. Then—

The Mandalorian shifts his leg to the side; the fabric of his pants draaag across the leather bench with the slow movement. Legs spread, he cocks his head once in a come here motion, a silent command. Glittering starlight highlights the faded orange of his gloved fingers as he pats his thigh. Once, twice, three times.

I told you, girl: I can put you over my knee.

Your feet move of their own accord. 

Your better judgement dissolves, sand between fingers shaking in anticipation. 

Mando reaches out to circle his hand around your wrist as you draw closer to his side. His touch is polite, patrician in the way he guides you to lean over his proffered thigh, and you go easily, bending at the waist to drape yourself across his legs. In the room’s dim lighting, you failed to notice his lack of armor before, but you see it now. Or rather, you feel it. The material of his thick-woven flight suit bleeds through the soft cotton of your sleep shirt and snags along the sensitive parts of your skin. He is close, closer than he’s ever been, and you find yourself in a precarious state of limbo: To submit or not to submit? That is the question.  

Hard muscle flexes beneath your chest, and you gasp, dropping your neck from its stiff incline. Question answered. You want this. Whatever this is—whatever he wants to do to you—once and only once, you will kneel willingly before his throne.

He presses one palm to the back of your thigh, anchoring you to his leg. The leather of his glove is cool on your hot skin, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from releasing another breath. Gods, you feel like you’re drowning, desperate for air, and he’s barely even touched you. His right hand tucks an errant lock of hair behind your ear, and you shiver, blood pulsing rapidly through your veins. You can smell the wax he uses to grease his blaster on his glove.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he murmurs. Is it really possible for one voice to be so deep, so studded with gravel and a natural husk? You aren’t sure, but the sound goes straight to your core, cunt squeezing tight around nothing.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to speak in a clear, resolute tone; he won’t hear you beg. “Don’t stop.”

The pendulum of ambiguity skids to a halt. It hangs motionless, and you know: 

There’s no going back.

Mando trails his fingers down the ridges of your spine before finding the hem of your sleep shirt. He moves the covering over the rise of your ass so it pools in the small of your back. A rush of recycled air breezes over your body, and your knees draw inward at the sensation, but Mando adjusts his spread, forcing your legs apart again. His hand settles on your bare bottom, gloved-fingers pressing the supple flesh he finds there. 

“How old are you?” he asks. 

After a moment of uncertainty—Does it matter? I’m here aren’t I? My legs are open for you. For You—you tell him, and he huffs through his nose; a mythosaur-like sound, a sardonic imitation of the likeness he carries on his pauldron.

“A young thing.” He pinches your skin, and your eyes fall shut. “Compared to me.”

The first strike of his hand on your ass sends you lurching forward. Tiny pinpricks of pain scatter up your spine and set the hair at the nape of your neck on alert. He does it again, to the untouched side of your bottom, and you stifle a whine by forcing your cheek against his leg. Gasping, you curl your fingers in his pant leg to keep from dripping to the floor, molten and moldable like candle wax. You look upwards, sealing your gaze on the viewport overhead. 

You remain unaccustomed to such an intimate view of the universe. And in these slow hours, when the Sunder hovers in the balance between a necessary assignment and a moment of respite, you bask in the untamed glory of space. It robs you of your breath every time.

The Mandalorian smacks your ass again, this time harder, frustration ebbing along the fringes of his touch. You grit your teeth when your exposed clit catches on a fold in his pants. Krif, that feels good. In spite of the pain that comes with every spank—and they keep coming, smack after smack, your skin burning under his hand—your clit rubs against his thigh each time, and an explosion of pleasure diffuses the pain. On one particularly hard swat, your mouth drops open on a heady moan. Mando kneads his fingertips into your swollen ass cheek, and you squirm, searching for the friction of seconds before. He dips his pointer finger to the cleft of your most intimate opening. Swirling his finger there, you whimper. 

More, more, more; it’s not enough. Never enough.

“Filthy,” he mutters. He drags his finger, wet with your juice, up the crevice of your ass before swatting you again. 

Once more, and you grind your clit against his leg without shame. Once more, and you seal your arms around his opposite leg for stability as you rut against him. Once more, and—

The orgasm that hits you is a slow, creeping thing. Your knees tremble as your body undulates against his thigh, pussy weeping between your legs. You gasp through it, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Ooohhh,” you sigh, dreamy, weightless, a flower petal in the wind. Your body jerks through the aftershocks as you come down from release. 

You feel Mando’s gaze tighten on your face. “Fucking filthy little thing.” Funny—in the recesses of your mind, where all is clear and not muddled by desire, he sounds prayerful. Worshipful.

Mando doesn’t allow you a moment to recenter before he grabs both shoulders and wrenches you to a standing position. Pitching forward on foalish legs, you catch yourself on the polymer-coated table, though you slip, falling to your elbows no thanks to sweaty palms. The rustle of shucking clothes invades your ears, and you arch your spine. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, and your head bobs in a desperate nod. “I’m going to fuck you better than the boy in that cantina even thought he could. Do you understand?” When you only nod in response, he grabs your chin, pulling your head back. You can’t see him, but he covers you like a steel trap, doors locked, thrown into an abyss of need. “Answer me.”

The voice that escapes your mouth cannot be your own. You swore you wouldn’t beg and yet: “Yes. Maker, yes. Please. Please, please fuck me.”  

He frees your chin, and your head falls forward between your shoulders in a heavy, intoxicated slump. You brace your legs, forearms tight on the table, and when he slides the fat head of his cock between your wet folds, your throat hitches on a mewl. Oh, he feels divine, and he’s barely even nudged your entrance. 

Drawing in a deep breath, you move your arm to push away a sweaty lock of hair from your forehead. The movement sets the Mandalorian off balance where he steadies himself on your hips, and he slants forward. His cock skips your pulsing hole, sliding on a bed of slick to prod the tight ring of your ass. 

“F-fuck,” he stammers.

You grab his forearm, shaking your head. A single word falls from your lips before you can think better of it: “Later.” You return his large hand to your hip and wiggle your hips, pushing against his erection. “Later.”

Mando notches his cock at your pulsing cunt once more. With one hand on your hip and the other gliding over the skin beneath your shirt to grab your shoulder, he thrusts forward. His rigid length pierces you, forcing you to accommodate his girth with nothing but your arousal and leftover cum to guide him. It’s a tight squeeze—Gods teeth, he’s big—but you welcome the edge of pain. He stretches the cavern of your pussy, molding you to the shape and form of him until you aren’t sure where you end and he begins. He sits sheathed tight in your core, and you feel him pulsing, feel his heartbeat in his tip, nudging that spongy spot in your depth. 

He withdraws, then, and you hear your wetness smack around his length as he moves. Again, he pushes to the hilt and withdraws. An unhurried pace, fingers tight on your flesh. You place your forehead on the cool table and focus on the sensation of him—big and broad and bullish—slowly splitting you apart.

“F-feels so good,” you whisper. The complement is not meant to flatter nor to curry favor. It merely slips, like so many things do in this erotic place, from the heart of you, unbidden and unquestioned.

He removes his hand from your shoulder and grounds himself at your hips. He growls something—something foreign and untraceable—beneath his breath, and before you get the chance to ask, he hammers his cock into your cunt. He drives into you as though he intends to create a new ditch in the earth, one perfect for planting, soft with dirt and swollen with potential. Over and over, pounding back and forth into your pussy like you are nothing more than a ragdoll. Your jaw hangs limp, and each impact of his cock punches a drunk moan out of your chest. 

An orgasm, one more sparkling than the last, buzzes in your cunt, and you crawl for it, greedy thing that you are. He makes you feel good enough to writhe in desperation, the sensitive nub of your clit aching for attention as he takes you. 

More, more, more; it’s not enough. Never enough.

Mando wraps a forearm around your chest and hauls you upwards until your back meets his chest. Your toes strain against the chilled floor, fingertips slipping at the table’s edge. At this new angle, the head of his cock plunges against the most delicate spot of your body, and you sob in pleasure. Your fingers twitch, tilting inwards in search of your clit, but he bats your hand away. 

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, and you keen. His voice—oh, you could cum to the sound of his voice alone.

He presses his thumb to your clit, all the while his hips jerking a shallow rhythm against your ass. Circle after circle, thrust after thrust, until you grasp your orgasm in hand like a treasure. You stare at it, that glowing, elusive thing, and with a final thrust and swipe of his fingers over your clit, the shining orb bursts.

You cry out in something akin to delirious agony, body wracking with tremors and mind-numbing pleasure. Slouching at the waist, you convulse through the high, barely aware of how Mando’s length slips from your dripping heat. The delirium of your orgasm fades all too soon, though, and then it’s the sound of his hand on his cock, pumping, pumping. A wet slapping noise that reignites the endless desire in your cunt. You twist, go to look over your shoulder and watch him unfold, but he’s too fast, too hidden behind towering walls to allow you to witness him crumble.

He presses his hand to your face, forcing you down against the table with a thud. “D-don’t. Fucking—st-stay there.” 

You inhale and catch the scent of your cum and his desire on leather fingertips. It’s a salty, musky aroma, and if you could, you would bottle it, wear it around your neck like a fucking heathen. 

Mando cums with a strangled groan, spraying your backside with his warm seed. It trickles between your ass cheeks, carving a narrow path to your cunt. What you wouldn’t give to taste it.

Without warning, the behemoth slumps in exhaustion, draping his body weight over the expanse of your back. His helm digs into the flesh of your neck, and you swear you can feel his hot, labored breathing against your skin. But perhaps that is a figment of your wanting imagination. You still aren’t convinced he isn't a machine beneath the helm. A well-endowed machine, but a machine all the same.

He rolls his softening length against your heat, and you whine, pushing back against him, but he doesn’t take the bait. He shuffles backwards, and that same sound of cloth moving on cloth dampens your desire. Whatever this was—whatever he just did—it’s over now.

Mando slaps your ass once more, and you hiss, stumbling forward, hips knocking against the edge of the table. Your shirt falls back into place, covering whatever modesty remains in your repertoire. Your throat runs dry, cracked with too much air, and you glance across the room to where your glass lays empty on the floor. 

Bright light floods your vision, and you wince, lifting a hand to cover your face. Blinking through the spots that swim over your eyes, you look to the side. Mando stands in the hall, and seeing him under the room’s harsh light, you want to scoff knowing he’s as broad without the armor as he is with it. He shakes his wrist once, twice, flinging whatever juices remain on his fingers to the ground.

Then he lifts his face and his visor hits you. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

He leaves before you can call him a prick.

Chapter Text

DAY SIX

You scrub the toothbrush across your teeth, pressing the stiff bristles into the sensitive flesh of your gums. Minty foam gathers around the curves of your mouth, dribbling onto your chin, yet still you brush— hard.

Like a gargoyle with a ridged spine, your back curves over the sink. Granite arms and granite legs—useless, monstrous things that render you immovable. Your fingers grate the sink’s chrome seal, wearing down the reflective metal until your likeness blinks back, twisted beyond recognition. Your tongue hangs in a snarl as you dig the toothbrush through the cavern of your mouth. Eyes beady, nostrils flared. 

Regret has made you this way. Bitter apologies—let me purge that which made me thus from my very soul.

Your cunt… It aches.

It is evening again, the day having come and gone without note. You’ve learned that the passage of time amongst the stars is ambiguous. Like an interstellar cloud—bold, beautiful, mystical—minutes tick by, unhurried, on a gait entirely of their own making. No matter your efforts, you cannot force the hours to move faster. The carrot you dangle at the end of your stick is not enticing enough for the fiend that is Father Time.

Spitting into the sink bowl, you check the chrono attached to your wrist. Well past midnight judging by the watch’s cracked face. You haven’t seen Mando all day.

In all truth, you haven’t left the galley until now. After— after —you stumbled to your bedroll on shaking legs and buried your head beneath your sweater. Regret—bitter apologies whispered to yourself in the dark—purging the thing from your soul. You don’t like to think about it, that weakness which forced you across his knee, allowed him to touch your flesh and feel your warmth and hold you tight against his un-fucking-armored chest… 

You spit into the sink again. Varicose blood swirls down the drain.

Footsteps in the hall grab your wandering attention, and you twist, dropping your toothbrush to the sink’s edge with a clatter. The Mandalorian strides past the fresher without a sideways glance, and you note, with some chagrin, the return of his armor. The beskar glints beneath the hall light, winking in mockery. Rage simmers in your stomach.

“Hey!” A day without speaking above a murmur and your voice—loud, fractious—sounds like the crack of a whip in an empty tomb. 

He stops. Turns his head. Clenches a gloved fist.

You stick your hip to the side and fist your own hand, propping it on your waist. See—I can be like you too. “We shouldn’t have done that,” you say.

There is no reason to explain the meaning of that . He knows; of course he knows. 

You wonder if his dick is as sore as your pussy. Somehow, you doubt it.

As he inhales, his shoulders straighten to their rigid posture of old. “No, I guess not.” An alarm sounds from the cockpit, but he makes no move to silence it. “It won’t happen again.”

You narrow your gaze, though by now, you know nothing penetrates the black void of his visor. “I should hope not.”

The alarm continues, bleating into the ship’s abundant silence. 

He resumes course, footsteps now soundless. 

DAY SEVEN

The crackle of Mando’s voice over the Sunder’s intercom system pulls you from your concentration: 

“Come to the cockpit . I want to speak with you.” His tone brooks no argument, clipped and stern. Demanding.

You drop your greased hands with a huff, tilting your head back to stare at the circular speaker overhead. “Well, sure, I’ll come right now, your eminence.” Cutting the salty-sweet color from your voice, you toss a rusted bolt to the galley table. “It’s not like I’m doing anything.” 

“I can hear you, girl. This is a two-way system.”

You don’t care enough to dismiss the angry flush that warms your cheeks. 

Sliding from the bench, you exit the galley, wiping your hands along the seams of your pants. Half a morning wasted. You can only scrub and grease your blaster so many times before it gets ridiculous, and you crossed the threshold of ridiculousness a long time ago, going so far as to prepare a place for yourself at the family table. The absurd—the illogical and the asinine—became kinfolk as soon as you agreed to this farce of an education; you know the clan well.

The cockpit of the Sunder sits below the main deck, offset from the body of the ship in such a way you wonder if the navigation controls were merely added as an afterthought. Luxury before practicality. In your week onboard, you’ve yet to see behind the curved double-doors; it’s one of two places you haven’t bothered to snoop. You don’t know the first thing about flying, and you doubt Mando is willing to give you control of the helm for the teaching he sees as futile. There’s no point in sneaking around and breaking something, further pissing off the Mandalorian more than you already do.

No, away from the cockpit, away from the annex, it’s much safer. You’ve grown to prefer the galley, where the boogeyman cannot ram his cock six inches deep in your cunt with still more to give…  

Fuck. Your core flutters at the memory. How thick, how curved and rigid, how slick with the evidence of your mingled, profane desires.

The cockpit doors on the opposite end of the annex slide open. You look up, away from the water glass, still discarded on the floor. By now the spilled water has dried, but the images of that night remain, seared behind your eyelids like brand. 

From the pilot’s chair, Mando glances over his shoulder. “Are you coming? Or are you going to stand there all day?”

Rolling your eyes, you hop over the two steps which descend into the cockpit and drop to the floor with a soft grunt. The doors hiss shut, wide jaws snapping closed around trembling prey, and you stand sealed in the belly of the beast.

It strikes you that the Sunder was not made for a man—a creature —such as the Mandalorian. You considered this upon arrival, but seeing the cockpit only confirms your suspicions. However Mando came to acquire the ship, he is certainly out of his depth. Certainty out of his preferred aesthetics. The oblong space drips with unnecessary frivolity, contrary to his apparent need for scarcity: a wing-backed pilot’s chair, matching co-pilot’s chair adjacent; two tufted leather settees facing each other on either side of the room; round, exposed light bulbs that do not shine, but glow, soft and inviting. Seeing Mando behind the controls, bedecked in armor and boots crusted with mud, you have to swallow a laugh. Ridiculous. You drop unceremoniously to the co-pilot’s chair, kicking your boots onto the flight deck. 

Mando’s shoulders twitch forward, as though he intends to swipe your legs from the sloped dash, but he growls instead, curling his fingers around the double joystick. The sound scrapes through his voice coder, and you stiffen. His moan of release sounded eerily similar, husky around the edges, desperate for something untold. The spot where his seed landed burns bright, a blazing sun of sin. Slowly, you pull your legs off of the flight deck and adjust your rumpled tank.

You stare into the vacant nothingness of deep space before saying, “You know I have a name, right?”

Indifferent, Mando’s head swings to the side. “Do you?”

“Asshole,” you mutter.

He returns his gaze forward, releasing his tight grip on the joysticks, seeming to relax. His body slouches in the chair, arms crossed over his chestplate. With a gentle push of his foot, the chair spins in your direction until he faces you. You eye him—but only for a second. Looking at him too long… it turns your skin inside out with deprivation. You half expect him to pat his knee again, and you aren’t sure you’d have the strength to refuse such an offer.

“What you did in that cantina—”

“I’m not going to apologize if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He sighs, looking away for a moment before his visor finds its way back to you. “You didn’t let me finish.” Dropping his arms, he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. He might see you as a child, but the reprimand for which you steel yourself is sure to be anything but fatherly. Misanthropic more like. “What you did in that cantina was reckless. Had Kiminn been any wiser he would have gutted you like a fish after fucking you senseless. It was stupid and a perfect example of why I never wanted you onboard—”

A frown withers your brow. “Fuck you, Mando. I did bag him, didn’t I?”

Mando sits back with such force the pilot’s chair whines in protest. “Let me finish .” Eyes wide, you shut your mouth with a snap. “It was stupid what you did, but gutsy too. And a bounty hunter has to have guts before anything else. So”—a weighty pause—“I’ll train you.”

Your arms slide from their protective hold around your middle. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.” He swivels the chair, recentering himself at the control panel. “I’ll train you.”

“I—what?” Shaking your head, you search for the words—a single word—which might capture the depths of your surprise. “I didn’t think you’d ever—”

“Well, I am.” Movements fierce, he punches a series of coordinates into the flight panel. The Sunder lurches to the left, and you curl your nails into the padded armrest. “There are three fobs left. I’m putting you on a trial period. Three fobs, three chances.”

“And if I don’t live up to your expectations?”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “If you fuck up badly enough, if you disobey me again, you’re gone the second we get back to Nevarro.” 

“Fine.” You rise from the co-pilot’s chair. “I can agree to that.”

Mando looks upwards to meet your stare, but you are the one who feels minuscule, like a crumb he intends to brush aside. “I didn’t ask if you agreed. That’s my offer. You either accept it or you don’t.”

You pause to consider any alternative options to his proposal: there are none. 

Sighing, you extend a hand. “Then I accept.”

He nods once and takes your hand between thick fingers; the bones in your palm cave inwards under his grip. His touch is gone before you can ruminate over the heft of his hand against yours.

His focus circles back to the ship’s controls, and you recognize the silent signal as one of conclusion. He’s done with you for now. You hesitate a moment longer before stepping toward the doors. Until you remember—

“Oh, by the way…” Fishing in your back pocket, you unearth the grey, stuffed sock you discovered all those days ago and offer it up; a hackneyed peace offering. “I found this.”

Mando stands at once, body vibrating with an increased tension unlike anything you’ve experienced from him. Plated man made flesh, desperation rolls off him in angry waves, salty with hatred. “Give me that.”

A nervous laugh parts your lips, and you hold the creature to your shoulder before he can grab it. “I didn’t know you needed a security blanket, Mando.”

If blank, visored looks could kill… 

Your tongue runs dry, coated with gritty sand of unease. Perhaps this time you’ve gone too far.

Snatching the wrist pressed to your shoulder, Mando rips the sock from your grasp with his free hand. The air in your lungs goes cold, and you murmur hey with an uncertain warble. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says—and no, it becomes clear at once, unfolding like a jasmine flower:

When it comes to Mando, you know nothing.

He brushes past with a hard push to the shoulder, his forearm knocking against tender flesh. You stumble to the side, uprooted by shock more than his pointed nudge. Something in you flounders, a fish out of water, flopping helplessly at his feet. Save me from myself—please.

You step forward and call after his retreating form, “When do we start?” 

He continues walking. “We already did.”

//

The Sunder touches hard-packed earth several hours later.

The landing is a rough one. You find yourself slipping to your ass in a graceless heap with a shriek, the unforgiving deck of the cargo hold offering a far-from-comfortable welcome. A dull ache shoots up the length of your spine, and you wince, massaging the tender spot on your tailbone. Once more the ship belches, a rapid up-then-down motion. Nausea sparks in your stomach. You protest with a clenched fist slammed against the wall and an indistinguishable shout in the upper deck's direction.

What the fuck does Mando think he’s doing? He’s a better pilot than this; you know that. If you find out he’s flying so erratically on purpose—perhaps in retribution for being so kind as to return him his stuffed animal—you’ll rip his head off with your teeth. Damned brute.

He exits the turbolift before you’ve regained your land-legs. Crouched at the waist, one hand on the wall for support and the other at your knee, you scowl at him as he crosses the hold, impervious to your stare.

“Did you do that on purpose?”

The loading dock opens on a loud hiss, and he looks over his shoulder as a wash of sunlight and warmth enters the frigid hold. “Do what?”

“That landing!” You roll your pinched shoulders, frowning. “I wasn’t ready.”

He says nothing before angling his head. “Rough atmosphere.” He holds your unblinking gaze, neither one of you convinced. The momentary tension fades when he tears his visor away and points to the weapons cabinet. “Grab a blaster and the Amban rifle.”

Your heart stutters in surprise.

Stars, it’s happening.

For the first time, you move without gripe or grumble. You’ve been waiting for this, have been wanting this, since you stepped into the Mandalorian’s near-holy realm. He’s a legend, a god of destruction, a sage of ancient skill. To be his pupil is to be his disciple. And while you refuse to worship him or kiss his boots or beg for his forgiveness, you do respect him. Or respect his expertise, at least. You’ve fucked it up before, and you aren’t willing to backslide now. Best foot forward, mouth wired shut. For yourself—for your home—for your sister.

Mando snickers as you scramble around the maze of crates and containers separating you from the beginning of your new existence. He leans against the bulkhead, arms and ankles crossed, backlit by the planet’s yellow sun. “Someone’s excited,” he murmurs.

Head whipping to the side, you stop short. Heat floods your cheeks, stomach gone tingly. But Mando ignores your obvious embarrassment and nods to the cabinet, his meaning evident in the impatient tap of his finger on his forearm. You comply, though your movements become reserved, slow and deliberate. When you turn from gathering the weapons, sliding your personal blaster between your pants and your belt, he shakes his head, stepping away from the wall. 

“No, not that.” Mando takes the Amban rifle from your grasp and slings it over his shoulder in one easy stretch of his arm. Then—

He hooks his forefinger in the belt loop of your pants and pulls. Forward, into him; closer, closer.

You gasp, hands falling to his pauldrons to keep from knocking headfirst against his chest plate. Whatever remains of your heart after a life of turmoil hammers in your chest, and your gut twists. Somewhere deep between your legs, a thumping, low and heavy.

He tugs your blaster out of your waistband and tosses it to the side. “That’s junk,” he says. Reaching overhead, he unclasps a different blaster, this one shiny and new, from the cabinet. He crowds you, swallowing you whole with the breadth of his body, and you resist the urge to shut your eyes. Your mouth waters, unbidden. Withdrawing his arm, he flips the gun over in his palm, offering you the grip; his opposite hand remains still at your belt. “Here.”

“But—” You frown, memories flooding to the surface at the thought of discarding your trusty firearm. Bad memories, yes, but ones you made with your own sweat and blood. “What about my blaster?”

He shakes his head. “No amount of greasing will fix it. Take this one. It’s a spare.”

With reverence, you accept the gun. It weighs light in your hand. 

“It’s a simple model: a DL–18. It might look unimpressive but it gets the job done. The over-concentrated beam”—he points to a thin tube atop the long barrel—“is what causes the most damage.”

“I–I don’t know what that means,” you admit. Your eyes run over the blaster, the silver barrel and brown handle, a thing you do not yet know. A thing you hope to befriend. 

Mando uncurls his finger from your belt loop. “You’ll learn.”

Following him down the gangway, you lose yourself when the sun hits your face. Days aboard the Sunder has left your skin chilled and wanting, and the immediate warmth pushes through the layer of frost nearing your soul. You stand at the foot of the decline, consuming each ray of sunlight in deep inhales and slow exhales. 

“Where are we?” 

“Hegora.” You open your eyes, but blink rapidly to keep from going blind with the way the sun hits Mando’s armor. “It’s on the way to the next bounty.”

You nod, surveying the empty meadow in which the ship landed.

Hegora teems with life; silent life but life all the same. Ankle-high grass waves against the Sunder’s landing gear and tickles the tops of your boots. Long, rolling hills surround the ship, and beneath the glittering blue sky, the vessel appears small, like a child’s plaything. 

The flicker of a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Reminds me of home.” 

The statement bubbles forth without compulsion or pretense, but still you stiffen as soon as the words leave your mouth, gaze swinging in Mando’s direction. He stares at you, and the raw wound you present to him sizzles under the sun. You grit your teeth.

“Home,” he parrots. “Where do you come from?”

Shaking your head, you curl your fist around your blaster and sidestep him, grass flattening beneath your feet. “Doesn’t matter,” you say—because it doesn’t. It shouldn’t matter, not to him anyway. You scarcely believe he has the audacity to ask after all he’s done to whittle you down.

He doesn’t push for an answer, and for that, you’re thankful.

He quickly overtakes your lead in a mindless walk, impressive strides dwarfing your own, and you trudge behind him. Sweat prickles your brow and gathers under your arms, but you welcome it. You’ve missed the heat, the sweat, and the physical toil of working on Inora. Even such a small walk under a high sun does you well. Refreshment to your parched soul.

After descending a small rise and coming to a flat section of land, Mando stops and turns to face you. “You can shoot a blaster, right?”

You scoff, pinning him with a sardonic look. “I shot you, didn’t I?”

“Fine.” He cocks one hip to the side, hand fisted on his waist, and gestures across the plains. “If you think you’re so skilled already, hit that tree.” 

You follow his vague gesture and see… nothing; only an empty field, grasses waving in the wind like taunting arms. “What–what tree? I don’t see a tree.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t budge. “Find it, if you think you don’t need my help.”

Inhaling sharply, you set your jaw. Okay—your first training session and you’ve already succeeded in mildly pissing off your teacher. No matter. You can bounce back from this. You can show him you have at least some natural skill hidden in your bones.

Stepping forward, you put your hands on your hips. If you were a tree in the middle of a meadow, where would you plant your roots? Judging by Mando’s tone, the tree is far off, a shot he doubts you can make at your current distance. You scan the horizon, narrowing your eyes to study each corner of your vision for tree-like foliage. No luck, just wheatgrass and the occasional grazing fathier. 

Your brow furrows in thought. The presence of a fathier can only indicate one thing: water. The animal would die without hydration, so surely somewhere nearby must be a water source. And trees grow best in rich, moist soil… 

Glancing over your shoulder, you hold out your hand to Mando. “Do you have a pair of binoculars?”

A moment of hesitation and he sighs. He drops a heavy pair of electrobinoculars in your palm and crosses his arms, feet shoulder width apart. “You aren’t going to find it,” he says. “Much less hit it.”

You arch a brow. “Watch me.”

Using the binoculars, you first find the fathier. The gentle beast munchs on the meadow grass, oblivious to the planet’s newcomers. You envy his freedom, his autonomy, but you don’t have time to ruminate over things you wish were different. You can do that later. For now, your primary objective: prove Mando wrong .

Swinging the binoculars to the right, you increase magnification. Another fathier comes into focus and then another. A calf pokes its head out from around its mother’s leg. Water drips from the baby’s belly—drip, drip, drip, as though he’s just been for a swim. You grin. The herd—they’re standing in a creek. You focus your attention on the immediate area surrounding the herd and their watering hole, sure that whatever tree Mando has picked is bound to be right under your nose. A moment more of carding through the distance, and you find it.

You pass Mando the binoculars. “That’s a bush, not a tree.”

“Just hit the damn thing.”

“I will, but a blaster won’t do it. I need the rifle,” you say, pointing to the pulse-powered Amban.

Mando shakes his head. “No, you aren’t ready for—”

“You picked the target. Let me pick my weapon.”

It is an argument he cannot win. Movements tinged with frustration, he strips the gun from his back.

When you accept the proffered rifle, your shoulder slumps under the sudden weight. Definitely not a blaster. The weapon is heavy, awkward in your clumsy, small grasp, and you struggle to catch your bearings. Mando groans at your faltering, but you ignore him. You catch the grip with your opposite hand and swing the butt to your right shoulder. It notches between marrow and bone, comfortable despite the size. Switching off the safety, you inhale, press your eye to the viewport, and—

Mando curls his hands around your biceps. You freeze. The scent of gun-grease and metal invades your senses until you can perceive nothing else.

Fuck. Get it together.

“Tilt your body,” he says. “Lean into it. You’re standing too tall.”

You allow him to adjust your posture until you are bent slightly forward at the waist and your left heel digs into the earth, anchoring you to the ground. 

“Better.” His hands remain at your arms despite the correct stance.

Finding the bush after turning away proves more difficult than you anticipated, but you find it—eventually. The scraggly brown shrub resides between a boulder and a bend in the creek, limbs naked and dying. 

Mando senses your concentration and lowers his voice to a breathy scratch. Your cunt twitches, a shiver coiling down your spine. Too close, too warm, too delicious.

“Count to three. Inhale and—”

Fire.

A pulse exits the rifle, reverberating through your arms like an earthquake. Teeth rattling in your skull, you stumble back, knocking into Mando’s chest. His hands slide to catch your quaking arms, and he holds you—steady, firm, untouchable—against himself.

Somewhere in the distance, a plume of ashy, brown smoke.

A moment longer—you stand sheltered by his broad body, his hands soft around your forearms. Then he moves first.

He holds your waist as he steps around you and rips the binoculars from your hand. He peers through the lens, lowering his arm after a moment of silent inspection. The binoculars dangle at his side, and his palm slides from the curve of your waist. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You hit it.”

Confirmation of your success ignites a fire in your belly. Pushing onto your toes, you clap your hands together and release a short laugh. “A-ha! I knew I did! Take that, Mando!” You give his shoulder a hard push, and his upper body dips left. “I’m not a complete lost cause, am I?”

“That was luck.” He wrenches the smoking rifle from your hand and drops it to the wayside. “You need to hone your skill.”

“Oh, come on! I just hit a kriffing bush from nearly two hundred yards away. You have to give me some credit.”

“Do I?” He whips a pistol out of his holster, and the sudden change of his attitude from pliable to steel gives you pause. “Show me your stance, the one you would use in close combat.”

“Okay.”

You retrieve your new blaster from the back of your pants, crouch your knees, and extend both arms. The Mandalorian stares at you, his own gun loose in his grasp. It feels strange to stand so still in the open air where a cool breeze ruffles the hair at the nape of your neck, cools the sweat gathering in your palms. This place was made for running, for hooping and hollering with unbridled joy, but Mando—he makes every place silent and taut with tension and fear of the unknown. He circles your body, steps slow and thoughtful, and you wonder if this is what fish in Nevarro’s market feel like before being purchased. Your skin crawls under his watchful gaze.

“No, that’s wrong.” He reaches for your elbows. “You can’t have your arms straight like that. You need to give yourself some space to take the recoil.” He applies pressure to the inside of your elbow, and you relax both arms. “Okay, better. Now your legs. You have too much tension here as well. If you—”

Crouching, Mando slides his hand from the inside of your ankle to the lower portion of your thigh. Feather light, obstructed by his glove and your pants, but still you feel him—feel his touch—like poison. Like fire.

It happens before you have time to think.

Jaw clenched, you jerk your knee upwards and knock his chin. He grunts in surprise, head angled back, and whacks his forearm against your wrist. The blaster you point at his helmet flies out of your grasp, tumbling end over end like a leaf before hitting the ground with a thud. You cry out, and Mando rams his shoulder against your stomach, bending you over his back with ease until you too are tumbling end over end like a leaf before hitting the ground with a thud.

Hot breath leaves your chest in a cough, and you circle your arms around your stomach, rolling to the side on a groan. “Fuuuuck,” you gasp. “What the hell?”

Mando towers over you, blocking out the sun, his blaster leveled at your throat. “What are you talking about?” he demands. Exasperation turns his voice hard and heavy, louder than you’ve heard it in the oppressive quiet of the Sunder. “You started it! I should be asking you that same question!”

You struggle to your palms. “I thought you were trying to feel me up, for Maker’s sake! Why did you touch me like that?”

“Because you were standing wrong! Fuck, girl! We both could have gotten hurt.” He drops his weapon, shaking his head as he turns away. “If I wanted to fuck you again, you’d know.”

You frown. His touch lingers against your thigh. His words tickle a swollen, depraved nerve near your heart. Fuck you again—fuck you again—fuck… you… again.

“Now, get up.” He reaches for your discarded blaster and offers it; a hackneyed peace offering. “Go again.”

Dragging yourself to standing, you flick a swatch of hair out of your eyes. You smile—despite the ache in your shoulder, despite the small tear in your sleeve, despite the frustration mounting in your stomach. You’ve wanted this; you’ve needed this.

And you’ve only just begun.

//

Alone in his compartment, Din sits on the edge of his bed. 

He can hear you in the annex: the pounding of your feet against the floor as you practice your firing stance. Thump—one, two, three—thump—one, two, three… Over and over. You practice what he taught, and he does his best to ignore your presence. Not an unusual exercise for him, but tonight, it’s different.

Clutched between his hands, he brings the ragged doll you returned—a leftover, worn down, ratty sock—to his bare face. He inhales the lingering scent of his son, steeped in threadbare fabric. Bone broth and the salve he often used to nurture a set of vulnerable feet. He applied the buttons as eyes and the stitched mouth on a whim; somewhere deep in hyperspace, on a night when no quarries remained on his hit list and the Child could not sleep.

A sharp pain wrenches his chest.

My son, my son—for too few years thou wert lent to me.

To the sound of your thudding feet, steady like a drum, he weeps.

Chapter Text

DAY TEN

“For Maker’s sake, Mando, we’ve been at it for hours. I can’t hold my arms up anymore.”

Din adjusts his foot to rest on the swell of his seat, a boulder he’s made his throne in this unpopulated lowland of the Outer Rim. He flicks a wandering insect from his knee, dropping his forearm to hang over his leg. He ignores your request for respite.

“Keep going. A few more times.”

Your jaw tightens, eyes gone to steel. Furrow creasing your smooth brow, you blink—a slow, calculated movement—then gesture with your left hand: a slap to your breastbone and three spread fingers flung in his direction.

The apathy of his helmet hides his scoff. He rolls his eyes as you reposition yourself at the firing line. Message received, loud and clear. Sentiment returned in kind:

Fuck. You.

Three days Din has put off catching an arms dealer in the Wastelands, allowing the man to go free so that he can roast under the Hegoran sun, wasting breath on an ill-conceived initiative. Three days filling your empty head with the simple mechanics of marksmanship. Three days—seventy-two excruciating hours—and you’ve yet to clear his second target configuration. 

You are a logical fallacy, a celestial blunder.

After obliterating the bush from two hundred yards off, Din assumed you’d take to firearms like Grogu to that Frog Woman’s eggs. He’d prepared himself to adjust your stance; maybe correct your aim once or twice. Judging by the way you so easily worked the Amban rifle, he’d assumed you would clear his crude shooting range with an elegant, naive ease. He was wrong.

You can’t hit a target for shit.

It bothers him, and it bothers you too. Perhaps more so. 

As the hours drag on and you fail to strike the metal sheets he’s arranged across the grassy plains, your frustration mounts. Sweat glistens on the back of your neck, hair piled high atop your head. You shed your tunic some hours ago, and he watches the way the muscles of your back ripple with fatigue. You weren’t lying when you said you could barely hold your arms aloft. When you go to resume your stance, the tendons at your shoulder blades quiver, and your arms fall, a muffled grunt your only acknowledgement of yet another failure. 

You turn to face him, picking at the tight band of your breast binder. A word, unfamiliar to his lexicon, drifts to mind: beautiful . He blinks the thought away. 

“Mando, please.” You swipe a line of perspiration from your chin. “I can’t—” You look away. “I can’t do it.”

How many times has he thought the same? An untold number. I can’t go on—I can’t go on—I can’t go on.

Din drops from his boulder. The soft ground gives beneath his boots as he makes his way across the divide. Long strides through the prairie grass, gaze locked with yours. He can see every imperfection through the honed focus of his visor—every faded scar, every uncertainty and foolish hope carved in the fabric of your skin. He can see every perfection too. He marks them each one by one, tally for tally in a mental chart of his own making. 

A bird caws, diving from the heavens in a twirl of orange and yellow feathers. You turn to watch as it swoops along the stream and snatches a golden fish between its teeth. The fish writhes and quivers to its death. Heavy wings beat the valley air as the bird rises, smug and satisfied, riding a stiff afternoon breeze. Your shoulders lift on an inhale, and the smallest glimmer of a smile pulls at your mouth. A shame, really, that he should be the one to wipe the moment of serenity from your face.

Pew.

The bird—majestic in all its untamed glory, free from the confines of human and alien toil—drops to the ground in a sizzling heap. Dead, shot through the heart on an upward spiral. 

You squeak, jaw scraped and bloodied by an astonished fall to the earth. 

Din returns his smoking blaster to his holster. “Your problem is you think too much,” he says. 

Stepping around your stiff body, he goes to retrieve the dead animal by the neck. It weighs heavy, stomach bloated by a lifetime of good meals and unthreatened living. He huffs. 

Oh, that I could be a—

With one hard tug, he rips the neck from the body and tosses the head aside, silencing his inner fantast. Just as well, too. Such attractive, glittering wonderings have burned him in the past. He accepts what he is: broken, deformed by his own brutality, more machine than man. The life of a bird—so unhindered, so free… No, that isn’t the path for Din Djarin. 

This is the Way.

The snap of muscle and bone separating must click your brain into gear because you twist to face him, and your body pulses with indignation. Steam blusters from your nose in short, unhinged breaths. A muscle in your eyelid twitches. Yet somehow, amidst the vibrant display of emotion pinching your face, you manage to find your tongue. You speak with a clarity only capable of a woman possessed— inhabited —by rage.

“What the everloving fuck was that for?!”

Din crouches and begins plucking feathers from the animal’s body. He drops the array of bleeding sunset plumage in a pile by his foot; the assortment could prove useful in the future for trade or rare currency. Waste not want not.

Tilting his head back, he gives you a once over. “You’re tired. Hungry. You haven’t had a good meal in days, and it’s affecting your concentration.”

“I’m not eating that bird.” 

“You either eat this or go on failing basic shooting maneuvers.”  

“I’m not eating that bird,” you say again, inflection rising in time with your frustration. “I won’t do it. You didn’t need to kill it!”

Din stands, and you take a step back, shoulders jerked high in self-defense. Glovetips made red by the blood pooling at the pale flesh beneath the bird’s feathers, he levels a finger at you. Your eyes dart from his visor to the offending finger, and for a moment, he thinks you’re going to bite him, dig your teeth into his knuckle, but you swat his hand away instead. Your nails alone prick the skin hidden under his glove.

“You think you’re tough?” Your scowl narrows, hands gone to fists at your sides. “You aren’t tough. You’re just a little girl, running away from home, still swaddled in some asinine concept of morality. The bird doesn’t matter. Surviving matters. The end always justifies the means.”

Frowning, you shake your head. “That’s not true. I’m not running.” A lock of sweaty hair falls in front of your eye; he flexes his hand to keep from sweeping it aside, the sudden, inmost urge a knife to his chest. Fuck, you beguiling thing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t I? I’ve seen kids like you before and unless you learn to smother that thing in your chest you call a heart, you’ll never make it. Now sit down and eat the fucking bird when it’s ready.”

You’ll never make it —the phrase gives you visible pause. He knows you, has discovered your secrets between arguments and harsh glares. He has known you since that first day in the dusty cantina closet: you want this. You want to whistle through the galaxy and fight tooth-and-nail to bring scoundrels to a twisted form of justice. You are not simply a girl running from home, and he knows that. But he will lie with a serpent’s tongue until you get out of your own damn way. Only then, when you are sharpened to steel and empty within, can he and his dreams be rid of you.

You fall to your ass, elbows braced on bent knees. A sigh tickles the hair at your face, and you flick the loose strands behind your ear, looking off into the distance, away from him. He holds still, forearm poised above the naked bird. 

You are… bewitching. He can think of no other way in which to describe the potency of your presence. You dangle him over a bubbling cauldron by a string. You have left him in a pit of his own making and the pendulum swings low, the rusted blade of your tongue inching closer, closer, nearer his heart. Since the moment he laid eyes upon your haughty, self-assured bravado, he has been caught in your web and he cannot break free. 

He struggles in vain to regain his control—loathes you, taunts you, smacks your bare ass with his palm until you gush over his thigh, fucks his fist while you hum foreign lullabies in the shower. But he is treading water, sinking fast, and he knows it. He knows you. 

Surely, he knows you.

Turning back to the bird, he activates his flamethrower and scorches the animal until its skin rises to a healthy char. It’s a crude cooking method, and the grass around the bird withers to ash, but it will have to do. He is a man of purpose, not propriety. Satisfied, he steps back, gestures to the meal, then sits—away, his back against the boulder he sat upon earlier.

His retreating footsteps pull your gaze from the horizon. You lift your voice to grate his ears. “What? No seasoning?” 

He shakes his head, averting his eyes when you pull one of the thick, meaty wings off the bird. Saliva pools in his mouth. Like you, he hasn’t eaten anything other than rehydrated cubes since leaving Nevarro. Maker, what he wouldn’t give for a bite of the bird’s tender breast. But he can’t—not now—when you tear your teeth into the meat merely a few yards away—when he can practically see the juice drip down your chin. Later, when he can remove his helmet and imagine sinking his teeth into your own flesh, marking your sink with angry bruises.

His cock twitches in his flight suit, and he sighs.

You speak between bites of meat. “It’s not bad.” Turning the wing over in your hand, you study the sinews, pluck a long string of flesh from the bone, dangling it over your mouth before dropping it down your throat. He swallows hard around his Adam’s apple. “D’you want some?”

His response is automatic. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Mando.” Bending at the waist, you rip a hunk of meat from the center of the bird and move to sit on your knees in front of him. You offer the food, and he takes it. “I’ve definitely had better but…” You shrug.

Reticence blankets the valley. Din avoids watching you eat, passing the cooling meat between his palms. You pick and pull at the wing, a measure of peace smoothing the tiredness at your brow. You needed a break—he did too—and though the afternoon wind is hot, it seems to do you well.

“So.” Wing finished, you toss the bone to the wayside and wipe your hands on your pants. “I gather you don’t ever take that bucket off your head.”

The truth of the matter is too complicated, too personal, for Din to divulge, so he gives you his age-old reply, ingrained so deep within his tongue it falls from his mouth without hesitation. The words taste bitter and false, but he says them anyway. 

“Mandalorians remain covered outside of their clan. This is the Way.”

“Well, in that case.” 

Leaning forward, your breasts brush his knees as you pilfer the chunk of meat you’d previously offered. You grin as you sit back, and it must be the first time he’s ever seen you truly smile because it stops his heart, wrenches the air from his chest like the rise of a bellows, and drops a stone in the pit of his stomach. He resists the urge to shove you away with his boot.

“This clan of yours. Where are they?” you ask, head tilted in question. 

His tongue catches between his teeth. “Gone.”

“Oh.” You drop your chin to your chest, lips pursed in thought. “I guess we have one thing in common then…”

“Doubt it,” he mutters.

Lifting your face, you pin him with a look he cannot read. “We’re both alone.”

DAY ELEVEN

It rains, and Din stays in his bunk from morning until night.

He watches you from a viewport in his room. Small though you are from the height and relative distance of the Sunder, he can see you—see you practice your posture and stance, see you fire into the storm, see you hit your first target. You jump in triumph, girlish in your glee, smile breaking the determined scowl of moments prior. 

Part of him wishes he had been there to hear the laughter peal from your mouth, but for the sake of his own fragile heart, he is grateful he remains hidden aboard his ship, protected by layer upon layer of brusk and beskar and an unwillingness to change.

DAY TWELVE

A new day, the sun peaking over the horizon like a shy child, small fingers spread wide in search of a good morning embrace.

Din rouses you from slumber by pounding his fist on the galley door. 

He hears you rustle out of bed—or whatever you sleep on; he isn’t sure—with a muffled demand for patience, footsteps heavy no thanks to your grumpy disposition every morning. (And afternoon—and night… Kriff, you are a piece of work.) When the door whooshes open and you stand before him rubbing sleepy eyes, clad only in a threadbare tank, he looks away. Your nipples pebble against the fabric, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Since fucking you that first time, he has been incapable of anything but a pulsing want. He doesn’t care who you are and how you mock him day in and day out, only that he has felt the walls of your heat smother his cock and he would kill to feel it again.

“What do you want?” You glare at him, voice scratchy with sleep.

For you to wear some fucking clothes around me for once. 

“Put some clothes on,” he grits. “We have work to do.”

Muttering a complaint, you oblige, and the door shuts on your return to the galley. He drops his shoulder against the wall as he waits, arms crossed, head muddled to a thick paste. Last night he dreamt of you, and his hand still trembles after desperately fucking his fist in the fresher. 

In his dream you sat astride his hips, his cock buried deep in your cunt. A heavenly glow haloed your head as you writhed atop him. You planted your hands in the center of his bare chest, and you saw him for his true self, the man beneath the mask, the boy his mother sang to sleep at night. His neck had lifted, his lips nearing yours. He could feel the warmth of your breath on his face. A kiss— his first —he wanted it—he could taste it—

He woke before he got the chance.

You exit the galley and cock your head toward the turbolift. “Let’s get to it I guess.” 

In the narrow turbolift, his wide shoulders consume the majority of the circular space. You lean against the wall, hands behind your back, eyes focused on the overhead light that burns an intense white. He can smell the soap you keep in the shower: the rectangular bar sits on the tile floor, flower petals pressed within the fat and lye, the aroma of citrus clinging to your skin after each use. That simple possession remains the most feminine thing you own, and it boggles his mind each time he steps in the fresher after you. 

The whirr of the lift his backdrop, he studies you. Not for the first time in his life, he is thankful for the invisibility his helmet provides. He’s sure his eyes roam your face like those of a fascinated schoolboy newly awakened to the possibility of women and sex. But while he is no stranger to sex, he is a stranger to this burgeoning appetite for you. He does not understand it—certainly not after all the hell you’ve given him—so he studies you and your face, searching for the answer to his quandary as though it might be hidden on your person.

It isn’t, and a low flame of disdain ignites in his stomach.

“I hit a target yesterday.” 

Your quiet voice startles him, and he inhales sharply as he centers himself. Back to reality, back to the place where you tease and taunt and he gives as good as he gets—because he hates you.

“Hmm.” He hooks his thumb in his belt. “About time.”

“I know.” Your lips curve into a subtle smile, gaze shifting to the floor. “I’m a slow learner. My sister—” You suck in a breath, exhaling slowly, before continuing. “My sister always says I have the brain of a pollywog when it comes to absorbing new information.”

A pensive note embitters the end of your sentence, and if Din were a better man, he might ask what truth brings such a shadow over your face. But he is not a better man, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care to know where you’re from, to whom you belong, or where you got that silver scar on the back of your wrist. 

The turbolift comes to a halt, and the doors slide open on a whisper. You follow him into the cargo hold, footsteps doggish behind his long strides. There is a hum about you; an anticipatory buzz that chips away at his nerves and stokes the flame in his chest. You’re eager this morning, riding the high of your success without his aid, and it annoys him. 

He stops short, and you bump into his arm, falling back a step in surprise. “What–”

“Get off my ass,” he bites. 

Lips parting, you scoff. “I’m sorry—come again?”

“You’re practically stepping on my heels. Step back before I shove you back.”

Your face hardens ( Good , he thinks). “I’d like to see you fuckin’ try, Metal Man.”

To your credit, you heed his warning, choosing to walk by his side through the dewey prairie grass rather than behind. Your buzz has turned to a roar. A chorus of angry insects seem to molt from your skin, prepared to attack in defense, and he wonders what has made you so choleric. Like many things, your changeability confounds him. You are quick to anger, quick to speak, slow to learn—yet zealous. He cannot train you here forever; he’s already wasted too much time on this lush planet. But your temper… If your temper doesn’t kill you first, he will. Somehow you’ll have to learn like he did: the fewer words, the fewer emotions, the better your chance of making it to another day.

He leads you to the same flat patch of land that has doubled as a training ground the last few days. Beneath the wide Hegoran sky, he feels dwarfed, a single grain of sand on an infinite beach. The feeling settles in the back of his neck like an ache.

Removing the blaster from your holster, you stand in front of him. The thick braid you’ve fashioned in your hair keeps most fly-always off of your face, but the few rogue strands which frame your cheeks twist his gut. He wants— he wants, he wants— to brush that hair away from your face so it cannot bother you, but he doesn’t. He shoves the urge beneath so many others locked away in his chest. 

You fiddle with a safety lock on the side of your blaster, and something about the way you roll your lower lip between your teeth paints his visor scarlet. He flexes his hand then reaches out to grab your wrist. Wrenching upwards, he pulls you close—close enough to see fear flash in your eyes, explosive and raw—before he drops you to the ground with a swift kick to the shin. He moves to pin you to the hard-packed earth, but your boot connects with his chest on a hard kick.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. Let the games begin. 

Din circles his hand around your ankle and tugs. Sliding across the ground rucks your tunic up your back, exposing your skin to the elements; and he would feel bad, perhaps wonder if your flesh breaks and bleeds, but you strike, unfettered foot colliding with his crotch. He grunts, lurching forward at the waist with a muffled groan as pain lacerates through his body.

You take the opening.

Shooting upwards, you catch the unarmored place between his shoulder and his chest with your deltoid muscle. He tips, thrown off-kilter, but manages to fist his hand in the loose material at your waist as he falls. You tumble with him, clawing at his cowl. 

You land on your side with a hard exhale, fingers caught around his pauldron as you struggle to push him to his back. “Gods fuck , you are the worst! ” 

Din grits his teeth. He thought—shit, his vision blurs when you elbow his helmet—he thought you would be easier to beat than this. You’re a small thing compared to him, and hand-to-hand combat makes up the majority of his bounty hunting repertoire. Maker, he underestimates you in every way, and it only further drives him into a rage.

He is better off alone, and he can’t get the smell of your soap out from beneath his nose, and he dreams of you— dreams of fucking you —and he hates that this is what his life has become.

His momentary distraction once again offers you the upper hand on a silver platter. You force him onto his back, swinging your leg over his body so that you straddle his hips. Sitting into your seat, you grab his cowl and pull the heavy fabric toward your body. Wound the way it is around his neck, the cowl squeezes tight, restricting airflow. He grunts—when did he get to be so tired?—and inches his hand toward the far side of your waist. One hard push and you pitch to the left.

As you fall, you pull the cowl with you, legs locked around his hips. He is powerless to stop the roll of his body over yours, and then he is falling—you both are falling—slipping over a ditch hidden by tall grasses. You release the cowl in your shock, and fresh air massages the aching parts of his brain. Over—and over—and over—rolling down the embankment like active bombs. Instinctively, he clutches you to his chest.

Din skids to a halt first. His helmet crashes against the ground, and the rhythm of his fall knocks the helmet up, exposing his neck and mouth to the sunlight. Ice cold dread floods his veins, and he shivers, hands shaking as he slams the ancient covering into the place.

You didn’t see, though. You didn’t see, and he knows because the momentum of the fall threw you off of his body and to the side. You didn’t see, and he knows because had you seen—had that last vestige of his threadbare Creed been sacrificed to a pitiful girl like yourself—he would have snapped your neck the moment he found strength enough to stand. 

You struggle to your elbows a few feet away, hair askew and chin bleeding. He lunges for you, falling to his stomach with a hard oof , and catches your elbow before you can rise to your knees. “Give up,” he growls.

Your head whips to the side, eyes wide, not with fear, but with determination. “You haven’t won yet, Mandalorian.” You twist your elbow out of his grasp. “I’d sooner die than get on my back for you.”

So much running, a lifetime of fighting—how much further can he go? 

He flops to his back, wishing for all the world that he could massage his temples with a weary hand. His cock squeezes, aching for release. Godsdammit, how— why —do you do this to him?

Sweet and syrupy, your laughter peels at the layer of hatred clogging his ears. Without warning, lazy in your intention, you straddle his body once more. Your weight settles on his hips, small hands pinning his pauldrons to the ground. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Did I win then? First fight and I win?”

You sound so satisfied, so smug and secure in your own abilities. And sure, maybe you made him dance for you a bit, but you didn’t win. Absolutely not. Din Djarin is a Mandalorian, a fighter by nature, a hardened warrior. You—a girl, green to the roots of your hair and impulsive to a fault—did not best him in a simple sparring exercise.

You sit back, releasing his shoulders. He opens his eyes and watches the way you fold your arms over your chest and tap your chin in mock thought. 

“Hmm.” You stare into the clear sky, prolonging his agony with the gentle pressure of your ass on his hardening dick. “What do I think I deserve for defeating the big bad Mandalorian? A good meal or maybe—”

It is easy to flip you onto your back and tuck you beneath his breadth. Din is strong, and if he had wanted it to, this charade could have ended long before it began. But he committed to training you for Karga’s purposes, and he’ll see that through. His dedication to his word remains his biggest shortcoming.

He pins one of your wrists above your head, splaying his hand over your hip to keep you from moving any further. You thrash under his hold like a wriggling fish. Blood trickles down the line of your neck, spilling from the place where you bit into your lower lip as you fell. He has the sudden urge to lick the wound clean with his tongue, but he lowers his head instead. 

“You didn’t win,” he says. “You win when your opponent is out cold or dead.”

“Guess I’ll”—you knee lifts in an attempt to knock him aside, but you only manage to smooth your thigh over his erection; he bites his tongue to stifle a hiss, unsure if you felt his desire—“have to try harder next time.”

“If I release you, do you promise not to fight?” 

You still. He watches a series of calculations filter through your mind, the equations and conclusions shining in your eyes, before you nod.

Din lets go of your wrist and loosens some of the tension in his shoulders. He anchors himself to the ground with two flat palms on either side of your waist. “You did good.” The acknowledgment tears your attention away from prodding your swollen lip. “Scrappy and uncoordinated but good. We can work with that.”

You smirk, hooking a nail on your teeth. Your eyelashes flutter, thick with trouble and the promise of another long night of self-pleasure. He steadies himself by picturing the inside of an Ebranite carcass. “So you gonna reward me or not?”

He balks. “No. You don’t deserve a—”

Fitting an arm around his shoulders, you shove his body against yours. Your legs part of their own accord and circle his waist. Vice-like, they seal in the small of his back, forcing his hips to meet the open space between your legs. Wicked, wicked thing that you are, you grin. Your cunt lifts and drags against his bulge. Warmth seeps through his flight suit. Fuck, he hasn’t even touched you and already he knows you are as needy as him.

Din can scarcely breathe. 

A reward. You want a reward, and you pull him close as though he has the key to your satisfaction.

Glancing down to the dwindling space between your bodies, he tilts his hips forward, enough so that his throbbing cock presses against your covered mound. You suck in a breath through your teeth upon contact, and he pushes forward again. “That? You want that as a reward, little one?”

“Yes.” You nod, and your warm breath fogs his visor. “I want that.”

He ruts into you, lazy and shallow. “Then take it.”

A single brow arches in challenge. “Come and get it.”

He frowns. Unsure of your meaning, he goes to ask, but you rear back—shut your eyes—slam your forehead against his helmet. 

The impact doesn’t hurt him. It startles him enough to force him to his ass in surprise, but it doesn’t hurt him. How it doesn’t hurt you, he cannot fathom; yet you’re up and running before he can regain his senses.

He scrambles to his feet, shouting “Fuck!” as he races after you.

The chase is short lived. Arms pumping, he closes the distance between you without effort; he is soon close enough to hear your braid smack against your back as you run. He snags the neck of your tunic when you misjudge a bend and skid, falling to your side on the edge of a grove of trees. 

Pushing you to your back, he drops to brace your thighs with his knees, lungs burning with the force of his breath. Need turns his blood hot. 

“Think you can run from me? Think you can get away from me that easy?” Fitting his fingers over the waistband of your pants, he rips them over the swell over your ass. You squirm, bucking your hips so that the pants shimmy down your legs and pool at your ankles. Your cunt glistens in the afternoon sun, and he can’t help but run his thumb through the wet gloss drenching your lips. “Fuck, look at you.”

“If there hadn’t been so many leaves…” You paw at his chest plate until your fingers slide beneath the metal, an anchor for your boneless body. “I wouldn’t have slipped if there hadn’t been leaves like that.”

Snorting, he shuffles his knees further down the length of your body. “Yeah, the leaves did it.”

Din drenches his first two fingers in your juices before sliding the digits into your cunt. You release a hard breath, angling your head to the side, mouth open and unhinged. Any pretense of bravado melts from your person, shed like a snake’s skin at his languid touch. You squeeze his fingers tight, and he considers removing the gloves so that he can truly feel your warmth. But no—you don’t deserve that.

A gentle moan cracks your throat when his fingers push against your tight walls. “You like that?” he asks.

It’s a rhetorical question—like so many of the questions he asks in this unholy place—but you answer regardless. “Yeah.” You hiccup, grinding your pussy against his palm. “Yeah, I like it, Mando.”

Perhaps it is the careful way your tongue caresses his moniker—or perhaps it is the way your slick is cradled in the palm of his hand like some profane offering—but he can’t hold himself back. Not anymore.

He removes his fingers, but before he can unzip his flight suit, you bring his wrist to your mouth. Eyes shut, you catch his fingers drenched in your desire between your teeth. His mind stutters, wheels creaking on an ungreased line. Your moan vibrates against his hand, and your tongue slips and slides over the well-oiled digits until he thinks he might cum in his pants.

He drags his hand from your mouth and undoes his zipper. Flattening his palm to your face, he averts your eyes with a harsh push on your cheek. When his cock unfolds from the constraints of his pants, he nearly weeps. 

“Fuck, Mando,” you mumble against his hand. “If you’re really so small that you don’t want to let me see it then maybe this isn’t—”

Notching the head of his cock at your entrance, he thrusts to the hilt of you in one easy push. Your back arches, a strangled cry ripping from your throat. He smirks.

“Does that feel small to you, little girl?” Needy pout puckering your lips, you shake your head back and forth until he steadies you with a hand at your chin. “Stars, you are tight.” He thrusts once, twice. “Put your legs around my back.”

You comply without hesitation, and the lift of your hips forces him that much deeper in your airtight channel. He can feel your heartbeat, rapid and erratic, against the smooth flesh of his length. His tongue runs dry, and he brings himself to the overflowing well of your cunt.

“You gonna fuck me or not?”

He grumbles something about patience before fitting his hands in the curve of your waist. Drawing his hips back, his cock follows, slow and guided by a far-away-need for this moment to last until the end of time. He withdraws until the leaking tip of him pushes against your clit; he thrusts forward at the sound of your sigh. His unhurried dance continues until your hips begin to match him thrust for thrust. You moan each time your clit brushes his pubic bone.

Din shakes his head and moves one hand to your hip. “Stay still.”

Your eyes snap open, frustration glittering in your unfocused depths. “Fuck me harder then!”

“No. My way.”

You roll your eyes and snake a free hand between your bodies to fit your thumb over your clit. “I’ll just touch my—”

Precocious, ungrateful, impertinent thing.

Leaning forward, Din slaps one palm over your eyes and lifts his helmet with the other. He finds flesh—whatever flesh he can locate through frantic movements—and bites down. Your cunt spasms around his cock, but your tongue unleashes the depths of your displeasure.

“You fuckwad! You bit me!” 

You smack his helmet, but it doesn’t matter; the shield is already back in place and he’s tasted your skin, even if only for a millisecond. Pungent with sweat, tinged with citrus and flowers. His hips jerk upwards, and he slows his withdrawal to grind against your mound.

“You can’t just shove your dick in me then bite me like an animal! Who am I kidding? You are an animal! I swear, you are out to—”

“Shut up.” Din finds your open mouth and forces his fingers over your tongue. He depresses the muscle until you are forced to silence. “Shut. Up.”

His tempo increases, body slamming against yours until he can hear nothing but the wet slap of his balls against your ass. You whine around the fingers trapped in your mouth. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shoulders. He can feel you tighten at each thrust, and the squeeze of your cunt drags him beneath the veil of unglued pleasure. Faster, harder, swirling his hips on errant thrusts so that your mound catches on his skin.

His breathing turns to labored huffs, head tilted down as his muscles grow heavy. He’s close. His balls tighten against his body, and he knows he will come before you do. You drive him to this: unhinged release, catastrophic desire despite the mouthy cadence of your voice.

He finds his release when he removes his hand from your mouth. You groan loud enough to rustle a bird in the treetops, and he pulls out of your pussy in time to spill his seed on the ground. 

You push onto your elbows, eyes glazed, lips curved into a sardonic smirk. “Really?”

Din glances up. He sees your smirk and the sheen of sweat along your collarbone. Hair tumbles around your shoulders, ripped from its braid, and you seem to him like a painting, glossy and perfect in all your imperfections. 

When did you become beautiful to him?

He knows you cannot see his eyes holding yours, but he maintains his stare anyway. He slaps your cunt with the flat of his fingers. 

You gasp. 

He does it again, and you grab his wrist, sealing your warmth against his palm. 

“Do it,” he murmurs. “Go on, pretty girl. Fuck yourself on my hand.”

Something carnal explodes behind your eyes, and you whimper, bearing down against his hand as you writhe in search of your pleasure. You grit your teeth, eyes shut in concentration, working toward the peak with a fierceness known only to yourself. He wraps a hand around his stiffening length and gently massages the head of his cock. 

When you cum, you shudder, gasping, gasping. 

He rubs your clit with his thumb until you force his hand away. You open your eyes, and he sits up from his lounge, back to you, folding his cock back in his pants. He could go again—wants to go again—but he’s already fucked you one too many times.

He looks over his shoulder when you nudge his arm with your foot. “What?”

You smile, made soft by your orgasm. “I still think I won, Metal Man.”

//

In the shower, hot water beating down on his scarred and naked flesh, Din fucks his hand. He lathers his palm in your soap and drenches his cock in the clean essence of you. He braces his hand against the fresher wall, stroking his length until he cums over the white tile.

Beautiful—beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful.

He straightens his back on a slow inhale, curling and uncurling his tired hand. He does not understand this change building in his chest. You are the same as the day he picked you up; he is not. He does not understand it. If there is anything he understands in the universe, it is himself, and you have made him unrecognizable without reason.

Din bends to pick your soap off of the shower floor. He turns it over in his palm, searching, pleading for the answers to his desperate questions. He picks his nail through the soft soap—

Then snaps the bar in half.

Chapter Text

DAY FOURTEEN

“His name is Adron Setarr. Records say he’s an illegal arms dealer. He should be somewhere in this sector.” 

You study the bounty’s rap sheet—all five slides of it—spread across the table. You disregard the tender flesh of your shoulder where an imprint of Mando’s teeth resides pressed in your skin, made bruised and sore by his… love bite? 

No—not that. Something else. A punishment? A—

It doesn’t matter.

Today is new, an undeserved gift from the Maker. Untarnished by hedonistic desire and feral fucking, the fresh, glittering morning stands before you as an open invitation. 

Turn back. Turn back. Renege him and his breadth and the heat of his voice and the width of his cock. Turn back, child.

And you will turn back. The tumble on Hegora—physical, emotional, sexual, and otherwise—will be forgotten. Ignored by you both like the time he slapped your ass raw. The cobwebs of your mind will swallow the memories until they are covered in silky, strands of steel—a protection against greedy fingers that might go searching for a taste of the past.

It’s better this way; you prefer it this way. You have too much to do and lingering on the growing pile of memories in which Mando’s cock stretches your cunt does not lend itself to concentration.

Again, again, you tell yourself—it’s better this way.

Mando points to a blue holomap suspended over a circular fob, his arms braced against the annex table. His broad shoulders stretch wide in the dimly lit room, his countenance mercantile and focused. One thousand credits hang in the balance; no small sum after the Sunder hiccupped over her first malfunction back on Hegora. 

A glitch in the computer framework upended the air filtration system, which now struggles through its daily cycles. The vent over your makeshift bed belches wispy plumes of grey smoke every other hour. The smoke stings your eyes, catches in your throat at night, keeps you awake and wondering . You have half a mind to bury Mando’s head in fumes if he doesn’t get the system fixed, and knowing him, he wouldn’t bother just to spite you. But he needs fresh air as much as you do when traveling through space, so this is an important job, and rightfully so. 

You can’t afford to fuck it up.

“More than likely he’s on Daos-Seven,” he continues. “It’s the most populated planet in the region. He probably thinks it’s a good place to hide.”

You arch a brow. “And it’s not?”

Mando lifts his helmet to pin you with a deadly, visored-stare. “Not when I’m after him.”

Your cunt bottoms out, seizing around nothing. Fuck, his voice, the intensity of the eyes you cannot see. You want him—always now, since the way he took you in the Hegoran field, it seems you want him. His body, the rough timbre of his tongue, the glide of his cock… 

You look away. 

Turn back.

Yeah, ignoring whatever raw tension hovers between you, pushing it to the side—it’s better that way.

//

DAY FIFTEEN—THE HUNT BEGINS

The ship's landing gear opens on a creak, and the Sunder comes to an easy rest at the Outer Rim’s furthest edge. Beyond the ship, civilization bustles on, but not here; not beneath your feet, pulsing against the underbelly of the Sunder like a frenzied heart. No, law and order, right and wrong—that’s all lightyears away, hanging on by a frayed thread but still gasping for breath and alive. Here, on the edge of all that is in the galaxy, there is nothing but anarchy and ruin. A dog-eat-dog existence.

Your blood thrums in your veins, and you push onto your toes, fingers wrapped tight around the grip of your blaster. Mando tosses you a hasty glance. He adjusts the bandolier strapped across his chest then passes you the blinking fob. Adron Setarr’s life—his downfall—in your hands, offered to you like an inconsequential nothing by a man who judges your every waking step.

Mando opens the gangway. “Don’t fuck this up.”

You roll your eyes, but if you aren’t mistaken, there is a note of true regard in his voice. It’s not respect—it’s not pride—but it’s there, hidden beneath a layer of gruff hubris. He knows this is big for you: your first true bounty, one not stolen from his clutches on a self-important whim. A girl’s first stays with her until she passes into nothing; and even if Mando insists on guiding you through every step, Adron Setarr is yours. His name will remain etched on your heart until you too are nothing.

Clipping the fob to your belt, you follow Mando down the loading ramp, grumbling, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He doesn’t respond, and the unencouraging silence serves to curdle the protein paste in your stomach.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. Daos-Seven reeks. Like, really, truly reeks. 

Pungent air clogs your nose as you leave the Sunder in one of the planet’s overcrowded hangar bays. Ancient and rusted droids clamber over the ship’s sleek metal to tinker and fiddle through a list of minor checks and repairs. And though Mando takes care to order the hangar boss to watch those fucking things closely , you’re too busy wishing you had strips of cloth with which to plug your nostrils to worry about scratches on the ship’s expensive chrome.

Rotting meat is the first note in the cacophony of scents hanging in the thick air, burnt rubber and stale sweat close behind. It reminds you of the lava fields in Nevarro: the blend of unpleasant odors and a hot, dank atmosphere. But at least on Nevarro, you know the stink comes from the smoldering fire beneath the ground. You haven’t got a clue what smells so bad on Daos-Seven, and the mystery only adds to the stench.

Sidestepping a full-bellied droid waddling by with an armload of materials, you glance at Mando, hoping for some indication that you are not the only one sick to your stomach in response to the planet’s perfume. Unsurprisingly, he walks without care, strides purposeful and blithe. Fucking figures. The jackass probably has his own filtration system in the bucket on his head, which likely explains why he was so hesitant to believe there was a problem with the vent in the galley in the first place.

You fall into step at his side, making your strides longer to match his. “Do bounties ever pick some place nice to run and hide?”

He makes a sound like a hard sniff, somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Depends on what you think is nice.”

“Plush bed, soft sheets, room service.” 

You squint as you step into the open-air market adjacent the hangar. Daos-Seven’s twin suns are hot, hovering in the sky like conspirators in some great plot to burn you alive. You wish you’d worn your sleeveless tunic or gone full-Mando and covered yourself from head to toe to avoid injury, but he’d failed to warn you of the sweltering climate. Typical. 

Lifting a hand to shield your eyes, you continue. “I guess I’ll settle for a planet that doesn’t smell like Bantha shit covered in Jawa vomit.”

Again, the Mandalorian snorts. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of those bounties. You’ll probably get one or two when you first start out, though, so don’t worry, kid. You’ll get your room service.” 

Huffing, you stop walking and level him a hard stare. “You make it sound like comfortable planets are a bad thing. Like I shouldn’t want an excuse to sleep in a nice bed from time to time. You forget you make me sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t forget,” he says—and your chest lurches at the unpolished note in his voice. But he keeps talking, and the idea of him in his bunk thinking of you in the galley slips away before you can truly consider it. “Only, in my experience, the highest paying jobs are the ones no one wants.”

“Which is why we’re here? On this shit-hole?”

“Yes—and also why I’m strapped with you.”

Your arms fall out of their defensive fold with a limp thud, your gaze narrowing scornfully. “Oh fuck you, Metal Man.” 

A cart overflowing with what appears to be dead fish rumbles past, wafting a new, equally-as-unpleasant scent into the air, but you cannot tear your attention away from the slow downward tilt of Mando’s visor as he rakes his gaze over your body.

“Already did. Twice. You seemed to like it.”

Seemingly pleased by the stunned look on your face, he resumes course, folding into the throng of buyers and sellers, his cape a whisper around his shoulders. You are left with a throbbing cunt and dizzy brain, a mind reeling, twitching like a fish on dry land. 

Fuck, you hate him. You hate this constant push and pull. You wish he would make up his mind. 

It wouldn’t bother you if he used your body for his pleasure. Goodness knows you’d use him in much the same way. He is a brute and a caveman, but he fucks you well, and it’s been a long time since you found ecstasy apart from your own hand. So long as the door to your heart remains locked, you would let him have his way with you anytime he pleased. His cock is that good.

But this tip-toed dance wears on your nerves. You have grown to dread each morning and the uncertainty of the day. 

Will he fuck you?

Will he tease your pussy with his thick fingers?

Will he whisper ‘pretty girl’ in your ear?

Does he want you or not?

The wonderings push away true concentration, and the foundation of bounty hunting is focus, a single-minded drive. How can you excel if your foot keeps slipping, dragging you beneath the undertow of delirious thoughts? 

Back on Hegora, you were unable to strike the blaster targets until you stood under the rain alone, no Mando to silently judge your each move with his eyes on your back like fire. In that regard, your failure is telling. You cannot succeed with a teacher so distracting, so pungent with masculinity. He drives you to the destruction of your own stoney game, and you won’t stand for it much longer. The faster you learn this craft, the faster you leave him and find your own way in the galaxy, the better. But until then—you wish he would make up his fucking mind if only to give you both some respite from this mounting ugly desire.

You shake the thoughts away. Back to work.

Returning to reality, it shouldn’t surprise you that Mando is nowhere to be seen. Despite his height and breadth and the gleam of his armor, he can be easily overlooked. He moves as a shadow, slipping through the cloud of people’s preoccupations. He is stealth personified, the slow, quiet, foggy dawn before devastation.

You try to emulate him as you blend into the crush of market-goers. You keep your face clear, devoid of emotion or sudden movement. You do not mumble apologies when your shoulder connects with the arm of a Nuknog. And when you trip over a mislaid satchel, almost falling to the ground, you right yourself without causing disruption. But despite your cool facade, your heart hammers in your chest, palms gone moist.

Keep going—don’t look back—no one remembers what they do not see.

A hundred yards away, set apart from the crowded center aisle, Mando leans against the wall of a mudbrick building. Arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed, he paints the picture of a man without cause, but you know better. Even when shaded by a striped linen overhang, even when his chest rises and falls to a steady, unbothered rhythm, there is never a moment the Mandalorian rests. You approach him with a what-gives gesture—hands tossed in the hair, brows creeping toward your hairline—and he pushes out of his slouch, moving his hands to his hips.

“What?”

“You can’t just leave me like that.”

“You found me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

He cuts you off, thrusting an open palm in the narrow space between your bodies. “Here. Put this on.”

You stare at the bean-sized device in his hand. “What is it?”

“An earpiece. You’re going to find Setarr on your own before we take him down.”

A rush of anxiety squeezes your chest, and your eyes snap to his visor. “What? By myself?” You shake your head, throat suddenly dry. “I can’t find him by myself! Apparently I can hardly walk around this dung-heap market without almost falling flat on my face. I barely know what I’m doing, and if—”

“Hey.” The Mandalorian drops a heavy palm to your shoulder, and your tongue freezes. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be in your ear the whole time.”

It must be the kindest thing he’s ever said to you. He must mean it. You’ll be fine.

Sucking in a breath, you nibble your lower lip, tearing a thin strip of flesh from the corner of your mouth. “In my ear the whole time?” He nods and removes his hand from your shoulder. You sigh. “More than you already are, I guess. What’s new?”

His head tilts toward your whispered words. “What?” You forget: nothing, not even a simple muttering, gets by him. Damned amplified hearing. It’s cheating. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Just give me the damn thing.”

The earpiece fits in the canal of your right ear, small and inconspicuous but not small enough to disappear completely, thank the Maker. Mando angles his body to the side once the hardware is secure, and he ducks his face, looking close, like a med-droid running a routine ear inspection. He bends slightly to get a better look then presses the pad of his index finger against the earpiece. A sharp beep rends through your head, rattling your teeth.

Gritting your jaw, you slap his arm away and clutch your ear as if the added pressure of your hand will dispel the pain ratcheting through your skull. “Kriffing hell! Watch it!”

“You heard that?”

“How could I not? Sounded like a dozen security alarms at once. My whole head is ringing.”

“Too loud then. Hold still.”

He steps close—too close. His aura, all testosterone and muscle, swallows you, leaves your tongue dripping with saliva, throat no longer dry. Cradling the left side of your face in his palm, he angles your right ear toward the sky. His glove smells clean, as though he laundered it recently, and the thought calms an old worry in your stomach. He’s fingered you with those gloves—twice now. It’s a comfort to know he washes them on occasion.

He fiddles with some hidden control on the earpiece, and a series of beeps blasts your eardrum. Your fingers latch onto his forearm, eyes squeezing shut in pain.

“Mando—stars,” you whisper. “Go easy on me.”

He huffs, though you feel the muscles of his arm stiffen beneath your hand.

The beep ing soon relents when he finds the correct volume. He steps back, and you stretch your neck side to side in an attempt to forget the way his fingers spanned the length of your face. It helps to check if the earpiece slips and slides as you move, too; it remains snug in your ear.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re ready.”

His words burst something in your stomach: a bloated carcass riddled with maggots. The grubs slither from belly to chest, dragging anxious goo through your veins. You twist your shoulder inwards, eyes fluttering shut as you latch onto the bugs creeping in your body. Fight or flight? Your body screams flight, but you root yourself to the hard-packed ground.

“What if—” You shake your head, opening your eyes on a shaky breath. 

For the first time, you wish you could see his face. You wish you could read him better. You wish you could draw a modicum of encouragement from his gaze. He could be laughing at you beneath that tin can; he could be knowingly sending you to your death, finally getting rid of his angry pest. A simple glance at his true form—if only to quiet the fear that he’s about to cut you loose and watch you fail on purpose—would calm the rolling storm in your stomach, you know it.

“How do you even know he’s in the market? It’s a whole fucking planet, Mando.”

“I just know.”

“Come on. Don’t toy with me. Last time, with Kiminn—”

“This isn’t like Kiminn.” His hand moves upwards, inching toward your shoulder again, but he seems to think better of it, folding his arms over his chest instead. “I’ve got your back. I need this bounty as much as you do. If something goes wrong, I’ll pull you out and finish the job myself.”

“Okay.” You straighten your curved spine, inhaling deeply. A few maggots cling to your heart, wriggling in time to an anxious beat, but you shove them aside. “Okay.”

“Now get going.” Turning, he steps into the shadowy doorway of the building. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

He disappears—a puff of smoke, a morning mist, a forbidden caress—without further instruction; and you stand, alone, on the edge of your own beginning. As a breeze filters over your face, a long-forgotten whisper washes to the surface of your mind:

“But you’re good at everything, Jeelia. You don’t even have to try.”

Positioned on her knees, your sister cuts through a fistful of thick wheat stalks with ease. Her electronic blade, rusted at the teeth, whirrs as it snaps the wheat’s dense insides. “I’m not good at everything. No one is good at everything when they first start out.”

You chuff, staring down at your own blade. Blood stands at the tip of your middle finger; a broken shaft of wheat lays discarded by your empty basket, the grain’s valuable interior now worthless. Jeelia’s basket overflows with blue stalks, and she hasn’t even broken a sweat despite the unusual warmth of the day.

Not good at everything your ass. You are convinced: Jeelia is perfection, without flaw or blemish or sin. You can never be like her, no matter how hard you try.

“Come on, raro faa’hom.” She nudges you with her elbow, and her teasing moniker—little bother—makes your heart sing. “You won’t succeed unless you first learn to fail, so you’re halfway to success already. Why don’t you try again?”

You aren’t sure where the memory comes from or why it chose to present itself. You can’t say you’re happy to have Jeelia’s presence hovering in the back of your mind right now either. She haunts you, that girl, and not a day goes by you don’t think of her at least once. It’s just—

Stars, you wish she were still here, that you could tell her about your adventures, and about the man who is teaching you, like she tried, to become something more than a little bother.

You’ve stood in the blistering heat of your memory too long. Like Mando said, you don’t have time to waste. Shoving Jeelia aside, you push into the marketplace with a renewed sense of purpose. Adron Setarr—he is your focus now. Him, just him; not Mando, not Jeelia, not the unknown fate of your parents so far away on Inora.

Just Setarr.

The initial squeeze of the market widens at the corner of the mudbrick building. To the left, a row or two of sparse stalls clump around the bend, but most shoppers have moved on and loaded themselves onto a nearby hover-tram station. Beyond the skeletal deck of the station, only dusty red earth until the horizon. Heat vapor blurs the far skyline; not a single bush or tree dot the landscape. A far cry from lush Hegora. Rust-bucket trams skim across the flat expanse, headed to and from nothing, and you wonder again if Mando knows what he’s talking about. Setarr could be anywhere. Why here?

You look to the right. A small outcrop of buildings face the station: an inn, a domed cantina, what appears to be a cross between a currency exchange and a detention center. More people—more species, that is—bustle to the right, but you head left. You need to work up the nerve to sift through the crowd at the cantina on your own, and a few minutes tarrying at the station platform might do you well.

You wedge beside a man and his wife browsing a linen stall, head lowered but eyes lifted through your lashes. A trail of people exit the most recent tram and scurry from platform to cantina or hangar bay. You scan for a bald head and find several, but no missing ear, Setarr’s most distinguishing feature.

A gruff voice breaks your concentration. “You gonna buy that?”

You frown and stare into the face of a sunburned Chiss. “What?” The vendor points to your hand. “Oh.” Your fingers rub the edge of a navy scarf. The color is similar to that of the stuffed animal you found beneath the galley bench. Not for the first time, you wonder what became of it after returning it to Mando. “No, I’m not,” you say.

The Chiss points to the well-worn road. “Then get a move on.”

Lifting your hands in surrender, you back away and cross to the other side of the street. You find a corner, a quiet point between the tram station and the cantina, and slide into the shadow of a squat, square building. From here, you can see everything. You run your gaze from the station to the distant mouth of the hangar bay to the line of buildings at your side. All five senses stand on alert, your pulse heavy in your ribcage.

Another gruff voice, this one you know all too well, rumbles through your ear. “What was that about?”

You startle, resisting the urge to clamp your hand to your chest in surprise. Instead, you bite your lip until the tang of metal bursts on your tongue. “Shit,” you breathe. “I didn’t know this was a two-way thing. You can’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” Silence; until: “Who were you talking to?”

“A street vendor. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. The less people you talk to the better.”

Though he cannot see, you nod in acknowledgement. 

The thoroughfare’s swift current eases the longer you hover on the corner. The linen stall folds inward, swathed canopy dropping from its perch when the vendor deems his clientele too sparse to remain open. A pack of wiry mutts scatter for the mouth of the airdock where the crowd persists. Your lips pull in a hard line, and you glance to the side. 

You aren’t ready to move to the cantina yet. Robust, thumping music clogs the bar’s doorway, and patrons spill onto the street, rowdy despite the morning hour. The frenzy of it all sets your teeth on edge. 

If Mando were here, standing beside you in all his beskar glory, you would walk into the building without a second thought. He commands respect—or at the very least fear—in the seediest of places, and when he walks by your side, you aren’t afraid of violence befalling you. The opposite, in fact. You feel powerful, as imposing as him. But he’s not with you now. It’s just you, and you know you do not on your own merit compel the same awe he does. 

You curl your hand around the grip of your blaster, tucked at your hip. The cool metal is a balm to your hot skin. You clear your throat. “Hey—you know that stuffed animal I gave you a few days ago? The sock thing? Whose was it?” 

Stalling for time, you twist and press your shoulder to the wall. At least this way you are facing the cantina, watching as people filter in and out, eyes straining for some sight of Setarr. You aren’t not working. Just… biding your time. Searching for the perfect moment to do… something. 

Fuck, maybe you aren’t as good at this as you originally thought. Maybe bagging Kiminn was a fluke. Maybe—

Mando’s reply breaks your rapidly descending thoughts. “A friend’s.”

Skeptical, your brow twitches, lips pursed. “A friend’s? You have friends?”

He sighs, and the sound tickles your eardrum, heavy in all the right places but at entirely the wrong moment. “It was my son’s.”

“Oh.” You choke on the word. The blood in your veins goes cold. A son—a son—he has a fucking kid. Your chest tightens, an invisible hand pinching your heart. “I didn’t know you were a dad.”

“I’m not,” he says, and your frown deepens. “Not really anyway. Can you just focus?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You inhale to steady yourself, checking both ends of the street, before setting your face forward. “I’m gonna head into the cantina. If I die in there, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

Mando mumbles something that sounds suspiciously close to good luck , but you don’t quite catch it as the cantina’s atmosphere reaches out to lure you into its stuffy embrace. Reluctantly, you surrender, abandoning your safe corner for the noisy horde.

As you did in the congested market, you walk with a measure of confidence you do not truly feel. Your arms swing at your sides, feet moving of their own accord. Step after step, pointed, purposeful. You lift your chin, sliding your gaze to the right when someone whistles at your backside.

“Nice hips, baby! Shake ‘em for me when—”

Keep going—don’t look back—no one remembers what they do not see.

You walk on.

The interior of the cantina is dim, hazy with smoke and the dizzying smell of deodorizer. You skirt the slow roll of dancing bodies, the intoxicating rush of species pressed against species. The music grinds to a syrupy rhythm, and your blood runs in time with the beat. If you weren’t on the job, you think you might actually like it here. Might even find someone who could—

Focus. You need to focus.

You find an ancient-looking Weequay tending bar. He wipes the dirty counter with a dirty rag, ambivalent to the swirl of life around him.

“Have you seen this man?” You slide a transparent block of electronic plasteel across the bar. Etched into the facade, Setarr’s likeness rotates in a slow circle, his brow pulled in a deep scowl, mouth snarling. 

The Weequay glares at you. “Who wants to know?”

You soften your face, batting your best doe eyes. “He’s my boyfriend,” you say. “He was supposed to pick me up at the hangar but didn’t show.” Before the bartender can ask another question, you push your breasts forward and nibble your lower lip. “I’d be grateful if you told me anything you might know. Really grateful.”

The Weequay sighs, folding his dirty rag over his arm. He cocks his head to the side, and you follow the movement with your eyes. A square hole in the wall serves as a back door, a tattered maroon cloth fluttering over the opening in response to a stiff breeze. Not much to go on, but you’ll take it.

You flash the Weequay a bright grin, going so far as to touch his elbow with the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”

The smile falls from your face as you resume course.

Pushing the cloth aside, you exit the cantina as fast as you entered. You find yourself in a narrow corridor between the cantina and another nondescript building. Looking left you can make out the edge of the tram station across the street; looking right the corridor narrows, growing dark, pulsing with danger. An acrid smell wafts from that direction, so strong you have to physically swallow a cough and hold your fingers to the underside of your nose.

Kriff, you probably have to go that way, don’t you?

A man’s scream—sudden, razor-edged with terror—the sound splits the air. You stiffen, head whipping to the right fast enough you hear your muscles crack. Fuck. Now you really have to go that way.

You remove the blaster at your side and anchor the grip between both palms. Movements slow, you side-step your way down the corridor, ear tilted in the direction of the continued screaming. Your heart gallops in your chest, and a nerve beside your eye twitches. You’re on your own, advancing toward Maker-knows-what, senses assaulted by smell and sound alike. It’s enough to make anyone—hell, even someone as brave as Mando—tremble in their hunting boots.

His reassurance from earlier pops into mind: You’ll be fine. 

You want to scoff. How the fuck would he know? You could turn the corner and find yourself pushed into the business-end of a meat grinder, ground to a pulp before he even has the chance to hear you scream. It’s hard not to laugh at the concept, but you suppose you’ll simply have to trust him when he says he has your back. You wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him, but if he needs this bounty as badly as you, you’ll hold onto the hope that he won’t abandon you if it means losing his payout. 

Before you reach the end of the alley, you find a metal ladder stretching from the roof of the building next to you to the ground. You scramble up the ladder two rungs at a time, taking the opportunity to survey your surroundings. You roll to your stomach when you reach the top, careful not to allow your head to crest the small lip lest you be seen. Inching to the flat roof’s edge, you peer over the lip and into a small courtyard below.

You spot Setarr with ease. His bald head glistens with sweat in the afternoon sun, and the respirator stretched over his mouth hangs loose on one side where no ear can hold it in place. He stands beside a wooden table, beefy, tattooed arms crossed. He watches—still, silent, soulless—as a naked young man on the table withers, his skin contracting until it melts from the bone.

You duck your head, pinching the end of your nose. “Mando, I think I know what smells so bad.”

“What is it?”

“I found Setarr, and I don’t think he’s an arms dealer.” 

Peeking over the rooftop once more, bile rises in your throat as a figure clad in dark rubber peels back the layers of the naked man’s flesh, revealing his organs to the sunlight. You gasp for breath, hands shaking, mind numb. The man on the table is dead now, of that there’s no doubt. You weren’t quick enough to save him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t find a way to stop Setarr from harvesting anyone else. Of course, your first true bounty and you get a fucking organ harvester. The universe loves to mock you, doesn’t it? 

At least it’s a chance to harden your stomach.

“I can hear your teeth chattering.” Mando’s voice brings you back to the present, temporarily wiping the red haze of fury from your vision. “Just breathe, Scout. You’re not in any immediate danger.”

You still, forehead pinching in confusion. “Scout?”

“I don’t know—it just… You’ve got good eyes, nice eyes. You can locate things easily. Forget it. I’ll be there in less than a minute. Stay on the rooftop.”

“Wait—how do you know I’m on a roof?”

Another recollection: I’ve got your back. If something goes wrong, I’ll pull you out and finish the job myself.

You sit up with a scoff. He’d been following you the whole time. Shit. Is the warmth blooming through your chest anger or appreciation? You don’t know; you don’t have time to figure it out.

“Hey! Up there! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Grimacing, you look over your shoulder to see the hardened face of Adron Setarr staring up at you from his macabre operating room. He withdraws a blaster from the waistband of his pants, angling it upwards. You duck before he has the chance to solidify a good aim.

“Get back here!” he shouts—but you’re already halfway down the ladder.

You drop to the ground with a heavy thud, crouching in the dusty road. As soon as you stand, a thick hand wraps around your arm, turning you sharply. You find your dagger in the fold of your belt. You spin in the direction of your attacker, lifting the weapon and baring your teeth. You bring your arm down and—

“It’s me!” Mando catches your descending forearm with his other hand, and you’ve never been so relieved to see the shiny asshole. “Drop the dagger. It’s me.”

You relax your stiff muscles, lowering your arm. “Oh thank the Maker. I thought you were—”

“No time.” Though his hand remains tight around your upper arm, he steps around you, glancing toward the dark end of the alley. “Is he down there? Around the corner?” You nod. “Good. Stay here.”

With a guffaw, you wrench your arm from his grasp. “Absolutely not. Not when it’s just getting good.”

He shakes his head on a frustrated growl. “You are so stubborn. When I tell you—”

“No time. Save the lecture for later.” You shove his shoulder in the direction of the courtyard. “Go before he gets away. I’m behind you.”

He can’t argue with that. He knows you’re right.

Mando quick-steps for the corner of the alley, his approach like a loth cat on the prowl. You stick close behind, as much a leech on his person as ever. At the corner, he pauses, motioning for you to stop and press yourself to the wall in an imitation of his stance. When he sticks his helmet to the left, pushing himself into the open, blaster fire whizzes past his head and imbeds in the wall of the cantina. You swallow a gasp, catching Mando’s back with your palms when he dips backward, away from the continuing onslaught of blaster fire.

“He’s not going to go without a fight.” The words tumble from his mouth in a breathless rush. “I saw him and at least one other man, but there could be more.”

“I only saw one other when I was on the roof, but—” You pause, an idea forming as you speak. “I could go on the roof.”

Mando looks over his shoulder, and you can feel his confused frown dig into your forehead. “What?”

“I could go on the roof,” you say again. “You said I have good eyes. I’ll go up top, fire from there.”

The blaster fire stops, and a sing-song voice curls into the darkness of the corridor. “Come on out, girlie. I saw you watching me. You can’t have gone far. Come out here and let’s play. I’ll show you my toys… We can play doctor if you want to…”

Mando huffs. Planting a hand on your hip, he shoves you back, motioning for the ladder with the barrel of his blaster. You nod in understanding and break into a run before Setarr can round the corner. As you scale the ladder once more, Mando’s final directive settles in your ear:

“We bring him in warm.”

Crawling onto the roof, you find an unobstructed vantage point behind a sheet of tin you angle against the roof’s edge. You peek over the top of the metal shield, blaster aimed into the courtyard. The dead man is gone, a streak of his blood smeared over the wood table the only evidence he was ever there. The figure in dark rubber is gone, too. 

A white sheet divides the courtyard in two sections. You roll to the left and run a quick scan over the portion of the yard once hidden. Righteous anger rips through your gut, and you click off the safety of your blaster.

Tilting your head, you press a finger to the earpiece. “Hostages. At least three. I think they’re next on Setarr’s slaughter list.”

“You get them. I’ll take Setarr.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue! Do it.”

With a short sigh, you return your focus to the courtyard below. 

Two bodies decorate the ground, sliced down the center, entrails removed and skeletons hollow. Goners. No hope for them now. There might be a sliver of hope, however, for the three bound-and-gagged persons lined up against a rickety fence. One captive—a red-hued Twi’lek—appears to be sleeping, his chin lolled to his chest, but the two humanoids on either side stare at you with wide, frantic eyes. You press a finger to your lips, but before you can make a move, the sheet whips to the side, and the figure in rubber reappears.

“Shit.” You duck behind the edge of the roof. 

On the other side of the partition, blaster fire resumes. Mando’s caught up to Setarr then. You need to act fast.

Fight or flight? Every muscle in your body, every safety precaution ingrained in you by your mother, urges you to run, but bounty hunters don’t run. They pursue. They fight. You cock your blaster into firing position, breathing deep to steady the anticipatory tremble of your trigger finger. 

Time to fight.

Just as the figure in rubber leans down to lift the captive woman from the ground, you take aim and fire. The bolt strikes the meat of the man’s lower back. And while some might consider a blaster shot to the back a cheap shot, you'll gladly accept the label of coward if it means avoiding injury. Anyone who holds to the ethics of combat fools themselves. There are no rules when you fight for the chance to draw another breath. 

The rubber man drops to his backside with a pained howl, the woman toppling to her shoulder next to him. She thrashes in her restraints as the man struggles to his knees, and you grit your teeth. Damn—either he’s stronger than he looks or you’re truly a bad shot. 

Focused entirely on his violent mission, he withdraws a curved knife and slices the woman’s cheek as he cuts the cloth rendering her mute. Crimson blood trickles from the wound, spilling into her mouth as she screams. The smell of burnt flesh—the man’s gunshot—mingles with the scent of her oozing gash. Swinging one knee over her hips, the man straddles her waist, curling both hands around the hilt of his blade.

You falter. Where have you seen this before?

Jeelia—Jeelia, Jeelia… 

You launch from the rooftop with a feral screech, an image of your dead, discarded sister plastered before your eyes. Perhaps it is pure emotion which blankets your fall, but you tuck and roll with ease, jumping to your feet as soon as you hit the ground. You reach for the bully’s neck and use your upright position to your advantage. He falls at the slightest tug, the gaping wound in his back rendering him sluggish. Before he can land on his back, you pummel the hilt of your blaster against his temple. A purple welt blossoms after each successive hit.

Through clenched teeth, you mutter, “Get—off—my—sister.”

Only your sister—Jeelia—is not here, and the woman you spared from death crawls away to untie her fellow captives without a second glance. You know it in your head: rage blinds you, making you dizzy with adrenaline and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. You strike the rubber man as though he was the one to brutalize your sister, force her head beneath the crystal lake behind your house and—

“Let go, Scout.” A strong arm circles your waist, lifting you from the limp body beneath you. “He’s dead.”

But you continue to struggle. “No! Let me at ‘im!” You jerk against Mando’s arm, throwing your body weight forward with as much power as you can muster, but he holds firm, hardly budging as you thrash in his hold. “I can get him. Fuck off, Metal Man! Let me go!”

Mando swings his opposite arm around your shoulders; your back arches in response, feet flying out to kick the air. “ No. Control yourself.”

“Please!” Tears blur your vision in a sudden rush. The body on the ground swims before your eyes. “My sister… Mando, let me—”

He says your name—a soothing tickle of his tongue across the word—and the boil in your stomach lowers to a simmer. He pushes your shoulder with his fist, jostling your head back to hit his arm. “Stop it,” he says. “Get a hold of yourself.”

Spent at last, you go slack, and your blaster clatters to the ground. The toes of your boots skim the floor, your back to Mando’s chest. He breathes hard; the edges of his chest-plate dig into the exposed flesh of your shoulders. Lifting your hands, you blow a column of air through pursed lips.

“You can let go of me,” you say, voice returned to calm. “I’m okay.”

Mando releases you after a moment of hesitation, and you turn to face him, running a hand through your tangled hair. Setarr stands at his side, cuffed and bleeding from a wound on his forehead. He snarls at you, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth, but you don’t care. You’ve done your work here: the three captives disappeared as soon as they were able, and for that you’re glad.

But you shift under Mando’s intense stare. It’s as though he can see straight to the heart of you, to the places you are most wounded and raw. You want to hide from him and his all-seeing eye. You want some things, some small corners of yourself, to remain secret if only to put up a solid front; and you’ve revealed too much already through your unhinged outburst. 

Lowering your face, you pull the earpiece from your ear and hand it back. “We’re done with this now, right?”

He accepts the device with an open palm. “Yes.”

You look up, gaze skittering to Setarr when you find you cannot face Mando for long. “Then let’s go.”

Mando nods and pushes Setarr’s shoulder in the direction of the alleyway, but the bounty won’t be moved without edging in for the last word. He throws a glance over his back as you walk behind him.

“Say, Mando, where did you find such a scrappy little bitch?” Setarr smirks. “I’d like to find one myself when I get out. Maybe take her on—”

Mando doesn’t have the chance to tell you to stop. You shove him aside with the heel of your palm, pull back your fist, and smash your knuckles into the column of Setarr’s nose. Bone cracks, blood flows, and the bounty squeals in pain, clutching his face. 

Your glare jumps to Mando, who stands by with his hands on his hips. “Problem with that, boss?”

He shakes his head, and you swear you hear the fringes of a smile in his voice when he says, “None at all.”

//

It takes the both of you to wrestle Setarr into the carbonite chamber. Mando wasn’t wrong: the criminal refuses to go down without a fight. Arms tied to his sides, he resorts to using his teeth and tongue as a weapon, even as you forcibly hold him in the carbonite freezer while Mando sets about activating the machine.

“Get your bitch off of me, Mandalorian! I swear, I will rip her pieces if you don’t—”

You dig your elbow deeper in the chatterbox’s throat. “Can you hurry it up, old man?” You bite back a frustrated yell when Setarr presses his teeth into your skin. “This thing is biting me!”

“Hold on, godsdammit! This valve is not…” He trails off as he fiddles with the machine’s control panel.

A moment more and the chamber whirrs to life. Mando catches your waist, pulling you from the inside of the chamber as pressurized steam swirls around a shrieking Setarr. The steam swallows the bounty, wrapping him in a shroud of mist and chemicals. He convulses to the last, and within a minute, stands frozen in a giant grey block, his mouth suspended in a perpetual scream. 

You release a breath you were unaware you held in the squeeze of your chest. “Damn…” 

Mando’s hands tighten on either side of your waist. “Didn’t know he would be so mouthy. Most of Karga’s information was wrong.” He removes his hands and steps to the side, depressing a red button on the chamber’s frame. “Sorry… about what he said.” 

As the block of carbonite swings out of the chamber, sliding on an overhead track to fall in line with the four other frozen sods in the cargo hold, you wave off the apology. “I don’t care what he says.”

He presses another button, and a cleansing cycle washes over the carbonite freezer. “Didn’t think so.”

He turns from the chamber. 

There is so much you want to ask him: about his son, about what he heard you say in that ill-used courtyard, about his funny little nickname and where it came from and why he chose to use it now. You want to ask him if you did well, if he sees some shred of potential in you at last.

Instead, you just smile. The grin spreads across your face as the high of your success takes hold. Any misgivings, any regrets about your actions, melt when you twist your neck to catch a glimpse of Setarr, side by side with Kiminn. Your boys—you put them there. You, you, you.

“Fuck, that feels good.” You return your smile to Mando and his unreadable helm. “Does it always feel this good after?”

A weighty pause then: “Mostly.”

You swipe a few strands of hair from your face. He looks completely unruffled in his shining armor, and you’re sure you look the opposite. Your clothes stink with dried sweat. Your hair stands askew and untamed. You are wild, primeval and glistening. 

I am Woman—woman, woman—I will not be contained.

A little breathlessly, punctuated with a small laugh, you say, “We should do it again sometime.”

He nods, a sole dip of his head. 

It is unclear who moves first. Is it Mando with his single step forward, arm reaching for your waist? Is it you with your hurried stride, hands scrabbling for whatever tenderness you can find beneath his hard armor? Does it even matter?

He spins on his heel, crashing your back into the frame of the carbon chamber with a muffled grunt. His palms roam the curve of your waist, the incline of your breasts, and your heart stutters in your chest. You sling your leg over his hip, angling your head to expose the line of your throat. 

“Oh gods,” you breathe. He presses the cool curve of his helm to your neck, igniting a shiver that runs the course of your spin. “Are we doing this? Is this–is this gonna be a regular thing?” Forcing your eyes open, you push his shoulder until he lifts his head. Somewhere beneath the black visor, his eyes catch yours. “Because after Kiminn and Hegora… I just want to know what I’m dealing with…”

“Do you…” He shifts forward to support your weight against the carbonite freezer. One palm rests above your head, the other steadies your hip. “Do you want this to be a regular thing?” If only he could feel the way your pussy flutters at the sound of his deep voice alone… 

In lieu of a verbal response, you tuck your lip between your teeth, grip the curve of his pauldrons, and angle your hips upwards. You roll your mound over his half-hard cock, and when he inhales sharply, you grin.

He lifts the hand at your hip to tear the narrow strap of your tank over your shoulder. He palms your breast when the loose fabric drops from your chest. “Then yes. It will be a regular thing.”

You press your heels in the small of his back, pushing his cock that much closer to your heat. Dipping your head to the side, you whisper, “I still hate you.”

Mando stills. His visor finds your eyes, and he presses his fingers to the underside of your chin, pushing your head back until it drops to the freezer’s hard frame. “It’s cute you think I care.”

You gasp. Hot slick gushes from your center, and you moan, the sound torn from your throat before you can stop it.

“Put me down.” You buck against his hips and loosen your leg’s hold on his back. “There’s something I want to do.”

As soon as you feel his arms relax, you drop to the floor, forcing him to turn and lean against the carbonite chamber with a hard push to the arm. He complies—perhaps because he’s curious, perhaps because his cock tents his pants—but he goes willingly. His long body falls against the narrow frame of the freezer, and you fall to your knees on the steel floor. Pain ricochets through your bones, but you’ll massage the bruises later. This—gods, right now, all you care about is this.

Looking up, you run the palm of your hand over the bulge in Mando’s flight suit. Your nail teases the zipper hidden beneath a sliver of fabric. His body stiffens, and you pause, moving to massage your fingers against his straining length.

“Is this okay?” you ask. You flutter your eyelashes, brows pushed together in question. “Can I do this?”

He thinks for a long moment—you can feel the time tick by with the throb of your cunt—then he nods. “Yes.” The word is gravel, rough and taut with desire. It goes straight to your center like a flaming arrow.

Tearing at his zipper, you tug his cock free of its confinement. At once your mouth waters, and the throb of your cunt increases enough it pulses through your body like an earthquake. You make a noise—a little hmph —as you adjust your stance long enough to press two fingers to your center, still trapped beneath your pants. You dig the digits against your womanhood to momentarily dampen the ache in your core. The movement does not go unnoticed by Mando.

He moves his head to try and watch, reaching for your shoulder. “Shit, girl. Are you—”

You whack his arm away. “Shut up, and let me suck your dick how I want to.”

He falls back with a groan. “Could you go any slower?”

“Hmm.” With a smirk, you wrap your fingers around his hardening length and give an experimental pump. “Probably. Do you want to keep annoying me and find out?”

His silence is answer enough.

The two times Mando has fucked you, you were unable to see so much as an inch of the skin beneath his suit. Your nakedness stood in stark contrast to his complete covering, but now… Now you watch as you pump his shaft, and the golden hue of his cock stiffens in response. You hum in appreciation, stroking his cock in a lazy rhythm until he stands hard and dripping. You press a kiss to his tip, sucking the single bead of precum from his slit. It lands on your tongue like a salty pearl.

His thighs rattle against their tassets, and you know: he’s fighting the urge to ram his cock down your throat. Perhaps later… 

Circling his head with your tongue, you slide his cock into your mouth. Its girth stretches your lips until they sting around the edges, but you continue, pushing forward until you feel him nudge the back of your throat. When you gag, he grunts, his hips giving a shallow thrust. You pull back, laving your tongue over the rigid vein on the underside of him. 

You continue the routine—forward, gag, pull back with a gentle suck—until you feel him swell in your mouth. He’s close; you can tell by the short breaths forced through his modulator and the grip of his fingers on your shoulder. He’s close, but you’re not ready for him. Not yet. You release him, swallowing gulps of air as you find his balls tucked within the fold of his pants. Massaging them between your palm, you look up, breathing hard as you offer a smile. His helmet stares back, devoid of any inkling of emotion. But his chest heaves, and his shoulders tremble, and you feel powerful at the feet of such a hard, unyielding man.

Sure he is no longer on the edge of release, you return your tongue to his head, swirling the flat of your muscle around his tip. You moan as you go, allowing the saliva in your mouth to push past your lips and coat his cock. You return your hand to his shaft and resume the slow pump of moment’s before, your saliva a slick lubricant. You squeeze the base of him, and he bends forward on a sharp breath.

You catch his arm before he can fold over all the way. Your neck strains as you lean your head back to meet the black void of his visor. “I want you to say my name,” you murmur. “I want you to call me Scout when you cum.”

You slap your hand to the center of his chest plate, forcing him back against the carbon freezer as you return your mouth to his cock. Holding him there, you bob over his length at a new, furious pace. He invades your mouth, pushing and prodding the back of your throat, invading your senses with his taste, with his smell. You drop your opposite hand to his chest, lacing your fingers together as you use his body armor to stabilize the cant of your jaw. You suck and lick and slobber around his length until—

The fingers of his right hand thread through yours, and the palm of his left hand drops to the back of your head. He holds your entwined hands against his chest as he ruts into your mouth, each thrust nudging the back of your throat. Tears gather at your lash line, but you blink them away.

“Suck—my cock—so—fuckin’—good,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. You choke around him, and a line of spit dangles from your chin. “Take it. There you go.”

Just when you’re sure your eyes will roll into the back of your skull and your jaw will unhinge and your throat will catch around his cock, he swells one final time, releasing his load into the hollow of your throat. You startle in surprise, dropping your hands from his chest to hold his hips.

“Gods— fuck , Scout, that feels good.”

You moan around him, breathing through your nose until he pulls from you with a wet pop . You fall to your ass with a groan and swipe the back of your hand across your bruised mouth. Mando’s cock hangs against his pants, twitching, slick with your spit.

Fuck indeed.

You stare up at him, dazed. The crotch of your pants is sodden, soaked to the point you wonder if you came without touching yourself, without even realizing it. You wouldn’t mind.

Tucking himself back in his pants, Mando steps forward. He crouches long enough to lift you from the floor and throw you over his shoulder. He cracks his hand against your ass, and you scream, not in pain, but surprise. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you shout. You punch his back with your fist, but he will not be deterred. His grip only tightens. “Put me down!”

He just slaps your ass again, strides heavy with need but voice as changeless as ever. “We’re going upstairs,” he says. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Chapter Text

The Mandalorian was not lying when he told you: I’m not finished with you yet.

The Mandalorian was not lying when he found his voice that evening in the cargo hold and said: Yes. It will be a regular thing. 

Din Djarin is not a man who lies. He is a man who keeps his word. And for the last fortnight—fourteen days of steering his ship through the stars and his body into yours—he has made good on his promise.

He is by no means finished with you.

//

DAY EIGHTEEN—THREE DAYS SINCE SETARR

“Do you like it, Mando?”

Din looks up from his place at the annex table when your voice fills the hall and—

His response is juvenile: a sudden rush of blood to his length, a heavy tongue, warm cheeks. He feels like a young man again, caught by the sensual gaze of an older woman who likes the build of his shoulders and the cut of his beskar. He knows he should not be here, letting her—no, it’s you now—toy with the desire for touch and warmth that churns in his gut, but he cannot bring himself to move. He cannot bring himself to look away.

Right arm draped high over your head, ass pushed to the side, you lean against the bulkhead. Your body curves in a gentle s formation, sleek lines hugged by metallic blue-grey fabric. Wide-leg pants and a top that offers nothing to the imagination, the straps criss-cross your neck, leaving your stomach and shoulders exposed to the elements. It’s ridiculous, impractical, counterproductive but all of you glistens beneath the soft glow of the open fresher door and Din cannot be bothered to consider pragmatism in a moment like this.

God-fucking- damn .

He leans forward, gripping the meat of his thigh with strained fingers. “Where did you get that?”

You step away from the wall, and your hips sway to their own heavenly melody. “Daos-Seven. In the market before we left.” You pause in your lithe step, bare feet pigeon toed. When you swing your shoulders back and forth, clasping your hands behind your back, a lump rises to his throat. “I got this and a few others. So… do you like it?”

He huffs; the noise pushes through his voice coder, edges brusque and feral. “No.” Yes—gods, yes.

Your lower lip pouts. “Really?” Twisting, you present your backside, cupped well by the stretchy, velvet-like fabric. “I like it. It wasn’t that expensive either.”

“You look ridiculous.” He stands from the table. “Take it off. Or I will.”

Your pout morphs to a frown as you spin to face him. Your breasts squeeze beneath the meager top when you cross your arms. He swears he can see the outline of your nipples through the woven material. He wants to… Fuck, he wants to bury his face between your soft skin and drench your breasts in his spit and maybe even—

You’re speaking, he realizes, though your words slog through his viscous, honeyed thoughts. The sharp point of your tongue invades his sweet, syrupy mind, scraping whatever pleasure he can squeeze from his pitiful life to the side.

“Honestly, Mando,” you say. “There’s no reason to take it so personally. It’s just a new outfit and a little bit of teasing. My old duds were so gruny you could practically see the sweat stains from space. Can’t have that as a bounty hunter now can I?”

He grinds his teeth against his jaw. “Take it off, girl. I won’t ask you again.”

You scoff and drop your arms. “Has a change of clothes really upset you that much? Maker, you’re unbalanced. I swear…”  

Shaking your head, you move to walk away, but Din catches your forearm. He yanks— hard —and you crash into his chest with a murmured expletive. Planting his opposite hand in the small of your back, he folds over you, pushing, pushing, until you must arch your spine to accommodate his body crowding yours. Your chest heaves, tits brushing up against his beskar-clad torso, nipples gone taut from the cold metal. Or maybe—

Maybe you want him as much as he wants you. 

This transition from closeted desires to rabid fucking infected with resentment and a struggle for dominance remains new. Din is still able to count on one hand the number of times he’s stripped you bare and plunged his cock in your warm depths: that first time, in the annex, bathed in the light of hyperspace; on Hegora, blanketed by soft grass; after Daos-Seven; once more since then, bent over the galley table. Five times, hardly a habit and certainly not a ritual. Thus he holds this arrangement in his palm like a flower. He knows his strength, knows his uncanny aptitude for crushing what beauty has been offered him by the Maker, and so he holds the flower—the agreement that yes, he can fuck you when he wants, how he wants—with a trembling hand lest he mistakenly clench a fist and break delicate petals. 

It has been so long since he felt the pliant embrace of another. So long since he inhaled the scent of their skin, felt his flesh against theirs. None of these things he will give to you; none of these things you deserve. But his cock? That rigid length you’ve taken between your mouth and sucked within your wet center? He can give you that. If you want it.

Your hot breath fogs his visor. “I like the outfit,” you mutter. “If you rip it, I’ll cut your heart out.”

He tilts his head. “Seems dramatic.”

Lifting your chin, you raise an eyebrow. “Try me.”

He could ignore your request and tear the outfit from your body like he so desires. One hard tug, and he’s sure the top would unravel between his fingers. How sturdy can an outfit from Daos-Seven’s seedy market really be? Only, there’s something about a simple shift to his voice or posture that robs you of your senses, turning you dumb and boneless. He’s seen it here in the annex, once more in the galley. He wants to see it again.

“You want the truth?” He lowers his voice to the pit of his chest, and your eyes widen in quick response.

Keeping you pressed to his abdomen, Din steps forward, one foot after the other until you bump against the edge of the annex table. He drops his hold on your back and frames your body with a hand on either side of your hips. Bent at the waist, his eyes dance between yours. Your pupils swallow the bright color of your irises, mind gone drunk on the room’s mounting tension.

“I like the outfit too,” he admits. “It’s ridiculous for a bounty hunter to wear but...” Dipping two fingers beneath the waistband of your bands, he tugs then releases, letting the band snap against your stomach. “I like it enough I want to fuck you in it. Will you let me?”

Without hesitation, you nod, and suddenly, that iron-clad, haughty tongue of yours vanishes in a puff of want. He smirks. Works every time.

Gently, as though not to disturb the thin ice on which he treads, Din lowers himself to his knees. He guides his palms from your waist over the globes over your ass, pausing to knead his fingertips in the supple flesh there. You suck in a sharp breath. He hooks his fingers in the pant’s waistband, glancing up to see you watch him through hooded eyes, and then he pulls, slow, inch by precious inch. The skin revealed by his sluggish disrobing looks good enough to taste. He wonders if remnants of your soap cling to the crease where your leg meets your groin, and if he might be able to taste flower petals should he swipe his tongue through your depths. He wishes he could— 

No. Best not start down that wooded trail. He may lose himself within the brambles of possibility and never return.

Once stripped, the pants pool around your ankles, and your naked cunt stands before him like the lustrous centerpiece of your body. For a moment he considers removing his glove in order to feel your lips part against his fingertips, but he will forgo that pleasure, that carnal, intimate desire… for now.

He presses the pad of his thumb to the apex of your womanhood and studies the way your delicate flesh eagerly invites his fingers between your folds. You lean against the table, hands clutching the edge as though you might free-fall to your death at any moment. The muscles in your thighs tremble with anticipation, and he curves his free hand around the back of your leg to steady you. You aren’t wet, not yet anyway, but he can remedy that quick enough. The leather of his glove catches on your dry cunt as he drags his thumb from your clit to the cleft of your ass. His thumb slips at your opening, and he makes a sound somewhere near a hum. 

“There you are,” he murmurs, rubbing his finger through the puddle of slick at your center. 

“Mando…” He looks up at the sound of your hushed and heavy voice. “Come on. Quit teasing me.”

“I’m not teasing. Unlike you, I don’t tease.” 

To prove his point, he dips his thumb into your cunt. Prodding your tight walls, he pushes until you swallow him to the second knuckle. Your head drops forward on a hitched breath, your stance inching wider to better accommodate his hand. He see-saws his finger through your wet channel, rubbing forward and backward until your hips give an experiment buck. 

He pauses to let his gaze roam your face. “I want you nice and ready for me. Can you take another?”

Though a fog of desire clouds your face, you lift your left leg and drape it over his shoulder. Your pussy spreads for him, magnificent, glistening and glossy, an offering he cannot resist. He bites back a grin. Such an obedient girl when you want to be. 

He removes his thumb, but is quick to fill your cunt with his first two fingers. You groan. Your heel presses into his back, nudging him closer. He takes the hint and pushes his fingers further, deeper, crooking them forward until he finds the spongy spot in the hidden depths of your center. He coaxes the spot with his gloved-hand, curiosity snatching his focus.

Din can fuck. He knows he can fuck. He’s bedded enough whores to understand a few things: He’s big, he’s thick, and he’s good. But those fleeting connections were born out of desperation, stolen moments between jobs, and he never stayed long enough to truly discover the wonders of a woman’s body. He’s never tangled his lips with someone else; never tasted a pussy; never brought a girl to her knees by his hand alone. But with you—hovering out here in space, wasting time because he can’t bring himself to find yet another sorry, useless bastard—he can do whatever he wants.

And he wants to make you pour over the floor of his ship.

He pulls his fingers out of your tight cunt long enough to adjust his straining cock then he lifts his face. He offers his pussy-soaked fingers to your parted mouth. “Get ‘em wet,” he says. You swallow a lump in your throat before spitting in his hand. The saliva pools in the bend of his knuckles, and he huffs. “Wasn’t what I had in mind, but fine.”

Dragging your spit over the pads of his fingers, he positions his hand at your opening once more. He doesn’t look up when he says, “Hold on to my shoulders.”

As soon as your trembling hand latches onto his pauldron, he plunges his fingers into your cunt, searching for that buried pleasure spot. He finds it with ease and nudges the spot until you gasp, eyes shut and jaw limp. He drags his hand down, removing the pressure for an instant before he surges forward to press against it again. Forward and backward, an unchanging rhythm, a dance of his own making.

You squeeze him; the leg thrown over his shoulder, your pussy around his fingers, your own grip on his armor, all of you holds him tight. Little squeaks catch in your throat and tumble past your lips as he picks up speed. Faster now, hitting that spot with unrelenting determination. 

He drives into your cunt with his fingers alone, and he has to hold his breath to stop himself from wrenching his hand free and tearing off his glove. The warmth seeping through the old leather is enough to make his cock throb, and the slick bubbling at your opening makes his mouth water. But all he can do in this vulgar moment is fuck you hard and fast with his fingers. He will fuck his fingers into you until you gush for him, and even then, he will fuck his fingers into you harder.

He can feel it growing. Your hips writhe against his hand, and he can feel the ultimate burst of pleasure rising in your center as you toss your head back, at last releasing a strangled and cracked moan. The sound sends his cock into overdrive, the front of his flight suit drenched with his own excitement. Your muscles quiver around him, thighs trembling as you hit your first peak, but he keeps going. Not there yet; he can feel it around the corner, but you aren’t there yet. 

Faster, harder. He’ll get you there if it’s the last thing he does.

He adds his thumb to your swollen clit, and you keen as he drags it in a slow circle, so at odds with the swift slide of his fingers. The numb swells against his finger, and he pushes inward, flicking it back and forth as he fucks your cunt.

“Oh…” You lean forward on an inward plunge, and his helm hits the hot skin of your stomach. “Oh—oh my god—I think…” 

You bite down on your lip, spine curling, and there, there—he knows it’s there—he can feel it—you tighten—you sob—and you release.

Liquid gushes from a concealed reserve, spraying over his forearm, splashing onto the floor of the ship. A wide grin breaks the pull of his concentrated frown. He keeps rubbing—rubbing and rubbing—as your body quakes around him.

“Fuck. That’s a girl. Look at you.”

He drags the liquid gold from your body until you’re begging for him to stop, until you pull your leg from his shoulder and kick his helmet with whatever energy you still possess. He falls to his ass, and his hand slips in the fluid scattered and glittering on the floor. He drops further to his elbow, legs propped, a firm tent in his pants revealing he enjoyed pulling that orgasm just as much as you enjoyed receiving it. Smug and satisfied, he searches your face and yeah…

You both know he’s good.

But you bend to grab your pants from the ground. You fold them over your arm with careful reverence, smoothing any wrinkles he created. He can see the twitch in your thighs and the ooze of cum painting your legs, but you hold yourself with composure, as though he hasn’t just rung you dry.

You clear your throat and step over his recumbent form. Flicking your hair over your shoulder, you head for the fresher, an unnecessary sway to your hips as you go. Still, he does not miss the wobble of your gait nor your foalish legs. You put on a good show, attempting to appear more poised than you are, and it makes him shake his head and grumble to himself.

Obstinate, headstrong girl.

You pause in the hall and spare him a fleeting glance. You point to your own juices with a disgusted finger. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

He rolls his eyes. Figures.

/

DAY TWENTY-TWO—FOUR DAYS LATER

He’s cleaning the contents of the weapons cabinet when you find him in the cargo hold of the ship. 

It’s been a quiet day of traveling, a lonely day of thinking about Grogu and how much he would have liked the Sunder . The Sunder’s flight deck offers more space than on the Razor Crest where the curious boy could wreak havoc. An entire panel of buttons waits for his grabby fingers. A nice couch, too; a place he could rest his head but still be near, never too far from his father. The hallway echoes without the sound of his awkward footsteps or gentle coos, and the galley feels barren without his assorted belongings. And though the ship glides through the stars with a regal air, her head crowned with Din’s achievement of besting Moff Gideon, everything on-board feels… hollow. A puzzle missing a piece, a heart missing a valve, a life without breath.

Din could not stand the swirl of memories and wonderings as he set a course for the next bounty. The disconnected feeling choked him until he imagined himself untethered from his ship, floating through nebulous space, guided by his intense desire to find something or someone to care for again. Grogu—the Child—he gave Din a taste of more than , and now Din starves without it. So, he buried himself here, in the dim cargo hold, gorging himself on the routine motions of prepping his utensils for their next meal. 

You find him sitting on an overturned crate, elbows braced against his knees as he wipes down his beskar spear. Feeling your gaze dig beneath his helmet, he hesitates, cloth rag slowing as he avoids your obvious scrutiny. He imagines you have a host of questions for him, but none of them he wants to answer. The universe has asked too much of him already, and all he needs from you is your focus on the mission at hand and the squeeze of your cunt around his cock from time to time.

Stars, he is so fucking tired.

Sighing, his shoulders slump as he shakes his head. “Scout…” he murmurs, gaze sliding to where you stare at him, clad only in a simple shirt. The butt of the spear clatters against the floor as he loosens his grip.

You take a cautious step forward. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“I’ve been… busy.” Busy—busy avoiding ghostly memories and terrifying inclinations.

Your eyes roam the pile of weapons at his side. “Hmm. Yes, I can see.”

“I didn’t really want you to come down here.” He sits straight and plants a fist on his thigh. Under his helmet, his face hangs heavy, exhaustion turning his eyes gritty. “There’s nothing for you to do right now.”

Simpering, your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones. “Isn’t there?” Your eyes drop to his crotch, and your tongue peeks out, swiping across your lower lip. “I was waiting for you. Well… your cock, mostly. You haven’t fucked me in a day or so, and I miss it. I want it.”

Oh fuck. Din drops his head back against the wall, and a booming thud reverberates through the ship’s frame. Maker, he can’t resist that soft, girlish admission. How long has it been since he felt wanted for something other than his brawn?

You want him. You want him. Just him and all his human parts. 

Desire flooding his senses, he withdraws his cock from his pants with quick movements, and you scamper across the floor, dropping to your knees between his legs. You slide your palms over his thighs, back and forth, the material rustling in the quiet of the room. He’s half-hard at the thought of you actively wanting him —or at the very least his cock—and when you wrap your fingers around his base, he shoves a short breath through his nose.

“Gods, Mando. I swear you’ve laced this thing,” you say, licking around his tip. “As much as I hate to admit it, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

His hips shift upwards at the praise, and you grin. You glide him into your hot, dripping mouth. His hands unfurl at his sides. The tense muscles in his back relax; his jaw drops from its tight hold; and the racket in his mind stills, suspended in motion, as you suck his cock, bobbing your head over his length as though you were made to do it. Sparks of pleasure radiate from his core to his limbs, igniting a fire in his belly that will not abate until he floods your mouth with his hot seed.

He swipes his fist around the curtain of hair that falls before your face. He holds it to the side, skimming the thumb of his free hand over the bulge in your mouth as you take him deeper. “Good girl,” he whispers and then, hushed, forbidden: “Make me feel so good.”

You moan as you drag your tongue back to his weeping head. Eyes closed, you angle your face and flutter your lips over his cock as you say, “Always wanna make you feel good like this, Metal Man.” 

It takes everything in him to not cum in response to such a… sweet… confession.

Something feral and wanting, desperate for release, clutches the beating heart in Din’s chest. He needs you; he wants you bad enough he can taste your lips on his. You smell fragrant, and the scent invades his helmet, clogging his head with flower petals and honey. 

With a rough grunt, he jerks your head back, and you pull from his cock with a surprised cry. Staring up at him with wide, confused eyes, he grips your jaw until it lowers. He scoots to the edge of the crate, angling his length at the edge of your mouth, then he thrusts. 

On instinct, you gag. The garbled noise spurs him onward.

“Take it,” he grits. “Take the fuckin’ cock you want so bad.”

He thrusts into your throat with wild abandon. Your mouth is wet, your tongue a devilish fiend along his thick vein. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck as much as you can, but gag more often than not. Spit slides out of both sides of your mouth and hangs off your chin like the jowls of a dog. Your nails bite the flesh at the back of his calves as you hold onto him.

He pulls from your mouth before he can spill down your throat. You gasp for air, choking on spit as you steady yourself. Breathing heavy, he rubs a pool of saliva off of your chin, and you shudder.

He nods to his aching cock. “Finish me off. Just a bit more.” When you hesitate, glancing between his dick and his helmet, he gestures to the hand clutching the hem of your shirt. “Use your hands, sweet girl.”

You nod and sit up, wrapping both hands around his cock, one stacked atop the other. Twisting your wrists in opposite motions, you pull on the flesh of his length. You pump him—up and down, up and down—and the spit lingering from your mouth slap, slap, slap s in the silent hold.

He dips his head back, groaning when you drag the flat of your tongue over his leaking slit as you continue to steadily pump him to orgasm. “Don’t—dank farrik, that feels good,” he mutters. “Don’t stop.”

You hum against his tip, and the vibrations send him over the edge. He spills ropey strings of cum down your throat, shuddering through his orgasm, moisture pricking the corners of his eyes, until you pull off of him. You tap his sensitive tip with your finger, and he hisses, hips drawing inwards.

Grinning, you cock your head with a playful glint in your eye. “See. There’s always something for me to do.”

/

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT—SIX DAYS LATER

The night is old. An inky black sky gives way to a deep blue horizon as, somewhere, the sun lifts its face and begins its ascent. A harsh wind catches the hem of Din’s cape, sweeping it to the side, where it brushes your arm and ignites the last of your frayed nerves like a match to dried kindling. You lengthen your stride with a muttered curse, and Din can’t help but agree:

Two days away from the Sunder in pursuit of a slippery bounty, and he is sick to death of you too. Your incessant mouth, anyway. Your cunt on the other hand… 

The bounty’s head—himself immobile, bloodied, and broken—catches on a jagged stone, and Din turns, his delirious train of thought derailed. He jerks his arm with a frustrated grunt. The bounty skips over the stone, tender flesh at the back of his head torn as a result, and a new trail of blood flows as he skids behind heavy steps. 

Breaking through the edge of Yoiter’s thick forest, Din presses a series of commands on his vambrace when at last, at last, at last his ship comes into view, a shiny beacon in the waxing morning. The loading ramp groans out of sleep as it descends and spills bright yellow light into the ebbing darkness. Two pairs of footsteps and one clunking head trudge up the ramp, silent otherwise, fatigue and sedation rendering all parties mute.

Yet—

All you can offer is a nanosecond of peace—a gift from above, as rare as a Coruscan gem—before unfurling your displeasure. Fucking brat. You don’t know when to quit.

You spin on your heel before Din has the chance to dispose of the bounty in the carbonite chamber. “If I had known your plan included using me as live bait, I might have reconsidered agreeing to it.”

“If I had known you would fuck the plan up, I wouldn’t have tried it.”

“Mando”—you follow him into the hold where he corrals the limp bounty into the freezer—“you could have gotten me killed. They were going to take me to Maker-knows-where and cut me into little bits. And why? Because you were under the impression they wanted girls like me. Not thought they are spawns of some—”

“Dank farrik! Would you shut up?!” 

With shaking fingers—fingers tight with rage and disappointment and some sick sense of relief—Din punches the freezing combination into the control panel and allows the whirring machine to drown out your tirade and his shrieking thoughts. He presses a hand to the chamber’s frame, dropping his head as the freezing cycle’s minute ticks by and your angry breathing subsides. When the control panel beeps , signifying the end of the cycle, he looks up and finds your pinched face.

“I was wrong. My info was wrong. But I wasn’t—I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

You cross your arms. “You hesitated too much when that one Ga’ark had me.” Tilting your head back, you point to a slash of open flesh on your throat, edges jagged and uneven. “This could have ended badly.”

Averting his eyes, he winces. “Yeah, I suppose it could have.”

“Thank the Maker it didn’t.” You step around him and guide the frozen carbonite block across the overhead track to hang with the others, grumbling as you pass, “Kriffing idiot.”

Turning away from the freezer, he tosses his arms in exasperation. “What do you want me to do?” he asks. “It’s over now, and you can live to drive me insane another day. I said I was wrong.”

“But not that you’re sorry!” 

“I’m not.” The words grind between his teeth, low and gravel-flecked, slingshotting forward to smack you in the face. 

A thick blanket of silence, fringes woven with stubborn pride, turns the perpetually-chilly carbon chamber warm. He eyes you and the cut drawn across the side of your neck. It stopped bleeding on the trek back from wooded mudpits, but it looks painful. He grimaces. You’re right—that could have ended badly. And he’d be at fault.

After a tense moment of reticence, you are first to speak. “Fine, don’t apologize. You can still make it up to me, though. You did almost get me killed. I think it’s the least you can do.” 

He says nothing. No confirmation, no denial. He simply waits, curious as to what you’ll ask of him.

Dropping your hands to your hips, you puff your chest as a wave of confidence lifts you from your beach of self-pity. “Fuck me. Make it better.”

Din almost scoffs in surprise. Of all the things you could have asked of him, this—his cock—is what you want most. Unorthodox. He likes it.

It’s been days since he last fucked you. Hiking through the undergrowth and bracken of Yoiter’s forest offered little in the way of comfort, and he had no time to push you up against the trunk of a mossy tree when hunting after the latest quarry. He aches to pummel his length into your cunt and release the last two days of stress and irritation and discomfort in the dip of your spine. So your request? Your arrogant command that he drive his cock into your pussy in lieu of an apology for his negligence?

Yeah, he can fuck you. Of course he can fuck you.

He shakes his head on a snort. “Bossy little thing.” He stretches out his hand, cocking his head to urge you to come closer. “Come here.”

You close the space between you with a self-satisfied smile and tug your top over your head as you mold your body against his. Your bare skin feels like fire against his armor, and he wonders if you’re always this kriffing warm.  

He drops his hands to the small of your back, giving you a moment—a single moment—of steady contact. Your nipples pebble against his chest-plate, and your slot his thigh between your legs, arms wrapped lazy around his shoulders. The warmth of your cunt creeps through the soft material of your trousers. He can feel your pulse in the unarmored part of his thigh, a hurried thrum of want and desire. 

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as your head draws backwards, exposing the line of your throat and the injury he caused. “You’re so big, Mando,” you whisper. “I like how big you are.”

It’s difficult to keep pride from inflating his chest, so Din focuses on maneuvering you backwards, crowding you into the carbonite freezer inlaid in the bulkhead. Your back hits the wall with a thump, and your eyes open, glossy with lust. It takes a moment, but when you register your new position, a flood of panic douses the hunger devouring your face.

Din lifts a hand to hold your chin. He slides his thumb beneath your lower lip and says, “You’re safe here. I’m not going to do anything to you.” But then he angles his head with a short laugh. “I mean, I’m going to fuck you, but I’m not going to freeze you if that’s what you’re scared of.” 

You inhale, sigh in relief, and his thumb slides deeper in your mouth. You circle your lips and suck. He stifles a grunt.

“Now what was that about how big I am? You like how big my cock is?” 

Glassy look returned to your face, you nod, swirling your tongue over the tip of his thumb, hands searching for his back. You pull him to you, close enough your breasts fold against his armor, squeezed tight. He shuffles and lifts his chest so that your taut nipples drag upwards. On a gasp, you drop his thumb from your mouth.

“Gods, all of you, Mando,” you breathe. Your hands crawl from his back over his shoulders to the cowl at his neck, and he is vaguely aware of your cunt dragging over his thigh as he loses himself to your touch. Slowly—back and forth; your slick dampens his pants. “Your cock, but also your shoulders and your back and your hands. All so big and so broad and… Shit. ” 

Smirking, Din shucks your pants to the floor as you praise him. He kicks your feet apart and nudges the fabric away before carding two fingers through your dripping pussy. He finds you wet—flooded and pulsing around his fingertips. Opposite hand braced to the wall above your head, he glances down and watches his fingers disappear between your legs. 

“Damn, girl. You’re soaked.”

“Mmm. You always make me this wet.” You grin, pushing your hips forward. His fingers slip inward with ease. “Now… give me what I want. Fuck me.”

Din doesn’t need to be told twice.

Dragging his fingers from your cunt, he shuffles with the belt at his waist. You move to assist, your fingers scrabbling for purchase between his, but he swats your wrists away. He pushes the waistband of his pants down far enough to let his aching cock spring free, and he pumps himself a few times, moving to angle himself at your entrance.

But you stop him with a hand on his chest. You stare in the direction of the floor, and at first he thinks you’re staring at his cock, but you’ve seen it before, and what’s so different about it now, crowded in the corner of the carbon freezer? It’s only when your hand drops to tease the line of hair descending from his belly button that he realizes.

Fuck. Too much skin. He’s getting sloppy.

“Oh my god. Is that… Is that a tattoo ? On your hip ? It’s huge! Is it—”

He slaps a hand over your mouth, forcing your head back, before you can say another word.

Holding the base of his cock, he wets himself with your slick then prods your fluttering hole. Your mouth moves against his palm, and he slides his hand away, anchoring himself at your collarbone.

“What?” he bites. 

You pout. “Why do I always have to be naked? You get to leave everything on.”

“This is the Way.” It falls from his mouth before he can think otherwise. The phrase sounds hollow, void of any meaning, but you don’t know that. He won’t tell you that.

“Way schmay.” You huff, irritated, but lift your legs to wrap around his back anyway. The adjustment sends the head of his cock forward, stretching your cunt around his girth; and though your eyes roll skyward in response, your tongue keeps complaining. “I want to feel your hands.”

He pauses, and something in his chest lurches. He wants… He wants to feel your hands too.

Shoving the desire aside, he plunges forward, impaling your tight core around his cock. You squeak and slap a palm against the side of the chamber, mouth gone slack. He grits his teeth, grinding his hips against yours.

“Is this not enough for you?”

Withdrawing once, he thrusts again. He holds himself within you, studying the wrecked expression of your face, until you squirm, writhing against him.

“Oh fuck. Okay. It’s enough. Forget I said anything. Keep going, keep going. Please. ” 

He complies with ease, jerking his cock into your cunt until you are a slobbering mess. He drives into you without reserve. He welcomes your warm, sticky, wanton embrace, and he fucks you hard. Fucks you until you forget about his screw up with the Ga’arks. Fucks you until you forget about the tattoo on his hip, the one you were never supposed to see. Fucks you until you forget about ever wanting anything more from him than what he has already given.

He fucks you until you are screaming his name, and it clatters through the hold like an anthem.

Mando—Mando—Mando.

Not his name. He fucks you harder. 

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you bend your face into his neck as you tremble. Your hips cant upwards in a sloppy rhythm. Somewhere beneath the surface, you’re close. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Your hot breath tickles the skin of his neck where his cowl has slipped, and he moans, pausing long enough to grind against your mound. He grips the underside of your thighs with a ferocious pinch of his fingers. “Go on,” he growls. “Fuckin’ cum. Cum .”

With a final thrust, you break on a sob. Your tight walls squeeze and release, squeeze and release, as you drench him with your orgasm. He stutters, thrusts turning shallow and weak as you ride your high. But he’s close behind. You need only clench around him, murmur a request to feel his cum on your belly, for him to tear out of you with a strangled groan and pump himself to completion. He oozes over your belly, milky strands of cum dripping to tangle in the hair over your cunt.

You smile and raise an eyebrow. “I think that makes us even, then. You are forgiven.”

//

DAY THIRTY—COURSE SET: NEVARRO

You lunge out of your bedroll as if woken from a nightmare. Fragmented horrors, dripping with fear and loss, writhe in the back of your mind like rotting slugs. You crawl after them, chest heaving as you pull yourself through the fading memories, the screams and the smell of ash and—

“We’re going back to Nevarro.”

This time you jump from your bedroll with a startled inhale, taking your blaster with you. Fearful tears blurring your vision, you unclick the safety and aim. Fuck—it’s them, isn’t it? Back for more and ready to plunge you beneath the dirt beside your long-dead sister. Well, not today. Not fucking likely. You’d rather—

“Scout.” A gloved palm settles on your cheek and tilts your face upwards. You blink away the haze of terror and adrenaline when a thumb swipes away an errant tear. A mountain of silver builds before your eyes, and a deep voice uproots your frozen thoughts. “It’s me.”

You register him at last, relief flooding your senses. Just Mando; only Mando.

“Oh.” Lowering your blaster, you step back. Mando’s hand falls from your face. “I was dreaming about my… family… I think.” You scrub a hand down your face, ashamed to feel a line of tears on your cheek. “What did you say when you came in?”

Mando remains quiet, watching you through the dark visor, before he says, “We’re going to Nevarro. We need to unload the crap in the hull and get new pucks.” Hand flexing at his side, he takes a step toward the door. “Clean yourself up. We’ll be there in an hour.”

You’re too busy gathering scattered belongings from the floor to notice Mando pause at the door and watch you over his shoulder. 

/

It is only after supper with Karga—local delicacies: purple ram’s tongue and watercress salad—that you find a moment alone. Your host pulls Mando into a side room on the promise of a quick return, and you wave them off with a flick of your wrist. There are dishes to be cleaned, new bounties to study, a morning of panic to revisit. Solitude might do your weary mind well.

Gathering the plates and serving dishes, you busy yourself at the sink. Warm water rushes over your hands, easing the thoughts whirling in your head to a gentle sway. You grab a rag, a bar of soap, and set to lathering.

Your dream… 

Home—Inora, the wheat field your father planted with his own hands burnt to a crisp, Jeelia. It seems your mind finds amusement in dredging the past from the mud and throwing it in your face. You are powerless against the memories and so you flounder, sinking beneath the bubbling mudpit like hapless prey.

What became of your mother? Your father? Did they live to see another day? You wouldn’t know. You were too cowardly to turn back when you stole the escape pod and flew to safety. As desperately as you miss home, as desperately as you wonder about the fate of your loved ones, your hasty actions force you to remain adrift in space. That is your punishment: exile. You embrace it; you deserve it.

Sniffing hard, you rub a fresh track of tears off of your chin with your shoulder, scrubbing the dried sauce from the main dish’s serving plate. 

And Mando… Stars, he held your cheek and wiped away your tears as though he cared. It sets your stomach to a boil. He shouldn’t—he can’t —touch you like that. You hate him, and he hates you, and he might’ve seen you wake from a nightmare for the second time now, but he cannot caress your cheek. You’ll let him fuck you raw, but nothing more. If ever you let him slip beneath your stony cover, he could wind up dead too. Just like the rest of—

“Mind if I dry?”

The knife in your hand slips at Karga’s sudden voice, narrowly missing the flesh of your palm. Lifting your face, you meet Karga’s guilty cringe with a hard stare. He just shrugs, reaches for a towel on the counter, and points to the stack of dishes beside you.

“So can I?”

“Yeah… thanks.”

For a moment, you work in silence, an unlikely pair. You do not feel Mando’s presence swallow the narrow kitchen, and you do not care enough to ask Karga where the brute has wandered off to. You imagine he needs his own space. After thirty days on the Sunder , each other the only company save a few stiffs in the hull, Nevarro’s moderately-fresh air and open landscape is a welcome change of pace.

You break the quiet with a question that has lingered in the back of your mind since Daos-Seven. With calculated movements, you pull the plug at the base of the sink, careful not to appear too eager. The dirty water spirals as it drains, tornadoing down the rusted, exposed pipes.

You grab a plate from Karga’s dry stack and slide across the room to place it on the shelf. “So, what is this about Mando having a kid?”

To your surprise, Karga does not sputter or deflect. He does not even look over his shoulder in alarm. He simply continues wiping down a bowl, nodding to himself. “Ah. The womp rat.”

You frown. “Womp rat?”

With a sigh, Karga lowers the bowl and turns around. He braces his hands on the counter and meets your inquisitive gaze with a tired, weary one of his own. The look pulls your curiosity to a screeching halt. First the stuffed animal, then Mando saying he was a father, now Karga’s glum expression. If you didn’t know any better, you might assume something tragic befell the Mandalorian in another life.

“I shouldn’t be the one to tell you that story,” he says.

Rolling your eyes, you return to the counter and take another plate. “You’re just as secretive as him. Why does everything have to be hidden?”

Karga shrugs. “This is—”

You lift a hand, turning your back. “Don’t say it.”

Quiet—thick quiet. You keep your back turned to your host.

“What happened between you two? Something is different. I could tell as soon as you got off of that ship. I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

“Nothing.” The plate you return to the shelf drops with a mite too much force, and you wince as you turn. “I mean we fuck,” you say, ignoring Karga’s raised eyebrows. “But he makes me sleep on the goddamn floor. Does that answer your question?”

“He what?” The old man pushes away from the counter. “The floor? I don’t think he should—”

“There is no telling the Mandalorian what he should or should not do. He shouldn’t be fucking me yet he is, and that’s that.”

“Still…” Karga says your name as you make for the side exit, and you stiffen. How long has it been since you heard your true name? Too long. You hate it now. “I’ll talk to him.”

You grab an oversized jacket from a peg on the wall and shrug it over your shoulders. The collar smells like spiced tobacco and gun grease, one scent a singular remnant of your father. Twisting the knob, you push open the door and allow a sharp breeze to cut the stifled air of the room. You stare into the darkness before offering Karga a smile.

“Don’t bother. The floor is fine for a girl like me,” you say. “Anyway, if he asks, I’ve gone for a walk. I’ll be back.”

/

It is well past midnight when you return from your ambling stroll. Your cheeks are chilled, your hands stuffed deep in the jacket’s pockets. You walked without purpose, without thought, and the open, starlit sky guided you through the back alleys and passageways of Nevarro’s center. The exercise cleared your mind, gave you a moment to recenter yourself. You began this bounty hunting journey to bring scoundrels to justice, and for the memory of your family, you must continue.

Perhaps… This is the Way… 

You find Mando outside of Karga’s hut, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He drops his current conversation with a nod before turning to face you. He leans against the doorframe, irritatingly cavalier. 

“Ready to go?”

Lips folded in a line, you nod.

Mando shakes Karga’s hand then treks for the city gate. He does not pause to see if you follow, and when the action needles your chest, you wince. Karga brushes your arm, and you look away from the silver ghost’s retreating form.

“Have a good walk?”

“Yeah. Thanks for dinner, by the way. It was a nice break from the rehydrated shit Metal Man gives me.”

Karga grins. “Any time.”

“I should probably follow before he leaves me here.”

Before you can exit the halo of light surrounding Karga’s front door, he calls your name, and you glance over your shoulder. The old man lifts a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you again soon.”

Chin to chest, you make your way from Nevarro’s walls to the lava field where the Sunder waits for your muted footsteps. Through the hull and up the turbolift, ignoring the whirr of the engines as you pass along the empty annex. It is only when you reach the galley door you remember: you forgot to return Karga his jacket.

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

You spin on your heel, but there is nowhere for you to go, nowhere for you to return the stolen property. The Sunder is already in her takeoff patterns, and Mando—he barrs the way, your bedroll tucked beneath his arm as he blocks the hall exit. Your heart clenches as dread freezes it to ice. 

“What are you doing? Why are you holding that?” You reach out for your belongings, but he twists to the side to keep the items out of your grasp. “Give that to me!”

“Come here.” 

Mando side steps you, his footfalls hard as he heads for the end of the corridor. You drag yourself in a circle to follow him. A day of wearisome travel, poor sleep, and too many unanswered questions threatens to break your resolve. You swallow the lump that rises to your throat.

“Mando, those are my things! What are you doing—”

He pushes the control panel of the room opposite his own, and the door opens on a whoosh. Tossing your things inside, he gestures with a sweep of his hand. “It’s yours.”

One second—two—three—

You gape. “What?”

“The room. Take it. You shouldn’t… sleep on the floor. You aren’t a dog.”

Try as you might, you cannot suppress the tears which flood your vision, a tumultuous blend of relief and gratitude and heartbreak clawing at your insides. You rush past, face lowered, a quiet thank you all you can give before you collapse in a puddle of your own making or he can rescind the offer. 

“Wait…” You swipe at your cheeks, clearing your throat before Mando disappears across the hall. “Where are we going? Which bounty are we going after first? I was taking notes when we were—”

“We aren’t going after a bounty yet.” Mando steps out of your doorway and presses a combination into the control panel. As the door slides shut, he says, “We’re going to see my son.”

Chapter Text

DAY THIRTY-ONE—COURSE SET: UNDISCLOSED JEDI TRAINING CAMP

It is well into the morning when you finally slide from bed— 

Bed. Gods, you’d almost forgotten: Mando gave you a bed.

You do not pause and consider the implication of his offering the only other bed in the Sunder to the likes of you. It does not matter. You will accept—No, you must accept the gift without second thought lest you become tangled in the mire of… What? The possibility of Metal Man caring for you? The idea alone sends a nervous clench to your stomach. 

Still, the ache at the base of your spine—the place where the steel floor once scraped your bones night after night—feels… lighter somehow. Perhaps it was the bonafide pillow which cradled your head rather than the crumpled sweater. Or maybe it was the sateen sheets which slipped over your bare legs like water. 

Or maybe it was the nightmare, the one which dragged you from sleep, brow drenched in sweat, mind weary and reeling. You’d collapsed in an exhausted heap once you realized you sat alone in your room, uninjured, nothing but the sound of your labored breath a companion. 

You rise from the edge of your bed with a rough shake of your head. A new day, a fresh start. The dream can haunt you no longer if you refuse to allow it access, and you’ve slammed the open door shut. 

You dress, scrounge together a measly cup of caf and protein bar, and meander through the annex to the cockpit. Mando does not turn from the pilot’s chair when you drop to the leather couch on the far side of the room and tuck your legs beneath your backside. He continues course, brilliant streaks of white starlight reflecting in the polished chrome of his helm. Though his silence is customary, as much as part of himself as his armor, this morning you yearn for something familiar. No, familial , tender and warm. But it is foolish to want; he cannot offer you that—and it is just as well too. He cannot offer a warmth he is incapable of producing, and you much prefer his cool exterior. It’s safer that way.

Unbidden, a sigh parts your lips. 

His chin angles to his shoulder at the sound. “Sleep better after that dream?”

“What?” You lift your face from the dark liquid in your mug. “How did you know about that?”

“You don’t remember?” Mando removes his hands from the flight controls and rotates in his seat. The chair squeaks as it moves on new hinges. “I was there when you—” He stops short, and you feel more than see his eyes drift from your face to the viewport over your shoulder. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

Something in the tight hold of his shoulders warns against pressing the issue. 

He is tense this morning, more so than usual. It saturates his every movement: the forceful push of the ship’s joystick; the grumble under his breath as he flicks a switch upwards; the flex of his hand at his side, as though he wished he could rub his palm over weary eyes. Anxiety radiates from his person in undulating waves, forcing you back against the couch in search of shelter, and you frown as you withdraw. 

Dipping your pointer finger in your caf, you swirl your soaked fingertip over the rim of your mug. You calculate your tone and the tilt of your head as your hesitance gives way to intrigue. The unspoken looms over the ship like a spectre, and you will not ignore it as he may wish. 

His son—you’re going to see his son.

You take a sip of your lukewarm caf. “So, where exactly are we going?”

“To visit my kid,” he says, words rote, clipped.

“Yeah, I know that.” You set your mug to the side and lean forward in a futile attempt to catch his wandering attention. “But where is he? What’s his name?”

Mando shifts in the pilot’s chair, his armor snagging on new leather. “He’s with the Jedi. Training with them.”

“The Jedi?” Your brows arch in surprise as you rise from the couch. Stepping closer, you lean against the flight deck, hands behind your hips. The Mandalorian tosses you a quick look, one you are familiar with but often ignore: Don’t push me. “I thought they were extinct.”

“Apparently not. He left with them a year ago.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?” In lieu of a verbal response, Mando merely shakes his head. You swallow a sudden lump that clogs your throat. “You must… miss him.”

With a sigh, he reaches for a metal ball, barely the size of his palm, positioned between the Sunder’s flight controls. He rolls the object between his fingers. “Every day.” After a moment, he returns the ball to its spot and sits straight in his chair, cocking his head in the direction of the couch. “Take a seat. We’ll be there soon.”

Ignoring him, questions pour from your mouth in rapid succession. Stars, you want to know it all—every sordid detail. It still boggles your mind that Mando, your Mando, has a child . Was the boy an accident? A product of a drunken roll in the hay? Or somewhere in the galaxy is there a woman, a creature with whom he willingly created life? A muscle in your chest burns at the mere idea. 

“Does he know you’re coming? What does he look like? And what about his mother? What is—“

“ Scout. ” Your mouth snaps shut at the moniker spoken through gritted teeth. Some baser part of you clenches at the husky sound. “Drop it.”

“I’m just trying to show interest.”

“And I’m only going to give you one chance before I leave you on the ship all day. Drop the subject.”

Rolling your tongue over your teeth, you grab your caf mug from its place on a narrow side table. “I thought you said I wasn’t a dog. Did you change your mind overnight?”

Helmet falling against the back of the pilot’s chair, Mando groans. “For fuck’s sake, girl.”

“No. Don’t toy with me. I’m only trying to make conversation, get to know you a little bit, and—”

Mando lurches from his seat with a muttered curse and grabs your arm before you can consider your exit strategy. He digs his gloved fingers into the meat of your bicep, enough to pinch tender flesh, enough to make you wince. When you jerk against his hold, he tightens his grip. He looms over you, a hard, silver giant before an insignificant roadblock. Despite it all, you tilt your head back and seal your gaze to his visor. He must know by now: you won’t back down from a fight.

“I don’t want to see him.”

Your shoulders slump in surprise as the fight fizzles from your veins. You exhale a single word: “What?”

“The Jedi sent me a message and offered the chance to come see him before he goes deeper in his training. I’d be stupid not to take the opportunity but I don’t want to see him. I’m afraid when I do…” He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get through the day in one piece. So, I need you to cooperate with me. Please.”

You hesitate, brow furrowing. “Cooperate?”

It is impossible to ignore the hint of a smile in Mando’s voice when his grip eases on your arm and he says, “Try and be less of a pain in the ass today. If that’s even possible.”

Oh. You suppose… Well, you don’t exactly make this arrangement easy on him, do you? It’s so much safer to hate, to bark and snarl, to bite the hand that feeds you. For so long—ten long years—you have known nothing else.

Can you cooperate, even for a day? Will you allow him that much?

Your gaze drops to the ground as embarrassment warms your cheeks. Your mother taught you better. Jeelia taught you better.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I can do that. For today.”

Mando nudges your chin with the crook of his forefinger, and you flick your eyes upward to meet his helm. “Okay.” His thumb smooths over the curve of your jaw. “Thank you.”

His touch a ghost upon your face, you nod as he gently ushers you back to the couch. You drop to your seat, and he returns to the pilot’s chair. He inhales, the sound sliding through his voice coder. Sealing his grip around the flight controls, he angles the Sunder downward.

“We’ve entered orbit. Strap in. The landing might get a bit bumpy.”

/

The Sunder makes bed on a rocky patch of land surrounded by a grove of ancient trees, each appearing more rotted than the last. Dead leaves blanket the ground, and tan boulders—or are those ruins?—circle the landing patch in an uneven spiral. The sky is dark, heavy with bloated, grey clouds, and the atmosphere swirls with something potent, something alive. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you can taste it, like electricity on your tongue.

You peer out of the open loading dock as Mando removes his bandolier and the assortment of weapons strapped to his body. “Looks like rain,” you say, sliding your hands over your bare arms as a cool wind whips through the ship’s hull.

Mando pauses in his work, lifts his head, and nods. “Guess so.” 

He hangs his tac belt on a hook in the weapons cabinet then reaches up and unwinds the dark fabric from his neck. You still, eyes rooted to the flash of golden brown skin that peeks through the gap between his helm and flight suit. It’s only a sliver of skin—barely an inch what with the way he has the neck of his flight suit hiked as high as it will stretch—but it is enough to set your heart pounding in your chest. Your mouth waters, and a low thump ignites in your gut. God, all it takes is the sleek line of his neck, a glimpse of tattooed flesh at his hip—any hint of the human lurking beneath the costume—to make you wet between the legs.

He twists at the waist to hand you his cowl. “Here. Put this on.”

You balk at the gesture. “Mando, that’s yours. I can’t—”

“I told you that outfit was ridiculous,” he bites, thrusting the fabric forward. “You’re going to freeze without some kind of covering. Take it.”

Cooperate, he’d asked, pleading in a single moment of vulnerability. You clench your jaw as you accept the cowl. How can you deny him? Cooperate.

Swinging the cloak around your neck, it drapes over your body like an itchy poncho. Warmth floods your icy skin, and you tug the ragged edges closer, leaning into the fabric. Spiced cologne and musk fills your nose, a potent combination which sends a chill of a new kind down your spine. 

For the second time in two days, you thank the Mandalorian for his kindness. He just nods and steps around you, descending the loading dock with anxious purpose. You follow close behind. 

The ground crunches beneath your boots as you leave the Sunder and trudge into the open wilderness. Narrowing your eyes against the wind, you lower your chin behind the fold of Mando’s cowl. Even with the added warmth of the cloak, you shiver against frigid, bitter air. Wherever you are, it’s cold . 

“When do you think your son will come find us? Or when will we find him?” 

“Soon.”

You sigh. A puff of frosted air expels from your mouth. “Maybe I should go to the galley and make us some caf.” Glancing over your shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the Sunder shrinking in the distance . “If I run, I can still catch up.”

“No. We’re fine.” He throws you a haphazard glance. “I’d rather not do this alone.”

“Oh.” You pull the cowl over your head, smoothing back errant strands of hair as you consider his confession. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You follow Mando through the rocky wasteland until your fingertips tingle with frost beneath your arms. Your teeth chatter in your skull, knocking hard against one another in a fruitless battle to keep warm. Wind-blown cheeks burning, you lower your face, following the thud of Mando’s plodding stride. You bite back the complaints growing on your tongue like a sour fungus.

One foot after the other. For him, for his son.

Without warning, you stumble over a rock, vision gone blurry with stinging moisture. You lurch forward with a curse. “Fuck!” 

You catch Mando’s elbow as you fall, but before you can hit the ground, he swings his arm around your waist. He drops his opposite palm to the curve of your ribcage and hauls upward, lifting your shivering body from its weary hunch. You fold against his side. Though everything in your mind screams for you to push him away, you soak in his warmth and flick the warnings aside. It is ludicrous—the heat he exudes in such a cold space. Like a hot summer’s afternoon, spread out under the sun, bubbly wine on your tongue and freshly baked bread in your stomach. 

“It’s those pants,” he mutters. “Nice to look at but thin as paper. You really are an idiot.” 

You smirk and push your face nearer his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Come on. We should be—”

“Mandalorian!” 

You lift your head at the same time as Mando. The steady beat of his heart quickens under your ear. 

A figure robed in black strolls over a nearby incline. He walks alone, no child trailing behind him in the cold, but he wears a smile and a young face and a brown satchel over his chest. He quickens his pace when Mando straightens to his full height, and when you try to move out of his hold, the Mandalorian fists his hand in the back of your shirt.

“Stay still,” he growls.

The robed figure closes the remaining distance between you, and his smile falters as he runs his gaze from Mando to you and back. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing company.”

“Don’t worry,” Mando says. “She doesn’t know where we are.”

“It’s true.” You run a hand under your dripping nose. “I don’t even know who you are. I’m just here ‘cause he doesn’t trust me on the ship alone.”

Extending a hand, you mumble your name into the fabric around your neck. The man shakes your hand, his grip gentle. He introduces himself—Luke Skywalker, Master Jedi of the training school he built on this remote planet. He holds himself tall despite a smaller stature, chin lifted, gaze pointed. His hand hovers by the pouch over his chest.

“So, where’s the kid?” You glance between Mando and Luke, brows raised in question. “Did he stay behind at the school or something? I mean, it’s fuckin’ cold out here. I don’t blame him.”

Luke smirks, and his eyes slide to Mando, who kicks a nearby pebble with the toe of his boot. “No. No, he’s here. He’s been a bundle of energy all morning—excited to see you—but I think the walk lulled him to sleep.”

You frown as confusion blooms and squeezes around your mind like a vine. “I don’t see a kid. What are you talking about?”

“Mando?” Luke untangles the pouch strap from around his shoulder and holds the heavy bag outward. “Would you like to wake him?”

Mando’s hesitation stretches taut, a fraying rope on its last brittle thread. His hands twitch at his sides. Obstinate, headstrong man. Huffing, you nudge his back with your arm, and he clears his throat.

“Yeah… I would.” 

Like the afternoon sky, time freezes, holds its breath, peers close, and watches. You watch too, mouth agape, as Mando takes the bundle from Luke’s arms. He holds it against his chest and pushes the opening aside, his touch soft, polite. Fatherly. You inch closer, peeking over Mando’s forearm to see—

Okay, that’s not a human child.

Green, wrinkled skin. A bald head with fuzzy white hair. Long, pointed ears that fold against the sides of the bag. Black, glittering eyes that peel open to rest on Mando’s face. The child coos, revealing stubby teeth. He stretches out a stubby arm.

“Patu,” he gurgles.

The side of your mouth quirks upward. Oh fuck , he’s cute.

All of your questions and assumptions come crashing down in a marvelous tumble, scattering to dust at your feet. There was no drunken roll in the hay; no woman with whom Mando created this child. You have seen enough of him— felt enough of him inside of you—to know he is human, and his child is surely not. But the boy is Mando’s child all the same. As the Mandalorian strokes his finger over the green baby’s cheek, you know it without question. Father and son; family—together again. Your chest lurches, a toxic combination of yearning and jealousy twisting the muscles of your stomach.

Luke says your name. You look up. You forgot all about him. 

“Why don’t you come and walk with me?”

You glance at Mando for some indication of his wishes, but he is caught by the liquid black gaze of his son. The baby has his hand wrapped tight around Mando’s finger, and the two stare at one another, saying nothing yet everything in the narrow space between their bodies.

You fall into step by the Jedi, throwing one last look over your shoulder as Mando lifts the edge of his helmet. Heart skidding, you look away. No, that isn’t for you.

Luke leads you over a small rise to a slab of rock, flat on the surface, chiseled to perfection on all sides. He lowers himself to one edge, keeping his back to the sweet reunion. You follow suit, but struggle against the urge to return to Mando’s side. You’ve never seen him so pliant, and the opportunity to watch him bend before his child strikes you as a valuable moment worth studying.

The Jedi breaks the clouded silence. “Who are you? To the Mandalorian, I mean.”

You look away from the rocky soil, turning to meet Luke’s inquisitive stare. “I’m his… apprentice,” you say. 

You hesitate before turning your chin to your shoulder. You can’t see anything from your vantage point below the small hill, but you left your concentration where Mando stood, wrapped around his body like a shroud. What is he feeling right now? Thinking as he holds his son in his arms again after a year? How did their unlikely pair come to be?

Luke breaks through your thoughts with a chuckle. “So the Mandalorian has a padawan.”

“Um, sure?” You offer the Jedi a shrug, mouth pulled in an apologetic smile. “Whatever that is.”

“Grogu is a padawan. He is learning the ways of the Force under my teaching. In time, he will master his skills and use his powers for good.”

“I didn’t know there were any Jedi left. I thought the Empire wiped them all out.”

“No, there aren’t many of us, not anymore. But we’re not all gone.”

“So, your school—you’re trying to… what? Build an army or something?”

Laughing, Luke shakes his head. “Maker, no! We’re simply raising the next generation. You’ll have to forgive me for not taking you on a tour. The younglings can’t afford to be distracted if it can be helped.”

“But Mando—”

“Is an exception to the rule.”

“Oh.” You drop your gaze to your tangled fingers then say, “My father used to talk about the rebellion, but I rarely listened. I knew something was happening—all the adults in my village were on edge—but I wasn’t smart enough to understand. I was young, naive, an idiot too focused on my own affairs. That’s what my sister said anyway.”

Luke studies your profile. Something about his gaze—perhaps the openness with which he inspects you, brazen in intensity—makes you squirm. You feel like a pig roasting over a scalding flame, the layers of your person peeled back for a stranger to consume. 

“Don’t punish yourself over the past.”

The air in your chest stills, and you lift your face to glare at him, wide eyed and stiff muscled. “What?”

He does not shrink under your burgeoning bluster which contorts your brow to a frown and your mouth to a grimace. He maintains course, steering himself into the storm cloud gathering around shoulders. “Leave the past where it belongs and focus on the future. It will ease your mind.”

Rising from the slab, you fist your hands at your sides. “You can’t say that. You don’t know anything about me!”

Untroubled by your response, Luke simply blinks. “No, but I sense much conflict in you.”

“Conflict?” You snort, rolling your eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Luke angles his head, gaze softening. “You seem—”

“I don’t care what I seem like to you.” You step back with a shake of your head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my past.”

Luke stands and folds his arms in the wide sleeves of his robe. “Someone should.”

“What is it with men and riddles? You, Karga, Mando. Say what you mean for Maker’s sake.” 

Turning away, you face the murky horizon. The Jedi—whoever he is; friend or foe you do not know—is too close to scratching the scab from your biggest wound. Should he succeed, you would bleed from your heart and wither to a husk, drained of the one thing that keeps you alive: regret. If you soften your grip on the memory of your misdeeds, you will cease to exist. Of that you are sure. There is nothing for you without the pain. No mother to fold you in her warm embrace; no father to tug on your braid; no sister to confine in. If you release the past—if you forgive yourself—what is left for you but a passive life, alone and tethered to nothing but your own whims? That is no life for you. You have tasted goodness—family, companionship, love; you do not want to live without it. But at least bitter regret fills your mouth now, replacing the sweet comfort of the good. It stains your teeth and rots your tongue—that slimy hatred and inner turmoil—but it is sustenance all the same. You will not release it to be given nothing in return.

Luke says your name as though prepared to continue picking around your wound, but you brush him off with a hurried nod to the left. “Look. They’re coming.”

Materializing over the hill, Mando strides toward you, helmet once again obscuring the features he hides from all save the boy in his arms. His child— Grogu —rests comfortably against his chest, and his impressive ears bounce to the rate of Mando’s descent down the slope. He clutches something between his three fingers, and as Mando draws nearer, you recognize the glint of the washed-out sun on silver metal. That ball, the one from the cockpit; Grogu holds it in his hand. 

Mando stops walking at the edge of the rock slab. He drops the empty satchel to the table with one hand and shifts Grogu in his arms with the other. Such an unnatural pair yet the bond between them shines in the cloudy afternoon. Mando looks at ease for once, you think: relaxed posture, unclenched fists, a comfortable air to his stance. It suits him. 

“This is him?” You reach for the fringes of the child’s sack-like covering. “Your son?”

“Grogu,” Mando says, tilting his visor down. Grogu peers up with a wet-mouth noise at the sound of his name. 

Broadening your smile, you offer a finger for the baby to inspect. “Nice to meet you, Grogu.”

/

You spend the afternoon gathered around the rock bench. Despite the cold, the warmth of Mando and Grogu’s reunion permeates the small clearing, shrouding your huddled group in a quilt of conviviality. You soak in the feeling, allow it to drench your lovelorn soul. Maker knows when you will be around family—any family—again. 

Luke guides Mando to the side where the two fall into deep conversation. Their voices carry away on the wind, but it’s of no consequence to you. Grogu keeps you entertained. He waddles back and forth across the stone slab, presenting you with small gift offerings he finds scattered along the rock. A pebble here, a twig there, a broken and dried flower. 

You laugh as he scurries back and forth. “You know, you remind me of someone. I had a cousin. He was very small like you, always running from one place to another. He got in so much trouble. Well, we got into a lot of trouble. You look like you could get into trouble too.”

Grogu pauses, tilting his head to the side with a squeak.

“Yeah, I know your game, Mr. Mando’s Son.” You gently prod his chest. “You sucker everyone in with those big, black eyes and then”—you snatch him close, tickling your fingers under his arms; he peels with laughter—“you wreak havoc!”

Squirming away from your arms, Grogu topples over the side of the stone slab. Your heart drops, and you curse, reaching out in vain to catch him. But it’s fine; it’s fine. Mando is there in an instant, and he catches Grogu before he can hit the ground. He more than catches his son, though. He sweeps him into his arms, tossing him high into the air before catching him again. The child shrieks with glee, stubby teeth gleaming behind his smile, and your knees wobble when Mando turns his gaze to you. You can see his grin beneath the helmet. 

Oh. Fuck.

There is a man beneath the beskar. You can no longer ignore it. He is human—all of him—tender flesh and blood and bone after all.

/

“Show me what you can do, kid.” 

Mando grabs your arm and pulls you away from the stone slab where you’d been squeezing your knees to your chest for warmth. A few hours in this frigid air and your throat aches, but the excitement with which Mando drags you to the center of the patchy clearing dulls the pain. You’ve never seen him like this . Happy.

“Watch this,” he murmurs, one hand pressed to your hip, the other gesturing to Grogu sitting on the other side of the clearing. He withdrawals the silver ball from his pocket and holds it outward. Grogu’s head tilts to the side—so much like his father in that regard—when he recognizes the toy. “Take it,” Mando says. “Use your powers. Show Scout what you can do.”

You flick your gaze to Mando, study the enthusiastic rise and fall of his chest, then focus on Grogu. He extends his short arm, closes his eyes, and—

The ball whizzes across the clearing like a bullet. It slaps the center of Grogu’s palm, and he opens his eyes with a content warble before bringing the ball to his face.

You gape. “What in the—”

From the sidelines, Luke smiles, nodding in approval. “He has grown a lot since you last saw him.”

Mando puts his hands on his hips. “I can tell.” A proud grin infects his voice.

“Would you like to see him do something else?”

You answer before Mando gets the chance: “Yes!” The Mandalorian turns to look at you, and you return his stare with a shrug and a laugh. “What? I’ve never seen a green baby who can move things with his mind before!”

Luke moves to crouch beside Grogu. He touches the child’s back, and the pair stares at one another, eyes focused and sharp. They seem to communicate through sight alone because when Luke stands and moves to the side, he nods to Grogu, who blinks at him in question.

“Like we’ve practiced,” Luke says.

Grogu pushes off of the ground with his palms and toddles on unsteady feet to a small pile of brush. He pokes at a thin twig, kicks a pebble into the mess with his foot, wanders around the brush pile as though inspecting for imperfections. He’s dawdling; you know avoidance when you see it. You’ve done it in the presence of Mando tens of times in the beginning stages of your training, and it appears his son is no stranger to stage fright.

You elbow the tyke’s father. “Encourage him,” you whisper.

“Huh?” Mando tears his gaze away from Grogu and stares at you. “He doesn’t—”

You shake your head. “Encourage him, Mando. Trust me.”

Mando leans forward, hands still braced on his hips. “Go on, kid.” Grogu turns to look at his father. “I want to see what you’ve learned. Please.”

Bolstered by his father’s motivation, a determined furrow falls over Grogu’s brow. He holds out both hands and closes his eyes. His mouth rolls into a tight line. His hands tremble, vibrating with some unseen energy or spirit, and he dips his head as the shaking in his arms increases. Beside you, Mando stiffens in concern, but his concern is without cause. 

An orange flame sparks in the center of the brush pile, a weak flare but present nonetheless. It builds as Grogu maintains his hold over the assortment of twigs and dried grasses, and a wispy line of smoke curls over his head. 

Mando claps his hands together, closing the distance between himself and his son in one long stride. “Dank farrik!” He drops to a squat before the open flame, rubbing his son’s back in a proud circle. “Good job, kid!” He glances over his shoulder. “Did you see that?”

Grinning, you nod. “Yeah, I did. Quite the party trick.”

Mando points to Luke. “Did you teach him that?”

“Yes, I did.”

Rising, Mando brings Grogu with him, perching the boy on his hip. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“There is much he has yet to learn. But he will—in time.”

As you watch Din adjust the fold of Grogu’s robes, his armor shining with pride and paternal devotion, your heart thumps to a steady beat, one word reverberating through your chest: human, human, human.

/

When day gives way to dusk, Luke presents thermoses of boiling soup, which Mando declines, but you sit with Grogu in your lap, sipping from your canteen as the child does. He giggles when a tear-drop of soup slides from your chin to the top of his head, and he lifts his short arm to swat away the liquid. 

“Sorry, little buddy,” you say. “Your dad doesn’t give me food like this. I guess I got a bit too eager.”

Reclining across the slab, Mando scoffs through his helm. “You act like I don’t feed you at all.”

Your eyes, sardonic, glide over Grogu’s head to land on Mando. “Do rehydrated powder packets count as food?”

“Well, it’s not nothing.”

“Well, it’s barely something.”

“Patu . ” Without warning, Grogu leans across the divide and rests his hand on Mando’s knee. You curve a hand around his stomach to keep him from falling over, and Mando grabs the boy’s arm to steady his wobbly form. Grogu looks up at Mando and repeats himself in earnest: “Patu.”

Luke finishes screwing the lid of his thermos with a chuckle then motions to the child with the container. “He wants you to stop fighting.”

“Fighting?” Your brow tightens, and you glance at Mando, shaking your head. “We aren’t fighting.”

Grogu leans back and twists to lay his bottomless eyes on you. He touches your ribcage with a coo. You swallow hard, caught by the baby’s unfathomable gaze. Similar to Luke’s stare, you are certain the child is sifting through your mind, pushing through the weeds and searching, searching , for something specific. He toddles through your senses, pulling you forward by an invisible string. You hunch, lowering your face to meet his. He puts his hand on your cheek and emits a low whine, one that twists your stomach to a tight knot. Tears spring to your eyes in response, but… why the fuck are you crying?

“Hey.” Mando touches Grogu’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“He wants her to stop fighting.”

You look up, head swiveling in time with Mando’s to stare at Luke. Sniffing hard, you frown. “I just said we aren’t fighting. You’d know if we were fighting. It’s not pretty.”

“No. He wants you to stop fighting with yourself. Both of you. It will bring you both peace if you simply accept change as it comes.”

You turn your eyes to Mando and find his visor already pinned to you. A jolt of energy carves through your chest, hot like a freshly forged sword, and you force the side of your mouth into a weak smile. Though your hands tremble around Grogu’s body, you force your voice to remain even. 

“I didn’t realize you brought me out here for a mind reading, Mando. You’ve done this against my will.”

He snorts in amusement, and your pride buoys. “Yeah… me neither.”

Luke stands and reaches for the child. “It’s time for us to return to the school.”

A pang sours the soup in your stomach. “Oh. So soon?”

“A padawan’s training never stops. We’ve lost enough time as it is.” 

“That’s fine. We need to get moving anyway. Can I?” Mando stands and takes Grogu from your arms. He brushes his thumb over his son’s cheek. You avoid the intimate moment by stepping back, but Mando’s quiet rumble still reaches your ears. “Bye, buddy. I’ll see you later.”

You offer Grogu a small wave, which he returns, as he is passed from father to teacher. “See ya,” you say, surprised at the emotion clogging your throat. You doubt you will see him again before your year with Mando has ended, but you’re glad you’ve had this time now, if only so he could introduce you to the delicate parts of his father, the ones nestled beneath his armor.

Mando exchanges a few words with the Jedi before retreating with a nod. He falls alongside you, and the comfortable air of moments before builds, brick by brick, around his person. You glance at him and wish for all the world that you could smash that wall to pieces. The monster you once knew—the man who shoved you against the galley wall, his blaster against your spine—is a falsehood, a costume. Perhaps the girl who pushed him—who shot his shoulder and insulted his creed—is a falsehood, too.

As soon as they came, the Jedi and his trainee disappear over the hill. A harsh wind freezes the moisture pricking your eyes, and you clear your throat, tugging Mando’s cowl closer.

“He was the one you lost,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t know.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, I—I judged you harshly. I thought whatever it was you lost must be inconsequential compared to my own losses. I was wrong.”

Mando releases a heavy sigh and turns on his boot. He grabs the silver ball from its place on the rock slab, forgotten in the Jedi’s hasty retreat. “This is a lonely life,” he says. “You should know that before you commit to it.”

Something in your chest unfurls like a perennial rose budding beneath the summer sun. 

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be. For either of us.”

/

DAY THIRTY-TWO—MIDNIGHT

You can’t sleep. Though no nightmare plagues the darkness of your room and your stomach sits heavy with a good meal, sleep falls through your fingers like mist. Try as you might, you cannot grasp the elusive thing, and you’re sick of trying. You can only toss and turn so much before your efforts will drive you to the brisk of insanity. Some nights, sleep is but a dream.

Before you can think better of it, you leave your room and the wasted promise of rest behind.

Tiptoeing through the gravely quiet annex, you find Mando in the cockpit where you left him after returning to the Sunder . He needed a moment alone after leaving Grogu—you could tell—but one moment became several hours when the question of What now? became a clanging gong in your head. The picture you once created of the Mandalorian no longer remains. Grogu tore it to shreds with his capable, tender hands, and you are left with the fragmented pieces, uncertain of how to rebuild. 

You cannot hate him after today. You cannot hate a man who loves his child fiercely enough to let him go. 

You cannot like him either. You cannot like a man who so easily grinds you beneath the heel of his boot.

Though, the bedroom…  the cloak and the way he’d stroked your jaw… admitting his reluctance to reunite with Grogu… Maybe his portrait of you—a brat, a good-for-nothing leech, a hellcat—no longer remains, either.

Mando sits on the settee to the left of the pneumatic doors. He’s stripped himself of his armor, but his helmet and gloves remain, and you wonder if he suspected you might wander into the cockpit. (Or if he hoped you might appear. You don’t dwell on it.) One ankle crossed over the opposite knee, he balances a datapad on his thigh. You drop to the couch on the opposite side of the room and cross your legs beneath you. You’re in no hurry, and Mando’s silence does not bother you as it once did. You drag your nail over the leather arm, watching stars hurtle over the aircraft canopy.

“Do you need something?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, a note of frustration underlying the question, but you push forward anyway.

You shake your head, moving to fold your hands in your lap. “No. I couldn’t sleep is all.”

“Bed too comfortable for you?” Mando tosses his datapad to the side, uncrosses his legs, and folds his arms. Sarcasm drips from his tongue. For once, you don’t take the bait. 

“The bed is great. I guess I just have a lot of thoughts. You know, after today.”

He lowers his elbows to his knees and the forehead of his helm to his palm. “I know what you mean.” 

“How do you feel? Now that you’ve seen him.”

Mando lifts his head to peer at you through his visor. “Fine. I—”

“You’re not fine.” You stand and cross the cockpit, planting yourself before him like a scolding mother. Hands on your hips and eyebrow arched, you prod his chest. “It’s okay if you’re not fine.”

He pushes your hand away with a limp palm. “Scout…” 

“No, don’t Scout me. Come on, Mando. You haven’t seen your son for a year and when you do, you find out he’s growing up. He’s getting older and wiser and more talented at whatever the fuck he can do and—”

Mando rises to his feet fast enough you fall backwards in surprise. “Okay, I get it!” He turns his back, bracing both hands on the back of the pilot’s chair. Dropping his head between his shoulders, he sighs. The jagged outer shell—protective yet impenetrable—crumbles around his feet. 

You blink, waiting… waiting… 

“I didn’t—” He sucks in a breath and straightens his hunched spine. Though he keeps his back to you, you watch his reflection in the viewport. His fist flexes on the chairback. “I didn’t think it would be so bittersweet. I’m proud of him, but…”

“But you want to keep him.”

He looks over his shoulder, and you imagine his face twisting in a forlorn grimace. “Yeah. I wanted to keep him.”

A light on the control panel blinks red, a steady beep, beep, beep keeping track of the seconds that tick by in silence. You hold Mando’s stare, unwavering.

“Mando?”

“Yeah?”

You aren’t sure what possesses you, what changes in the moment between confession and silence. You could blame your restless mind or your tense muscles or the lack of touch you’ve received in the past few days. You could blame those things, but you don’t. You know what compels you to ask him: desire and desire alone. He is no longer a monster, and you are no longer his prey. You stand on equal ground at last and still, you want him. So—

You ask.

“Do you want me?”

His response is quick, rolling off the tongue as though practiced. “Yes, but I shouldn’t.”

You take a step forward, close enough your exhale fogs the silver plating at his chin. You reach for his elbow and stroke your finger over the ribbed material of his flight suit; his muscles tense as you trace your nail over his forearm. “Do you want me?” you ask again.

He hesitates for one breathless moment. “Yes.”

“Then have me.”

Pulling you flush to his chest by the hips, he grumbles under his breath, “Maker help me.”

You wind your arms around his shoulders, smoothing your hands down the broad expanse of his back. “The Maker isn’t here right now. Just me.”

Mando huffs and shuffles to the settee. You shed your tunic as you fall to straddle his waist, revealing your naked flesh to the stars and the man weaseling his way into the cracked and ruined crevices of your heart. He hums in appreciation, gliding his hand—gloved, always gloved—in the valley between your breasts. 

“They taste better than they look,” you whisper, pushing your chest forward. 

Mando all but groans. Squeezing your breasts together, he rubs his thumbs over both nipples until they pebble under his touch. “I’m sure they do.”

You drag your palm from the top of his helm to the back of his neck. Without his cowl, you find silky strands of hair poking out from beneath the helmet, and you run your nails through the treasure. Soft, surprisingly soft. 

“What do you want from me, Mando?”

He stills, looking up at your round, open gaze. “I want—” He sucks in a gulp of air. “Ride me.”

You smirk and grind your pelvis against his. His hardening member jumps against your core. “Gladly.”

For a moment longer, you drag your throbbing cunt against Mando’s bulge. There is no rush, no frenzied push and pull. You reveal the feel of him beneath you, and you drop your cheek to his shoulder, humming in pleasure as your pussy grows moist and warm against his cock. He wraps his fist around your hair and bucks his hips upwards. Your gasp devolves into a giggle.

“Do it again,” you say. He complies, and you lift your head from his shoulder to stare into his visor. “Again.” Another buck of his hips, and the arch of his cock nudges your clit; you bite down on your lower lip. “Mmm, again.” Once more, and you moan.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Pull my cock out. I want to feel you, girl.”

Grinning, you stand long enough to tear at the ties of Mando’s trousers. You move to straddle his waist again when he unsheathes his cock, but he holds you back with a palm to the stomach. With his opposite hand, he tears off his pants completely. You cunt spasms, throat gone dry.

The tattoo on his hip. Black ink spreads from right hip bone to the inside of his thigh in a wide arch. The art appears tribal in nature, descendant of some ancient and proud clan. Jagged and pointed at the edges, it curls inward and outward in no specific order, and a thin line sketches the border of the thicker, filled designs.

Your eyes flick to his helm. “Mando—”

“Come here.” He beckons you forward, ignoring your reaction to his tattoo. “Sit on my cock like you promised.”

He grabs your hand, wrenching you over his hips, before you can drink in the sight of his tattoo, his skin, for too long. Holding the base of his cock, Mando stares up at you as he rubs his tip through your folds.

“You want me?” he asks. “You want this?”

You press your hands to his shoulders, curling your fists in the material. “Yes. Please.”

His cock stretches your cunt as you slide over his length. He is always a stretch but it seems he pushes against your sensitive walls more tonight. You close your eyes, return your cheek to his shoulder, and slide through the pinch of pain until he bottoms out. The stretch of him forces your eyes to roll heavenward, drunk on his rigidness. When the stretch fades to a dull buzz, you pull your hips backwards then angle up on your return. 

“Oh fuck,” you grunt. “That’s it.”

Mando fists his hands in your hair as you ride his cock. Slowly—back and forth, back and forth, enough that your wetness smears against the hair at his pubic bone and your clit catches on his flesh. Divine pleasure radiates from your core, and you toss your head back on a heady moan when Mando bucks his hips as he did before. His cock nudges the secret spot inside of you.

You fuck him as if time no longer exists, as if you and he and the cockpit of the Sunder are the only inhabitants of the galaxy. His hands on your hips pushing you up and down on his cock as you ride him forward and backward propels you into another plane of existence where pleasure and warmth is all that matters.

He tugs on your hair, angling your head toward the ceiling. “Close your eyes,” he grits, grunting through clenched teeth when you swivel your hips in a slow circle. 

You obey without question.

A clang upon the floor then something wet, something warm, descends upon your throat. It takes every ounce of self-control you possess to keep your eyes closed when you realize Mando is licking across your neck with his mouth. You shudder in response, moaning into the lust-thick air. His tongue carves over your skin, his mouth pulling at whatever flesh he can find as he maintains a slow rhythm in your pussy. You gush around him, walls seizing as this previously unknown sensation melts your mind to goo.

You pick up the pace in response. Jerking your hips against his, you writhe against his length, his thrusts no longer thrusts but mere presses of his cock within your core. The pleasure mounts in your gut, but it’s not enough to tip you over the edge. Despite his mouth drawing near your breasts and his hot, human breath against your skin and his cock in your cunt, you aren’t there yet.

Neither is he.

“Eyes closed.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. His unmodulated voice—as rough and raw and sexy as what leaves his helmet day in and day out—flutters through your entire body. 

With a hard push, he drags you from his cock and forces you onto your side, pressing you into the hard leather of the settee. He drops behind your back, lifts your leg, and pulls it over his hip. Angling himself at your entrance, he returns his hand to the crevice between your breasts and his mouth to the space between your shoulder and your neck. Then he thrusts.

An unrelenting drive into your cunt, so different from the slow pace of seconds before. You are trapped against his firm chest. His balls slap against your ass, and your mouth hangs open as he spears into you with everything he has. He grunts in your ear, and you squeak, eyelids wrinkling as you struggle to keep them shut.

“Feel so fucking good, sweet girl.”

You sob in pleasure as he pounds his length into you, burying whatever regrets and wishes he has about his life into your body. You let him; you open yourself to him like freshly tilled earth. He is the planter and you are the ripe soil. 

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” you chant.

Mando mouths over the top of your back. A drop of sweat falls from his hair to trace the stack of your spine. “Gonna—make me cum.”

“Oh please.” You reach backward to fist your hand in his hair; his thrusts stutter. “Please cum.”

“You close?”

“Mhmm.” You nod because yes, you are. So close.

“Touch yourself.”

You remove your hand from Mando’s hair to rub your fingers over your swollen clit. As his thrusts continue, shattering you to pieces, you find your orgasm. You release over him, drenching his cock in your warm, sticky juices as blinding light bursts behind your eyes. Your muscles quake, your back arches, head tilting back against his neck as you tremble.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pressing the crown of your head against his neck. “Eyes closed.”

You nod as best you can. “Uh-huh.”

Four more thrusts and he rips his cock from your cunt, releasing your throat so he can wrap a fist around his length and pump himself to completion. His seed splatters over your thigh and the settee. His breath shudders in your ear, hot and heavy.

In the sweaty afterglow, he presses his forehead to the back of your neck. The warm skin of his legs brands itself against your flesh, and you resist the urge to reach back and feel the muscles of his thighs. You remain still, an angel frozen above a grave. 

That was… different. Raw and unfiltered, made up of the baser parts of yourselves and desires you’d kept hidden for so long. You aren’t sure what to say. Aren’t sure if there is anything to say. You keep your mouth shut and wait for him to break the silence.

He doesn’t say anything. He sits up and crawls over your prone form. Cold recycled air replaces his body heat, and you shiver.

“Can I open my eyes?”

“No. Wait until I’m gone.” You hear the sound of fabric against fabric and then the return of his modulated voice. “It’s all I have left.”

Sitting up, you nod, though in all truth you do not understand. Still, Mando presses your tunic to your open hands. He runs his palm over your head before nudging your chin upwards with his forefinger. 

“Get some sleep, pretty girl. Back to work tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

DAY NINETY—TWO MONTHS SINCE VISITING GROGU

“Here.” 

Din tosses a blinking fob to the annex table. It clatters across the polished surface, spinning on its side until you stop its rotation with the muzzle of your dismantled blaster. You look up, cleaning motions paused, brow arched in question.

The Mandalorian gestures to the fob, and when he speaks, his voice betrays none of the pride welling in the cavity of his chest. “That’s all yours,” he says. “Show me what you can do.”

//

DAY NINETY-ONE—LOCATION: XAXERIS BAZAAR

Din follows you down the Sunder’s ramp into the hot afternoon sun. Beneath the shadow of his helm, he sweats. Rivulets of perspiration trickle from his brow to his chin and soak the collar of his flight suit. It’s sweltering here on the outskirts of the Core. Between the sun and the influx of people gridlocking the open-air market, Din can’t help but grimace. Figures you would want to make a shopping trip before embarking on your first solo hunt; figures you would bring him along for guidance. Silly girl. Still unsure on newborn legs, but he’s watched you closely for ninety days. He knows: you’re ready. You don’t need him crowding your ear as much as he doesn’t need the infernal Xaxerian marketplace pushing in on his personal bubble.

He tugs on his cowl, wishing he had left it behind. He should have stayed on the ship.

Turning at the bottom of the ramp, you acknowledge Din with a flick of your eyes before returning your datapad. “Okay, so Devanner Breeth”—you shake your head—“That’s a fuckin’ mouthful.” 

“Get used to it. He’s rich. I imagine he’ll want to hear his name more than you’ll want to say it.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, though there’s a sparkle when you nudge his shoulder with your bicep. “Men. So predictable. It’s honestly embarrassing.”

As you stroll away from the Sunder, heading in the direction of the bazaar, Din pulls you out of the path of an oncoming cart. Your shoulder bumps his chest-plate, but you lift your face with a smile. Shit —he still isn’t used to it, your growing tenderness. It makes his stomach lurch and his own lips pull upwards, imitating your grin in whatever sorry way he can.

Ninety days he’s known you now. Three full moon cycles by Nevarro’s standards. Yet, in the last six weeks, Din feels as though he’s only just met you—the real you, scales peeled back, demulcent interior blooming under a modicum of care. Grogu did that. He’s sure of it. His kid has a funny way of stripping the hardened layers of a person’s facade. 

Fuck, looking at himself in the mirror, Din barely recognizes the man who blinks back. His Way and his Creed broken in pieces at his feet, but he would do it all over again if it meant gaining the one thing most attuned to the ways of his people: aliit. Family. Grogu changed him, too.

You hurry through the bazaar’s oversized archway. Orange and green streamers flutter overhead with the planet’s cool breeze, and the air smells pungent, like spice and perfume. Your steps drum against the pavement with excitement. He can feel your anticipation in the wake of your quick pace. The privilege of a solo job and the opportunity for an afternoon of careless spending pushes you through the bazaar’s crowd with cat-like agility, but burdened with armor and the weight of curious eyes, Din struggles to keep up. He grits his teeth. Yeah, you might be a bit smoother around the edges, but you still find ways to pick at his nerves. Some things never change.

He raises his voice over the consistent hum of the crowd when he loses sight of your back amongst the horde. “Scout!” No response. He stops walking, and an older man bumps into his back, skirting around him like a fish wriggling over a rock in the middle of a stream. 

He doesn’t need to worry. At least not yet. The outfits you bought on Daos-Seven are beneficial in more ways than one: loosened range of motion, impossible to ignore, not to mention easy access to your cunt. Even if he tried, he doubts he could misplace you in a crowd for long. Loathe as he is to admit it, like a magnet, he is drawn to your side. 

Still, it helps to cheat rather than search on mere gut-instinct alone when he doesn’t have to. 

He maneuvers the controls on his helm. The world fades to a washed-out blue, all the painted frippery of Xaxeris giving way to a single-minded focus. He follows the heated impression of your footsteps and pushes his way through the clogged thoroughfare. Shoulders and elbows swinging, he tracks your footfalls, ignoring the sounds of indignation that succeed his brusk, unapologetic movements.

He finds you speaking to a cart owner, and when he clears his throat, you turn with a bright grin. Something in his chest pulls, and he busies himself with resetting the controls of his helm. 

“There you are!” You walk to his side, hips swinging, threading a bright orange scarf through your hands as you approach. “I thought you’d gone off to sulk in a corner.”

“Sulk?” He frowns and grabs your elbow, pulling you to an empty alleyway. “No— you got away from me. Don’t do that again.”

You tug your elbow from his stiff fingers, but the movement is not as unkind as it might have been thirty days ago. There is a softness—a warmth—to the roll of your eyes and shake of your head. “I told you it wasn’t necessary to come along. I’m going to be awhile. I have a fitting in twenty minutes.”

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“I’m shopping, Mando.” Throwing the scarf around his neck, you hold both ends and tug him close. The heat of your body washes over him as you arch against his chest, your knee sliding between his legs. You lower your voice to a husky whisper and slide the scarf back and forth across the back of his neck. “I don’t need your help shopping.”

Din drops his hands to your waist to steady himself. He pushes his hips forward, and though you cannot see, his brow arches beneath his helm. “Anything could happen. There’s bad people out here. People who might want to ravage you… pull you apart with their tongue… make you cum on their cock…”

“Bad people, huh?” You tuck your lower lip between your teeth. “Like you?”

He angles his head forward as though to rub the tip of his nose over yours; you lean into the motion, eyelashes fluttering across your cheekbones. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “People like me.”

Spinning on his foot, Din crowds you against the wall, anchoring one of your wrists above your head with his palm. The scarf caught in your fist slips from your grasp. He slides his opposite hand beneath the waistband of your pants and finds your warm, wet heat. When he nudges the hood of your clit, eliciting a stifled gasp from your pretty mouth, he smirks. Already trembling for him. You may put on a haughty face, but you are putty beneath his capable hands every time. It makes his chest—and his cock—swell with pride. 

Opening your eyes, you press your palm to Din’s chest. You speak in a heady rush, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I always start what I finish. You know that.”

“Yeah but…” He slides his first finger through the slick coating your cunt, and you grit your jaw as your head drops forward on a whine. “Mando… I have an appointment.”

“Forget it,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be gone. Won’t you miss my cock? How good I can make you feel?”

“You know I will,” you whisper. Lifting your face, you gently push his chest; he removes his hand from your pants and momentarily wishes he had kept that damned fob for himself. “It’s only a few days, though. Long enough to catch Breeth in the act.”

“A few days... Right.” 

He rubs his soaked finger along the seam of his pants, glancing over his shoulder as you step out from beneath his hold and adjust your clothing. He notes the determined pinch of your brow, and a sigh forces its way through his throat. You want this—it’s written in bright, hopeful ink over your face. Who is he to deny you what you’ve worked so hard to earn? 

“You should go then… to your appointment. I’ll wait here.”

You turn away from the mouth of the alley where your eyes scan the hustle and bustle of the bazaar. “You’ll wait?” Checking your chrono, you shoot him an upturned brow. “It could be a few hours.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait.”

“Okay.” Your face softens into a smile. “Thanks, Mando.”

Grunting, he gestures to the outside world, to the place where you will land once jumping from the nest. He is no mother hen; he does not coddle or shelter you from the storm. He will push you from the safety of the Sunder when the time comes, and he will watch you struggle to gather your bearings as you find your way without his supervision. He will watch you walk into the fog, leave the nest, fly with the strength of your own, fully-developed wings. But even so, he finds there is a twinge in his gut today. When you disappear within the crush of the bazaar without a proper farewell, his hands curl to fists at his sides. He doesn’t want you to go.

Fuck.

Din drops to the alley wall and resists the urge to lift his helmet and scrub the exhaustion from his face. 

He picked this specific bounty for your first solo run out of the handful of fobs Karga gave him on the last drop off. Devanner Breeth—genius inventor turned political big-wig on Coruscant; currently suspected of smuggling illegal cloaking devices to anyone who will pay an exorbitant price. Nothing proven, but there are plenty of people willing to take Breeth’s mind and bend it to their will should he have the knowledge and skill he boasts about. Plenty of people who want him dead for the same reason.

Breeth is an easy enough mark: older in age therefore likely to give up should a fight arise; tempted by pretty things therefore likely to draw you into his inner-circle without a second thought; stands to lose power and prestige should his underworld dealings be revealed. You can do this; you can take him down. Din knows it. But three days at a political convention on Coruscant posing as an interested client… 

That takes you where he cannot follow. And, Maker, it’s eating at him.

He has grown used to your company. Before visiting Grogu, he resisted your presence. He ignored your quirks, and your habits, and the force with which you became a fixture in his ship. But now, after allowing you to scale his walls, he greets your foothold in his life with a growing measure of appreciation. He seeks you out rather than leaving you to your own devices: 

He eats with you… sort of. (Really, he sits with you while you take your meals before he has the privacy to eat on his own, and that is enough.) He works with you on your sparring skills and your shooting acumen in the frigid hold of the ship. He listens to your grand schemings, and he chuckles to himself. He was once idealistic; he was once prepared to take on the galaxy with nothing but his own two fists. That spark, that shine—he sees it in you too. And for the first time since a small green child came his way, he wants to watch that spark fan into a flame. 

And your body… He cannot quench his hunger for your warmth and touch. He fucks you differently now; everything has changed. There are lines he will not cross: no bed, no touch of his mouth upon yours, no more skin than is strictly necessary. But he craves you more than he has ever craved another. He finds solace in the tight grip of your cunt, and he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder as you ride his length in the dim light of the cockpit. Over and over, the song in your throat as he takes you a symphony.

He should be afraid—and he is. He should resist—and he tries. But with each passing day, he slips. You pry open his tight grip on the gruff exterior he wears as a mask. If he isn’t careful, if he loses vigilance for but a moment, he will fall headfirst into your abyss.

As he promised he would, Din lingers in the alleyway. A misty rain settles over the bazaar as time slows to a tedious slog. Iridescent lights—purple and blue and yellow—pour from windows overhead and shimmer in the rainwater that gathers on the chipped road. The overflow of shoppers has thinned with the onset of night and poor weather. Din taps the toe of his boot on the ground.

Twenty-two hundred hours by his chrono—you’ve been gone too long. More than likely swallowed by the frivolity of the day. He considers leaving, returning to the Sunder and prepping for his own bounties, or finding you on his own, but he promised he would wait until you returned.

You are grown. You are capable. You can handle yourself. So he leans against the wall, ankles and arms crossed, and waits.

Another half an hour and frustration pushes aside the pride in Din’s chest. Your transport to Coruscant leaves from the hangar bay in less than a standard hour. How many clothing items could you possibly need for three days? While he is confident in your abilities, he is less confident in your punctuality. When his chrono beeps with the beginning of a new hour, Din makes up his mind: He’ll drag you from the stores if he has to if that’s what gets you to Coruscant. You’ve wasted enough time already. 

He stoops to gather your single bag of belongings from the ground and sling it over his shoulder. Stars, he’s become a glorified bellhop—for you and Grogu both. Somehow… in some way… tonight, it does not bother him.

He steps out of the alley and glances down either side of the sparsely populated thoroughfare. Huh, Xaxeris is kinda nice when the whole population doesn’t crowd a single market. He rather likes the way he can see the—

Heels click against the road, fast paced and anxious. He knows that gait, has listened to it, urged it to slow lest intentions be given away by footsteps alone. Din glances over his shoulder. A boulder drops to his stomach; his tongue shrivels in his mouth. Turning completely, the bag on his shoulder slides to hang by his leg.

“Scout?” He clears his throat of any lingering pubescent squeak. He says your name—your true name—and you look up from avoiding puddles as you hurry down the road. “You—” He swallows hard. “You’re going to be late.”

“I run on Scout Standard Time! Galactic Standard Time be damned. Well, what do you think?” You spread your arms and twirl on the ball of your foot. “I figured I should get something that might endear Breeth to me. Do you think it will work?”

Work? Does he think it will work? The squeeze of Din’s cock at the sight of you is answer enough.

The gown is white silk. Long. Two slits which expose the crest of your hips and the length of your legs to the night air. Your breasts push against the bodice, and your shoulders glisten under the street lights. 

He can't breathe. Fuck, he can’t breathe.

How is he supposed to let you go when he can’t breathe? When spots swim before his eyes? When you are the most magical thing he has ever seen?

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Still with me, Mando? Do you think Breeth will like the get-up? I know it’s a bit much…”

Heart a galloping monster in his chest, Din moves before his better angels can stop him. He has to touch you before you go. If he doesn’t…. 

He lifts his left hand and pinches the tips of his gloved fingers. Slowly, as though not to disturb the air which freezes between you, he removes his glove inch by inch until his flesh meets the night. He flexes his fingers then removes his opposite glove. Your eyes drop to his skin, pupils expanding. 

“Mando…” 

Ignoring your breathy whisper, he reaches for your hip. The silk fabric is like water beneath his palm; he rubs a crease between his thumb and forefinger. He moves his hand over the dip of your waist, over the rise of your breast where he pauses his knead his fingertips at your cleavage. He traces the length of your neck with his thumb and tilts your head upwards so he can meet your stunned gaze. Your skin is hot, flushed with shock and desire. Your lips part, and he nudges your plush lower lip with his knuckle. 

He wants to kiss you. With everything that composes his being, he wants to kiss you. 

He’s never kissed anyone before.

“Yes,” he finally says. “The get-up will work.” You release a shuddering exhale, and he drops his hand from the smooth skin of your face. “I want you to take something.”

Tucking his gloves under his tacbelt, he fishes a silver band out of his pocket. He takes your right arm in hand, brushing his thumb over the bone of your wrist as he turns your palm over to face the sky. With gentle, unhurried movements, he hooks the bracelet around your arm. The center stone—a clear, unvarnished thing—winks at him when he loosens his grip.

“I can’t follow you to Coruscant. I’m wanted there. I can’t hear you from that distance with an earpiece like we’ve done before either. But this”—he flicks the bracelet—“press the center stone and I’ll be by your side before you even blink.”

After studying the jewelry, you nod—then run your pointer finger over the ink staining the knuckles of his left hand. The feather-light touch electrifies his body enough to send a shiver down his spine. “What do those markings mean?”

Din glances down, tearing his eyes away from your soft features. Rune-like symbols in black ink cover the tan skin of his knuckles. He watches your nail—painted now, a pearlescent white—trace the markings. “It’s my family name. In the Mandalorian language. I don’t speak it very well.” 

You lift your face, lips forming a circle, darkened eyelashes fluttering in thought.

He pauses before lowering his voice to a whisper. He curls his hand around the fingers which touch his skin. “You must be safe,” he says. “You’re going where I can’t follow. Tell me you’ll be safe.” You nod hard enough a section of hair falls loose of its pin. He swipes it behind your ear and holds fast to the curve of your neck. “Tell me, Scout.”

“I’ll be safe, Mando.” You grip his forearm, and your eyes soften, melting like soft butter under a warm sun. You ooze a gentleness he has never before seen you wear. He wonders if this is what— who —you were before the galaxy ruined your goodness. “I’m ready for this. I know it.”

“Me too.”

Din Djarin walks you to the hangar bay, his ungloved hand wrapped tight around your warm palm. He says nothing, and you do not fill the silence. You simply allow him to guide you to the loading ramp of the Tetcott, a direct transport route from the outer rim to the inner rim. As you stand on the ramp, last minute passengers bustling behind you to join the crew onboard, he squeezes your wrist.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he says, the weight of everything he cannot convey sharpening his words.

You grin and drop his hand; he already misses the press of your skin against his. “Me? Fuck things up? Never.” You toss him a wink, pausing at the door of the Tetcott ; his bracelet slides down the length of your arm when you hold the door’s frame for support. “See you in three days, Metal Man.”

//

DAY NINETY-TWO—CORUSCANT. THE HUNT BEGINS.

Coruscant sits like a gaping mouth in the center of the galaxy. A deep yawning pit, jagged buildings like teeth, swooping transport like flecks of iron spittle. The city’s hot breath wafts over your skin as you tarry, hesitating at the top of the hangar bay stairs. You look out over the concrete landscape below, the possibility of failure an invisible, lurking beast, and you swallow hard. 

Fuck—you are in over your head. Your fingers twitch for the bracelet on your wrist. One push of a button and you can leave. You can retreat to the familiar, the safe. It’s tempting. Mando… he’s waiting for you… It would be so easy to go back to him and tuck yourself under the protective covering of his wings. 

But no. No . You can do this. You will do this. 

Someone bumps your shoulder as they hurry past and breaks you from the glass shell of your fear. You inhale and, though the city smog catches in your throat, the unfiltered air does you well. The grit and the grime is second nature to you now. Between your own fall from grace and the start of your career in the underworld, you are used to a little dirt beneath your nails. 

Fisting your hand in the skirt of your gown, you descend into the heart of Coruscant. Three days—seventy-two hours—four-thousand-three-hundred-twenty minutes. A finite amount of time to find Breeth and end his miserable existence. The clock tick, tick, ticks over your head.

You’ll bring him in cold. After discussing the possibilities with Mando, you decided: dead is best. Though the reward remains the same whether Breeth stumbles into the carbonite freezer breathing or with his brain leaking from his ears, your first solo hunt should be a simple one. The less mess, the less opportunity for disaster—the better. 

The dagger strapped to the inside of your thigh burns hot. Soon, you think. Soon. 

You have nothing but a name and a general understanding of Breeth’s daily schedule to go by. It’s bare bones; the holo-tabloids you read prior to leaving the Sunder certainly had a lot to speculate about Breeth’s society life but no specifics. Still, it’s a start. 

Finding your hotel is easy. Checking in under an assumed name comes with a skip in the beat of your heart when the attendant double-checks your identification, but otherwise no issue. You take the turbo lift to your room and steal a moment to prepare in the plush, otherworldly comfort before setting out to find your mark. 

You drop your bag to the oversized, overstaged bed. No amount of pillows (a luxury, if ever you saw one) can calm the rising tide of anxiety in your stomach. You stand poised to set out on your foremost test: a solo hunt, no Mandalorian to guide the way, nothing but raw instinct and skill to carry you from one decision to the next. A shudder runs down your spine as excitement mingles with the nerves in your veins. Devaneer Breeth. Like Kiminn and Setarr before him, you will carve his name in the lining of your soul. A prize for your mantelpiece, a trophy for your gilded case. 

Turning from the bed, you glance out the floor length window to your right. Coruscant throbs with energy despite the late hour. A flood of colored lights illuminate the crowded skyline, and you allow your gaze to soak in the hum of the city. The people back on Inora would unravel to see such advanced technology. Even you find your jaw dropping in awe, and you wonder—

A knock on the door. Your stomach clenches. No one should be knocking on your door. 

Expect the unexpected. Isn’t that the first rule of bounty hunting? You suppose you didn’t realize the unexpected would come to call so soon.

The sound comes again, followed by a gentle call of your name—your false name—through the heavy wood. Stepping slowly, you unhook the dagger on the inside of your thigh and wrap your fist tight around the handle. You unlatch the door, breathe deep, then swing it open.

On the other side of the door stands a young man, face marred by acne and impressionable youth. In the harsh, sterile light of the hall, you watch his pupils expand as he takes in the skin exposed by your gown. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. You relax your hold on the dagger and drape yourself against the doorframe.

“Yes?”

The boy thrusts forward a silver platter. “I was told to bring this to you, miss.”

You look down. A single everlily stem rests in the middle of the platter. Long white petals with forked blue pollen buds in the center; a delicate, nearly translucent stem that glistens beneath the light. 

Meeting the boy’s stare with a lifted brow, you point to the flower. “I didn’t order this.”

“No,” the boy says, shaking his head. “My boss told me to bring it to you. It’s from Din Djarin.”

“I don’t know a Din Djarin. I think you’re mistaken.”

“I’m just the messenger, miss.” He pushes the platter forward again. “But, if I may, there were many men—and women—who watched you from the bar as you checked in. Maybe Mr. Djarin is waiting for you there?”

“Hmm.” You accept the flower with a measure of hesitation. “Perhaps…”

You dismiss the boy with a wave of your hand and the slide of a few credits after a moment of consideration. Returning to the solace of your room, you twirl the everlily between your fingers. Din Djarin? You haven’t the faintest idea who that might be, but at least you are now sure of one thing: The credits you spent on your ridiculous and revealing outfit were worth it. Breeth will crumble under the strength of your appearance alone. Surely he will. 

Your only goal this evening is to locate Breeth and weasel your way into his circle. You can kill him later—tomorrow perhaps—but tonight you want him comfortable in your presence. That is an obtainable objective; at least, you hope it is. Mando taught you to start small, so you will follow his advice. You would drown if you focused on the island in the distance; it is best to concentrate on each stroke of your arm through the waves.

After dabbing perfume on your neck and wrists, you exit the hotel into the warm night air. Breeth’s fob pulses like a heart in the pocketbook under your arm. You step to the beat of his heart, strides long and hips loose. As you follow the path Breeth’s fob carves through the city, your mind wanders. You should be more mentally disciplined, especially on such an important mission, but Mando—his skin—his hand: it all flashes before your eyes in vivid color. Gods, he’d taken his glove off for you. For You. Your chest twists with sick delight at the memory. 

Golden, his skin is golden; flecked with sunlight, pierced with the ink of his people. You want to slide your tongue between his knuckles and taste his flesh, drink the musky sweat that gathers between his gloves and feast on whatever he will give you. Your body still tingles with his lingering touch, even all these hours later, and the pinpricks of anticipation for more spur you onwards. 

The faster you slice Breeth’s throat the faster you can return to your Mandalorian in shining armor. 

Breeth’s fob leads you to a towering hotel four blocks from your own. The building—all glass and glittering metal—bleeds luxury. It drips like diamonds from the entryway chandelier, blankets the soles of your heels as you cross the marble floor. A farmgirl like yourself—you shouldn’t be here; you were not made for a life such as this. But the building’s elegance buoys your confidence rather than strips you clean of your surety; and when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, you smile. You blend in, yes, but you should blend in. You must become one in a long line of women in sleek gowns hanging on the arm of a suited man in an ornate bar.

You can do this.

Finding the bartender, you order a glass of something mild enough to take the edge off of your nerves. The alcohol smooths through your veins, and you lean your back against the bar to survey your surroundings. A cluster of low tables and leather tufted chairs, dim lights and candles to illuminate each place setting. Humans and non-humans alike mingle throughout the room, speaking in quiet, delicate voices. The air smells like dignity and grace, like pomp and power. You’re definitely in the right place. Now all you need to do is find Breeth and turn on the charm.

You slide away from the bar. Thoughts about Mando be damned. Thoughts about your decimated and lonely farm on Inora be damned. Let this night be about you and your success alone. You’ve come so far. Like Icarus, you will soar beneath the sparkling sun and shine.

Sitting in the center of the room, his arm draped around the chair of a man about your age, Devanner Breeth sips from a wine glass. He is younger than you anticipated; perhaps fifty or so name days under his belt. He sits tall, shock of white hair luminescent in the dark room. Regal nose above a thin mouth, broad shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard. You lift your stemmed glass to your lips. Not half bad. Shame you’ll have to end such a pretty face.

You clear your throat, leaning forward to break Breeth’s intimate conversation. “Excuse me?” The polite phrase melts from your mouth, husky, dripping with intrigue. Breeth turns from the man at his side, and his brow arches in question. “Are you Devanner Breeth?”

His head tilts; Mando’s helmet following the same gesture bursts in front of your eyes, but you shake the image away. “Yes. Who is asking?”

“I read your scientific journal. The one on astral cloning. I had to come and speak with you. Maybe ask you a few questions. If you’ll let me...” 

“Huh…” Breeth leans back in his chair, evidently impressed. His eyes widen then drift across your face, your chest, the snug pull of your waist. “Did you now?” He gestures to the chair opposite him. “What’s a pretty girl like you reading a boring old paper like that?”

You lower yourself to the seat across from him. You prop your chin in the palm of your hand, tugging your lip between your teeth. “Can’t a girl be pretty and like science too?”

“I suppose so.” Turning to the man next to him, Breeth nudges his shoulder. “What do you think, Daniel?” 

Daniel considers you at Breeth’s request. Silver grey eyes framed by white lashes harden to ice, and you resist the urge to stiffen as Daniel rakes you over with a hard glare. When he leans forward and a forked tongue slides from behind his painted lips, you take a sip of your drink to keep from grimacing. 

“What was your favorite part? Of the paper on astral cloning? Tell me which section caught your interest first.” There is a possessive quality to Daniels’ tone, one you take care to note Breeth responds to with a firm hand to the shoulder. Daniel sits back, angling his body closer to Breeth’s, though his unyielding gaze remains fixed on you.

You swirl what remains of your drink in the bottom of your glass before asking: “Are you trying to gatekeep a politician?” Daniel’s eyes narrow; Breeth’s chest puffs at the challenge in your voice. “Don’t you know how desirable Mr. Breeth is?” 

Rising from your seat, you place your glass to the side then drop your hands to the table. You hoist yourself onto the slick surface. The table adjacent yours quiets with an astonished hush. In a place like this, painted pretty with luxury and high-class, a girl crawling over the table stands at odds with the self-contained air of the room. Your skin grows hot with the weight of a dozen eyes, but all you see is Breeth. The strong line of his jaw above an elegant neck, perfect for the cutting. You grin—all feline and sure—as you crawl, hands and knees, closer to your bounty, your prize.

“I’m sure you know, Daniel, how even the silliest of girls want to fuck Mr. Breeth,” you continue. “But the smart girls… the ones with brains in their heads instead of vacuous waste… we want to fuck him too.” You arrive at the edge of the table where your face hovers over Breeth’s. Warm, fresh breath washes over your face, and you grin as his pupils expand . “A big cock is only made twice as delectable when there’s more than brawn to back it up. Don’t you agree, Mr. Breeth?”

A spark, a flash of desire, and you’re in. Tick, tick. The clock over Breeth’s head begins its countdown. You have him in your grasp. Men—predictable—easy every time. Your smile widens.

Lunging forward, Breeth wraps his hand around your throat, tugging you close so that his mouth can claim yours. It’s an ugly mash of teeth and tongue in a room that calls for the slow caress of romance. You swallow a gasp. He does not— cannot —affect you. Though the hot slide of his tongue through your mouth feels good, ignites pale embers in your gut, you have a better man—a man of brawn and brain and braggadocious ego—waiting for you elsewhere. Him—you fan the flame only for him.

“I like you,” Breeth says, pushing you back by the neck. His voice betrays none of the delighted blush staining his cheeks. “Come with us to the opera. You can sit by me. You won’t mind that, will you, Daniel?”

Daniel blinks. Despite his frosty complexion, fire drips from his eyes. “No… Of course not.”

“Good.” Breeth rises from the table. “Then we’ll go.” Grinning, a mischievous glint in his eye, he extends his hand to you and pulls you down from the table. He presses his firm chest to yours, and the steady beat of his heart urges your rapid, hammering heart to slow. “We’ll go together.”

//

You’ve never been to an opera. Never had any reason to go until now. Never had the opportunity either. Inora was hardly the hub of culture and high-society. A backwater, molasses-slow dump more like. Oh, how you wish Jeelia were by your side. She would dissolve like sugar on the tongue to see such elegance, such grace and poise. You wish—you wish you could tell her about this, about your adventures… If only your fervent wishing could turn dreams into a reality. If only you could wake the dead with the yearnings of your heart alone.

No time for wishing. No time for dreaming. Only single-minded focus. 

The Coruscant Opera House makes Breeth’s hotel look like a wart on the backend of a hog. The vaulted ceiling stretches higher than what your eyes can focus on. A flock of white nesting birds glide from potted tree to potted tree, chirping around the music played by a string quartet in the building foyer. Creatures of all shapes seem to parade across the waxed, marbled floor; and floating chandeliers sparkle off of jewels and gowns and suits alike.

Devanner Breeth smirks and pats the hand cushioned between his elbow and forearm. “Quite glorious,” he says.

You unhinge your jaw from the floor and clear your throat. “Yes. Exquisite.”

“I helped design the lighting mechanisms, you know.” As you come to the bottom of the grand staircase leading to the theatre, Breeth pauses, pointing to an ornate chandelier suspended above your head. “How is that for brains, my dear?”

You follow the line of Breeth’s finger, and true, the design is genius. The light appears to hang on its own accord, no string or rope to hold it secure. It spins in a slow circle, casting prisms of rainbow hues over the walls and floor. Impressive—and Breeth knows it. He watches you study his creation, and you feel his eyes sift through the minute reactions on your face. Is he intrigued by you? Amused? It’s hard to tell. What you do know is his ego rivals Mando’s. You can smell it, that thick layer of arrogance coating his tongue, sweetening his words with pride. He wants you to oogle, to lap at his feet like a dog. 

Fine. You can do that. 

Leaning to the side, you dip your chin and squeeze Breeth’s arm with your fingers. “I’ve heard other rumors about you,” you whisper. Your voice drags like silk sheets over a soft mattress. “About other things you can do…” 

“Oh really?” He angles his head in curiosity, lowering his voice to match yours. “What sort of things?”

You glance over your shoulder. It’s part of the act—the bashful socialite, fluttering her lashes and avoiding the curious gaze of others—but the moment affords you time to force your stomach to settle. It’s a risk to push things further, to attempt to part the overgrown branches that obscure Breeth’s hidden agenda, but you have to chance it. You need to know—for certain—what you are dealing with. 

“Well”—you trail your nail over Breeth’s wrist and avoid his eyes; the more demure the better—“a little birdie told me you can do more than clone the stars…”

Breeth nudges your chin with his finger, forcing you to meet his stare. “What more can I do?”

You blink. “Cloak—you can cloak ships.” Pause. “Or… something…” 

Criminal first. Prideful man second. The momentary spark of fear in Breeth’s eye tells you enough: You have the right man. You’re on the right track.

Attempting to smooth ruffled feathers, you toss your head back on a high giggle. “But I’m not even sure what that means! It’s just something my brother said to me. I may be smart, but even that sounds a little out of my depth.”

Breeth frowns. Opens his mouth. You hold your wide smile, despite the tremble rising to your lower lip. Did you go too far?

Daniel cuts Breeth off before he can speak. “Devanner.” You turn in time with your mark; Daniel stands at the top of the staircase, his hand offered to the politician. He does not look at you. “They’re about to open the curtain.”

“Oh goody!” 

You drop Breeth’s arm and hurry up the stairs, grabbing Daniel’s waiting hand with a nail-biting grip. He spins on his heel, and you hasten down the carpeted hall. Grunting in disdain, he mumbles beneath his breath as you pull him toward Box Eleven, the designated loge afforded the richest of the rich. To your great relief, you hear Breeth chuckle at your girlish glee, and his return to aloofness sets your worry at ease.

In the plush, padded theatre box, Breeth sits in the row closest the balustrade. Daniel takes the seat on his left, and you lower yourself to the armchair on the right. The house lights dim, and the alcove fades into the background of the theatre. You inhale, run your gaze over the hundreds of attendees beneath the balcony. Like a sea of ignorants—unaware of Breeth and his hand in the death, the untimely ruin, of thousands; unaware of you and the knife that slips across the sweat in your palm… just in case.

When the opera begins, Breeth gives you a warm smile which you return in kind. He settles into his overstuffed armchair and taps his finger to the beat of the music swirling through the room. Comfortable, vulnerable, exposed. 

If it weren’t for Daniel or the two armed guards hovering by the door, you might attempt to slit Breeth’s throat now. No one would need to know you were ever even present; you’d be gone like a ghost in the night. You could simply use the cover of darkness and the volume of the opera to smoother Breeth’s screams. A simple, easy job; a good way to get the whole ordeal over and done with. It would get you back to the Sunder sooner, too. Back to Mando… 

You glance over your shoulder and take stock of the guards by the door. Heavily armed men, sure, but nothing you haven’t taken down before. Daniel, too. Fuck, you could tip his scrawny ass over the balustrade and be out the door before he hit the floor below. 

Your heart beats against the confines of your chest. Should you do it? Make a go of it now? 

What would Mando do? 

A cool hand slides over your wrist, fingers nestling between yours. Your train of thought derails as Breeth leans over the arm of his chair. He maintains a tight focus on the soprano in the middle of the stage, but he whispers low and steady in your ear: “I knew you were coming.”

The muscles in your lungs tighten. Your jaw grinds over your teeth.

“That’s the thing about bounty hunters,” he continues. “Either silent as the grave or loose lipped, haughty to a fault.” Without turning his head, his eyes carve a deep path to locate your face. “Can you guess which camp you fall in, dear?”

I—knew—you—were—coming.

Oh fuck. The dressmaker on Xaxeris. You’d… you’d talked too much. When standing on the fitting box, as the elegant Kaminoan took your measurements, you’d talked and talked and talked. Excitement for the job got the better of you, and you divulged your newest bounty, the secrets you held in the fob at your side, and now—oh fuckfuckfuck.  

Cold shame washes over you, draining the blood from your face. You move to pull your hand from Breeth’s grasp, but he holds tight. “That’s right. I have friends in all places. It pays to stay alert.”

You’ve failed. Barely a day into the mission and you’ve already bungled it beyond repair. The dressmaker told Breeth you were coming. He’s been waiting for you all along. Of course it was easy to weasel your way into his circle. Of course he’d brought you to the opera without a second thought. None of this evening’s success was built by your skill. He knew you were coming.

He knew you were coming.

The shame churning in your gut turns to anger as you imagine the disappointment in Mando’s voice when you return without the bounty. Well, you can’t allow that to happen. He’s given you his skin, his protection, his trust; the least you can do is bring him an offering that proves yes, I’ve listened and yes, I’ve learned. 

Jumping to your feet, you lunge over Breeth’s chair, curved dagger lifted high over your head. Daniel shrieks and topples from his seat as Breeth tips to the right in self-defense. You grab the scruff of Breeth’s neck, blind rage painting your vision scarlet. 

But you are kicked to the floor before you can strike. 

A firm boot to the center of your chest, and you fall. Something snaps below your lung, and you swallow a pained scream. A guard moves to press the muzzle of his blaster against your forehead, but you kick the inside of his shin and stab your knife between his kneecap and closest tendon. He howls, staggering to his uninjured knee. 

You roll to the side of your body that doesn’t scream out in pain and attempt to wobble to your feet. Your heel catches on the hem of your gown, and you stumble as you try to stand on unsteady legs. Maker, it hurts to breathe. But you have to get out—get out, get out—before you are truly, irreparably injured. 

The exit remains closed, but you can make it if you can manage to avoid Breeth—and Daniel—and the remaining guard. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a chair to steady yourself. The world spins. Someone grabs your shoulder, but you wrench free with a sharp heel to the toe. 

Blood pools in your mouth, and you cough. Spittle blankets the red carpet beneath your feet. Pain eats at your stomach. Oh shit, you can’t make it. You can’t breathe.

Another hand on your arm, and you spin, untucking a throwing star from the cleft of your breasts. Though the blade slides your right breast, you flick your wrist and listen for the gurgle of a sliced throat. But nothing so pleasant tingles your ears. Just a dull thump.

When did your vision start going spotty? Why does it hurt so much to breathe?

Why are you such a fuck up?

A wallop to the back of your head sends you crashing to the floor. You groan, press your palms to the carpet, try to lift yourself. A leather shoe returns your face to the floor, your cheek to the bloodstained carpet. A bone in your face groans under the pressure. A hot tear slides over the bridge of your nose. 

Breeth crouches beside you, and the devil-may-care affect is no more. He is nothing but sin now. 

He grabs your cheeks between tense fingers, further irritating the bruised bone in your face. You wince, but maintain his beady stare. “You’ve come for the wrong man, my dear.” He lifts your arm and jingles the bracelet on your wrist. Tearing it from your body, he snaps the jewelry in half and drops it on the floor. “Say goodbye to your precious Mandalorian.”

You do—you do, you do, you do. Fuck, Mando…

I’m sorry. 

You say goodbye, and what remains of your heart crumbles like a house of cards—

—and all goes to darkness. 

Chapter Text

DAY NINETY-TWO—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

Jagged pieces of metal break the skin of your palm. Warmth—sticky, acrid—spreads over your hand, and you open your clenched fist. Are you bleeding? When did you injure yourself? Your clumsiness is beginning to get the better of you. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up with another twisted ankle or sprained finger and Mando will have to…

Peeling open your tired eyes, darkness floods your senses. Mando will have to… 

Despite the lack of light, you lift your hand. The bracelet—Mando’s bracelet—clatters to the floor beside you. Broken, the tracking device smashes to unkind pieces. Blood trickles over your wrist. You remember then; the pain comes back in a tidal wave. The disappointment too. 

Breeth and Daniel… the guards at the opera… your miserable failure to complete a simple mission. Gods, your body hurts. Mando will have to…

A bump under your cramped travel compartment, and you jolt out of your stupidity, forced from the comfort of ignorance. 

No—there is no Mando. Not anymore. You’ve lost him just as you’ve lost yourself. 

//

DAY NINETY-THREE—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

Light pierces your eyes. You blink, and your lids peel open, a gummy residue holding your lashes to your undereye. How long have you been asleep? You can’t say for certain. What came after the opera—after you failed so utterly, so miserably—you really don’t know. It’s all a hazy blur, muddled by pain and regret.

Are you even alive? Perhaps you died on the red carpet of the opera house, and the blinding light that slices through your eyelids is the Maker trying to welcome you to paradise. 

Paradise. Sounds nice. Comfy, probably. Plush with gourmet food and soft sheets and the strong arms of someone who—

Cold water hits your face, and you gasp, shooting forward to a sitting position. “Wake up.”

“Fuck!” Your voice tears at the tender muscles of your throat. “ Ah. ”

Oh Maker, everything hurts. Between the shock of water and a stabbing pain in your side, agony has ebbed its way into the very fabric of your being. You have been reduced to a pulp. You are a slug at the feet of your captors, slimy and gelatinous, ripe for the prodding. Suffice it to say: you are injured—and there’s too many places that hurt to know which area needs the most pressing attention. 

You swipe a shaking palm over your eyes.

“My side…” Clutching your rib cage, you duck your face, eyes squeezed shut against a wave of pins-and-needles. “What ha—”

A hand seizes the meat of your bicep. “Stand up.” 

Hauled upright without ceremony, the ground beneath your bare feet wobbles, tilting on an axis as your balance wavers. The room spins, then settles, and you find yourself holding tight to the arm of… someone. A man, lithe, ridged alien forehead, shocking red eyes. You untangle your hand from the thick fabric covering his forearm and push him—push yourself —away.

“Get off me.” A weak protest if ever there was one. You can barely breathe. Each inhale is like ice in your lungs, razor-sharp.

The man blinks, his boredom unchanging. “You are to follow me to the Great Hall. Devaneer Breeth would like to see you.”

Though your head pounds, you recall enough to recognize the name Devaneer Breeth. He knows you are a bounty hunter; knows you were planning to slit his throat at the opera; knows about Mando too. Yeah… you’ll waltz down to the Great Hall for sure, no questions asked. Can’t wait to see how well that turns out for you after such a miserable fuck up. The asshole is probably priming his blaster already.

“Oh fuck him,” you mutter.

Saddled with a monstrous pain, leaning against the nearest wall is all you can do to keep from collapsing to the floor. You close your eyes, inhale— one, two, three —exhale. A thought bubbles to the surface in the moment of thick stillness: Where is Mando?

Better question: where are you ?

Your room (holding cell more like) is bare. Stone walls and stone floors, an unabating chill to the sharp air. A rumpled piece of fabric decorates the uneven floor. You cringe. The gown, the one that got you into this Maker-forsaken mess. If you had just kept your mouth shut at the tailors…

The red-eyed man steps forward, and the smell of his long black cloak forces your eyes open and to attention. Pungent fumes eek from the coarse weave of his clothing. If you weren’t in so much pain, you might attempt to cover your nose and mouth to spare yourself the smell. As it stands, moving a muscle brings too much discomfort to bear. What the fuck did Breeth do to you?

“You will come with me.” The man makes for your wrist, but you dodge his grasp. The quick movement leaves you winded, eyes stinging with tears. 

“You wish… asshat.” 

Both hands to the wall, you suck in a gasping breath. Spots swim before your eyes. How much longer can you withstand the pain? Mando would tell you to push forward, to lean into the pain and use it to your advantage; but you can't breathe, can’t think, can't survive without some sort of relief. 

“If you want medical attention, I suggest you let me take you to the Great Hall before it is too late.”

You lift your head, eyebrow quirked. A bit of bacta spray and you might be able to think properly. A compression wrap to your rib cage and maybe you could walk without hellfire in each breath. It’s tempting: give the red-eyed, smelly man what he wants in exchange for medical nirvana. But the rasher side of you—the side that got you into this dung heap—moves first, unburdened by injury. 

“I don’t want to see a med-droid.” Lie . “I want to go home.”

You refuse to linger on the word home or its implications. Though your heart beats to the tune of the Sunder’s engine, home could be the underside of a bantha stomach if it means getting you out of Breeth’s grasp. 

“That’s not an option.” Lunging on the balls of his feet, the man snatches your forearm before you can stumble to the other side of the room. “You will come to the Great Hall. Now. ”

Weak as you are, you cannot fight your prison guard. You follow him—sluggish, wincing each step—out of your cell. 

The view from the other side of the heavy oak door is much the same. Frigid stone walls blend with impassive stone ceilings. Water drip, drip, drips from overhead; moss blankets the stones underfoot. The air smells dank, and as you follow your guard through the labyrinth of passageways, a foggy haze slips between the cracks in your outer shell. 

Haven’t you seen that door before? The one with the yellow slash of paint across the wood beams?

Haven’t you stubbed your toe here already?

Everything looks so similar. Gray—like freshly hewn stone or the sky on a misty morning or the impenetrable armor of a certain Mandalorian. The world is a muted blend of washed-out colors and then, as you stumble up a steep staircase, lush greens and brilliant yellows assault your senses. Fresh air whooshes into your overburdened lungs, and you choke on the scent of the flowers which hang from the vaulted ceiling. Fuck, if you crane your neck back, the ceiling must go… Gods, it's too high to judge. You’re so tired. Everything hurts and—

“Inside.” The red-eyed man pushes open a towering wooden door. “He’s waiting.”

Shoved forward by the small of your back, you trip over the threshold of the Great Hall. A sharp pain rockets through your chest, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. Maker, you need medical attention— soon. You cannot appreciate the grandeur of Breeth’s mansion as you would were you not injured. A little farm girl like yourself, you’ve never had the chance to witness anything so luxurious, so ingrained with old (albeit dirty) money. Try as you might to give the Great Hall a passing once over, the fringes of your vision bleed black.

“Ah! There she is!” From the front of the rectangular room, Breeth’s voice rings clear. He says your name—your given name—as he struts down the dais. You keep your feet rooted to the ground. 

Make the man come to you. 

As he approaches, you realize you don’t remember Devaneer Breeth being so handsome. Perhaps you had been too focused on your mission; perhaps that hotel bar’s lighting had been too dim; perhaps the scuffle in the opera turned him ugly in your mind’s eye. Perhaps those things can remain true while you still recognize the disarming looks you did not see before. 

In the untarnished light of day, Breeth appears well-built and genial. Older but attractive enough to tempt anyone with a beating heart. You don’t like it. Someone with access to the technology and weapons he has should not be so handsome. He should be warty, stout, and sickly; his outsides should match his insides. If at all possible, your hackles raise that much higher. You must be on the defensive until you can find a way back to Mando.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” 

You suck in a rattling breath through your teeth. “Like a sack of shit… no thanks to you.” With each word, darkness encroaches on the center of your vision.

He tilts his head, a half-hearted confession. “Occupational hazard.”

A beat passes. Your head swims. The Great Hall shifts like the big hand of a clock.

“We’ll get right to business then.” Propping his elbow on his forearm, Breeth taps his chin as he studies your rapidly deteriorating state. “This Mandalorian friend of yours—my colleagues on Coruscant mentioned him. I should very much like to meet him. Scuttlebutt is, the man has a hefty price on his head in various places. Is that true?” 

You pin your captor with a glare. “If you think you’ll get anything out of me because I’m weak… you’re wrong.”

Breeth frowns. A line creases his brow, and you hold your breath, prepared for the back of his hand to meet your jaw. Instead, he merely shakes his head. “You are far from weak. Simply… broken.” His mouth twists, revealing a snaggle canine tooth. “I like broken. It serves me better than weakness.”

Oh, that you could punch the smug smirk from his face. The hand not pressed to your injured side clenches to a tight fist. 

“Mando—He…” You close your eyes as an image of the Mandalorian washes over your eyes like tears. 

Where is he? Has he thought of you? Worried over you? Now that you’ve lost the tracking bracelet, will he risk himself to find you? Your heart of hearts says: yes, he would rip the galaxy apart if it meant returning you to safety. Even so, you cannot help but wonder if your absence in the Sunder has reminded him what bliss he enjoyed before your arrival. Maybe—just maybe—he will default to his original setting, the one without you. 

Maker, you pray not. You… feel for him too much to go on without him.

Still, you play dumb. “Nothing you do to me will sway him. I’m useless to you.”

“The information I was given tells me otherwise. He is partial to you and your survival, I think.”

“I won’t tell you anything. There’s nothing to tell.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Stepping back, Breeth snaps his fingers. The red-eyed man from before appears from some hidden pocket in the wall. He glides over the polished floor to his master’s side.

“Monjar, take our guest to the infirmary. If she is to be of any use to us, we need her whole.” His pointed gaze falls from the top of your head to the soles of your dirty feet. “I want this Mandalorian. He would be a great asset to me—dead or alive. And if we want him… we need her.”

/

Monjar all but drags you to the infirmary. 

After leaving the Great Hall, any adrenaline that kept you standing in front of Breeth evaporated. Now, your toes scrape against the floor, breaking off skin to release a trickle of scarlet blood in your wake. Monjar attempts to hold you upright with a bony arm around the waist, but the effort is a wasted one. You can’t see; the darkness has swallowed your sight. You can’t hear; your head bobs as though underwater. Your tongue swells in your mouth. Your lungs wither in your shattered rib cage. 

You are dying.

//

DAY NINETY-FOUR—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

You wake to the smell of honeysuckle. It is a pleasant enough scent: sweet but not overpowering, tinged with the promise of summer. Jeelia used to wind your hair with the soft petals and save the pearl drop of dew for herself. Selfish…  

You miss her. 

While you appreciate the gentle ease of this morning’s wake up compared to the face full of water you received previously, something isn’t right. Your gut twists on instinct, even as you open your eyes and drink in your surroundings. Plush bed swallowed by white linens… A room composed of half-walls which open to the world beyond… Sunlight bathing the circular chamber with a healthy glow… A man at the end of your bed…

A man at the end of your bed!

You sit up, expecting your side to rebel against the sudden movement. Instead, only a twinge of soreness. You lift your soft gray shirt over your hip. A new scar decorates the flesh beneath your left rib cage. It appears faded, as though years old, weathered by time and a forgotten injury. 

“Good work, no? You can hardly tell half of your innards were trying to push through your abdominal wall.”

You look up, drop the hem of your shirt, narrow your eyes. Forget about healed injuries, whatever they might have been; there is only there here and now and getting the fuck away from Breeth. A newfound energy sets your teeth on edge.

“Who are you?”

Bowing slightly at the waist, the young man sweeps his arm in greeting. “My name is Ka’ered. I am Devaneer Breeth’s in-house physician.” 

Ka’ered stands tall and thin and haughty. Three ridges line his forehead; like Monjar, only more pronounced. His eyes glitter violet, and his chin angles high. You are uncertain of his heritage, and you wonder—for a brief moment—if Mando looks anything like Ka’ered beneath his absurd helmet. You don’t think so… not really anyway… 

Is there an image of Mando’s face squirreled away in your mind? When he fucks you, what do you imagine? When he plunges his—

Ka’ered’s quiet voice shatters your thoughts. “It was quite the ordeal to piece you back together.”

“You fixed me?”

“I did indeed.”

“Oh.” 

“A thank you would—”

“I’m not going to thank you.”

Ka’ered holds your stare. 

Silence pulses like an angry heart. 

With less pain consuming your senses, the rage in your stomach heightens to a boil. That boil ignites the tinder in your gut and spreads through your veins like a wildfire until you see red. You have space now—to be angry. Angry with Breeth, angry with yourself, angry with the universe. 

Angry with Mando for not already finding you. 

He should have fucking found you already.

He promised you: he’d drop everything and come to your side at the push of a button. You would have thought the broken bracelet might alert him, might bring him racing through the stars to find you. You would have thought he’d be here by now.

Perhaps you were wrong…

It doesn’t matter. You won’t sit around and wait for any man to come and rescue you. Not even one who you— Don’t finish that thought.

Tossing back the heavy comforter on your lap, you slide out of bed. A chill slides beneath your skin when your feet meet the stone floor. “Ka’ered, I don’t know you, but you’ve got to get me out of here.”

The physician frowns, stepping back as you whirl around him. “I’m sorry?”

You pause in the hunt for your meager belongings, fisting your fingers around the edge of the bed sheet. (No, nothing of yours hidden beneath the covers.) “You heard me: Get me out this shithole. I can’t stay here.”

“But Devaneer—” 

“Oh, fuck him. Listen to me!” Launching over the end of the bed, you grab Ka’ered’s arm. The physician reels back in shock, but you hold firm. Desperation claws at your stomach. Her curved talons tear your muscles to fine strands, stands that Ka’ered now holds in the balance. “I need to get out of here. I don’t belong here. There’s someone— people —waiting for me, and I just can’t stay here.”

“That’s not my concern. I’m just a physician. I don’t think—” Ka’ered draws a breath through his teeth. The crease between his brows flattens as his countenance smooths; any moment of surprise you wielded as a double-edged sword has gone. He says your name. “Why ever would you want to leave?”

You stiffen.

There it is again. Your name. Your given name. Breeth said it too. How long has it been since someone used the name your mother gave you? You shucked that title eons ago. Back when Jeelia fell to the ground, a blaster wound between her eyes; back when your mother wailed as you lowered the weapon… You haven’t been that name for a long time. 

Gritting your teeth, you twist Ka’ered’s arm upwards. He winces in pain, stumbling into your grasp. “Don’t call me that! That’s not my name.”  

“That’s not what Devaneer’s information says!” Ragged nails score Ka’ered’s flesh; he grimaces. “It said your name is—”

“My name is Scout!” You drop his arm, shove him away with a palm to the center of his chest. “And you have to get me out of here before someone I need gets hurt because of my fuck up.”

Quiet, a thread of understanding lifting in Ka’ered’s eyes, then—

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” 

The disappointment that twists your heart rankles your nerves. Maker, you’d think after Coruscant your naivety would have gone, dried up by your failures. But no, apparently not. Of course escaping back to Mando would not be as easy as requesting help from the nearest person. You were foolish to think otherwise. 

Your lip twists in a sneer, and you blink away the tears that roll over your eyes like waves. “If you think I’m going to back down so easily, you’re a fucking idiot. I’m going to get out of here.”

Ka’ered shakes his head. “I didn’t doubt it for a second. I simply cannot risk my own life to better yours.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small leather pouch cinched at the top. “I did not come here to fight with you, only to bring you some medication. You are lucky to be alive, Scout. You need to rest.”

Turning away, you ignore the offering as you resume your search of the room. “Don’t have time for that. I’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps reconsider? I imagine you are sore from the procedure. There wasn’t enough bacta. We had to resort to more primitive measures which leave you vulnerable to infection.” 

A desk shoved against the wall which overlooks the planet below steals your attention. Ka’ered’s words slip through the cracks, and you don’t bother to ask him to repeat himself. You don’t care anyway. The procedure is done. Whatever happened to you, it doesn’t matter as much as getting back to Mando does. 

“Should I leave this here for you?”

You shrug as you lift the top of the desk to inspect the compartment inside. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll leave it then. You should take—”

“Just leave it and go.”

Ka’ered hesitates. Something unspoken permeates his reticence to leave, but you resist the urge to give in and turn around. Let him waver. You have more important things to do than placate any misgivings he has about refusing to help your sorry case.

The door shuts with a soft click a moment later, and you are left alone. You glance over your shoulder. An empty bed chamber, gilded unlike anything you have ever seen or called mine , blinks back at your guarded face. Peaceful quiet reigns. 

Solitude—it’s been awhile. The last time you were truly alone and fully conscious, you were preparing for your hunt. You received the flower delivery while dotting your neck with perfume. Who was the flower from? Din Djarin?

You wonder what became of him. You wonder if he—if anyone—has questioned what became of that elegantly dressed woman in the hotel bar. Probably not. Best not to dwell on your irrelevance.

Lowering the desk lid, you inch closer to the edge of the room. The absence of completed walls allows for warmth to stream into the room and surround your shoulders. You appreciate the fresh air; you don’t get that on the Sunder. Inhaling deeply, you wince slightly at a pull in your abdominal muscles.

You’ve never seen an open concept of this design. The weather on this planet must be persistently sunny otherwise your room would be flooded by any onset of rain or snow. Allowing the elements inside is unique indeed. Unique and curious. The room’s design could allow for an easy escape. Maybe too easy. All it would take is a modicum of planning and preparation. If you can find a safe way to scale the wall opposite one of the windowless openings, you could book it into the wooded valley surrounding the house undetected. From there you would surely be able to find transport off the planet. You could go back to Coruscant, contact Mando. All would be well. 

You inch closer to the opening. Surely it wouldn’t be as easy as hopping over the wall or fashioning a rope to rappel down. Surely Breeth would safeguard any exit at your disposal. He’s not a stupid man. Not in the slightest.

On a hunch, you extend your arm, fingers stiff. An unseen force, like a bony fingered-hand, wraps around your wrist and lures you forward. You resist, attempting to pull back and resist the snare, but you are forced all the closer. Nearer, nearer, nearer the edge until snap.

Electricity rockets up your arm, twining with your muscles. A thousand pinpricks of pain scatter across your body. Like engine fire scoring your limbs, like the point of a curved knife carving your skin—it hurts and your eyes burn with stinging tears. You twitch, glued to the forcefield, until the bony-fingered hand releases you, satisfied you’ve learnt your lesson. Gasping, you stumble backwards. You drop to the edge of the bed, injured arm clutched to your chest.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. A tear slides down your cheek.

With gritted teeth, you peel your arm away from your chest and turn it over to inspect the damage. Blue light flickers beneath your skin. Remnants of your curiosity. Fuck, that hurt; but it confirmed your suspicions. Over the wall will not be your way out. You’ll have to find some other way.

Something digs along the flesh of your thigh. Tilting to the side, you unearth the bag Ka’ered left from under your leg. You shake the bag, and the contents within jingle to a sad, muted tune. Arm smarting as it is, you hope whatever he left can cure an electrical shock. Your arm is starting to burn, and your teeth chatter in your skull. Opening the bag, you pour the contents into your palm: a few white capsules, a few pink pills, and your tracking bracelet, restored to its original design.

Your gaze snaps to the door. Ka’ered—the bracelet—he…

Stunned, you slip the bracelet over your wrist. The weight of it is comfortable, familiar, a long-lost friend. Though lingering blue electricity mars the muscles trembling in your forearm, the bracelet brings a modicum of comfort to your person. Thank the Maker. You trace the design with a broken nail and—

press the center stone.

Mando, your heart murmurs. Hear my prayer.  

//

DAY NINETY-FOUR—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

The following morning you wake to see a dusky red gown laid at the foot of your bed. A note folded atop the clothing reads simple and commanding: Wear it. You do not question the directive. If you want to get out of here alive, you’ll have to make concessions. Tamping down the overgrown spirit in your heart is the first instinct you must silence. Breeth isn’t like Mando. You doubt he has enough patience to withstand your insolence. 

Donning the gown, you slip into the hall outside your room. Unlocked, you note, but then again, with a forcefield surrounding each clever exit, why lock you inside when you have nowhere to go? 

Your plan for the morning is a simple one: do what you do best—scout. You find it is easy enough to stroll through the halls of Breeth’s oversized dwelling. No one pays you any mind, but you suppose they have been instructed to do so. He likely wants you comfortable, eased into your situation, so when he strikes, you will be pliant and willing to bend to his desires. 

Fat fucking chance. 

When you wander into the library, a pungent odor curls at the hem of your gown, and you twist slightly. From the corner of your eye, Monjar’s beady gaze carefully inspects your person from behind a towering column. You hold your breath and—

press the center stone of your bracelet.

Mando, hear my prayer.

//

DAY NINETY-FIVE—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

You sit in the guest of honor seat beside Breeth, an invitation you could not refuse. The Great Hall swarms with guests, and the air hangs heavy with a symphony of orchestrated scents. Breeth slides his hand beneath the table to squeeze your thigh. He grins at you, and you stare back, hand shaking as you lift to sip from your glass of wine. 

“Magnificent, is it not?” he asks.

You blink. 

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

You lower your chin, darken your gaze.

Breeth laughs. “That Mandalorian of yours certainly had his work cut out for him to break your spirit, but I’m up for a challenge.” His nails card the exposed flesh of your knee. “Unless, of course, you’d like to end this silly charade and invite him here yourself? I’d just like to talk…”

You turn away and—

press the center stone of your bracelet. 

Mando, hear my prayer.

//

DAY NINETY-SIX—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

It is night, and you are caught by the forcefield again. You cannot help it. You must try—every night, every chance you get. One day—one day—your hand will fall through space, and you will be able to climb over the lip of your bedroom wall and escape to freedom. Until then, you must subject yourself to this: a pain that has turned the skin of your left arm a radiant blue and your teeth rattling in your mouth.

You must. You must. For Mando, you must.

The skeleton within the forcefield releases you. You fall back, dropping to the floor in a heap of painted skirts and trembling limbs. You sob into the night, throat catching around the despair you refuse to prod, and—

press the center of your bracelet.

Mando, hear my prayer.

//

DAY NINETY-SEVEN—LOCATION: ABOARD THE SUNDER

Din curls his hands to a fist. He’s tarried at the rendezvous point too long. Three days he gave you to succeed at catching Breeth. He gave you an additional two days just to be sure. But now, five days without you and without word of your success, he knows something is wrong. He feels it sprout in the pit of his gut like a weed. 

You should be here, but you aren’t.

You should have contacted him, but you haven’t.

Not for the first time, he curses his loose tongue. That bracelet—that sham of a thing—a cheap trinket he found long ago on Daos-Seven. No homing device, no signal to be sent if you pressed the center stone. He lied.

The weed in his gut curls around his lungs like a vine and chokes the breath from his throat. He has done this. Whatever happened to you, it is his fault—and he will be damned if he lets another person he cares for slip through his fingers like vapor. 

He straps himself in the pilot’s chair and sets a course for Coruscant. He’ll start there. He knows it’s risky, but he’ll start there.

He must. He must. For you, he must.

Bending forward, he angles the Sunder in the direction of the Inner-Rim, praying to whatever god that will listen that you survive another day. “I’m coming, sweet girl,” he mutters. “I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

DAY NINETY-EIGHT—SIX DAYS APART—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

A new day, a new gown. The routine has become unrelenting.

Six days without Mando, nearly a standard week, the longest you’ve gone without his presence, his voice, his body in almost four months. How is it he became the cornerstone of your sorry existence? When did he become the foundation, the building block upon which you learn and grow and attempt to triumph? When did that scaly hatred peel away to reveal your tender flesh? 

You miss him. You need him—even if only to hear him berate your failure, like you so deserve, like days gone by. That you can withstand. This you cannot.

Without pausing to consider the cut or color of the newest gown, you dress before the floor length mirror in the corner of your room. Breeth was right when he called your stay here a charade. You are a prisoner painted in finery: gowns and jewelry at your wrists and ears; perfumes that worm beneath the skin; a curved circlet that rests on the crown of your head, dipping down to kiss your forehead. The adornment is a signal, as good as a shackle around your ankle. You belong to Devaneer Breeth, his guest of honor, but should you stray from his carefully constructed path—

Zap. Like the window force field, a lightning bolt of electricity rockets down your spine, sent from a diode hidden within the crown’s golden filigree. This morning, you have tarried too long in your bedroom. You should be in Breeth’s study by now. Morning interrogation.

You turn to the chamber door. Another zap, and your back curls in protest. You bite your tongue to keep from crying out. Breeth has way too much fun with the trigger.

By the time you make it to his study on the other side of the mansion, he has shocked you twice more. Gods, between testing the force field each night and the ridiculous crown, you are bound to transform to nothing but a ribbon of trapped, frantic energy. If Mando comes… When Mando comes, he will have nothing to transport home other than a glowing ball of electricity. Maybe he can put you on the shelf and put his cock in the jar if ever he needs to find release.

The door opens when you knock, and from his place behind a heavy wooden desk, Breeth waves you inside. A child sat upon his lap depresses the trigger button linked to your crown, and you bend at the waist, clutching the nearest chair back. Gnashing teeth and bitter tears—holy shit, that hurts.

“There, there,” Breeth chuckles, removing the cylindrical control from the child’s hand. “That’s enough, Zale. You’ve had your fun.” 

The child protests with a whine, but Breeth sends him off with an attendant. He gestures for you to take your chair—the same as every morning: straight backed, wooden, a ripple in the seat that digs into the base of your tailbone after an hour of rigid stillness. He bites off the end of a fat cigar and lights it. As has become your custom in the last several, miserable days, you do not sit until he wafts the first column of smoke in your face. You swallow it, tense your jaw, and sit down.

“You look well.” Your steely gaze hits him hard; he only shrugs in response. “Simply trying to break the ice. I thought you might like the chance to talk. That way you can see I mean no harm to your Mandalorian.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Hm, how disappointing—and here I thought we were becoming friends.” He leans back in his chair, trailing his nail around the edge of the crown’s control. You steel yourself, waiting, watching his purposeful movements. “After all I’ve given you out of my own home… After what little I’ve asked of you…”

“You are holding me prisoner.”

Breeth furrows his brow. “You are free to walk the grounds of the estate. What you do in your own time is of no consequence to me.” 

“But you won’t let me leave.”

“No.” He tilts his head, drawing out the word as though you need the extra time to understand. “Not until you give me what I want.”

“Mando has nothing for you. I have nothing for you.”

Zap. Five total shocks this morning. You cannot repress the whimper that slips from your mouth.

“Wrong answer, darling.” 

Breeth drops the cylinder to his desk and angles his body forward. Any playful, patient visage he portrayed melts away, replaced by an encroaching shadow. His brows lower, turning his gaze dark and pointed. The snaggle tooth at the top of his mouth glints in the morning light. Smoke pours from his mouth when he speaks, his hushed voice a snake’s slither.

“I want that Mandalorian. He is valuable and has not gone as unnoticed as he may think. You will bring him to me, and you can consider your debt repaid. I will forget that you tried to kill me. You can be on your way.” He narrows his gaze. “I just want the Mandalorian.”

Your upper lip curls in a sneer. “I told you: he has nothing for you. Even if he did, he’d never come. He’d never sacrifice himself for me.”

“That is where you are wrong. I know a man in love when I see one. I have seen your Mandalorian. He loves you, as I suspect… you love him. Even if you do not send for him, he will come—for you.”

Ice, white hot and burning, floods your veins. Your cheeks warm. Sweat gathers at your upper lip. Love, love—the word batters around like a loose spring in your head.

You will concede that you care for Mando as you might any brother-in-arms. You care that he does the lion’s share of the work, bringing in credits for food and comfort. You care that he doesn’t die because then what the fuck would you do? But you don’t love him, and he doesn’t love you. Fuck you, yes. But no, never love you. That is too strong a word for the unholy things you commune in. You are a cavern of release for him, an open well ready for the filling. He is a mountain, and you climb to the peak of him to find a burst of ecstasy. That is it; that is all.

“Ah, I seem to have struck a nerve. You don’t return his affections?”

You ignore the bait—for Breeth’s sake and your own. “Mando is no mercenary. He wouldn’t work for you. Whatever it is you want from him, he wouldn’t do it. Not for a million credits.”

“Maybe not… But I feel he might be further persuaded if I prod the protective shell of that little green friend.” 

Grogu. Your stomach bottoms out. 

The bastard’s eyes twinkle as he takes in your poorly concealed horror. “Word of a renegade Mandalorian and a small green goblin travels fast in the underworld. I’m sure your man knows that.”

An image of father and son, such an unlikely pair, flashes before your eyes. Mando would do anything for Grogu. Had you not seen him interact with his son you would not know the depths to which his love extends for the boy. But you have seen it, up close and personal. He would walk fiery coals, cut out his tongue, brandish his body with open wounds to keep his foundling safe. Forget you; forget whatever sinewy relationship you may have. Grogu comes first. Always first, always sacrificially. 

Breeth is smart; you’ll give him that. Take you, get Mando—sure, you can accept that. But get the Mandalorian to stay and do an underlord’s bidding using his own son against him? Yeah, you and Breeth both know that would work.

You can’t—you won’t —let that happen. No matter what Breeth does to you.

Rising from his desk, Breeth motions to the back of the room. “Monjar”—the weasel slinks forward from the shadows, hands tucked within the folds of his sleeves—“why don’t you show our guest the baths? Perhaps some time beneath the water will convince her to open up about the Mandalorian’s location.”

//

DAY NINETY-EIGHT, CONCURRENT—LOCATION: NEVARRO

The Sunder all but drops to Nevarro’s surface. The landing gear groans on impact, Din’s hasty descent straining the ship’s weaker nuts and bolts. He should worry over the squeal of the mechanics, new as they are, but he doesn’t have the time to take care of his ship the way he should. Not right now, anyway. Coming to Nevarro—fuck, he doesn’t even have time for that. But he needs to offload the quarry trash in the hold before setting a course for Coruscant. He can’t bring that baggage with him.

Shit, shit, shit. He doesn’t have time for this. Each hour, each minute, each nanosecond—like sand between his fingers, falling fast. He cannot afford to dawdle.

Karga is there waiting when Din lowers the ramp. He stands with hands on hips and a furrow in his brow. He leans to the left, peering around Din as he shoves hovering carbonite blocks down the loading dock.  “Where is the girl?” he asks. 

Din pushes a small, cinched bag of completed fobs against Karga’s chest. “Process these,” he growls. “I don’t have time for small talk.”

Something—alarm, concern, maybe fear—clicks in Karga’s eyes. He glances down long enough to open the bag and sift through the fobs. There’s five there: two bounties completed with your help more than a fortnight ago; the other three Din tore through in his week without you. That should equal enough credits to give him time. 

Time —how precious a commodity all of a sudden. He once loathed the tick of the numbers on his chrono. The days dragged by, the hours long and lonely. Now, Din can’t seem to keep the moments from whizzing past like stars at lightspeed. 

Karga looks up from the bag and nods. He gestures to a trio of droids standing by for direction. “Get those to my office. Quick.”

It is a hurried, silent walk to Karga’s house. The older man avoids his office altogether, and for the second time, Din is ushered over the doorstep and into Karga’s cramped living room. Amongst the low ceilings and dim lighting, he glances at the wall adjacent the hearth. Last time he was here, Karga laid his elbow into Din’s neck and—

An accusation through gritted teeth: You make her sleep on the floor.

A heavy reply: Yes.

Din shakes the memory away and turns to one of the few people he supposes he now calls friend. He opens his mouth, but his tongue goes dry and thick. What to say? How to explain his failure, his overestimation of your abilities, clouded by his desire for you? How to explain what you mean to him when he himself cannot put his feelings into words?

“I can’t take any more bounties,” he starts. Avoiding the issue maybe, but it’s a start.

Karga arches an eyebrow. “Okay.” He elongates the word and tilts it upward in question before asking, “Are you retiring? I knew that little whippersnapper had it in her to take up the mantle, but I didn’t think she’d push you out of the job this fast.”

“No.” Din shifts his weight from one foot to another, tapping his finger on the heavy tac-belt around his waist. “I—” Fuck, he might as well rip the bandage off and deal with Karga’s wrath as it comes. “I lost her.”

Lost her. The confession tastes like ash and coats his mouth with soot. He failed you—both as a teacher and a lover. He should have been there. Whatever happened, he should have been by your side. 

He pictures Grogu, asleep, helpless on the ancient Seeing Stone. He sees the Dark trooper and hears the roar of the engine, of his heart, as his foundling is stolen from beneath his protective wing.

Maker, he let it happen again.

Karga inhales. Exhales. Narrows his gaze. When he speaks, his voice drags across the floor. “What?”

Din rushes to explain. He feels small, like a youngling before an angry father. Shame warms his cheeks, but, despite the helmet, he holds Karga’s dark stare. He did this; he must face it. This is the Way.

“I gave her the fob for Devaneer Breeth and sent her to Coruscant for her first solo hunt. I haven’t heard from her in six days. She’s in trouble.”

“You gave her what ?” If a fire blazed in the hearth, the force of Karga’s outburst would surely fan the flame.

“I thought she could handle it!”

Karga scoffs, and the sound raises Din’s defenses. “Mando, Breeth…” He pauses, as though uncertain how to characterize the bounty. “Breeth is slippery as an eel. I sent three bounty hunters after him before I gave you that fob. Only one of them came back, but he was missing an eye and half his jaw. I thought—Well, I thought you’d work with her, not give the job to her entirely.”

Missing an eye… half a jaw… Din’s stomach folds in on itself. He curls his hands to fists. Stars, what has he done?

“I have to go after her.” Whether it is the anxious energy flooding his veins or the oppressive need for fresh air, Din can longer stand in the cloistered, stuffy room. He slips past Karga and makes for the guild leader’s headquarters.  

Karga is quick to follow, his steps small and short, his arms swinging as he attempts to convince Din otherwise. “To Coruscant? You can’t go there. You know that right? You’re a wanted man—on at least five different counts and—” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“It does matter.” Karga grabs Din’s shoulder, stops him in the middle of Nevarro’s center street. “I need you, Mando. The guild needs you.” 

All around, swirling in the muggy, rank air, life continues, as unchanging as the tide. The market-goers buzz about their own concerns, oblivious to the mounting turmoil in Din’s chest. There are wares to be sold and mouths to feed and debts to pay. No moment to spare to focus on things of heavier significance when you live hand-to-mouth.

Debts to pay —Din has a debt he must repay, one to you, that scrubby girl he promised to protect should the need arise. He’d hoped it wouldn’t. He’d incorrectly assumed you could handle yourself with Breeth. He was wrong, and you now pay the price. 

He lowers his voice to a whisper. “ She needs me, Karga.”

The older man, face weathered with time, time Din cannot afford to waste, blinks. “You must…” He swallows the rest of his sentence and simply nods, as though he understands something Din does not. “You’ll need weapons?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give them.”

Din works alongside Karga to fill the gaps in his weapons container. He’ll go armed to the teeth if that’s what it takes. To Coruscant, to the Badlands, to the ends of the galaxy. He will not allow himself to fail where he once failed Grogu. He will get you back without sacrifice, without compromise. 

You are his; this he knows and this he accepts. The intricacies of his relationship with you are obscured. Though he is one half of a tapestry weaving pair, even he cannot fathom what convoluted and twisted threads lie beneath the surface of your connection. He sees only the simple, completed front for now, the side which reads Aliit ori’shya tal’din. Family is more than blood. You are family, and you have been since you played with Grogu in the rocky fields of the Jedi training ground. From that moment, in the quietest parts of his heart, Din vowed to protect you as he might his own. 

He will fulfill that vow now, even if it gets him arrested. Even if it kills him. This is the Way.

Materials collected and secured in a heavy trunk, Din lifts the load, sidestepping to the door. His mind whirls with a check-list, what he must do in order to make it to Coruscant and back without detection. If he’s caught, he could be taken to any Imp- or Empire-loyal stragglers that remain, breath bated for the chance to sink their teeth into Moff Gideon’s greatest foe. Or maybe he’ll be turned in like some common bounty. What are there? Six prices on his head from different syndicates and war-lords and generally unhappy folk? He’s risking a lot; it’s safer out here, on the Rim. He could lose everything—for good—if he makes a miscalculation. But family… aliit… you… He cannot turn his back on you.

“Din?”

The Mandalorian pauses at the doorway, leaning the loaded chest on the door jam for support. Karga stares at him from across the room, his stance open, sincere. 

“Is she worth it?”

Without hesitation, Din answers: “Yes. She’s worth it.”

//

DAY NINETY-EIGHT, CONCURRENT—LOCATION: UNKNOWN

You are somewhere—floating—adrift in space and time and nothing hurts. The burden of your failures has lifted; the steel grip of your own expectations has unchained. Weightless and numb, you glide through the stars—and what pretty stars they are! Brilliant hues of yellows and oranges and reds bleed together in dazzling arcs that steal your breath. Shooting stars maybe. A nearby planet glows a gradient blue, vibrancy and light increasing the closer you peer at the planet’s surface. Hegora maybe, where you spent those precious few days with Mando’s attention solely focused on you. 

The inky expanse of the galaxy is cool, and ice crystallizes on your skin, but you do not care. You could stay here, in space, where nothing pokes and prods. Where you are safe. You could stay here. You could stay… here…

A hand, invisible and stern, fists in the hair on the back of your head and shoves your neck down.

Water —it engulfs you, and you are no longer somewhere, no longer floating like a whisper through the stars. You are in the bathhouse, and you are drowning.

You open your eyes. The salt water stings. You open your mouth to scream, but a tidal wave swoops in to fill your mouth, and you choke on the churning bath. Maker, how many times have you gone beneath the water now? How many times has that same invisible hand dragged you upwards, asked you Mando’s location, only to submerge you again? One too many times to count. The healed wound in your lung burns. Something within your chest snaps. 

This —this —is the Breeth you knew lurked beneath the surface. The gowns and the jewels and the dinner parties be damned. 

You manage to catch the sound of a garbled sentence in spite of the water swirling around your head. A moment later you are hauled from the bath, and sweet, fragrant air fills your dripping nose. You gasp—choke—sputter—but you do not cry. 

“She’s had enough. Lay her down.” 

Oh gods, your savior. You aren’t sure if you could survive another round.

Meaty hands deposit you on the side of the bath. You sprawl outwards, left arm and leg skimming the top of what very well might have become your death. The water is warmer than it was when you were first held beneath. Perhaps it is the soft orange lights which heat the room from above. Maybe you relieved your bladder in the pool out of fear. Does it really matter? For the moment you are alive. 

You struggle to catch your breath. Gasping inhale, shaky exhale. Your stomach feels bloated with the liquid you inadvertently swallowed. Your limbs are tight, your bowels loose. Stars, you could curl up here on the edge of the bath and die. At least then you’d find sweet relief from the consuming ache in your gut, and Mando—Mando wouldn’t have to worry about you or Grogu or anything anymore.

“Here. Drink this.” Ka’ered, the physician, young and handsome and completely unruffled by witnessing your torture, kneels at your side, pushing you to a sitting position with a hand in the small of your back. The water in your stomach sloshes to the side, and you grimace. 

You sip from the mug he offers. Fire rushes down your throat, opening clogged ducts and sealed passageways. Eyes squeezed shut, you cough, bending forward. You hack until a wad of phlegm works its way up your throat. You spit it on the ground and wipe your hand over your mouth.

“That wasn’t water.” Your voice croaks, and you lift a hand to touch your burning chest.

“No.” Ka’ered shakes his head with a rueful smirk. “It was a brew of my own making. Purely alcoholic, non-medicinal.”

You push his arm away, push the promise of oblivion—if that is indeed what he is offering—away, and pinch the bridge of your nose. You need your wits about you. Breeth has proven himself an honest criminal. He is more than the smoke he blows in your face each morning. He is a bullwhip and the whipping post itself. You were wrong to ever doubt him.

The pain in your stomach begins to ebb, and you are left with a headache that grates against the front of your skull. Uncomfortable, but better than being underwater. Ka’ered gestures to the cup of alcohol again, but you shake your head in dismissal.

You shift, tilting your face back to gauge his features as you speak. “You stood there. You stood there and watched while they held me under.”

He has the decency to blanch. He avoids your gaze, choosing instead to stare at the rippling bathwater. “I—do what I must to survive here.”

“Bantha shit.” 

A flash of anger in his eyes, and Ka’ered speaks through gritted teeth. Flecks of spittle fall to the ground. “You aren’t the only prisoner here, you know.”

“I don’t see you being tortured.”

“No. Because I do what I must, what I know I have to. You’re too stubborn to do the same.” 

“I’m not—”

Ka’ered reaches out to grab your wrist. You stiffen. His touch is smooth; hard work has yet to blister his fingers. “Listen to me. He—Breeth—He will kill you. He will open up your body and tear out your organs and have me stitch you back together just so he can do it again. Unless”—he leans close, lowering his voice to a thread—“you work with him. Not against him.”

Balking, you snatch your wrist from Ka’ered’s hold. Your right palm slips on the slick tile of the bath’s edge, and you fall to your elbow. Pain skitters up your arm and over your shoulder, but you ignore it as you stand on trembling legs. The world wobbles, your stomach heaves, but you stay upright. You hold your ground.

“I won’t rat Mando out. I won’t do it. You might have abandoned whoever you had before this, but I won’t do the same.”

Ka’ered’s face, normally so calm and composed, morphs to one of bitterness. “I didn’t abandon them! You don’t know what you’re talking about! I found a way to keep them safe .”

“I’ll offer you this advice,” he continues, tone lowering to the same even-keel you now know is a facade. “Find something else to give Breeth. He’ll forget about that Mandalorian he wants so badly if you offer him a better deal.” He uncuffs his rolled sleeve and smoothes it back into place. “Worked for me.”

You frown, and the beginnings of a horrifying realization blooms in your gut. “But you’re… still here…”

A muscle in Ka’ered’s jaw ticks. “Yes.” He looks up, meets your wide-eyed stare, and says, “And my family is still alive.”

Before you can ask any more questions, the physician turns and lifts a container from the floor. He opens the lid to reveal a small, square patch. Poised on his first two fingers, he offers the patch you. “Put this on your neck,” he says. “The excess liquid in your lungs and stomach will bleed into the patch and you won’t be in as much pain.” 

Your hand shakes as you accept the gift. That blooming realization, the one buried deep inside, breaks through the soil and lifts toward the heavens, but still, you push it down in a sorry attempt to suffocate the damned thing. Not yet—you’ll tend the bloom when you are alone.

A grave, heavy look crosses Ka’ered’s face. You wonder if he is looking in a mirror, watching himself in the form of you cross the same path he once did. You shift, face pinching under his intrusive gaze. Finally, he sighs and says, “Come find me when you’ve made your choice.”

Turning, he strides for the doorway, curtained off from the rest of the mansion. He sweeps the curtain aside, walks through, and you are left alone. 

The bathhouse yawns wide as you turn to survey your surroundings. The air hangs heavy with steam from the hot pools in the corner of the room. Scattered flower petals bob along the main bath’s center, not a care in the world. If you could—oh Maker—if you could, you would transform yourself to one of those petals. A life of fragrant, non-sentient ease sounds better than anything life has dealt you so far.

The bloom in your stomach prods your chest, wrenching your heart to the side. Gently lowering yourself to a nearby bench carved into the wall, you consider Ka’ered’s warnings and the rhythm of the last few days.

Your life rests in the blood-stained palm of Breeth’s hand, and so long as he has his sights set on Mando, you are in danger of being laid out like a trap for unaware prey. And if Mando falls in the snare, if he sacrifices himself for you, Grogu falls as a result. A house of cards. One after the other.

There is something familiar here, something you have not acknowledged in the light for fear of the darkness. Jeelia—her death—the way you ran and ran and ran and ended up lost and alone and powerless— again . The memory spider-crawls over your back to rest on your shoulders, and for once, you open the door to allow it inside. You sit, and you remember, feasting on the spidery-memory that sits at your table. 

That year— how many years ago was it now? —the harvest was bad. The wheat fields stretching to the horizon outside of your father’s house laid barren, no rain to water the ground all season. Your father found work in Inora’s pitiful city-center; your mother too. Jeelia—older than your mangy fourteen, wiser, patron saint of grace—made what little money she could watching the scallywag children in your village. You—you did nothing. 

Then the outlaws came. You did not know they were swindlers when they first appeared and promised high returns to the poor farmers struggling to feed their families. They surfaced as angels in sharp clothing, benefactors with strong white teeth. But soon it was too late, and your father owed more than he could pay back, and the outlaw—Rendell Crik—decided he wanted Jeelia as payment.

He took your sister, and he held her against his chest as your parents begged for forgiveness, for her life. Ire wormed in your stomach until you lifted the blaster, the one you stole from your father’s bedside table, and you made to kill him, that dastardly bastard who ruined your family beyond what one bad harvest ever could. 

Only—you misfired. Fuck, you misfired in your ignorance of weapons and your ignorance of life and your hasty panic, and you killed your sister. She slumped in the outlaw’s arms, and she died, and your mother wailed, and you knew—you knew, you knew—Inora was no longer your home. You could never return because you misfired, and your mother did not try to stop you when you ran for the only transport off the planet. 

Your predicament with Breeth feels much the same as your predicament on Inora. You had a choice then: You could have done as Jeelia asked and found work, contributed to the family coffers just until next season. Just until next spring, raro faa’hom. You ignored her because then—so long ago—you thought your youth was for afternoons in the glen with your friends and not for afternoons scrubbing the floors at Old Lady Pilly’s house.

Do you dare ignore Ka’ered’s words now? Find something else to give Breeth.

Had you done what Jeelia asked, you imagine she might still be alive. Your father wouldn’t have needed to ask the outlaws for help because you would have been helping; you would have been adding to the pot. You could have made ends meet if you had just helped. 

Perhaps Jeelia would have married her sweetheart. Perhaps you would have taken care of your parents in their growing age. Perhaps you would be happy now if—

If you had made the tough choice, the ugly choice, when it was presented to you.

Mando. Grogu. The face covered by an impenetrable helmet, and the boy with too-wide ears. 

Dysfunction and all, Mando is the only family you’ve had for nigh on ten years, and by extension, his son joins the fold you are desperate to protect. Desperate to protect because you failed so utterly before. Forget your embarrassment at failing to capture Breeth. Killing Jeelia and breaking your family apart in the process was the worst thing you’ve ever done. You cannot make the same mistake twice.

You see now that the Maker extends a choice to you on a silver, ornately rimmed platter. There stands only two options, only two ways out of this mess. The bloom has unfurled, the horrifying realization revealed, lit by a glowing sun.

You know what you must do.

This is the Way.

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED—EIGHT DAYS APART—LOCATION: CORUSCANT

The Sunder gets caught in a meteor shower on the exit from Nevarro, and Din loses a day. A whole kriffing day gone in a whoosh of space rock and uncoordinated movements. Normally a skilled pilot, he struggled to maneuver the ship through the onslaught, his focus elsewhere, far away, wrapped around a girl no doubt suffering due to his own negligence. Now, he hovers over Coruscant, thumbs twitching at the ship’s controls.

Five—no, maybe six—bounties on his head. Holdouts of the Empire gunning to fell a Mandalorian. Breeth’s crime syndicate no doubt on the lookout for someone sent by Karga to recover you. He has precious little time. Every minute he tarries he runs the risk of discovery. 

Karga’s query echoes in his mind: Is she worth it? 

He angles the Sunder forward. Yes, you’re worth it.

He plugs in a series of coordinates—some crummy hangar tucked away from the buzz of Coruscant’s nucleic center—and sets the controls to autopilot. In order to succeed—in order to find you and escape the planet with minimal damage—he needs to focus. Wipe his mind of anything else. Past, present, and future shoved beneath the rug; a single-minded drive. You are his bounty now; he will find you as he finds the rest. 

He passes through the annex and as the ship makes its descent to the hangar bay, he catches a glimpse of the worker controlling the hangar’s tractor beam. Fuck, there will be eyes everywhere, beady malicious eyes on the hunt just like him. He stalls, looks from the turbolift to the fresher door to the droids and workers anchoring the Sunder to the ground.

He knows what he must do. But finding the courage to do it may prove difficult.

In the unkind, fluorescent light of the fresher, the beskar holding him together shines. It winks in a sardonic sort of way, and something slimy slithers through his chest. The armor he wears is part of him, as much his flesh as his flesh itself, and yet…

He grits his teeth and raises his arms. He removes his helmet and tosses it to the side of the room. It clangs against the floor, mirroring the tug of his heart. The last time he did this—allowed his face to be viewed by the naked eye—he did it for ali’it , for family. Today, he does it again for the very same reason.

Dark circles ring his eyes. He has not slept, not without the comfort of knowing you are nearby. Stress wrinkles his forehead. When was the last time he ate a good meal? His cheeks appear gaunt. 

Maker fuck, is he really going to do this? Is he truly prepared to cut the final, paper-thin fragments of his Creed? Revealing himself to the chosen few before Grogu’s departure was one thing. Discarding his helmet and revealing himself to the whole of Coruscant is another.

He can’t think about it too long lest he back down and leave you to the wolves. 

Returning to his room, he finds a grubby workman’s outfit in the bottom drawer of his dresser. A gift from Omera a long time ago. He doesn’t like to think of her. 

Shucking the sandy-hued hood over his head, he makes his way to the hold where he finds a simple blaster and set of throwing knives. He hides the blaster in the waistband of his trousers and the knives in his boot. As he closes the door of the weapon’s cabinet, his reflection stares back at him, distorted by the ripple of the cabinet’s metal. He swallows hard. 

Yes, you’re worth it.

The Sunder creaks as it releases the loading ramp, and a gust of hot air from the cooling jets kicks into the hold. Din winces, instantly lifting a hand to shield his face. 

“Hey! Buddy! How long do you think you’re gonna be?” 

Dropping his arm, Din stares at the pimple-faced boy watching him from the bottom of the ramp. He has a frown on his face and his thumb jerked over his shoulder, impatience blooming on his person like a weed; but for the life of him, Din can’t focus on anything but the feeling of nakedness creeping into his very soul.

Focus. Focus. For you.

Him—the kid is talking to him. What did he ask again?

“Um… yeah,” he says, hoping against hope that satisfies the question. He begins his descent into the hangar and resists the urge to right his hood when it flutters to his shoulders as he moves. He can’t appear like he has anything to hide; not yet anyway.

“Huh?” The kid’s frown deepens, and he turns to follow Din toward the hangar exit. “I asked how long you’re gonna be. I gotta put it in the log or Tardeesh will—”

“Here.” Din stops, twists at the waist, and forces a cinched bag of credits into the boy’s palm. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”

He slides out of the hangar before the boy can question him further.

Sunlight—that’s the first thing Din notices when he exits the shadow of the hangar. It pierces his eyes, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from doubling over in a blast of pain. Shit, his eyes are sensitive. Trapped for so long beneath a helmet or acclimatized to the dim light of his bunk and now he can’t keep the rush of tears at bay. His eyes might shrivel in their sockets if he subjects himself to the untinted sun for too long. He scrubs the liquid from his eyelashes and blinks rapidly as his eyes slowly— slowly —adjust. When he can see, his stomach drops.

He forgot how big and ugly Coruscant is.

The planet teems with life. Nothing organic; far from it. Unlike the rolling hills of Hegora or the sand dunes of Tatooine, Coruscant rises from the surface like an artificial beehive. Speeders dart through the sky like worker drones, all humming toward what was once the Executive Building for the Republic. Buildings like jagged honeycombs circle the Senate District, spiraling outwards in perpetuity. On and on—the bees buzz and the honeycombs loom and Din grows dizzy trying to absorb it all. He drowns in the honey-like fumes of aircraft, and the unfiltered noise clogs his ears.

Tensing his jaw, he draws in a breath and centers his attention forward. Without the cover of his helmet and the security of his armor, he finds it difficult to limit the distraction of the world around him. But for you—for you, he’ll try. 

The most logical starting place is the hotel you booked prior to leaving the Sunder. He sent a flower there with a note bearing his own name. Did you receive the flower? Did you read the note? Did you put two-and-two together and connect the dots and are you somewhere now repeating his name in darkness? He prays to the Maker you aren’t.

He’ll start at the hotel.

Steeling his gut, Din slips into the crush of people surrounding the hangar. The Market District stands as a hopscotch collection of ne’er-do-wells and honest people trying to make a living off selling junk. He avoids being drawn into conversation by the hawkers on each street corner, his focus glued to the pink-red sky. Night will soon fall, but the hive will buzz on. He needs to get to the Entertainment District before he has wasted two days and achieved nothing. 

A broken-down woman on the far corner stands beside an equally-as-broken speeder, and Din glances at the chrono tucked beneath the thin sleeve of his shirt. He might have docked in the slums to avoid the eyes of crimelords and Imps, but he doesn’t have all day. He hurries to the woman.

“I need transport,” he says, words gummy in his mouth. “I can pay.”

The woman looks up, and Din finds she is not as old as he imagined. She is young—younger than him; maybe a handful of years your senior. Black kohl lines her tired eyes, and her mouth droops in a weary slump. Her skin hangs on her bones as she crosses her arms, narrowing her stare. 

“Where to?” she asks. 

“Entertainment District.”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t go there.”

“I need transport. I can pay.” 

“You already said that.”

He blinks. “How much?”

“I said I don’t—”

Reaching out, he grabs the woman’s elbow. She stiffens, leaning back against his hold, but he tightens his grip and leans close. He does not pause to consider how long it has been since he has been this close to the face of another human, another woman. He can see the errant speckles of liner freckling her dark cheeks, and he can smell the spice on her breath, and he tries not to think about what your face might look like this close up. He lowers his voice. 

“You take me to the Entertainment District, and you get to keep running your spice trade. I won’t turn you in. Does that sound like a deal?”

Panic sparks in the woman’s eyes. “What? Who said anything about spice trade?”

Din tightens his grip, allows his trimmed nails to bite the flesh of the woman’s arm. “I know you, Paige Soufter. You’ve been on my list, and I’ve avoided bringing you in ‘cause you aren’t worth my fucking time. I’ll crush your fob. Tell the guild leader you’re dead. I don’t care; whatever you want. Just. Take. Me.”

Paige’s skin goes cold. She releases a shaking breath. “Okay,” she murmurs, untangling her arm from Din’s grasp. “I’ll take you.”

Once seated, the puke-green speeder lifts with a belch and a wobble then catapults into the sky. Din grips the jagged metal at his side and does not ask whether or not Paige has any idea what she’s doing as she twists and turns around oncoming traffic. It doesn’t matter. Whatever gets him to his final destination: you. 

He gives her the name of the hotel, and she spares him a confused glance. He can see the questions and suspicions swirling through her head, but she knows better than to ask. She drives on. 

The sky darkens, bleeding crimson as the sun fades behind rising moons. Din itches to cover his face. He’s been exposed barely an hour yet he can feel time chip away at his resolve. Anxiety wells in him like a geyser prepared to burst. 

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” 

Paige huffs and sideswipes an elegant pod. “You see this hunk of junk. Shoulda found another ride if you wanted speed, old man.”

Old man. He cringes, and he wonders what you might think of his face or his age. You are younger than him, significantly so. Would it bother you to see the gray in his beard or the lines around his eyes or the stiffness that has started to plague his bones? 

The speeder dives toward the surface, and Din’s stomach swoops with the movement, banishing any self-conscious thoughts. He grits his teeth as the surrounding buildings stretch taller and darker. Paige stops three layers from the uppermost circle of the atmosphere. Not too deep, but deep enough to prickle his nerves. Maker knows what lurks in the underbelly of Coruscant. 

Paige turns in her seat, pins him with a pointed look, and asks, “Who are you?”

Not a chance he’d answer that. Din almost laughs. Instead, he tosses a handful of credits to the unlined floor and climbs out of the speeder. He jerks his head in the direction of the Market District, glare darkening his brow, and Paige is gone before he can turn to face the hotel.

He turns to the reflective chrome building.

Noble Queen Palace—your last known location before you teetered out of his grasp and disappeared. A rush of guilt coils around his chest like barbed wire.

This is his fault. He should have gone with you. He should have tracked your movements or taken the bounty for himself or taken you away in the Sunder while he had the chance, forgotten all about bounty hunting and lived the rest of his life buried to the hilt of you. He should have, he should have, he should have…

Grunting past the lump in his throat, Din steps forward and pushes into the hotel. At once he is swallowed by a grandeur that makes his skin itch. The high ceilings dwarf him, and the mirrored walls throw his image back at him like a slap in the face. His boots clomp along the marble floor, flecks of dirt carving out his path. He is out of place, his workman’s garb grungy and weathered next to the room’s elegance. Even if it put him in danger’s way, his beskar would smooth the uncertain looks of those around him. At least then he would blend into the silver-plated filigree and go relatively unnoticed. 

He reaches the front desk and places a hand on the frosted glass atop the counter. The attendant—a slim-faced droid—looks up from a stack of datapads.  

“Greetings, and welcome to the Noble Queen Palace. I am H-Ten. What can I do to be of assistance to you?”

Din ignores the atonal formalities. “I’m looking for someone. A guest who checked in here a week ago.”

“I apologize, sir. I cannot disclose guest information to outsiders.”

With his free hand, Din slides the blaster from his waistband. He keeps it low, angled to the side on top of the desk, his finger hovering over the trigger. 

The droid sits straighter. “Oh! Perhaps I can be of assistance then. What was the name of the guest?”

Din gives your name—the fake one you created with his help—and waits as the droid scrolls through a list of names flashing green against a black background. His heart hammers in his chest, palms gone moist. You were here— here! He can almost smell your perfume and see the swish of your skirt against the floor. Your ghost hangs heavy in the air, and his fingers twitch against the countertop in response.

“Ah.” H-Ten adjusts his head; Din looks away from the poorly-lit bar tucked in the far corner. “Myranda Lochart. Yes, she was here.”

Din leans forward enough that the edge of the counter digs into his lower stomach. “When? What day did she leave? Where did she go?”

“I cannot answer those questions. There is no checkout date, sir.”

No checkout date . A sickening combination of dread and hope rises in his throat. “She’s still here?”

“Allow me to check the registry of her room.” One second as he plugs his finger into a control alongside the computer, two, three; Din holds his breath. “No,” H-Ten finally says. “Her room is now occupied by other guests.”

“What do you mean occupied? You’re saying she never checked out and you gave her room away?”

“The Noble Queen Palace operates under an automatic check-out policy if guests do not contact the front desk.” Fuck, of course they would. A policy probably put in place to keep bigwigs from exposing their dalliances with spice runners and sex workers and everything in-between. Efficient model—offers plausible deniability to anyone employed in the building and discretion to those looking for privacy. “Her reservation ended at the appointed time designated when the booking was created.”

“So, there’s nothing you can tell me—about her being here? Where she might have gone?”

H-Ten says nothing, and the silence fills Din’s ears with his answer.

A dead end. You were here, and then you weren’t, and any clues you might have left behind were destroyed when your room changed hands.

Din shakes his head on a sigh as he removes the blaster from the countertop and tucks it back in the waistband of his pants. Steeling his jaw, he glares at the droid staring back at him. Matte blue paint—robin’s egg, if he’s not mistaken—on silver; the only splash of color in an otherwise monochromatic room. 

You were— are —his splash of color. After Grogu and the discretion of his Creed, your vibrant anger and sparkling resolve painted the Sunder in a rainbow of emotion Din had long since forgotten. He refuses to lose you and slip back into pale, murky darkness.

Focus. He needs to focus. He’s hit dead ends before. He’s clawed his way to new beginnings, too. You are his bounty; he will find you as he finds all the rest.

H-Ten breaks through his thoughts with a mechanical voice pitched upwards in question. “Forgive my intrusion, sir, but there appears to be a communication here from Ms. Lochart. It was sent to the hotel two days ago. I could relay the message if it would be of assistance?”

“Tell me.” He bends over the desk as far as subtlety will allow. 

The droid returns his pointer finger to the control beside the computer. “Downloading.”

Relief is a cool, smooth balm to Din’s frayed and burning nerves. A communication—from you—two days ago. Thank the Maker you are still alive. Or… you were … 

He won’t entertain that thought any further. Not until he’s sure. 

A square panel in H-Ten’s chest opens with a whine, revealing a cylindrical device jammed between wires and plugs. The device whirrs to life. A faded yellow light illuminates the desk, and Din’s brow pinches. His hand curls to a fist as the light sputters in and out erratically. 

“Where’s the message?” 

“Downloading,” the droid repeats.

“You can’t make it go any—”

A figure made of uneven blue light bursts from the column of yellow, silencing Din’s impatience. The figure appears feminine, draped in a gown, facial features familiar yet distorted by waving light. He peers closer, heart in his throat. Fuck… it’s you—yes, it’s you. Maker, it’s you, and you’re standing, unscathed as far as he can tell. To see your form after eight days, hunched and tired though it is, quenches a thirst in Din’s mouth he did not know existed. 

“Begin communication playback.” The device in H-Ten’s chest beeps, and you begin to speak.

“Mando… if you’re seeing this, I guess you went to Coruscant after all. Fuckin’ idiot.”

Oh, your voice. He’d forgotten it; perhaps buried it deep inside himself as he waited for your return.

“I know about the bracelet but it doesn’t matter.”

You sound ragged. Disappointed, too. He resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut in embarrassment lest he miss one moment of your message.

“Look, I don’t have much time—” You glance somewhere to the left and nod, whispering a hurried, “I know, I know.”

Who is it you’re talking to, he wonders? Where are you? He cannot tell with the sparsity of the recording. There are no markers to identify your location. Just you created by an ethereal blue light, dressed in finery and affect weighed down by his mistakes.

You return your gaze center, and there is no mistaking the intensity, the sheer force of willpower, behind your eyes. Din braces his arms on the counter. “Don’t come. Wherever you think I am, don’t come.”

A mighty fist lands in his stomach, all but wrenching the air from his lungs. 

“For your own safety, for your son’s, don’t come. Breeth will…” You shake your head, and he swears a tear carves down the arch of your cheekbone. “He knows about your son, so you have to forget about me, okay? Don’t be stupid and try to find me. Just—” 

Somewhere in front of you a voice urges, “...don’t have much left…”

Your gaze widens, and you lean forward. You are staring into his very soul, even from across the galaxy. “Don’t come after me, Mando.”  

You stretch your arm out; Din copies your movement. His pointer finger slices through your holographic hand. He wishes he could touch you. 

“I’ll kill you if I see you here.” 

With a flick of your first two fingers, the message goes dead. Your form deteriorates until there is only a column of yellow light remaining. The desk is barren without your hologram. He cannot look away.

“Would you like me to repeat the message, sir?”

Din glances from H-Ten’s face to the finger still embedded in the computer. Though a tornado of emotions swirls through his mind, he anchors himself to a knot of fortitude hidden deep in his chest. He angles his neck to either side, releasing pent-up tension in his tight muscles. 

“You downloaded the message?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Meaning the origin codes are now in your system?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Standing straight, Din removes the blaster from his waistband and angles it at the protocol droid’s forehead. He unclicks the safety. The sound echoes across the hotel lobby. A few bar patrons turn their heads. Someone gasps as H-Ten lifts his hands in surrender.

“You’re coming with me.”

/

Din Djarin has never considered himself an abductor. Sure, he might spend his days launching attacks on unsuspecting creatures big and small, hauling sorry asses to his ship to freeze them in carbonite blocks, but he can sleep at night knowing (most of the time) he has brought criminals to justice. After this, however, he may need to reconsider how he views himself. 

He probably added to the growing number of bounties on his own head, too. It’s unlikely the Noble Queen Palace took the capture of their protocol droid at gunpoint kindly. But that’s a problem for another day. He has more pressing concerns.

Sat beside him in the cockpit of the Sunder , H-Ten sparks with mechanical ire. “You have committed a grave mistake, Mandalorian! Return me at once! This is highly illegal!”

Din keeps his stare pointed forward, his customary silence resumed despite H-Ten’s mounting frustration. His armor, that eons-old material which swaddles him like a child, glistens in the reflection of the Sunder’s viewport. He put his helmet and the suit back on as soon as he returned to his ship and deposited the screaming droid in the annex. And despite the danger he now hurtles himself toward, he feels a measure of safety covered beneath the beskar.

“My master will hear about this! You will be brought to justice and—”

Reaching across the co-pilot’s chair, Din circles his hand around the side of his captive’s neck. He squeezes the juncture between neck and shoulder, cool metal eking through his glove. He does not divert his eyes from his current course as he says, “I suggest you stop talking.”

The droid squeaks. Nods once. Folds his hands in his lap. 

Maker, if only you listened so easily.

He releases his tight grip and presses a button on the control panel. Back and forth, back and forth his jaw grinds until Greef Karga crackles through a hidden speaker. 

“Mando? That you? Where are you?”

H-Ten takes the opportunity to lean forward, his tone high pitched and pleading. “Help! Help me! I’ve been—”

Din unsheaths a blaster from his hip and levels the gun on his passenger. Fucking droids. “Shut up,” he growls.

“What’s going on, Mando?” Static obscures the layers of emotion playing in Karga’s voice, but Din can still sense twisted threads of worry and curiosity. “Did you find the girl?”

“I don’t have time for chit-chat. I need you to swear that you’ll take care of the kid if…” He glances at H-Ten, nostrils flaring in anger. “If something happens.”

“Did something happen? Why are you—”

Din slams his fist on the controls as anger explodes in his veins; the Sunder veers left in response. “Swear it, Karga!”  

“Okay, okay—I swear.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs. A portion of his swollen heart eases, made to rest by the promise that someone he cares about will be safe regardless of the hunt’s outcome, so he cuts the line dead. He turns to the droid beside him. “The message from the girl. You said you have the origin codes?”

H-Ten is slow to nod. “...Yes.”

“Plug them into the computer.”

“But why?”

The blaster angled on H-Ten wavers as desperation claws through Din’s stomach. He doesn’t have time for this. Not for Karga, or H-Ten, or anything but finding you , saving you. Time is running out. He can feel it—see it slip past him like the stars zipping by overhead.

I’ll kill you if I see you here , you said. Don’t come. 

He’ll be damned if he listens to you.

“Don’t ask questions.”

But H-Ten doesn’t listen. He tilts his head to the side, and somewhere on his neck, a screw creaks in protest. “This girl—who is she to you?” 

Din inhales and lowers the blaster. It is a slow descent, one that allows him time to mull the question over. He waits until H-Ten leans forward and plugs his finger into the dashboard, inputting the hologram’s origin codes, to say, “She’s my partner… in all things. And I need her.”

//

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-ONE—NINE DAYS APART—DIN

Din slings the beskar spear over his back, adjusts the bandolier at his waist, and cringes when H-Ten drops an ammunition canister to the floor. He glares across the hold. “Can you handle a weapon?” 

Looking at the droid, he doesn’t know why he even bothers to ask.

His captive-turned-reluctant-ally holds a blaster in one hand and a pulse rifle in the other, looking awkward with both. A stray grenade rolls along his pigeon-toed feet. Din stoops to pick it up, gritting his teeth.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was programmed to assist with hospitality needs, not rescue missions.”

“Figures my only help in a time like this would be—” He gestures toward the three-meter tall desk clerk. 

“A protocol droid, sir.”

Din scoffs, dropping his hand. Protocol droid. It will have to do.

The hologram’s origin codes led the Sunder to a planet off the Mid-Rim: Rithea, neighbor to Naboo, lush and tropical and everything Nevarro is decidedly not. The codes could only bring him so far—just to the planet itself—but it’s a good enough start. You’re here; he knows that much. He’s worked with far less. 

He takes the pulse rifle from H-Ten and replaces it with another blaster, quickly explaining the weapon’s mechanics. Once satisfied the droid can at least press the trigger, Din opens the loading dock and stalks down the ramp, out into the clearing where the Sunder will wait for his return. 

His return with you.  

There is no alternative.

/

CONCURRENT—YOU

The door closes behind you, the soft click of the lock mocking in comparison to the heavy thud of your heart. You hesitate—glance this way and that—try and pull a breath through clenched teeth. You aren’t sure you can survive much more of this.

Released like a wounded dog into the night, you stumble down the hall, eyes rimmed with bloody tears. The fresh laceration on your cheek burns, but you resist the urge to prod the irritated flesh. You grip the waist-high molding for support and curl your nails into the wood, imagining Breeth’s heart lies in your palm. Maker, you’d squeeze the life out of him if you could.

A pair of elegantly dressed children turn the corner and rush past you, their laughter grating to the ears. They ignore the hunched and broken woman who flattens herself against the wall in fear, eyes wide and tongue frozen in her mouth. They run, unfettered and unaware, and you watch them go until they disappear around another bend in the labyrinthine house. 

Ka’ered—you have to find Ka’ered.

“I’m sure you don’t want the blood of that green child on your head, do you?”

You shudder at the faint whisper of Breeth’s words, thrown so casually at your twisted and bound feet not an hour ago. Clutching wrist to chest, you press against the muscles of your forearm, swollen and tender and painted blue from too many nights testing the forcefield around your room. You continue onwards. 

“Tell me where the Mandalorian is, girl. I’m growing impatient.”

Your head pounds; the thin crown nestled in your hair digs into the soft skin of your scalp. Try as you might, you cannot remove the damned thing. Day after day, Breeth taunts you with bolts of energy that curl around your spine. You have grown lethargic as of late because of it. Each movement feels like slogging through viscous mud that sucks your energy like meat from the bone.

“Close the door, Monjar. I’m tired of seeing her face. I’ll find the Mandalorian myself.”

Mando… Grogu… your family…

You have to find Ka’ered. Before it’s too late. 

/

CONCURRENT—DIN

Silence—it rings loud in Din’s ears, pressing in on his shoulders like a phantom hand. He flexes his trigger finger, leaning around the corner to survey the next corridor of Breeth’s mansion. 

Finding the chateau was easy. The people of Rithea, it seems, hold no loyalty to the man who increases taxes year after year with nothing to show for it. The market-goers were all too quick to point out the mansion atop a nearby hill, looking down over the valley like an all-seeing eye.

Getting inside the mansion was easy, too. The boxy, uninspired dwelling practically stood with its doors wide open. All Din had to do was send H-Ten to the entrance with a basket of various fruits and meats from the market. A gift, the droid told the girl who answered the door, from a neighboring lord for the illustrious and generous Devaneer Breeth. Din had followed H-Ten into the foyer, an insignificant escort. Then he’d slipped away as soon as a maid took his counterpart to the kitchens.

Nothing but silence and a warm, fragrant breeze has crossed his path since.

He can feel you. Somewhere in the sprawling interior of the house is a room, and in that room is you, and no matter your wrath as his coming or your mangled body, Din will take you home. To the Sunder , to his bed. He will never let you go again.

Stepping as lightly as he can, he takes the corner slowly, all senses on high alert. The muscles in his arms feel like iron. His eyes strain for any flicker of movement. His ears tilt toward any errant noise. But despite it all, his chest rises and falls to a smooth rhythm. He will find you; of that, he has no doubt.

It’s only a matter of time.

/

CONCURRENT—YOU

You all but fall into the kitchen, arm wrapped around your side. Stars, your lungs ache. You need to sit down, but you don’t have the time. All you have is desperation and an intense desire to survive.

Where the fuck is Ka’ered?! You tried the infirmary, but it was empty. The Great Hall, too. Now—you run your gaze over the kitchen, peering through plumes of aromatic steam. Do you see his black hair? Those distinctive ridges on his forehead? Do you see anything at all? 

“Is Ka’ered here?” Your voice cracks in the middle, cracks with a weariness that surges through the very heart of you.

A woman looks up from her place in the center of the kitchen. A droid—tall and silver, touched by a morning blue—looks at you, arms hanging limp at its sides. 

The woman shakes her head with a wane smile as she pushes a basket of meats and fruits to the side. “No, love. Haven’t seen him. D’you want some food, though? You look awfully peckish…”

Maker, when was the last time you ate? You can’t remember. It doesn’t matter now. You just need to find Ka’ered. 

Shaking your head, you shrink under the towering droid’s unwavering stare. Perhaps it’s paranoia—or perhaps it’s the edges of your sanity crumbling—but you swear you see recognition spark in the machine’s lifeless eyes. But no—no, that can’t be. Droids don’t have emotions; none recognizable on their faces anyway. 

You back out of the kitchen. You do not look away from the droid, and it does not tear its stare from you.

/

CONCURRENT—DIN

He comes upon a reflecting pool. It is square, cut into pinkish marble, centered beneath an opening in the ceiling that allows sunlight to pour into the hall. Din pauses long enough to inspect the pale water. A fishtail catches the sun, and a flower petal floats along the rim. Peaceful—or it could be if it weren’t within a den of vipers. 

A muttered curse breaks the stillness. “Oh shit.”

Din turns from the pool, unholstering and angling his cocked blaster in a single, fluid movement. Across the hall, a man stands in a doorway, his hands lifted in surrender. Dark hair, ridged forehead, eyes tired and afraid. 

“Who are you?”

The man shakes his head. “I—I’m…” He glances to his left, down another hall. 

Din steps forward. “Who are you?” He pushes a deeper note of hostility into the question.

“Ka’ered,” the man says, blinking rapidly, as though something plagues his vision. “Breeth’s—Breeth’s physician.” 

“Where is she?” 

Ka’ered frowns. “Who?” His voice warbles with fear.

And then—as though he might be quicker than a Mandalorian, quicker than Din Djarin when he is on the hunt—the man reveals a blaster and aims it at Din’s plated chest. Din growls in frustration and swipes his arm outward in defense as the man—the boy —presses the trigger. The shot goes nowhere. Idiot —someone was bound to hear that and bound to run for the master of the house.

Lurching forward, Din grabs Ka’ered’s neck. The muscles beneath his hand bend, so tender and breakable. Ka’ered grunts and reaches up to grasp Din’s forearm with both hands.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Din whispers. “Where. Is. She? I won’t ask you nicely again.”

/

CONCURRENT—YOU

Someone is following you. Since you left the kitchen, you’ve felt eyes on the back of your head. Those eyes drill round, hollow circles in your skull, and you can feel what is left of your mind drip like puss through the openings. Your skin crawls. Your pulse beats erratically in the brilliant blue bruise covering your forearm. 

Help me, Maker. Help me.

Tears blur your vision as you pick up the pace. As difficult as it is to run, you slam one foot in front of the other. Each step sends pain ricocheting through the decaying skeleton inside, but you surge forward. For Mando and Grogu and everything you learned to care for. For Jeelia and your parents and the memory of the life you once had.

You grit your teeth and block out the sound of the heavy, thumping footsteps over your shoulder. 

Find Ka’ered, tell him what you saw. Find Ka’ered, find freedom. 

“Hey!” A voice calls out for you, low, even. Unfazed by your wild retreat. “Stop!”

Life comes in threes. At least, that’s what your mother once said—and she must’ve been right because as you turn a corner, life hands you a trio of misfortunes on a sharp-edged platter. You are powerless to stop the onslaught.

Your skirt, long and flowing and beautiful, tangles in your legs, and you trip.

Somewhere in the mansion, Breeth depresses the trigger, and a shock of electricity snakes down your spine.

A blaster shot erupts at the end of the hall.

The trip, the shock, the shot—you choke on a loud sob and you fall and as you fall, you see it— him . You see him at the end of the hall, his hand wrapped tight around Ka’ered’s neck.

Oh… Mando... 

It’s Mando. 

He came—for you—after all.

/

CONCURRENT—DIN

Din watches you fall, and his heart falls with you. 

As if someone snapped your spine like a whip, a convulsion rips across your shoulders and down your back. Your backbone curves as you drop. It is an ugly sight: twisted and deformed, ancient and aging, but familiar too. You whimper, and the sound pierces his gut. Whatever it is that’s afflicted you, it’s happened before. Your response—falling, catching yourself on your hands, breathing deep through your nose—is too controlled to be anything but practiced.

He releases Ka’ered’s throat. The younger man gasps as he doubles over, hands to his knees. He doesn’t need to, it isn’t necessary, but Din shoves Ka’ered to the side, practically throwing him against the wall, as he turns to rush for your crumpled body. 

His muscles vibrate as he moves, an explosive combination of desperation and relief flooding his veins. Though it is only the length of a single corridor which separates his hands from your shoulders, his heart from yours, you appear galaxies away. Surely this is a trick of his overwrought mind? Surely you aren’t so close, so very very close?

But you are. 

Din drops to one knee alongside your prone form and slides his hand beneath the curve of your neck. He turns you over, lifting you gently from the floor. Laid across his bent knee, you bend like a sacrifice atop a wooded altar. Chest tilted upwards, neck curved back, arms limp and extended to either side. God’s teeth, you look so breakable like this. Beautiful too, loathe as he is to acknowledge it in such a moment. The diadem, the jewels, and the gown clinging to the lines and perfect curves of your body—you are ethereal, a goddess divine. But he has never seen you so fragile or so weak. You have shrunk since he last saw you, folded in on yourself to avoid outright death. Even without hearing your voice, he knows you quieted your tongue to save your skin. Your light has dimmed.

A cut disfigures your cheek, and he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe some of the fresh blood away. The tender gesture only results in an ugly red smear dragged across your flesh. He tenses his jaw. 

Fluttering, unfocused, your eyes open. There is nothing but pain in those endless depths. Physical, mental, emotional—he sees it all. Like a reflecting pool shimmering beneath the summer sun. 

“Scout?” He keeps his voice low, a caress against your senses. “Can you hear me?”

You can. You do. Fury sparks in your eyes. Maybe your light hasn’t dimmed all the way…

Refusing to meet his gaze, you push him away. “Get off me.”

He startles and drops to his haunches. Ka’ered resumes the place by your side before Din can protest. 

“Are you okay?” The physician takes your hand, watching the minute reactions on your face as you shift in pain. “Monjar called for me but—” 

Shaking your head, you cut him off. “Breeth knows about the hologram. He’s going to—” You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth. “He’s going after your family too. Because you helped me.”

Ka’ered shakes his head in disbelief. “How do you know?”

“When his back was turned, I looked at the desk. Saw an order for his guards. I knew he was suspicious after I told him I needed to visit the infirmary again. He must have found out about the hologram we made.”

“Maker…” Ka’ered’s shoulders sag, and he drops his face to his hands. His words are muffled as he speaks into his palms. “I can’t let him win… Not again.”

“He won’t.” You bend slightly at the waist, and it must cause you great pain because your face wrenches to the side. Still, you smooth your hand over Ka’ered’s shoulder. “He won’t win. I promise.”

A surge of respect wells in Din’s chest. Though you have withdrawn into yourself under Breeth’s hand, you have also grown soft. Perhaps even kind. He wonders if you have become a shadow, a memory, of the girl you used to be…

Then again maybe not. Because you sit back, drop your hand, turn your head. You look at him—truly look at him—for the first time since opening your eyes. He should feel a thrill at meeting your eyes again after so long, but all he can conjure is a sense of foreboding. A chill blankets the hall, the air escaping through an open window. 

“I pushed the button,” you say, tone flat. “It was fake.”

Oh fuck. He hadn’t thought you would bring it up so soon. 

But of course you would. He knows you. Admires you. Needs you. So he nods. “I know.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know.” He dares to reach out and skim his fingers across the back of your hand; you don’t pull away when he does. “I’m sorry.”

The apology expands, growing stronger and louder by the second. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Forgive me. Forgive me.

Somewhere beneath your unflinching stare a dam bursts. Your chin wobbles, and a tear escapes the corner of your eye, sliding down to mingle with the blood on your cheek. Your throat catches on a sob. Your face crumbles.

“Oh, sweet girl. Come here.” 

Din pushes out of his awkward lounge to pull you to standing. He crushes you to his chest, folding his arms around the small of your back, squeezing, squeezing. He, too, fights an onslaught of tears. His vision blurs, but he swallows the emotion. He’s running on borrowed time holding you like this; he doesn’t have time to cry. But shit, he missed you—and folding you in his arms, feeling the press of your body against his, reveals just how much he missed you. 

Too much to be safe.

Fuck safe, he thinks. Since when has he ever gone after safe? Not since he was a foundling, taken skyward by a masked savior, soon to become one himself. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Where did he hurt you?”

Your response is quick as you shake your head. “Nowhere. I—”  

“Liar.” Din pushes you away from himself long enough to inspect from the top of your head to the hem of your gown. “What’s that on your arm?”

You twist your forearm over to look at the blue-hued skin. “It’s from the forcefield around my room.”

“What do you mean?”

“He put a—”

“Excuse me.” H-Ten steps forward out of a shadowy corner. “I hate to interrupt, but my sensors tell me three individuals are in pursuit. Our presence in the house has been made known. We should leave.”

Din slides his palm from your shoulder to tangle his fingers between yours. He looks to Ka’ered. “What’s the fastest way out of here?”

“From here? Through the infirmary. I can show you.”

H-Ten follows Ka’ered to the corner of the hall. His heavy feet clank against the floor, but silence doesn’t matter anymore. Only speed and efficiency. 

Din moves to trail behind the droid, but you—you remain still, feet rooted to the ground as though you were planted there. He frowns. “What are you doing?” He gives your arm a slight tug. “We need to go.”

“No.”

“Scout, now isn’t the time to be stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m doing my job.” You pull your hand from Mando’s and point to the opposite end of the hall, to the corner around which you stumbled into his path. “I’m going back. I might have fucked it up before but I’m finishing it now. Breeth can’t win. He just can’t.”

Din resists the urge to scoff. He was wrong when he assumed Breeth extinguished your spark of defiance. No one, nothing, can dampen that eternal flame.

“Really? You still want to finish this?”

“Yes.” 

A silent plea for support, you look at Din, eyes flickering across his helmet like you can see his unmasked face. Dressed in finery and painted with makeup, you present an elegance so at odds with the raging spirit inside you. He almost cannot reconcile it. Except… perhaps the two can coexist. You are not as feral as he once thought; you are softer than that beneath the hard layers, but you are strong. And damn if your legs don’t look good in those heels. 

“He doesn’t deserve to live,” you continue. “Not after what he’s done. I’m finishing the job, Mando. But I need your help.”

It takes every ounce of self-control for Din not to rip the helmet from his head and kiss you square on the mouth. He decides then—in that moment, standing between a droid and a doctor and an oncoming storm, staring into your eyes, watching you build yourself back up from the rubble—that he loves you.

He takes your hand once more. “Lead the way.”

/

The entrance to the Great Hall stands closed. Figures. H-Ten was right when he said their presence in the house was known. The chateau sings with a frenzied energy. Anxious whispers spread from room to room like curling vines: Who is it? What’s going on? Have you seen her? It must’ve been her, that girl Breeth took. 

Huddled together in the vestibule outside the Hall, Din adjusts his stance. He leans his shoulder against the ancient double doors. Across from him, you mirror his stance, shucking the length of your skirt upwards to fold into a knot at your thigh. A warrior princess, he thinks, complete with a bloody slice on your cheek. You’ve never been more attractive.  

“Are you sure about this?” 

You roll your eyes, flashing Din a glare he knows all too well. “Would you stop asking me that?”

“It’s not too late—”

“Mando, shut the fuck up and hand me a blaster.”

Biting back a grin, Din does as you ask. A rush of arousal courses through his blood when you cock the weapon and jerk your head toward the massive wooden doors. Gods, he missed you. 

He glances at H-Ten and Ka’ered. The droid might prove a useful ally, but Din isn’t too sure about the doctor. But beggars can’t be choosers. It will have to do.

He leans harder against the doorframe, testing the lock on the other side. It creaks, but does not budge. At least there’s no wizard magic or electric padlock that he can tell. Good old-fashioned metal is breakable. He can work with that.

“We can blast it open,” you suggest.

“This is your hunt, kid. I follow you.”

“Perhaps you should allow me.”

Shouldering his way forward, H-Ten positions himself at the crux of the doorway. He presses both palms out, one to either door, then pushes— hard. A hinge to the left pops; you startle, and Din’s nostrils flare. He leans in and presses his hands to the door on the right. You press the door on the left, Ka’ered sliding in beside you. An awkward foursome you make: a woman in crown, a Mandalorian, an imposing droid, and a doctor with trembling hands. There’s a joke in there somewhere; Karga would find it with ease. 

After a moment of struggle, the door gives way. Both doors open, and the group staggers inside the assembly room. 

Empty—silent—a premature grave. But for who? 

To Din’s surprise, the Great Hall isn’t all that great. Even with cathedral high ceilings and an entire wall of textured glass windows, the room is narrow and unadorned. At the far end, a simple wooden throne sits upon a dais. A padded red cushion rests in the seat. A battle-ax hangs on the wall, winking in the muted light of the room.

The group congregates together without speaking, shoulders linked in a semicircle. Something is on the prowl. Din can sense it. He swivels his head to survey the room.

“Where are you?” he mutters. 

A door hidden behind the throne opens. Steady feet tread across the floor. A man rounds the dais. Din unholsters his blaster.

There you are.

The man—Devaneer Breeth in the flesh—walks with a swagger that instantly pisses Din off. Hips thrust forward, arms outstretched in a faux greeting, Breeth grins, cat-like in all his lazy approach. Two armed guards take a position to the side of the dais, hovering in the background like watchdogs. 

Breeth says your name as he crosses the floor. “You’ve brought me quite the treat.” As he sidesteps his way to the throne, he points to Mando. “I thought you weren’t going to bring me the Mandalorian.”

“I’m not.” You glance at the guards, at the weapons strapped to their bodies. One false move and you’re dead; hesitation flickers across your face. 

“Then why the gathering?” Breeth drops to his throne. He spreads one leg out wide and positions his chin on his fist. “Are you here to wish me farewell? Are you leaving so soon?”

You open your mouth. You sputter. Din thinks you might choke and rely on him to finish the job, but then you move. 

It happens quickly.

You twist, bending slightly backwards to angle your blaster. You shoot from the hip. The blaster shot strikes one of Breeth’s guards in the unprotected portion of his stomach, and the man crumples to the floor with a groan. His partner angles a pulse rifle high, angles it at you, and Din sees red. 

He moves, pushing you to the side when the guard depresses the trigger. The shot hits the floor with a sizzle. You reach for the clip holding large portions of your hair away from your face. Slipping the clip free, you unsheathe a dagger hidden within the accessory. You flick your wrist, and the weapon slices through the air. It hits the second guard’s thigh and merely cuts his pant leg, as well as scraping the flesh beneath, but it is enough to stop his sudden advance momentarily. Din extends his left arm and prepares to shoot his wire rope around the guard's legs, but—

You cry out. He drops his arm, distracted by the squall that curls your lips. 

You twist in pain. Your back curves, chest pushed outward, as a hidden assailant strikes your spine once again. You scream as your knees draw together, and your arms pull inward, fingers twisting in an unnatural, knobby contortion. 

Din grabs your elbow as you begin to sink toward the floor. He turns to Breeth, who lounges, unaffected by your cries of pain or those of his wounded guard. “Stop it! Stop doing this to her!”

Breeth simply shrugs with a wicked smirk.

Din cannot bear to hear the sound of your pain, not as the pitch ratchets higher and higher; he is helpless beside you. You twist and writhe, screaming and screaming and—

His skeleton explodes. A supernova of electricity spirals from the top of his spine to the heels of his feet. Unaccustomed to such energy, he wobbles to the side, releasing your elbow. Another shock—and he drops to his knees. 

He can feel it: the electricity carves into the marrow of his bones, peeling him back layer for layer. His eyes burn, and his tongue swells in his mouth. He is vaguely aware of sobbing (Is it you? Is it him? He can’t hear clearly anymore.), but he is too far gone to help. His existence shrinks and expands and molds into a burst of fiery light. Over and over, never-ending. 

A hand falls to his thigh. He is cognizant enough to watch you drag yourself across the small space separating your twitching bodies. You are crying—ugly sobs with snot bubbles and fat tears. He would wipe your cheeks if he could. 

A presence looms over him, and Din turns his head away from you. He grunts when another spasm hits his spine. Breeth stands over him, casting a long, bleak shadow. He holds a cylindrical control in his right hand. 

“Now… what’s all this about trying to stop me?” He shakes his head. “Not possible.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

As if from the floorboards, Ka’ered materializes behind Breeth. Serrated knife in hand, he drags Breeth to his shorter height with an arm around the neck and one around the chest. Breeth turns his hands upwards in alarm, and the shock control falls. Din grits his teeth as he swings his hips around so he can drop his heel to the cylinder. Weak as he is, the drop of his foot is uncoordinated but it gets the job done. The control snaps, wires popping with a resolute crack . 

The surge of energy disappears. Din falls slack against the floor, gasping for breath. You remain on your side. He stretches his arm out to touch your shoulder. 

“Scout…” The moniker, sacred to his tongue, pulls you from the depths. You open your eyes and look from Din to Ka’ered. Panic washes over your face as you struggle to raise yourself to a sitting position.

“Think about what you’re doing, Ka’ered,” you rasp.

Din sits up alongside you. He sucks in a deep breath. “What’s your plan here?” He watches the doctor’s hand shake; the knife knicks Breeth’s throat. “You’re going to kill him?”

“Yes.” 

“Then what?” He stands on wobbling legs, feeling every bit like a newborn orbaks. “What will you do then?”

Breeth twists beneath Ka’ered’s hold. “He won’t do it. He’s too weak. Always has been.”

The doctor pushes the tip of his knife deeper, further, into Breeth’s neck.

“He deserves to die.”

Din takes a step forward. “Maybe, but if you kill him, you’ll have a price on your head.”

Ka’ered bears his teeth. “Worth it.”

“You’ll have to run. Never stop. It’s different for me.” He jerks his head toward you as he slowly extends both hands toward Ka’ered’s forearm. “For her too. But you—do you really want a life like that? Always running, never having a place to call your own?”

“My partner. He killed my partner and made me watch. I heard his screams. Heard the blood get sucked out of his body and—” 

“And I’d do it again.” Breeth laughs. His eyes flash with unrestrained pride, and Din doubts he knows the meaning of the word repentance. “That scummy flea-trader never fulfilled his part of the deal. I couldn’t let him take from me. Not without taking something in return.”

“Shut up!” Ka’ered folds the knife’s edge along the curve of Breeth’s throat. “ Shut up! ”

“I enjoyed listening to his screams. Made my blood sing. He was quite the canary. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Mandalorian? Hearing your prey beg for release before you do them in? You know what it’s like to hum with excitement before killing someone.”

Din swallows past a rising lump in his throat. He does know. He knows every word of Breeth’s monologue intimately. He has been that; he has done that; and he has not asked for repentance. Just like Breeth.

You fill the gap of Din’s embarrassed silence with a gentle call of Ka’ered’s name. “Please,” you say. “It’s not worth it for you.”

“I can’t—” Ka’ered grits his teeth. “I can’t let him go.”

“No, but—”

The doors to the Great Hall open with a clang. You spin to face the incoming squadron of guards; Din does the same.

In the melee—blaster shots from either side, your shouts for Din to find a way out, H-Ten’s feet slamming against the floor as he moves to provide cover—Ka’ered strikes. Din hears it before he sees it. A sickening gurgle, and he knows the doctor has broken his deepest vow: do no harm. He looks over his shoulder long enough to watch blood gush from Breeth’s neck, staining Ka’ered’s fingers.

Devaneer Breeth drops to the floor, lifeless. 

You shoot the kneecap of an oncoming guard. “Mando, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“I know.” He grabs your arm, wrenching you out of harm’s way. “I’ve got it. Grab Ka’ered.”

You glance at your friend, and your face falls. He knows the look you both wear: one of profound regret at the inevitable. But there’s no time for reflection now. He lightly shoves your shoulder, murmuring for you to hurry , and you listen. You gather the doctor’s blood-stained hands in your bloody palms. You whisper something and then you drag him toward the door behind the empty throne. H-Ten walks backward, a blaster in each hand, providing necessary cover for your escape.

Din gives one last look at Breeth’s corpse before he bends to snap a holophoto of the body.  Karga will have to accept the photo as proof of termination. He refuses to bring the body of your captor aboard the Sunder. 

His stomach heaves as he considers all that’s happened here, all that he has yet to learn. But there’s no time to dig deeper at those feelings. Reflection and revelation must wait until later.

He tosses a blinking grenade to the center of the room and flees out the back door.

/

The foursome makes it to the roof just as the grenade in the Great Hall explodes. The foundation of the building trembles, and across the roof’s expanse, a portion of the ceiling caves in. 

It doesn’t matter, though. Not to Din. All that matters is your safety and getting to the Sunder in one piece before any more reinforcements come. 

The morning’s breeze has turned to a stiff, choking sort of air. On the ground below, servants and house residents flee the mansion. Smoke billows out of broken windows.

You slump against Din’s side, cheek pressed to the cool steel of his chest plate. Your fingers drift over the broad expanse of his chest, and he wonders what you are thinking. “Are you real?” you finally ask. He barely hears your whisper over the sounds of panic spreading through the mansion.

He smooths his hand over your head, fingers tangling with your hair. “Yes.” 

You lift your face. Tears sparkle in your eyes. His gut twists. “Are you good?”

“Not all the time.”

Your brow pinches in a frown. “But to me—are you good to me?”

The last one-hundred-and-one days flicker across his mind. The arguments, the poorly concealed hatred, the rabid fucking, and the stolen glances. He’s been ugly the last one hundred days; you’ve been ugly the last one hundred days too. Together, with your combined ugliness, you’ve created a masterpiece of conflicting colors yet somehow, that ugliness is singularly beautiful. He wouldn’t change it, wouldn’t do anything differently. Not then, anyway. But now…

He draws in a breath before tucking his finger under your chin. Beneath the visor of his helm, he holds your wounded gaze. “From now on,” he promises. “Always.”

Whatever unspoken question he answered, whatever fear his response silenced, it is enough to give you peace. You curl both arms around his middle and relax. You give way, and he feels more than sees the moment when you lose consciousness. You go slack, and he catches you before you hit the ground.

Stepping toward the roof’s edge, Din ignites the jetpack on his back. It roars to life, but you remain undisturbed in his arms. “Meet me back at the ship,” he tells the droid. “Bring the doctor too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t—don’t call me sir. I couldn’t have…” He glances down to study the cut on your cheek that oozes with congealing blood. Looking back, for a moment he wishes the droid was able to see the sincerity on his face.  “I couldn’t have found her without your help. Thank you.”

H-Ten’s face, made of metal and wire, remains blank; Din feels like he’s looking into a mirror. “The ship. I will see you there, sir.”

With a nod, Din lifts from the roof and propels upwards. The jetpack takes him high, away from the mansion, away from what could have been your downfall. But it also takes him home, to the Sunder , to the place you belong.

You are safe. He can rest tonight knowing that. 

The hunt is over.

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TWO—LOCATION: ABOARD THE SUNDER

On Inora, there is a flower: the drooping bittercress. The drooping bittercress blooms in the middle of winter, taking the season’s cold wind and freezing rain and unfolding into a brilliant yellow-and-purple blossom despite it. It is a resilient flower, stalk firm and roots thick. Each year, the buds open beneath a pale, frigid sun; and the field outside your childhood home becomes a carpet of color. Once a season, on the night of the first crescent moon, Inorans gather bundles of the bittercress to place in their windows as a prayer of blessing over the coming planting season. 

Fall over my fields with your splendor. Purge the weakness from my soil.

You have become a drooping bittercress. You have purged the weakness from your own soil and bloomed beneath a pale and a frigid sun. You are resilient—hearty—alive. 

Jeelia, you think, would be proud.

/

You are somewhere between consciousness and oblivion when Mando carries you aboard the Sunder. The world is watery. Parceled sentences bombard your ears, but nothing breaks through the stone wall. You are present and yet you are not. There is safety in the in-between, and you aren’t sure you want to leave it. Try as you might, you cannot open your eyes. The last ten days carve through your body like a scythe. You are boneless and numb and weak. 

Mando says something to someone, and the ship whirrs to life. It vibrates in your bones like a song of reunion. Away—take me away.

There is a whoosh and then the click of a lock. The Mandalorian untangles your arms from around his neck and settles you on the lid of the vacc tube. He pulls the straps of your gown over your shoulders, one and then the other. 

He pushes a swath of hair away from your face. “Come on. Work with me, girl.”

You groan as your head droops to the side. You have nothing left to give.

Mando rids you of your gown and dirty underclothes, pulling you to standing by a firm tug on your biceps. He turns off the light, and the room descends into darkness. Armor falls to the floor— thud, clank. Metal on metal: the sound of him, of all people, forsaking his ways for you . It’s laughable. You aren’t worth it.

Still, despite your reticence to accept his sacrifice, you lean forward. Your forehead hits warm, tender flesh, and a rush of blood surges from your head to your heart. His skin—how long has it been since you felt his skin? Without asking, you slide your arms around his waist and press yourself close. He pauses, rests his hand on your shoulder blade. Something prickly—a beard?—pulls against your temple when he leans his cheek on your head. The helmet—he’s taken it off.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and you know it is truth in its purest form. 

A white light glows beneath the fresher sink, illuminating the clothes strewn across the floor. An emergency light. Steady, constant, reliable even in times of crisis—just like Mando.

Undressed, he ushers you into the shower stall where hot steam obscures any features highlighted by the room’s dim light. Though you know he stands behind you uncovered from head to foot, you don’t bother to look. You’re too tired, too weak. The ghostly silhouette of his fingers reaching around to fiddle with the temperature controls is enough for now.

He soaps his hand with a bar of lye. The lather smells fresh and floral, like jasmine and soft petals. You once had a similar bar; it broke months ago. You aren’t sure what became of it. 

“Can I?” He mumbles the words against your skin. 

You nod—of course, yes, touch me, wipe away what came before . The plea lifts in your throat, but your mouth remains shut. You nod again in earnest.

Mando glides his hand over your collarbones, down the sturdy plane between your breasts. He swirls his palm at either hip. His eyelashes brush against your neck as he watches the sudsy water fall between your legs. Soft, soothing. With his touch, he buoys you above the emotion rising in your chest.

Maker, you’d thought you would die. You’d thought Devaneer would kill you.

In some ways, you’d prepared yourself for death. You’d sat in your own filth, cheek bleeding, arm bruised. You’d lied and weaseled your way out of interrogation. You’d accepted Breeth’s torture as it came. Because for him—for Mando and Grogu—for them both—death would have been worth it. Death would have cleansed you. Maybe made things right again. The ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate atonement: for that stubborn Tin Can and his foundling, and for the family you destroyed all those years ago.

The tears begin, and they do not stop. Rivulets of selfish relief pour down your cheeks. Your chest heaves, and shuddering breaths push against tired lungs. To keep from falling, you brace one arm against the shower wall. The slick tiles and feel of Mando’s thumbs massaging your back keeps you grounded, keeps you from swirling down the drain with your emotions, but it isn’t enough. The horror of realization—of witnessing through your own memory what really happened to you in the last ten days—still looms.

Maybe some part of you did die in that place. Maybe Breeth did kill you. You aren’t yet sure what part of you has passed into nothingness, but there is something missing. There is a hole somewhere in your body, and it leaks onto the shower floor, draining your spirit into the pipes of the Sunder. 

The fear of discovery claws at your stomach. Who are you now? Now that you’ve failed so desperately? Now that you’ve pulled yourself out of the ashes by your own hand? You don’t want to know. You don’t want to look. It scares you. You’ve lost yourself already. The moment Jeelia fell to the ground with a thump was the first moment you died. The moment you ordered Mando to turn around and leave you behind must have been the second.

Your lungs ache. Are you breathing? 

Your throat is scratched raw. Are you screaming?

Blood lingers at the corner of your mouth. Are you dying for certain now? Has your mind at last given up? Released its hold on this pitiful life of yours? 

Mando pulls you from the shower when your body threatens to collapse to the floor. He towels off your face, dragging the water and tears and snot away from your mouth and nose. He makes quick work of pulling something soft and silky over your head. The fabric falls to your thighs, hugging the ins and outs of your body. Thin straps rest over your battered and bruised shoulders. He shucks on a pair of cotton pants then, bent at the waist, shoves his head in the helmet. In your clouded mind, you saw nothing—even when you stared at him in the face.

Gently, ever so gently, he leads you across the hall. You move as though through a dense fog. Your body gives out when you reach the side of his bed, and it is like falling in slow motion. Down, down, down until a firm mattress and crumbled sheets tangle around your heavy limbs. You roll to your back, fluffing the pillow beneath your head with a weak shove. 

“Will you be okay?”

What a fucking loaded question. It almost makes you laugh. 

But you don’t laugh. You turn your face toward the viewports on the wall. Starlight, brilliant and white and pure. You missed it; you just hadn’t realized how keenly.

Mando backs away from the bedside. A chilled breeze follows his movement, replacing his comforting presence. You twist in a panic and lunge to catch his wrist. Droplets of water dot his skin, sinking beneath your nails. Pale light hits the curve of his helmet, but the feel of his eyelashes on your neck, his mouth lingering on your shoulder, remains.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. It is a hoarse sound, cracked and tired. Human in all its fragility. “Mando…”

He is quiet. So quiet. That quiet expands, growing to a thick silence, and you remove your hand from his arm. An apology builds in your mouth, forming amongst your tongue and teeth and the long-neglected should-have-saids of the past. Maybe it’s too late for this, whatever this is. Maybe those ten days also killed whatever was blooming between you before .

But then—he lowers himself to kneel at the edge of the bed. He curls his broad palm around your wrist. “Din,” he says. “My name is Din Djarin.”

Oh.

Oh, his name.

Din Djarin.

You love it.

You think you might love him.

Tears flood your eyes, but the sting—this sting of happiness—isn’t so bad. You brush the back of your opposite hand over the jaw of his helmet. “I’m supposed to hate you.”

He laughs into the night, into the darkness and the uncertainty and the nothingness that still sits in your chest but somehow feels lighter. He lifts the edge of his helm to kiss your fingers. “And I you.”

/

When morning comes, there is no pain to rouse you. Gone is the past week of waking to the will of Breeth’s trigger finger. Your crown was lost, displaced in the escape from the mansion. There is no one here to shock you or contort your spine for his own pleasure.

When morning comes, there is no forcefield to keep you locked within a tower. You are no princess—never have been, never will be—but Breeth seemed to imagine you as one. The blue hue of your arm is a constant reminder of the twisted role you played, but there is no one here to restrict your movement.

When morning comes, there is only the comforting silence of space and the soft snore of the Mandalorian beside you.

You roll over, away from the viewports to face him. Din—Din Djarin. How sweet, the sound of his name. It flutters through your mind like the wings of a twittering bird or painted butterfly. If you spoke it aloud, you’re sure your tongue would dissolve into a sugary paste. 

You cannot make out his face in the room’s shadow. The Sunder hangs suspended in some inky part of the galaxy, where the stars hide from view. As a result, his cabin is darker than the visor of his helm. Still, you can feel him and his nakedness. The sensation of his openness washes over you in a wave, and you surrender to the surf with a choked smile.

Din Djarin. Fucking bastard. He was with you from the start, from the moment he sent a flower to your door at that ridiculous hotel and signed his own name. 

You lift a hand to search for his shoulder. You find warm, exposed skin. The flesh beneath your fingers is pliable to the touch; he’s less bulky than you might’ve assumed. Though you’ve fucked plenty of times before this moment, you’ve never had the opportunity to truly feel him, not so uncovered. You like his softness. He might appear so, but he is not all gruff and bluster and arrogance. You were wrong to assume it. There is a gentleness to him, and it reflects in the more delicate parts of his body.

Your finger dips over dozens of scars as you inch closer to his face. Short ones; gnarled ones; ones that should have received medical attention but likely didn’t. That skin feels unnaturally smooth and worn with time. You don’t like imagining him hurt. Not after everything he has done for you, risked and sacrificed for you. Peace is what he deserves now; not pain.

You skim your knuckles over the column of his neck and the straight line of his jaw. Patchy facial hair prickles your skin. Turning your thumb over, you find his bottom lip and—

A hand wraps around your wrist. “Keep going, and you’ll know all my secrets.”

You gasp, though you aren’t afraid. Not really. You’re safe here with him.

Mando—no—Din pushes your curious fingers away from his face. “I’m not—” He sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

He goes pensive—quiet, distant, a lonely cloud in a gray sky—then says in a hushed whisper: “You deserve more.”

“Din—” 

Oh . Your heart clenches at the sound, and your voice catches on the choked sensation in your throat. Your head spins. Sugar explodes on your tongue; his name tastes as sweet as you thought it would. 

You clear your throat. “Din, you’ve given me everything I need. You don’t have to give anything more…”

“Say it again.” He shuffles closer, his shoulders twisting against the bedsheets. “Forget about what I said before.” His voice is sleep-rough and divine; urgent too. “I want you to say my name.”

Avoidance—a tactic with which you are both well acquainted. You should push back, should draw his concerns out of him. But there will be time enough in the light of day to convince him of his worth. Time enough to mend your broken spirits together with a careful needle. You have nothing but time. And right now, in this moment, your time is best spent on obeying his every command. So—

You grin and purr his name into the dark: “Din.” He inhales sharply, and you laugh through smiling teeth. “Din Djarin.”

Grabbing either side of your head, he pulls your face forward. The air in your chest wrenches past your lips with a sputter. You plant a hand on his chest to keep from bashing your nose against his, and beneath the warmth of his skin, his heart thrums to a frantic pulse. Forehead to forehead, he drinks in your thin exhales of suspense. Kriffing hell, you can taste him on your tongue; like morning stiffness and a hint of mint. It shouldn’t taste good, but it does. You want more. You angle your lips upwards, near his, but he refuses to close the minuscule space between you. 

The end of his nose brushes yours in a feathery, evasive movement. “Let me kiss you when you see my face,” he whispers, explaining nothing more.

Eyes fluttering shut on the promise, you nod. “Okay.”

His lips to your cheek, a seal of commitment. He dips his head to the curve of your neck and exhales. Warm breath fans over your skin, and you shiver. “Okay.”

He remains there, tucked in the safety of your body, and you relax into him. You push your hand over his collarbone and around his neck to sift through the fine curls at the base of his skull. Brushing your cheek over his, you smile to feel the bristle of his facial hair. So many things you didn’t know about him, so many things yet to learn. The potential of the future unfolds like a map on your palms, as much a part of you as the beat of your heart.

He is a strong man, a good man, you think. His strength resides in the comfort of his arms around your middle and his hand splayed over your back. He is firm, unmoving. You can rest here. After so long—so terribly long—you can rest. 

“I thought I’d lost you.”

His whisper startles you from that place between waking and sleeping. You pull back slightly, tilting your chin inward as though it gives you a view of his face; it doesn’t. “What?”

He squeezes you close. “With that… monster… I thought you were gone.”

You realize then that he must have been as terrified as you. When you were far away and silent, he must have assumed the worst. Your stomach twists at the thought of him frenzied and afraid, ripping through the stars like a dog on a fading scent. But he found you.

You found each other.

“I’m here.” You tighten your arms around his back, smoothing a hand through his hair. “I’m here, Din. I’m not going anywhere again.”

He hums in approval—the vibrations of his chest rumble against yours—and then he lays a wet kiss to your neck. You stiffen at first, caught off guard by the swift change in the air, but when his tongue runs flat over your skin, you release your hold on the weight of moments past. You want this: him uncovered and laid bare in the darkness and safety of his room. After readying yourself to lose him, you want to revel in the feel of the very thing you’d prepared to forfeit.

Din lifts his mouth to nip at your chin before whispering, dark and loose, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You shake your head as you fit yourself more completely beneath his broad frame. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Moving his hands to your hips, he grips the flesh there, kneading his fingers in the supple parts of your body. He drags his tongue over your neck, from one side to another, pausing long enough to swirl the tip of the muscle in the dip of your collarbone. An anxious trill whistles down your spine. You forgot how good he could feel, and you certainly didn’t realize how patient he could be with his mouth. 

He teases you mercilessly. Down the length of your neck, he nips and bites, soothing each injury with the wet tang of his spit. He cups your breasts through the thin fabric of your nightgown and presses his tongue flat against the rise of your chest. You catch your lower lip between your teeth, arching into him.

“Missed these,” he murmurs. You can hear his smirk, and you smile in response, pressing your hand to the back of his head. 

“Have at ‘em then.”

Squeezing one breast with the full weight of his hand, he swirls his tongue over your opposite nipple. Saliva wets your nightgown until your nipple is a peaked bud pressing through the material. You whine as he switches to the neglected breast. He feels good—more than good. He feels electrifying. 

He sucks on your tits until you see stars. Heat pools between your legs, dripping onto the insides of your thighs. Touches so simple yet they pull you apart, turn your brain to fuzz, and set your heart on fire. Maker, you missed this.

Impatient, you part your legs and swing them around his back. You dig your heels into the meat of his ass, and his hips buck forward. His half-hard cock brushes your thigh, and he ducks his head on a shiver.

“Sensitive?” you tease.

He silences you with a quick thrust of his hips upward. Your cocksure attitude melts as his body grinds into yours. Oh stars above, even with your clothes on, he feels like a miracle. You fasten your legs around his hips, pressing your core against whatever flesh or material you can find. Din chuckles—fucking chuckles—and it only makes you all the more desperate. You want him; you need him; to wash away the past week and a half with his cum in your cunt and his mouth anywhere on your body. 

“In me,” you pant. Careful to avoid his lips, you press your mouth to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. You are frantic to feel him as close as you can, to merge your body with his. “Inside me. Please, Din.”

As hurried as you are, Din is the opposite. He removes your arms from around his neck, securing both wrists with one hand, and shuffles out from between your legs. He anchors your wrists above your head and hesitates, lingering at your mouth. His hot breath mingles with yours. So close, close enough to practically taste. If you concentrate hard enough, you can imagine his lips descending to touch your mouth. You wonder how soft his lips might be… 

A sliver of light peeks through one of the viewports on the wall. (You vaguely wonder if he lowered some shield to darken the room, and if he were to open those shields, if the light of a thousand stars would paint him to look like an angel.) That light carves over his nose and the purse of his mouth. It is more than you have ever seen of his face, and to you, he appears as a god carved from marble. You close your eyes—out of necessity. Out of respect.

When he is ready, you will look.

“There’s something I want to do first.”

You frown, having been so focused on the nearness of his face that you forgot what was said before. “Huh?”

Releasing his hold on your wrists, he smooths his hand down the length of your arm. His eyes remain on your face as he pushes himself lower, lower, until his mouth hovers over the space between your legs. In the shadows, you watch him as he grins like a fiend, his fingers inching toward the hem of your nightgown that barely covers your modesty. You watch him as he pushes that hem up and over your hips and the smell of your arousal pours from your dripping body. You watch him as he skims his fingertips over your mound. 

His fingers—his uncovered, ungloved, bare fingers. You saw them once in the glistening lights of Xaxeris. The dark ink on the knuckles of his left hand, the trimmed nails, the width of those digits. You’d almost forgotten… 

He presses the pad of his thumb to your clit, and any distracted thought fades to a sparkling mist. Never before has he touched your warmth with his bare hand, and each brush of his skin against your most intimate parts sends you skyrocketing to oblivion. Gentle, slow circles on your clit—around and around and around. Your legs fall open, knees hitting the firm mattress with a thud. You drag a hand through your hair. 

From between your legs, Din huffs a laugh through his nose. He drapes his forearm over your hips and presses down. Your pussy flutters, but your mind is slow to catch up. It trails behind, pausing to sift through the roses of Din’s consistent offerings: his name, his hands, highlights of his face. You watch as though from above, peering down as he moves his face closer and closer to your heat. You cannot—will not—believe it until it happens, until you feel it for yourself. Yet even so, your body reacts and spills forward with excitement. 

When it happens—when he angles his tongue against your cunt—it is as though you are reborn. You are a block of marble on the bed, immovable under the carvings of your artist. Din is that artist: he carves through your center with careful, generous movements. Jagged pieces of stone fall from your senses as he sucks your clit between his teeth. You gasp, thighs buckling inwards, but he moves both hands to separate your legs from around his ears. He takes from you more incessantly, a water-catcher at the well. Feral sounds betray your shared excitement; the suck of his mouth on your juices is obscene. It is wrong probably—to enjoy those sounds as much as you do—but it propels your hips upward on their accord. You’ll ride the high till it bursts. 

Din groans in delight, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge of orgasm. You release a whiny moan; and you would be embarrassed, but not with him. Instead, you accept the desire to sink into the bed and release your inhibitions. If he can do it—if he can give you so many sacred pieces of himself—surely you can do the same. 

He slides a spit-slick digit into your cunt at the same time as he flutters his tongue over your clit. Oh shit. You grab a tuft of his hair between tight fingers as your limbs go taut with starlight. Keening, you dip your head back into the pillows, swiveling your hips in time with Din’s mouth and finger. He matches your pace, and it isn’t long before you tumble into release with a pitiful moan and gush of liquid. Electricity unlike the sort Breeth subjected you to zings through your muscles. You spasm, and a drop of sweat slides down your brow. Heartbeat pulsing in your cunt, you move Din’s face away from the heart of you. Your cunt is swollen, glistening with spit and your own cum. 

Din pushes himself forward so that either hand rests alongside your head. He drags the back of his wrist over his mouth. “You taste good, mesh’la.”

It takes effort not to pout and ask for his lips on your pussy again. It takes even more effort to not wrap your arms around his shoulders and taste yourself on his tongue. To avoid either action, you reach between your layered bodies and find his cock warm and wanting. You grin as you brush your fingers over his weeping tip. 

“I’m sure you taste good too,” you whisper. “But right now, I’d really like you to be inside of me.”

Din smiles (you know the shift in energy when his emotions play out on his face now), and he dips his head as though to kiss you. But he stops himself a hair’s breadth away. Your hand stills on his cock, your breathing gone tight. He hesitates—openly warring with himself and his principles. 

“Inside me,” you urge, giving his length a firm stroke. “Please.”

He nods, and you feel his smile fade. He grumbles something as he pushes your hand away from his cock, fisting himself a few times before positioning himself at your entrance. You slide your hands over his arms, his muscles, turning your face to kiss the skin you can find.

He sheathes himself inside of you in one shift thrust. You choke on a gasp, and he shudders, pressing his face into the curve of your neck. So thick and long, so filling. You shiver.

“Maker.” Din withdraws far enough to tease the head of his cock on your clit. “Such a good girl.”

When he thrusts into you a second time, you twine your arms around his neck and your legs around his middle, and you fall into a rhythm beneath him. In a way, you are separate entities searching for release side by side. He is quiet as he drives his cock into your body, and you keep your moans to a minimum. There is no excitement here; the mood has shifted. Instead there is relief and safety and purpose. Each thrust claims you for himself; each squeeze of your cunt around his cock is a sign of commitment. 

Din smooths his palm over the sweat-matted hair on your brow. He leans his forehead on yours, huffing with each thrust. “Gonna—” He grits his teeth. “Gonna cum soon.”

You touch his cheek. “Please.”

“Want you to first.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

His hips stutter on a hard thrust. He shakes his head. “Want you to first.”

Din makes good on his word, determined to the last. He angles his hips just so and grinds his pubic bone into your clit until you come high and crash fast. You spasm around him, and it sends him over the edge and spilling into your cunt with a guttural sigh. His warmth washes the inside of you, washes you clean. He kisses your neck—soft and sweet as he pulses within you.

In the afterglow, he slips from your body and falls to the other side of the bed, arm tossed behind his head. His chest rises and falls in a deep breath, and you curl onto your side to face him. The sliver of light highlights the sweat on his chest, but hardly anything more. He is but a shadow. Still—maybe—just maybe—you might love him, shadow and armor and all.

“Where is your home, Scout?”

The question catches you off guard. You frown. “What?”

“Your home, your family. Where are they?” He asks without looking at you.

You resist the urge to speak your heart’s cry: Here, my home is here, my family is here.  

“Inora,” you say.

He inhales and turns to caress your face with his knuckle. When he speaks, his voice is an even rasp. “Let me take you home.”

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-THREE—LOCATION: INORA

Home—a curious word. Four letters, a single syllable, and yet it carries much weight. Too much weight. 

You have made your home in many places: the wheatfields of Inora; the hard-scrabble ethen rock mines of Haceon; the hot and sticky wasteland of Nevarro. You have made your bed on a cushioned pallet shared with your sister; on a plush mattress in the arms of a bloated spice runner; on the steel floor of a Mandalorian’s galley. The good, the bad, the ugly—it has all been home at one point or another. And yet—the good, the bad, the ugly—each has collapsed beneath the cruel hand of Fate.

The one thing you know to be true of home: it never lasts.

So when Din informs you that the Sunder has arrived “home”, you fight the urge to correct him. Inora hasn’t been home for years. 

Standing at the edge of his bed, you sift through your meager possessions. All your worldly possessions, strewn across the freshly made sheets like garbage on the side of the road. Embarrassment wells in your chest. Maker, you don’t have much, and what you do have is tattered by age and memory alike. 

What is clean? What is dirty? What is ruined beyond repair? What will your parents think when they see who—what—you have become?

You lift the cross-body top from the market on Daos-Seven (Gods, Din had fucked you well when he saw you lounging against the wall in this getup) and steady your voice as you fold the clothing in half. “I don’t have the energy for lies, Mando,” you say.

There is a pause, a beat of confusion, then a question: “What?”

You drop the shirt and turn. Din stands in the doorway of his cabin, filling the narrow space with the gleam of his armor. You cannot read his face—not beneath that helmet, not in the dark of night—nor can you read the flat tone of his voice. You’re home, he’d said, and that was all. Though his left hand flexes at his side, there is no other movement, no stray glitch in his programming, that might otherwise reveal the man beneath the beskar. And after an evening reveling in his humanity, the return of his armor tenses a nerve in your jaw. 

“Why are we here?” You sharpen your voice to match the steel wall encasing him. “Do you plan on leaving me with my parents now that I’ve fucked up again? Are you done with me that quick?”

Din’s head rears back in apparent shock. He makes a sound, something low and gravely and similar to noise he makes when he cums. You don’t blame him; it’s a strong accusation. Still, in your mind’s eye, he stands at a crossroads; a path that forks around a boulder covered in rotting undergrowth. Fate has presented him with two choices: He could drop your sorry ass on the crumbling doorstep of your parent’s hovel and leave you behind to rot like the undergrowth. Or—after last night and his name and the shadow of his face—he could nurture whatever blossom has sprouted from the cold muck between you. He could… keep you…

You hope some part of him is a gardener, willing to tend the seed.

No sooner does the accusation of abandonment leave your lips does Din stomp into the room. He crosses the floor in three long strides. Grabbing your bicep, he squeezes the muscle tight, pulling your breasts flush to his chest plate. “Look at me, Scout,” he says, and his voice is no longer toneless. He is urgent, and it quickens the beat of your heart. “Listen to me: I’m not leaving you.”

You frown. “Then why bring me here?”

Easing his hold on your arm, he smooths his gloved hand over the stray hairs at the side of your face. The touch eases a strain in your chest, but you hold fast to your suspicion. One-hundred-and-three days you’ve known the Mandalorian. You imagine he’s lied to or mistreated you far more than he has fucked you silly or called you sweet names.

“You need to rest. You’re a strong bounty hunter, but after Breeth, you need a break. We all need a break.”

“You’ve lied to me before…” 

“Yes—but not now. Not again. If it takes me until my dying day to prove that to you, I’ll do it.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and when you speak, you sound like a breathless ditz. With a giddy chuckle, you grip his forearm, holding his hand close to your face. “That’s some promise, Metal Man.”

“I keep my promises. This is—”

“—the Way.” 

Your voices mingle in the austere cabin, one blending effortlessly with another. His creed falls from your lips with ease because you know now. You get it. Honor, sacrifice, family, and tradition. In four words, four stark syllables, the entire weight of a people rests on your tongue. You saw it in his commitment to Grogu, and you feel it in his vow to you now. What Din Djarin says, Din Djarin means. And today, moments before returning to the people you hurt the most, he promises you loyalty until the end. No questions asked.

Tears sting your eyes, but you smile through the discomfort. A confession deep inside your gut fights to break free. You tamp it down, uncertain yourself of its true meaning; so you say what you know you can. What you know he will understand. “This is the Way,” you whisper.

Din rests the cool metal of his helm against your forehead. You swear you can see him smile. “This is the Way.”

/

You stand on the precipice of ultimate ruin. You can feel it bubbling up, up, up. The sensation of doom clogs your throat like dirt. Like the dirt that surrounds your dead sister somewhere on this Maker-forsaken planet. 

Holy shit. Holy shit. How many years since you stood on this soil? How many times did you swear to yourself you would never return? And yet—here you are, standing on fallow Inoran farmlands, freezing your tits off in the mid-spring chill because Din thinks you need to rest. You can’t rest. You won’t rest. Not here. Not when your parents will likely plunge a dagger through your heart on sight.

Dread consumes you. It mingles with the dirt in your throat and chokes like a vine. You scan your surroundings, spiders crawling through your head with worry. What if? What if? What if?

An atonal voice breaks through your internal panic. “The climate of Inora is mild. Average temperatures range between twenty to twenty-five degrees Standard. The typical seasons go from rainy in the beginning of the year to—”

“H-Ten.” Din makes his way down the Sunder’s loading dock to join you, back laden with packed clothes and perishable food. In the hazy light of a dreary morning, pale shadows dance off his pauldrons. He appears taller and wider than he is, but you welcome the sight. It helps knowing you can hide behind him at the first sign of tension with your parents. “Shut up,” he says, voice clipped. It makes you smile. 

But that smile soon fades.

Gods, your parents… You don’t like to think about what lies ahead. 

Standing at the bottom of the ramp, you glare at the droid flanking the Mandalorian. From the top of H-Ten’s oblong head to the points of his wide feet, the machine radiates poise and reserve. A protocol droid no doubt. Probably some assistant Din picked up while you were gone. It’s hard not to roll your eyes at the thought. Just when you broke through the emotional blockade of one robot, you get another emotionally constipated ass. Figures.

You twist at the waist to angle your stare at Ka’ered. “Who invited this guy?” You jerk your thumb in the droid’s direction, but Ka’ered doesn’t bite at the playful jibe. Instead, the physician stands to the side, arms folded across his chest. 

You did not know Ka’ered fled Breeth’s mansion alongside you. You did not know Din acquired a personal droid in the time you were away. Since returning to the Sunder, you’ve spent all waking moments in Din’s company, shut away from the outside world. To see your friend now, you wonder if you appear as haunted as him. He is a shadow of himself, skin gone sallow and gaunt, eyes sunken. A living ghost, slain by what he had to do to survive. You can relate.

You touch your cheeks, brow pinching in concern. Do you look the same? You would at least like to look passable for your parents. Show them you aren’t completely lost without their guidance…

Din presses a hand between your shoulder blades, and you tilt your head back to meet his visor. “You look fine.” 

As paltry a complement as ever, but you’ll take it. What Din Djarin says, Din Djarin means. 

“How far of a hike is it to your parents’?”

You point to twin hills in the far distance. “There. In that valley.”

“Can you make it?”

You nod and hoist your small bag of belongings over your shoulder. You can make it. Even if it kills you, even if spite alone is what drives your every step, you can make it. 

“You know me, Mando.” Gently nudging your shoulder against Din’s arm, you sidestep him, setting course for the Bélon Valley. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

The Mandalorian snorts, and the sound of amusement only serves to drive you to a quicker pace. The sooner you get this farce of rest over with, the sooner you can return to the stars with Din. Just you and him. The way it should be. The way it was meant to be from the start.

Your band of malcontents falls into step behind your hurried gait. With over twenty-five klicks to go, there’s barely any time to waste before night falls. The one thing H-Ten forgot to mention in his verbal essay on your home world: Ashwigs. 

You shiver just thinking about them. Ashwigs—ancient, monstrous beasts; taller than Wookies and built like muscle-chorded fortresses. The nocturnal animals slink from their nested dwellings at sundown to feast on unwitting prey. When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, any Inoran with half a brain knows to hide behind shuttered windows and bolted doors. To risk otherwise is to tempt Fate. 

Glancing sidelong at Ka’ered, you decide not to mention the Ashwigs for now. Your own nerves mixed with the doctor’s apathy and Din’s persistent annoyance simmers too close to the surface. Best leave the issue of rabid, flesh-eating monsters for a moment when the information seems more necessary.

“So…” You grip your backpack’s straps a little tighter, fingers gone taut with tension. “Ka’ered, I—didn’t know Di—er—Mando brought you along.”

Fuck—awkward at its finest. First you nearly oust Din’s name. Next you question Ka’ered’s presence after his colossal sacrifice. You try—you do—but the shift in him is hard for you to grasp. Ka’ered was your confidant, your intercessor in a time of crisis. Before, he seemed to you a titan of power. He was unstoppable. David who slayed Goliath before your very eyes. Now, he seems a shell of the man before. He is spindly, arms and legs like dying tree limbs, skin like peeling bark. A mere exhale would send him falling to the ground. You know you tread on shaky, unstable ground, but you try all the same.

“I’m glad he invited you.”

“Are you?” Ka’ered looks up from the hard-packed earth and pins you with a beady stare. “You have your Mandalorian back, but now you’re saddled with me and that hunk of junk he calls a droid. Are you really so happy he brought our sorry asses along?”

Your steps falter at the ire in Ka’ered’s voice. You gape, uncertain of how to respond. “I—Yes! Yes, I’m happy. With Breeth dead, there was no—”

Ka’ered stops walking, spinning you to a halt with a hand to your bicep. “I killed him! I killed Breeth! I did! With my own two hands and with you and your Mandalorian laying by—”

“Hey!” Din shoulders his way into the fray. He shields your body with his breadth, and for once, you are thankful for the possessive gesture. “What’s going on?”

A juvenile instinct to defend yourself, to pin the blame on the other, rises in your throat, but you tamp it down. Enough emotion plagues Ka’ered’s face as it is. You don’t need to add to the swell of grief and misery engulfing him. 

“I did what you needed me to, Mandalorian.” Ka’ered positions himself a stride away from Din. He puffs his chest, but his narrow and broken body does not cut the imposing figure he might hope. “I killed your quarry for you, and you took me from my home of the last ten years. You took me from the family I made my own. As fucked as it was.” He tosses his arms outward, palms turned toward the sky, gesture ambivalent and crushed at the same time. “So what’s your plan for me now? Now that I’ve done your dirty work for you and there’s nothing more you need me for… What are you going to do with me?”

It strikes you that Din—that the Mandalorian—holds an inordinate amount of power. Whether he means to or not, he juggles the futures of those closest to him, even by mere proximity, in the palms of his hands. Grogu, you, Ka’ered, and H-Ten. He is a magnet, and those who stray into his path are pulled within his flux.

Pushing around Din’s back, you interrupt that flux. You knew Ka’ered first; he helped you first. Perhaps reassuring him will soothe both your wounded heart and his. 

“You can start over,” you tell him. “Do whatever you want. Be whatever you want.” 

Like water draining from a leaking basin, the emotion drains from Ka’ered’s face. He turns to you with sad, swollen eyes. “I… don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I am…”

You reach out to graze his wrist with your fingers. “Then… maybe Mando is right. Maybe we should rest here for a while. Figure things out.”

It takes a moment more of convincing and bating the ragged physician with promises of your mother’s famous cream buns to get him walking again. You offer him the chance to lead the way until the way becomes more precise, and he takes it, back a little straighter than before. 

You fall into step beside Mando. Stars, the cool breeze feels good. It was nippy at first, biting like the memories that swirl around your ankles, but you relish the kiss of air. You won’t take it for granted anymore. After days without true freedom, simply standing beneath the vast expanse of the sky is a gift, a healing token from the Maker. 

“Did good.”

At first, you don’t register that Din is talking to you. His gruff compliment comes and goes like a leaf on the breeze. But then you hear it again, a whisper through rustled branches. Did good. You did good.

You shake your head. “Didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not true.” Din shortens his strides to match yours. “He needed talked down. What you said helped. Give yourself more credit.”

“It’s not that I don’t want the credit. I’m vain as fuck.” He huffs, and you smile at your shoes, kicking a loose clump of dirt forward. “I guess… I feel like it’s the least I can do. He helped me from the start but I never thought—never wanted —him to go as far as murder. I feel like I’ve corrupted him or something.”

“You get used to it.”

“What if—What if I don’t want to get used to it?” The question weighs heavily enough and Din is quiet enough that you hurry to fill in the empty space. “I’m sorry,” you say, dragging your hand across the back of your neck. “This place—it just makes me feel different.”

“Different? How?”

“I dunno.” You narrow your eyes toward the sky and inspect the beginnings of sunset bleeding crimson over pale blue. How many years has it been since you watched a sunset here? “Just… different…”

Conversation ceases. Momentum takes precedence. Maybe Din knows about the Ashwigs or maybe he doesn’t, but he overtakes Ka’ered’s lead. Ushering the group forward with a stern command, the pace quickens. One step and then another. One stride and then another. A punishing, unrelenting pace to be sure, but you doubt the burn in your thighs hurts as badly as the chomp of an Ashwig’s teeth.

The ground lifts, angling upward, the beginning of the Bélon Valley’s bowled surroundings. With each labored breath, the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glance over your shoulder. Though tall trees, arms hanging heavy with lush leaves, obscure your view, you know—time is wasting. The Ashwigs will be out soon.

“Hey, Mando.” You jog forward, catching his elbow. “Not sure if you know this but—” 

“Shh.”

You stop. Frown. Put your hands on your hips. “I’m sorry. Did you just shush me?”

A foot ahead of you, Din turns at the waist. He lays a finger to his lips and cocks his head.

Indignation is a hearty snack after a hard trek, but it disappears in an instant, scared away, as you follow Din’s line of sight. Just ahead—illuminated by a glowing beam of moonlight—an Ashwig. The first hunter of the night.

“Ah yes.” H-Ten catches up with you. His limbs clank and groan after hours of steady use. “It appears we have come across an Ashwig.” His mechanical voice echoes in the thick forest. “They are native—” 

A gun clicks. Din grabs the juncture between H-Ten’s shoulder and neck. Angling the muzzle of his blaster upwards, he taps the droid’s pointed chin with his weapon. “Say another word,” he whispers. “And your head rolls down that hill.”

You don’t know whether to be thankful—or extremely turned on.

Any burst of relief or arousal turns to dread when Ka’ered, behind several paces, falls. He falls, twisting his ankle, and he cries out. 

The sound splits the air like glass breaking. The tenuous moment of safety evaporates. 

The Ashwig turns. You hold your breath. 

It sniffs. Your eyes slide to Din, still gripping H-Ten, though his helm now faces the stinking beast. 

You motion to Ka’ered. Slicing your hand near your neck, you beg him to quiet his cries. Damn, did he break his ankle? Or is he releasing the entirety of his bottled emotions? He howls, clutching his injury, rocking back on his spine. He is blind to the Ashwig, blind to you. But the Ashwig is blind too; as they all are, their one fatal flaw. The beast is blind, and if Ka’ered can shut up for long enough, maybe the thing will go away and terrorize someone else. 

“Ka’ered!” you hiss. “Please!”

But he will not be moved from his wound, internal or external. 

The Ashwig hears Ka’ered’s cry and slinks out of the moonbeam. It stands on its hind legs, talons reaching down to its knobby knees. Two long tusk-like fangs protrude from its mouth and drip with saliva. It’s hungry. 

Lunging with exponential speed and agility, the Ashwig makes for Ka’ered. You scream and drop to your ass as it whizzes past you. Its scent—rotten leaves and shit—invades your nose. Wiry hair glistens in the paleness of night. 

Clumps of damp earth beneath your palms, the slip and slide of your heels on tilted earth, hard and gasping breaths—none of it compares to the sound of Ka’ered’s flesh being torn from his body. 

Din is on you—fast. He yells something unintelligible and throws his body over yours before the Ashwig is done with Ka’ered. You cannot see—cannot breathe—cannot think. You’ve done this. Ka’ered’s demise is your fault. His agonized screams and his leg being torn from his body and eaten before his very eyes is your fault. You brought him further into the plan to take down Breeth; you filled his head with ideas about winning and power. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for—

A rough shake to your shoulder. “Scout!” 

Life—the forest and the black sky beyond the trees—comes clear. You shake your head of its ringing. “What?”

“At my hip.” Din nods to his waist. “Take out the weapon at my waist.”

His position as a human shield rendering him motionless, you don’t ask questions. You simply do. With scrabbling fingers, you find the hilt of something at his waist. The weapon is heavy. It vibrates with something untold, and you wonder where he’s been hiding this from you. Whatever it is.

“Put it in my palm.”

You reach up, slide the ribbed hilt into his hand. 

“I’m going to move,” he says, and you can feel his wide eyes on yours. “When I count to three, I’m going to get up and kill that thing and I want you to roll beneath the bush. Do you understand me? Nod if you—”

“Yes! I understand you.”

“Okay. One—two—” He moves as he speaks three. 

As Din instructed, you roll to your right, slipping beneath the underbrush of a nearby berry bush. Jagged twigs snag your hair and the flesh of your cheeks, but here, beneath the overgrowth, you feel moderately safe. You can watch as Din rises to his full height beneath the Ashwig. You can see as he pushes a button and some dark, glowing thing extends from the weapon at his hand. It is demonic and angelic at once. You do not understand it.

Din lifts the weapon over his head. He makes as though to impale the Ashwig through its back, but an angry, war-like scream gives him pause. He looks to his left. You squint. No thanks to the bush branches and Din’s absurdly wide back, it’s hard to see clearly. A scuffle of feet and the clang of metal, shouted words and hurried movements. A yelp—doglike—and then a thud. 

The Ashwig is dead.

You scramble out from beneath the bush, stumbling to your feet. The weapon at Din’s side dematerializes before you can get a good look at it; he hides it on his person once again. 

“Ka’ered!” You drop to your knees beside your friend. He is mangled, but breathing. Somehow—either by a blessing or oversight of the Maker—he is breathing. Unconscious, missing a leg, and perhaps a part of his right cheek, but breathing.

You find Din through watery eyes. “He’s alive.” A tear carves a path down your split cheek. “He’s alive.”

Din looks down at your crumbled and tired form, and you take in his current standing. He holds the outer forearm of a man. A man somewhere between squat and average-height. A man with a barrel chest and long, braided hair. A man who says your name—your true name—with wonder.

“Faeir?” On shaking legs, you stand. “Father?” 

The man says your name again, dropping Din’s forearm. He angles his body toward yours and opens his arms. “Bundeet.” 

My child.

At last, the prodigal daughter has returned.

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-THREE—LOCATION: INORA

Your father smells like wood chips. It is a sharp aroma, cutting to the core of you with memories of a past life. You press your face closer to his chest and breathe deeply. He holds you tight; and though your friend lay dying on the ground, though your lover stands by watching with uncertainty, you cling to that which made you.

Your heart beats, steady as a drum: home, home, home.

/

The grove falls quiet. A gentle breeze whispers through the surrounding trees, and a light rain pings off of H-Ten’s bulky frame. All is still after the Ashwig’s demise; at the blade of the Darksaber, no less. Din remains rooted to the earth, secured only by the knowledge that you are safe. You are safe. 

His teeth chatter in his skull, fingers vibrating with the remnants of the Darksaber’s power. He never used it before that moment, before driving it through the curved back of the attacking beast. He never wanted to use it. He never wanted it in the first place. But now its supernatural potency stains his hands with blood. He has wielded the Darksaber now; he has made it his own. He isn’t quite sure what that means, but he knows after using the Saber he stands before a decision. One which could shift his future entirely…

So, he ignores it—that monstrous choice—and chooses to lift Ka’ered from the ground. 

Poor guy didn’t weigh much to begin with, but he weighs even less now. The bloody stump at his groin where his leg was once attached hangs in a tattered mess of fibrous flesh and sinew. Din cringes at the sight. The doctor needs a doctor—and fast. 

Stepping forward, he avoids the picture of you in the arms of your father. He trains his gaze high to the thick canopy of tree limbs overhead. He clears his throat. “I think we should find somewhere to hide for the night. Ka’ered needs medical attention.”

You push out of your father’s embrace and turn, wiping the tears shining on your cheeks. “Yes, yes. You’re right, Mando. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” The clipped tone makes you wince and makes Din bite his tongue. He swallows a sigh. “Where can we go?”

Your father eyes him. He drags his gaze from helmet to foot then stretches out his hand for you to grasp. “This man is right, bundeet . Your friend needs help, and more Ashwigs may come.” He nods to Din. “Our home is not far.”

The journey—once paused for altercation then transformed to reunion—resumes.

Within moments, it becomes apparent your father should re-evaluate his approximation of not far . What Din assumed would be a simple walk continues on, stretching into a hike and then a trudge. The drizzle turns to storm. Raindrops collide with his armor and soaks the exposed material of his flight suit. Ka’ered grows heavy in his arms.

Fucking Ashwig. Fucking rain. Fucking human need for rest and recuperation. He should have pushed you. He should have encouraged you to go on, not take a breather. Then all of this—Ka’ered and the Ashwig and your father—could have been avoided. Then he could have continued to tend whatever the fuck is growing in his heart like a weed. If only, if only…

A cool hand taps Din’s shoulder, breaking his internal tirade. “Excuse me, Mandalorian. Do you require assistance?”

“No, H-Ten.” Gritting his teeth, Din shifts Ka’ered’s dead weight to the side. “I’m fine.”

“I can carry our—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Ahead, you glance over your shoulder, a pinch in your brow at the sound of Din’s strained voice. You are drenched to the bone, and the thin material of your clothes clings to the outline of your body. Rain catches in your eyelashes. Your eyes stare, wide and vulnerable. Childlike. You open your mouth, lips glistening with moisture, but before you can speak, your father drops a heavy cloak around your shoulders. Your attention shifts—away from Din, away from the blossom in his chest—and you turn to your father with a muted smile. Just the upward pull of your mouth; a hidden grin. Yet Din sees it, and he frowns.

“Can we go any faster?”

“We’re almost there.” 

Your father soon ushers the group down a steep incline. Mud squelches beneath Din’s boots, and he angles himself to keep from losing his grip on the slippery earth. H-Ten offers again to assume the mantle of carrying Ka’ered, but Din refuses. He won’t give up. Not in front of you. Though his leg muscles scream and the cold of the rain turns his arms numb, he is too proud to quit.

Once on solid ground in the valley, your father points to a hut across a small expanse of tilled land. An orange light flickers in the front window; a bushel of dried flowers hangs from the door post. “There. Hurry. My wife will help you.”

Lowering his head against the rainy onslaught, Din pushes his way forward. One step and then another. Ka’ered, idiot though he is, deserves that much. 

The front door swings open as he crests the doorstep. A woman with painted eyelids and thin lips gives him a startled look before registering her husband beyond Din’s shoulder. Her gaze softens, and she reaches out to brush Ka’ered’s sweat-matted forehead. Din swallows a lump in his throat. You have your mother’s eyes.

“On the table,” the woman says. She moves to the side to allow Din passage, and he ducks his head as he enters the cabin. “You can lay him out here.”

With a sweeping gesture, the woman removes the room’s sole table of its contents. Plates and farm tools clatter to the floor. Din deposits Ka’ered on the table and backs away. He feels gargantuan in the low-roofed hut. He feels obsolete when you brush past him and take a poultice from your mother’s hand. Straight to work; only a passing glimmer of acknowledgement between you.

As your father did, your mother says your given name when she orders you to strip Ka’ered from the waist down. Din cringes. That’s not your name; Scout is your name. Unless—unless you no longer wish it to be… Standing here, in your childhood home, he realizes so much could change in the coming hours. If the embrace you shared with your father is a fortune teller then Din should prepare himself for a bleak reading. He glances at his palm—the one covered in leather and mesh between the finger tips. He once thought the grooves in your hand matched his own, but now he isn’t so sure. Perhaps you diverge in the wood, diverge in the now, in this thatched-roof house where you belong.

He should have kept you in the stars. He should have never brought you here.

“Thank you.”

Din startles at the low-toned voice. He whips his head to the side and meets the pointed stare of your father. “What?”

“For returning my child to me.” 

The man flicks his gaze to the center of the room; Din follows his eyeline. You bustle around your mother, obeying her orders as any dutiful child might. Your brow glistens with the sweat of hard labor and stress, and your hands remain steady despite their recent bath in Ka’ered’s blood. Pride swells in Din’s chest. Good girl. No, not girl. You hold your own, even under the watchful gazes of your estranged family. You do as your mother bids you, but you counter her points with suggestions of your own and you hold your chin high. You stand with your back straight and face open. 

Good woman. You are a good woman. He loves you—utterly and endlessly. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Din returns his attention to your father. “She needed rest.”

Your father frowns, and a shadow crosses his weathered brow. “I assume I should not ask about the things she has seen… out there…”

“No. You shouldn’t.”

Your father pauses before shifting his body to face Din. He offers his arm. “I am Giraw. My wife is Vara.” 

“Call me Mando.” Din clasps Giraw’s forearm for the second time, nodding once in deference. “She…” He glances at you then says, “She goes by Scout now.”

Giraw follows the line of Din’s visor to your face. You look up and smile—at Din, at only Din—and your father smirks. “Yes, she always possessed a keen eye when I took her hunting as a child.” He backs away a step, making a sign with two extended fingers from chin to chest. “ Tá tú mar mhac dom. ”

The statement feels weighty enough that Din looks to you with a question in his eye. Though you cannot see his confusion, he’s sure you can feel it. You read him like a worn scroll passed from generation to generation. He is ancestral folklore to you, something ingrained within your very being from birth. You know him—inside and out. And he likes to think he knows you, too.

Pausing in your work with your mother, you stare at him with parted lips and eyes shining with tears. He frowns, turning to look at your father then back to you. You shake your head, drag a bloody hand over your cheek, then laugh to yourself. Later, you mouth.

“Come.” Giraw clasps Din’s shoulder and gently pushes him toward a side room. “Help me prepare a space for your injured friend to rest his head.”

It is hard work to leave you. Din hesitates, his heart yawning in his chest to meet yours. He hasn’t had enough time with you since returning from Breeth’s clutches. His tongue is parched, and you are the only drink that can quench his thirst.

But you are right. Basking in your sweet elixir will have to wait. 

Still, later cannot come soon enough.

/

It is late in the night when you slip into the cramped bedroom you once shared with Jeelia. Legs like plaster, you stumble forward, pushing aside any hesitation you feel at being here—in this place—with Din. What was once a place of girlish giggles and whispered secrets is now a tomb, everything untouched where you left it, a cloud of dusty memories in the air. Din should not be here; you both know that. This is your sanctuary, a place of personal praise, but still he is here, sitting on the edge of the bed that was once yours. And when you see him, when you cross the threshold after years and years of running, to you he seems like a gust of the Maker’s breath. He is a flower growing through cracked and broken cement. A little unsure, a little hesitant in the way he rises from the bed and shuffles from side to side, but he is a precious bloom nonetheless.

You drop to a wooden stool by the door with an exaggerated exhale. 

He snorts through his nose, his readiest sign of amusement. “Long day?”

Loaded question—ever since the start, he’s been good at asking those. “You could say that…”

“There’s blood in your hair.” He gestures to your scalp, but does not reach out to touch you.

You lift a hand, looking up as you touch your hair. As if you might see the evidence of your friend’s near-death experience. You can’t see the blood that stains you, and it’s just as well. Ka’ered’s broken and bleeding body sprawled out on the table will remain burned like an effigy in your mind for all eternity.

Dropping your hand to your lap, you blink at the dried blood, crimson gone to rust. “I guess there is.”

“Let me wash it.”

You do not fight him as he lifts a wide-lipped bowl from the bedside table. He was planning this, waiting for you to return from the makeshift hospital in your kitchen so he could cleanse you—again. Sweet boy.

With a gentle hand, he takes a rag and dips it into the bowl. He holds one shoulder to steady you as he bathes your head. It’s a christening. A christening of love maybe… Whatever it is, the warm water feels good on your sweaty scalp, and your eyes flutter shut. The hard work of the day settles into your bones, hollowing you out with an ache. 

“You’re tired.”

“Yes,” you say in a sigh.

Din moves the rag from your head, skimming his thumb from temple to chin. “Proud of you.”

Fervor mounts in your chest, a warmth spreading through your veins like wildfire. Tears spring to your eyes. You stand, pushing away to wipe at your face and drag the dirty clothes from your body.

“You seemed agitated earlier.” Shirt over your head, trousers down your legs. You reach for a white linen nightgown, stained with age at the hem, laid out for you on a chipped chest of drawers. 

“Did I?”

“With my father, particularly. I could tell. I could see it… in your shoulders.” Looking over your shoulder, you arch a brow as you tug the night dress over your head. “You’re an easily pissed off man, but what did he ever do to you?”

Din shrugs, turning to wring out the wash cloth. Pale pink water drips into the bowl.

You decide to push the issue. Not because you care—because you don’t give a rat’s ass if Din likes your father or not—but because the only alternative is discussing them and this and what’s next and you have no answers for any of it. All you know is your heart is swollen to bursting, and the hour you spent sitting with your parents by the firelight after shushing Ka’ered to sleep seems too fragile a moment to even consider. You will leave it for the light of day. When you’re sure this isn’t a fever dream, that this isn’t something you concocted in your post-Breeth, delirious haze.

At home in Inora—with your parents—with Din. Gods, who would have thought?

“He didn’t do anything to me.” Din drops to the edge of the bed, and the frame groans but holds firm. He tugs off his boots caked in mud, one by one. “But he—” He pulls off his gloves, and you fight the urge to suck in a harsh breath. So nonchalant; how far you have come with one another.

“He what?”

Through the visor, Din’s eyes pierce yours. “I am closer to his age than I am to yours.”

“Wait… that’s your issue? Our difference in ages? That’s why you were so standoffish? Because you think you’re old?”

“It’s not funny, Scout.”

“I’m not laughing!” Moving closer, you grab Din’s hand from where it rests in a fist on his thigh. You unfurl his fingers, sliding your palm alongside his. “Hey,” you say. “Hey, look at me.” He looks up, disgruntled. “Hush with that nonsense.”

He huffs. “Did you just tell me to hush?”

Grinning, you slide onto his lap, knees on either side of his hips. You rest your ass on his legs and drape your hands around his neck, wrists crossed. It’s a comfortable position, one of familiar partners more than frenzied lovers. You fit well in his arms, and his hands mold to the curves of your waist. Interlocking pieces—jagged at the edges, perhaps forced together, but pieces that fit. 

“I did and I’ll say it again: hush . My dad is old, and maybe you’re older than I originally pictured but—” 

“If you saw me, you’d think I’m the crypt keeper.”

“Maybe. But a crypt keeper with a good dick.”

Din laughs at that, well and truly laughs deep in his chest; and you laugh with him. Shaking his head, he nuzzles the curve of his helm against your cheekbone. You lean into the touch. His substitute for a kiss.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he murmurs.

“Been a long time.”

“I know. For me too.”

Here, you think, is where you might kiss him if you could. The mood shifts as he lifts his eyes to meet yours, and though you cannot see the color of his irises, you can feel the depth and purpose in his stare. He brushes his palm over the back of your head, pulling your forehead to meet the crest of his helm. He releases a heavy sigh, and you press your palms to his shoulder blades, holding him close.

“What was it your father said to me?” he asks. “When he moved his hand like that and you were—” 

No, not now. You don’t want to talk about that now.

You shake your head. “Later.” Shifting in his lap, you grind your body against his hips and pull back the neck of his flight suit enough to drag your tongue across his skin. You nip at his flesh. He hisses. “Later.”

Din relents of his curiosity and surrenders to your tide of arousal inching closer to his shore. After such a long week, he is your lighthouse. You find refuge in him. In this way—with tangled limbs and hushed breaths—he preserves you.

Pressing his palm to the base of your spine, he forces your heat against his hardening length. Your throat catches on an inhale, and he taps the curve of your ass with his palm. “Ah, ah. Quiet, mesh’la . Your parents are in the other room.”

Your cunt quivers, muscles squeezing in obscene pleasure. Yes, your parents are in the other room. They sleep in their beds, content to know their second-born has returned to the fold. Eyes closed and minds adrift, they don’t know—they can’t know—that Din drags your nightgown over your head, revealing your naked body to the room. They can’t know that he presses the pad of his thumb to your nipple and pinches the bud until it forms a peak. 

No one needs to know. No one but you and him and the nighthawk, that glorious bird, singing outside your room’s only window.

You arch your spine, pushing your chest forward into Din’s warm palms. He releases a breath that groans through the modulator. With careful precision, he massages your breasts, flicking his thumb over either nipple. You rut your dampening core over the bulge in his flight suit. The pressure of his cock against the exposed and wet folds of your body feels nice, but it isn’t enough. You grip his shoulders, head tossed back on a pitiful whine, and ride harder. 

Din moves his hands to your hips. Forward and backward, he pushes and pulls you against himself. “There you go,” he mutters. “Just like that.”

Sweat breaks out on your forehead as heat rises in your body. Your clit trembles with energy. Like a radiating sun, you glow brighter and brighter, clinging to the effervescent release on the horizon. 

You cum with a muffled cry. Bending forward, you press your forehead to Din’s shoulder as you slow the frantic roll of your hips. He circles one arm around your waist and splays his hand across your back, pinning you to a sightless realm made of a thick, fibrous weave. But that’s okay. You can smell him through the flight suit: sweat and musk and nothing that should entice you yet it still does. You don’t need to see him to know he has you wrapped tight around his finger. You don’t need to see him to know he won’t abandon you—here or anywhere.

Something clatters to the floor. Din presses his mouth to your temple. You could weep.

“Put this on,” he whispers. 

His unmodulated voice gives you pause. An oil lamp shines on the bedside table, casting the room in a burnt orange glow. His helmet discarded on the floor, his lips to your temple, a strip of thin fabric in your palm. You could look at him. You could sit back and stare into his eyes. The urge crashes like a wave, but you resist the pull of the tide. Not until he’s ready; not until he wants to give that to you himself.

Keeping your eyes closed, you tie the wide strip of white linen around your eyes. It is not pitch black when you do risk a peek through the blindfold, but the world is fuzzy, indistinguishable forms blending with muted colors. Your heart trips in your chest. You stare Din in the face, unable to make out the most sacred part of himself. Yet with the helmet gone and the linen like gauze, he is closer than he’s ever been.

Din resumes his careful inspection of your breasts now that the helmet is out of the way. He laves his tongue from one nipple to the other. Around and around, he sucks on your nipple, gripping your waist tight to keep you from dripping to goo. You clutch the back of his head to steady yourself, and the feel of his soft hair between your fingers is heaven. 

Pulling back, he inhales, gasping as though parched. A gust of rainy wind sweeps through the room, chilling the warm path he drags across your sternum. 

“Lay back,” he says. You comply without hesitation. 

The thin quilt beneath your body stands at odds with the way Din rips off his clothes. The quilt is traditional, worn in all the right places, a presentation of civility. Din undresses as though good sense never existed. 

Your chest rises and falls to a quick rhythm. You can hear the rustle of his clothes hitting the floor, and you can feel his palm skim from ankle to the inside of your thigh, but nothing prepares you for the electricity that carves through you when he pushes two fingers against your wet center. You fist your hand in the quilt, nails tearing at the carefully crafted squares. It’s been too long without this; you thought you would never have this again.

“Just wanna—” Din curses under his breath as he slides two fingers into your pussy. “Shit, you’re tight.”

You bite your lower lip. He feels good—he always feels good—and his fingers work a steady pace in your cunt, but you want more of him. Always more. You are insatiable, and your body demands to be satisfied.

Bucking your hips against his fingers, you brush your foot over his thigh. It’s hard to see, but you feel his muscles tighten beneath your toes. “Are you gonna fuck me with your cock? Or are you gonna make me beg?”

Din makes a sound of indignation. He grabs your shins with both hands, forcing your knees to your chest. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold. Your mouth runs dry. Back on the Sunder, Din tiptoed around the grittier parts of his—and your—desires. No biting, no spanking, no quick retorts in the midst of a heated exchange. He made love to you; he didn’t fuck you. The apparent return of his rougher palate sends your nerves into overdrive.

“Here.” He shuffles forward on his knees, bent between your legs like your cunt is some sort of profane altar. Gently, with feather-like touches, he moves the head of his cock from the top of your slit to the bottom. Up and down, up and down, sweeping strokes that buzz. “This what you want?”

“Yes.” Your eyes roll heavenward, and you release a cloistered breath. “Yes…”

“Then take it.”

With a quick thrust, Din slides to the hilt of you. Starlight explodes behind your eyes. You cry out, back arching as delicious pleasure settles in your stomach. 

He drops his hand to your mouth and his lips to your ear. “Hush.”

You bat his hand away. “Don’t tell me to hush.” You lock your ankles around his back with a grin. “I’ll be as loud and as mouthy as I want to be.”

“Want to give the whole village a show?” Taking hold of the inside of your knees, he pushes, stretching and exposing your pussy clenched tight around his cock. “I can get on board with that.”

You don’t have time to react or question before he begins a relentless pace. In and out, his cock slams into your body. You lose your breath entirely and slap your hand on the wall behind you to keep from banging your skull against the soft plaster. Your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts.

It is erotic and feral, reminiscent of the first time he took you bent over the annex table. You cling to him, mind, body, and soul. He is yours, and you pray to whatever god that will listen that he remains yours. Even into the next life. Your partner, your mate. Your Din.

Fitting your hands on his biceps, you dig your nails into his flesh. Your hips rock in time with his unrelenting thrusts. The squelch of your juices around his body is a symphony. He fills you so well you could choke on the sensation. You grit your teeth as the buzz in your stomach builds. So close, dancing on the edge. 

Your clit rubs against his pubic bone as he fucks into you. “Maker…”

Din stutters on a grunt. He drops his forearms beside your head and angles his thrusts deeper. You twist your face to bite his wrist in an attempt to muffle your moan. 

“Look at me,” he says. He pushes your face away from his arm with a thumb to your chin, holding your face still, fingers splayed along your neck. “Look at me when you cum.”

Dutifully, you open your eyes. There is nothing for you to see but textured white cloth and the dim outline of a man hovering over you, but it is a beautiful image. Moisture further blurs your vision as the pleasure in your body mounts. Higher and higher, you climb to the peak.

“I can’t see you,” you say. “But sometimes I imagine what you look like. Brown hair—oh shit—and brown eyes. And when you smile, I bet you’re so handsome.” The confession spills from you like a prayer you did not know lived in your chest.

The thrusts pause, suspended in motion. Your heart beats wildly, and you search for fresh air to fill your chest. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” The words are a gentle, kind drag from labored lungs. He speaks with awe and devotion, and if it is not the words, then the tone of his response is witness to all he cannot say. Love, love, love.

Din grabs either side of your face. Laying his forehead to yours, he pummels his cock into your cunt. Each forward thrust brings his lips closer, closer, until he is a hair’s breadth away from a kiss. You close your eyes, mouth parted in anticipation. You want this, desperately; this sacred thing kept from you for so long. To feel his lips on yours would mean a true union. A union of mind and body. 

Fuck, you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him bad enough you could—

You cum without warning. A shudder curls through your spine like growing ivy. You wrap your arms around Din’s shoulders, bending your face into the curve of his neck. He tilts his face toward the back of your neck as he continues to pump into you. Thrust after thrust after—

He cums, and then he is kissing you.

His mouth claims yours as he rides out his high. There is nothing gentle about his kiss: he is tongue and teeth and a pressure so perfect you almost tumble into another orgasm. You match your tongue to his tongue, your lips to his lips. He is parched no more; you thirst for nothing.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, wetting your blindfold. Din pulls away from your mouth on a shaky exhale. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice like gravel. “I couldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I wanted to… I thought about waiting until you can see my face but…” He brushes his thumb over your lower lip, swollen by his touch. “You haunt me, Scout.”

Your heart trips. “What?”

“You haunt me. All day, all night—you consume me. Like a fucking plague.”

“Is that supposed to—”

But Din continues talking. He moves to lie on his back, drawing you with him, and still he talks. You are draped over his chest in the post-sex haze; the haze that clears fast as his words whistle past without pause. 

“I used to think that after Grogu, I’d never… feel anything again,” he begins. “That kid changed me, made me softer, but he made me better too. And then he was gone and I was back to nothing.” The hand on your shoulder drawing absent-minded circles stills, as does his voice. He shifts. “When Karga asked me if I wanted an apprentice, I was hesitant to let somebody else on the ship. I didn’t need the headache, not after losing my son. But then I saw you and your fire and I knew that even if you were a little shit, you’d get the job done with enough training. Somewhere in there… you got me to like you. And now—now you haunt me.”

The world shifts beneath your feet, twisting on a precarious axis. You haunt me , he says. I love you , you hear.

Swallowing hard, you lay your hand flat on his bare chest. His skin is warm, and his heartbeat pounds against your palm. Blood roars in your ears—delicious, fizzy, love-drunk blood—so you steady yourself with a thin exhale. 

“What is it your people say? That dumbass saying you repeat instead of giving me a straight answer?”

“You know what it is. Why are—”

“Just say it for me. Please.”

Din sighs, but he fits his palm over your hand on his chest. His other arm he moves from around your shoulder to secure behind his head. It is a languid pose, and you covet the opportunity to give him space to relax. “This is the Way.”

You steady your voice. “You are my Way, Din. For as long as you’ll have me, you are my Way.”

“Don’t make vows you won’t keep.”

“I may be a little shit, but I’m not a liar.” Pushing up on your elbow, you turn your face to him. Despite the blindfold covering your eyes, you see him clearly. He is nothing but a man with a splintered heart and deep, untreated wounds. You will treat those wounds; with care and patience and whatever else he may desire. “I am yours. All of me.” 

Din says nothing more. His words have run dry, so he leans forward to press his lips to yours. A gentle caress, understated yet layered with so much of what he is unable to say. But maybe one day—for you both.

Until then, you will kiss him. You will love him. 

This is your Way.

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-FOUR—LOCATION: INORA

Morning comes and with it, there is rebirth. 

You lay tucked in Din’s arms, your back to his chest. He is warm, and the window is open, and hope filters through the parted curtains on a gentle breeze. With the storm passed, the sky is bright, the sun dazzling. The future unwinds like a tangled chain, swinging free and boundless from your grasp. You can have anything, be anything—so long as you are with him.

From the window sill, a bird chirps. The sound swoops up and down like the sudden rise and fall of a carpet of rolling hills. 

“What was that?” Din’s sleep-filled voice tickles the hair at the nape of your neck.

You smile, bending your face closer to his bicep. “A nighthawk.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s native to Inora. My sister had one when she was younger. She healed it after it broke its wing. I think the species must have some sort of collective memory or a profound way of communicating because there has been a nighthawk outside of our house ever since she returned her bird to the wild. It’s rarely the same one, and they aren’t very friendly, but they’re always there. Watching over us...”

Din smooths his knuckle over your bare shoulder, and his eyelashes fan your jaw as he blinks away the sleep clinging to his eyes. He is comfortable here—in bed with you, in your childhood home. You ache to touch his face and gaze into his eyes, but pushing closer to him is enough to satiate you for now.

“Where is she? Your sister?”

You release a breath trapped deep in your lungs, but you do not stiffen. He deserves the truth. “Dead,” you say. “I killed her.”

As you did not stiffen, he does not hesitate. “Take me to her.”

/

It is a long, silent walk from your parents’ cabin to the tree that overlooks the Bélon Valley. The tree is ancient, older than anything you can imagine, perhaps old enough to have witnessed the birth of Inora itself. Its wide, pale brown trunk stretches toward the heavens; its drooping limbs with fragrant leaves sway in the morning air. There is wisdom here, seeped in the dirt beneath your boots. 

You reach out to touch the tree trunk. The peeling bark is soft against your palm. “This was her favorite place.”

Din crouches beside the base of the tree and runs his thumb over an etching near an exposed root. A sun and a moon—your initials in the moon, Jeelia’s printed in the sun—the celestial bodies spun together like dancing ribbons. Entwined together until the tree breathes its last—even now.

“Jeelia was furious when she found my carving.” Grinning, you kneel beside Din, brushing a loose wave of hair away from your face. “She said I’d defaced the tree and its natural beauty. But I made it for us. She was all I had for so long, and I wanted to put it down somewhere. So that everyone would know. She was my sun and I was her moon and you can’t have one without the other. Can you?”

You turn away from the etching and lean against the tree. Feigning nonchalance, you drop your forearms on your bent knees. “Truth is, I don’t know where she’s buried. I don’t know if I want to ask. I just know that we liked it here, her and I. And I think…” You bite your lower lip to keep the rising emotion at bay. “I think if she had to pick where she would… be… it would be here.”

Din twists in his squat. He moves at the waist to scan the horizon, glowing with the waning color of sunrise. He wears his flight suit and his helmet and you cannot read him clearly, but the fact that he has not run from you yet eases the strain in your chest. 

“What happened?”

You blink, looking away from the bug crawling over the toe of your boot. “I told you: I killed her.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Does it matter? You know my darkest secret now. I’ve told you everything. You're free to go and leave me. I’d understand if you did.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Slowly, he lowers himself to the ground, mirroring your bent knees and draped arms. He tilts his head to the side. “I just want to know what happened.”

So you tell him. With a pounding heart and sweating palms, you tell him everything. About the bad harvest and your parents looking for work outside the farm. About Jeelia finding a job of her own and how you remained idle. You tell him about the swindlers who brought such gilded hope to the valley, but took it all away with the snap of their fingers. You tell him about Rendell Crik and the shot that was meant for him, the one that silenced Jeelia. You tell him about the running and the running and the running. About the fucked up shit you did to stay alive. You tell him about how you found Karga and offered yourself up to the Guild. You tell him every gritty detail, every twisted note of your requiem, and when it is over, he simply cups your chin in his fingers.

“Sweet girl,” he says and there is such fondness in his voice you nearly cry. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

//

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-FIVE—MIDNIGHT

Din brought you to Inora for rest. He promised you respite from the gnarled hand of Misfortune, a moment to catch your breath before resuming course, but tonight you cannot sleep. Tonight rest seems as foreign to you as the man who lays beside you once did. 

The air in your room sticks to your skin like honey. Sweat drips down the curve of your spine, pooling in the waistband of your thin pants. Din’s soft exhales pick at your frayed nerves, and the click-click-click of H-Ten’s charging port in the cabin’s main room sets your teeth on edge. A whirlwind of frantic energy builds in your chest, burning brighter with each click outside the door and puhh at your ear. You need out. Before the energy in your chest consumes you whole, burning you to a pile of ash on your bed, you need out. 

Sitting up, you swing your legs over the side of the mattress and shove your feet into your boots. No—too big, too much wiggle room for your toes. Din’s boots. Whatever, doesn’t matter. They will be off as soon as you make it to the pond.

Crawling through your bedroom window is an easy feat. How many times did you sneak out in your youth? How many times did you find solace in the wind and the shin-high grasses and the cool earth beneath your toes? Too many times to count. Straddling the window sill and dropping to the ground is your second language, and you greet the humid night with your age-old hello.

With little pretense, you take off for the grove of trees behind your family farm. Legs pumping, you clomp with giant-like feet toward your oldest place of refuge. Din’s boots make it hard to go as fast as you might like, but you welcome the exercise anyway. In and out you breathe through your mouth as you race over the sloping ground. Though moonlight paves a way through the wooded landscape, you know this land. It is as much a part of you as your own flesh. To be back on this soil, when you thought you would never return, it makes you run all the harder, a smile breaking the thin line of your mouth.

The pond— your pond—cuts into view as you round a boulder covered in moss. You stop abruptly, arms swinging to catch your balance. There, like the open arms of an old friend, your pond glitters in the moonlight.

You shed your clothes without a second thought and leave the items by the pond’s edge as you step into the frigid water. You hiss, drawing your arms close to your sides, but continue further. Deeper, deeper, until the water laps at your collarbone. Goose flesh pimples your arms, and you kick your legs back and forth to keep from turning to a frozen cube. Or worse yet: sinking to the bottom. Still, the cold water is a balm to your hot skin. You sigh, kicking back to float atop the water’s surface. 

The sky above you, the water a buoy beneath you—it is like your youth come back. Not to haunt you, as you thought it might. Months ago you pictured this moment—once again basking in your silvery pond beneath the starlit sky—but there was no rest here. There was only dread and fear and your sister’s mossy hands reaching up from the pond’s depths to drag you to the slimy bottom. You are surprised to find your heart at ease, your mind at peace. Perhaps Din was right. Perhaps Inora held the rest you were searching for all along.

The last day has been strange. Even alien. You are a stranger in your own home yet—

Yet you do not feel your parents’ scorn as you thought you might. You thought they would turn you out as soon as Ka’ered was out of danger. You thought they would rue the day they ever brought you into existence. But since returning your mother has brought you a cup of tea and your father has touched your shoulder; and in that tea and that touch you have found a silent form of redemption. There is still much to be said, much to repair, but the beginning of healing sits in your lap like a wrapped parcel. It is up to you and you alone to unwrap the gift.

In your own time, you will. There is no more need to run.

You close your eyes and float on the pond like a water lily. No longer a pile of smoked ashes, but a flower. You are blooming still.

“Geez, you run fast.”

With a screech, you flop to your stomach, eyes scanning for the sudden voice. Shit! Where is your blaster? Did you bring it? You don’t remember. Fuck, you’re an idiot! Even on Inora there are—

Gentle laughter from the edge of the pond gives you pause. “Scout. Scout! It’s just me.”

The haze of red fear dissipates from your vision, giving way to the blue of night. Din stands on the bank of the pond, hands on his hips, helmet secure over his face. His dark linen pants, borrowed from your father, fit snug over his muscular thighs, and the sweat on his bare chest glistens under the moonlit sky. 

You fling the excess water from your face, pushing away wet strands of hair from your cheeks. “How did you find me?”

He taps the side of his helmet. “Heat signature.”

Narrowing your eyes, you frown. “That’s cheating.”

He shrugs. “I woke up and you weren’t there. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah.” You nod in earnest. “Yeah, I’m okay. I couldn’t sleep. Too hot.”

“Can I join you?”

For a moment, you hesitate. This pond, like your bedroom, is your own. Nary a soul has come here; not with you anyway. Somehow Din continues to ease his way into the most sacred parts of your life. And rather than resist it, you like the idea of opening the door and allowing him inside.

“Sure,” you say. Your lips curl into a smirk as you point to his legs. “But those have to come off.”

Din glances from his pants to the pile of clothes beside his discarded boots. He laughs through his nose, and the sound twists your gut. Dutifully, he bends to the side, kicking off the pair of worn boots he found somewhere in your house, before tugging down his trousers. The fabric pools around his ankles, and you struggle to keep the adolescent flutter in your chest from breaking your face into a smile. You bite your lip and kick your legs back and forth, treading water as Din makes his way into the pond. He mutters a curse upon entry. Laughing, you fling your arm across the top of the water, pushing a small wave of frigid cold onto his chest.

“Dank farrick! That’s cold! Come ‘ere.”

Lunging forward, Din grabs your arm, wrenching you to himself. You squeal, twisting and turning to keep from being caught in his embrace. He is stronger, though, and you are too happy to fight him for long. You relent, and he pushes you beneath the water with a firm hand to the top of your head. Despite time helping you adjust to the chill, being completely submerged does not protect you from the all-consuming cold. When you resurface, you sputter, gasping for the warm summer air.

“No fair!” Teeth chattering, you slap his arm. “You didn’t warn me!”

“Neither did you!” Din circles his arm at the small of your back, pushing your naked breasts flush to his chest. “You could have told me it was cold as tits out here.”

Draping your arms around his shoulders, you give a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe I forgot.”

“Liar.”

You sigh and rest your cheek on his shoulder. You twine your legs around his waist and cling to him. Your partner, your lover, your Way.

With a content hum, you nuzzle your cheek against his skin. “You’re nice and firm,” you murmur.

He gives your ass a sharp pinch, and you yelp. “Not quite yet.”

You roll your eyes. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

Conversation lulls. Din holds you beneath the stars. That is all you need.

Maker, you could live in this moment. Bottle it up, put it on a shelf, shake it anytime you need a glimpse of this goodness, this clarity. 

He drags his palm up and down the length of your back, his opposite arm firm against the rise of your ass. You push closer, push lower, and your exposed core bumps against his hardening length. You exhale, dragging your hips forward and back against him. A long, singular movement.

He grunts. “With the cold, it’s kinda difficult to—”

“Don’t care,” you whisper, and you don’t. You just want one thing from him right now. “Just kiss me.”

His hand stills at the center of your back, nails snagging on your skin. But soon he inhales, steadying himself. “Close your eyes then.”

You close your eyes. The dark night turns darker.

Din swims forward to where his feet find purchase on the pond’s sandy floor. His helmet thuds to the ground where he tosses it; and when he is situated, he wraps his free hand around the back of your neck. His mouth hovers over yours, and your lips part in anticipation. You can feel him, feel his closeness, feel the exhale of his soul mingle with yours.

He dips his head to the side. His lips brush over yours. Barely a caress before he pulls back and tilts his head to the opposite side, repeating the motion. You lean forward to catch his mouth but he pulls back again, chuckling. He nudges the end of your nose with his then flicks his tongue outward. Slowly, he outlines your mouth with the tip of his tongue. You can do nothing but pant and cling to him and resist the urge to rock your aching core against him.

When he finishes his outline, you sag in his arms. “Tease,” you whisper.

“Payback,” he says. “For all those tight”—a tap against your ass beneath the water—“tight”—another to the other cheek—“clothes you wear around the ship.”

“Like those do you?” You cock your head to the side, flashing him a wicked grin. Though you cannot see him, you sense his face morph into an indignant scowl. “I could always get more. Switch it up a little and—”

Groaning, Din moves his hand from the back of your neck to the front of your throat. He squeezes, applying gentle pressure to the bendable muscles of your neck. Your breath catches and something from long, long ago floats to the forefront of your mind.

I could snap you like a twig, girl.

I could crush you balls in my palm, Mandalorian.

How far you’ve come since the day it all began in the storeroom of a seedy cantina. How much you have grown. How much you have blossomed together.

You can resist the temptation no longer. Pushing forward into Din’s hand, you capture his mouth with yours. On instinct, his grip on your neck tightens. Yet still you kiss him, molding your lips to the curve of his mouth. His hold on your throat tightens further as you skim your tongue on the seam of his lips. In desperate search of air, your mouth opens, spots dancing at the corners of your vision. He releases your neck and secures both arms around your back, anchoring your body to his. The change of position gives him full access to your mouth, and he drinks you in without reserve.

You imagine it is messy: this dance of your tongue in his mouth and his teeth on your lips. Uncoordinated, feral, desperate, and at times unkind. He needs you as much as you need him, but you will fight to the top of the mountain, to the pinnacle of pleasure. There is no self-sacrifice here.

Din flutters his tongue against the tip of yours, and you moan, your hips giving an involuntary roll against him. The cold water is powerless against the heat of the moment. He is hard beneath you now, his cock pressed against the cleft of your ass. Shifting, you move to hold his face in your hands. Either palm on the column of his throat, your fingers skim the hair at his jaw, and you kiss him all the harder. He removes one hand from your back to knead the flesh of your breast, thumb against your nipple. Sucking his lower lip, you drop one hand beneath the water. You lift your hips enough to find his length and brush your fingers over his tip. He shudders, releasing your mouth with a shaking exhale.

“Fuck.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck. “Don’t—don’t tease me.”

You grin, bending your cheek to rest against his temple. “It’s not as fun when you’re on the receiving end, huh?”

When you angle the flat of your palm against the head of his cock, circling your fingers around the width of him, Din groans. You give a swift, hard jerk of his length, and his knees buckle. You somehow remember to keep your eyes closed as you both fall into the pond, and when you push through the surface of the churning water, Din’s mouth is on yours again. He fits his hands beneath your arms and drives you up the bank of the pond. Dirt and sand scrapes your back, and you hiss as he flips you onto your stomach.

“Lift your hips.” When you do not comply fast enough, he slaps your ass. The crack of flesh against flesh rips through the quiet of night. You struggle to find purchase on the slippery ground, and he strikes you again. “Do it.”

Bent on all fours, you present yourself to Din. You blink away the water clinging to your lashes and focus on the place where the grass meets the sand to keep from looking over your shoulder.

With careful consideration, he parts the slick lips of your cunt with two fingers, spreading you open wide. You swallow a lump in your throat, well aware of just how exposed you are in this position. Yet it does not bother you as deeply as you thought it might. It thrills you, ignites a flame in your core that ratchets higher and higher with each passing moment. He wants you, and only you, and whatever he wants, he can have.

When you wiggle your hips, he makes a sound of approval. He curls his fingertips into the flesh of your ass. “Pretty girl.”

You lurch forward on a gasp when the wet heat of his mouth meets your burning core. Dropping to your forearms, you close your eyes. “Shit…”

Din extends his arm, planting his hand in the middle of your back as he flicks his tongue through your cunt from behind. Your legs quiver as he drinks from your well. He works his muscle back and forth, in and out, until you are certain you can bear it no further. Your pussy flutters around his mouth, seizing around his tongue as he fucks into you. Faster, faster, fluttering his tongue at your clit like the rapid wings of a butterfly until—

“A-ha!” You cum, shattering around his tongue like brittle ice.

He does not give you time to recenter yourself before he is pushing into you from behind.

His cock stretches you open, pulling the fibrous sinews of your body taut. You struggle to your palms, fisting your hands in the dirt beneath your fingers. Being split apart like this, already open and raw and frazzled from your first orgasm, you feel as though you are turning into stardust. But you welcome this sparkling death.

Your eyes roll back into your head as he pushes to the base of himself within you then withdraws. Over and over, slower and slower, until you are dripping wet down the inside of your thighs and begging him to go faster. Bastard that he is, he snickers before he obliges. He circles his hand around the wet ends of your hair and grips your opposite hip. Your cunt trembles in suspense.

He thrusts hard and fast into your body. Like a thick spear, he impales you upon himself, and you submit to the cocktail of pain and pleasure. Each thrust tugs your hair tighter against your skull, tilting your face toward the heavens. You push against him, swiveling your hips in a tight circle, bending your spine to take him deeper.

He is fire and you are fuel, each building the other higher. He grunts into the night, each thrust pushing him closer to the most animal version of himself. You cannot catch your breath, but fuck, if you don’t want to cry from the pleasure of him. Of being so full of him. Only him.

Without warning, he sits back on his heels, pulling your back to his chest. Gently, he nudges your knees apart until your feet are planted firm on the ground on either side of him. 

“Bounce on my cock.” The gravel-flecked tone of his voice nearly sends you over the edge on its own.

You do as he bids you—because you always will in this place—and using your thigh muscles, propel yourself up and down his hard length. He finds your clit with ease and thumbs the bundle of nerves until you are sure tears mingle with the sweat cascading down your face. When you cum again, he holds you fast to his waist, grinding his cock deeper, deeper, deeper into your body. You clutch his knees, gritting your teeth as he continues to swirl your clit in delicious circles. It is not until your body flutters with a third, weeping orgasm that Din comes, releasing into your core with his milky seed. He clutches you to his body, his chest heaving against your back, his legs shaking beneath your thighs, until he is spent. Then—carefully, gently—he lays you on your back at the edge of the pond.

You stare empty-headed at the sky until he returns his helmet to his head.

Bending over you, Din urges you to look at him with a brush of his hand on your cheek. “You okay?”

Nodding, you exhale. “Yeah… But I think that was the best you’ve ever fucked me.”

Din laughs. He falls to his back beside you, tucking one arm behind his head. “Maybe. Or maybe you just like me more and it feels better now.”

“Whatever it is, we gotta make sure we do that again some time.”

As the grove returns to the undisturbed serenity of before, you work to catch your breath. Your legs tingle with unspent energy and your heart gallops in your chest. Still, you aren’t sure you’ll ever tire of this: of fucking Din, of loving him, of desiring him above all else. Fuck all your plans. You just want him.

“What was it your dad said to me?”

Pulled from your dream-clouded mind, you frown, head twisting to stare at him. Water collected in your ear sloshes to the side, and you wiggle your finger near your eardrum in a sorry attempt to remove it. “Huh?”

Din stares through the canopy of tree leaves overhead, his hands folded on his chest. “When we first got here, what was it your dad said to me? In your native language?”

“Oh.” You sit up. The thick cloud of dreamy thoughts evaporates under the heat of Din’s question. “That.”

“Yeah… that .” He lounges with one knee bent and the other leg extended, and if it weren’t for the nature of his question, you would consider riding his cock then and there. “You avoided the question once before. I want you to answer it now.”

You shake your head, casting him a sidelong glance. “You won’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you.”

“Try me.”

You suck in a breath before turning your body to face him. You should feel exposed before him, your nakedness on display for him to study at his leisure, but you only feel calm. Protected. That feeling pushes you to speak in spite of your shaking voice.

“ Tá tú mar mhac dom. You are like a son to me. In Inora, it’s…”

Fear chokes your voice.

Stars, what happened to that feisty girl who threatened to crush a Mandalorian warrior’s balls the first day she met him? You dig deep and find her, quieted by the love of that same Mandalorian, and you clear your throat. You push down the rising tide of panic and steel your jaw.

Din sits straight, concern pushing his spine upright. “Scout?”

“ Tá tú mar mhac dom. You are like a son to me. In Inora, it’s a blessing of marriage. More than a blessing, it is a marriage. We build our society on family, and nothing comes before that. No government, no god. Just family. It’s kind of like our own Creed. The only thing you need to be married in the eyes of Inorans is the acceptance of the heads of family and the repetition of a few phrases. I suppose—for my father—bringing me home to him was enough to secure you as his son—as my husband. You didn’t even need to ask.”

Din nods. He taps his forefinger on his knee four times before lifting his gaze from the ground. Beneath his visor, you can see the question written over his face in bold ink. “What does that mean?”

“It means to my parents we are married.”

“And to you?”

You dig your teeth into the flesh of your cheek. “I—It is hard for me to… I’ve only ever known—”

“Be honest, Scout.”

You sigh, shoulders dropping their tension. “I don’t need a title, Din. I just want you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Shrugging, you stand on weak legs. “Well, I don’t have an answer for you. Not really. I mean, I would never call myself your wife. Not if you don’t want that. That’s not the sort of decision my father can make for us.”

“No, but—”

“Din, please. Maybe it’s best we just forget it.”

You redress in silence, the comfortable air of shared lovers turned frosty with unspoken words. It’s simply too much for you to consider. All your life you have known this tradition. Had it drilled into your malleable mind. Witnessed it proclaimed between families and worshiped as the foundation of Inoran culture. Though you know it’s not necessarily the truth, it is hard to forgo your heritage and not look at Din as your husband now that the words have been spoken. But what has he shown you time and time again? One’s Creed is their own, not that which is prescribed to them. Perhaps then this time-honored tradition of lovers uniting as one is not to be a part of your Creed after all. And perhaps that is okay…

As you begin the walk back to your home, Din pulls a circular disk out of his trouser pocket. He flicks a button on the side and the picture of a man illuminates, hovering over the disk like a phantom. You stop walking. Your stomach curdles. All worry over your father’s silly words disappears.

Din stops walking too and faces you, the disk extended as an offering. “Rendell Crik, right?”

You nod. The saliva in your mouth has gone gummy. The world spins.

Rendell Crik—the man who tore your family to shreds, who killed the naïve farm girl of so long ago without a single weapon. His image revolves in a circle over the disk. Blond hair, straight teeth, full lips—as disarmingly handsome as he was over a decade ago. You want to be sick.

“I went to the Sunder this morning while you went to the shops with your mother. I know where he is, Scout. So, I’ll say this to you once and let you decide: We can bring him in warm.” Din pauses and lifts your hand, transferring the puck to your palm. “Or we can bring him in cold.”

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-FIVE—LOCATION: INORA

The sun carves through your father’s wheat field like a blacksmith’s iron. Beneath the oppressive heat, the blue grain wilts, parched by summer’s arid climate and the sun’s unrelenting brilliance. Dry sea days, your mother used to call this time of year. The folded stalks catch the light and the wind in such a way that the field seems to rise and fall like the ocean. Wave upon wave of glittering cerulean wheat, moving, breathing, a phenomenon entirely its own, stretching to the horizon and beyond. 

But folded stalks means harvest season has begun. The crop must be brought in for threshing before the weather’s intensity shrivels the wheat heads. It’s every able body to their post. 

Well, every body but yours. 

Upon returning from the pond, you slept restlessly. The enormity of your father’s proclamation of marriage and Din’s offer to track down Rendell Crik kept you in a perpetual loop of anxiety. You tossed and turned, and Din fought your flailing limbs all through the night. When you finally woke late and found your bed empty, you assumed Din had gone to the Sunder to tinker with a malfunctioning sensor. You assumed he was giving you space to think. 

You never expected this. 

Standing on the edge of the field, you lift a hand to shade your eyes from the morning sun. Sweat gathers beneath your arms, and your mouth runs dry. It’s a hot day—will be hotter by afternoon—but that’s not what has your body reacting so strongly. The heat you can stand; you are native to the fierce Inoran seasons after all. No, it’s the sight of Din Djarin dragging a scythe through your father’s wheat field that has you so affected. So afflicted.  

Shirtless from the waist up, he arcs the electro-scythe through the firm stalks with ease. Back and forth, back and forth, the curved blade slices through the wheat, depositing the crop at his feet like a broken offering. His tan skin glistens under the sun-lit sky, and his tattooed-muscles contract and release with each calculated movement. A young girl carrying a basket nips at his heels, catching whatever stalks she can reach before they hit the ground. She gathers his shorn wheat as dutifully as he cuts it. He pauses every two steps to wait for her to catch up, glancing over his shoulder, and she smiles up at him, her cheeks pink from the sun. An unnatural pair—a helmeted man and barefoot child. Quite like him and Grogu. 

Quite like him and you. 

You love him. Not for the first time, the realization strikes you in the gut like a sucker punch. It steals the air from your lungs, and you tear your gaze away from the pastoral scene lest you shout across the field: I love you, I love you, I love you.

You are saved from yourself, from the declaration crawling its way up your throat, when your mother puts her hand on your arm. You turn. 

“You seem tired, bundeet. ” 

Your mother smooths her hand over your shoulder. The lines by her eyes deepen as she smiles. Her touch, her soft look—she offers a warmth you never thought you’d feel from her again. You burn—happily, you burn under her gaze.

“I am,” you admit. Sweeping your gaze back in Din’s direction, you sigh. “It’s been… a weird few days.” Few months, few years. Stars, you’re tired.

Your mother follows your gaze, and she moves to stand alongside you. She crosses her arms, but she isn’t angry. She is comfortable, considerate. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Who is he to you?”

Her question doesn’t make sense at first, not with the rising heat of the day and your lack of breakfast, but then you realize she is asking about Din. She is asking about the man in the field, pausing long enough to explain the mechanics of his farming equipment to a smitten little girl. 

You answer without hesitation. “He’s my partner… in all things.”

“Your father accepts him as—”

“My husband.” Shoulders dropping, you nod, a sigh parting your lips. “I know.”

She looks away from Din, brow arched. “You sound displeased.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m…” You meet her inquisitive stare. “Honestly, I can’t believe Father would care enough to accept someone as my husband. After everything that happened, everything I did, I didn’t think he would—or you would, for that matter—give me a passing thought. I guess this all feels like a dream, and I’m waiting to wake up.”

Your mother winces, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in something akin to shame. Her eyes skitter to the ground, and her arms tighten around her chest. For a moment, she is quiet, and you feel as though you have pinned her in a glass corner. Like a hunted animal, she appears small and fragile and ripe for the taking. You stand over her with a dagger of accusation, and she cowers, waiting for your killing blow. But then—she looks up, and her face is clear, her eyes shining.

“What happened was a long time ago, bundeet. We have all made our mistakes. You are not to be blamed.”

Not to be blamed… You do not—you cannot—comprehend her. After so long apart, your mother speaks a language you do not understand. Frowning, you widen your stance in resolve. Digging your heels into the earth, you position yourself before her, not as her killer, but as one seeking forgiveness. 

“But I am,” you say. “I was the one who shot—”

“No.” She holds up a slim-fingered hand, and you fall silent. Eyes flashing, your mother pins you with a stern look. “You are not to be blamed for Jeelia’s death. I will not hear you say such a thing.”

“But—”

Like the swiftness of a summer storm, the harshness in your mother’s brow dissipates. She reaches for your shoulders, her face folding in contrition. “Oh, daughter,” she whispers. Tears shimmer at her eyes, clog her throat. “I am sorry. Sorry that you felt the need to save your sister when it should have been me or your father who stepped into the fight. Sorry that you thought we would not love you after it happened. Sorry that you felt that you had no home here. I cannot—” She chokes on a sob, and you bite your tongue to keep from sobbing along with her. “I cannot tell you how—how sorry I am. Do not ask for forgiveness from me. It is I who should seek forgiveness from you.”

Without warning, she crushes you to her chest, and you cling to her. Pieces of the same puzzle, returned to one another, notched together as though never apart. Your heart swells, warmth spreading through your veins like warm honey. 

“I missed you, daughter,” your mother whispers.

You laugh—a brusk sound, creased with disbelief. “I missed you too.”

Over her shoulder, you see Din, see him pause and lean against the scythe and watch you embrace your mother after almost a decade apart. He pauses only a moment before returning to work. Bushels of wheat drop in his wake, loose seedlings taking to the air. 

You bend your face closer to your mother’s shoulder and smile. Harvest season , you think. Let me gather what no longer serves and plant anew.

For the first time in a long time, the rock-strewn field of your heart has been tilled and tended. You hold your mother tighter. 

It is time to plant anew.  

/

Late in the night, you make your decision. 

Stepping out of your childhood bedroom, you move with a single-minded focus. The crackling fire in the hearth licks at your heels, urging you forward. You straighten your spine as you approach the small gathering in the heart of your home: father, mother, partner, and friends. Everyone you care about, everyone you are willing to die protecting, here before you now.

Yes, you’ve made the right choice.

Clearing your throat, you drop the illuminated fob to the worn wood table. The hum of conversation between Din, your father, and a mending Ka’ered ceases. Your mother looks up from tinkering with a broken wire on H-Ten’s arm. Silence rings loud in your ears. 

You pause, glancing between the curious faces staring at you before declaring, “I want to go get him.”

A heavy quiet swallows the cabin as the image of Rendell Crik rotates in a slow circle above the fob. Intruder, you think. The man who defamed this sacred space should never be allowed to return, not even in the form of an inanimate image.

At last, someone—your father—speaks. “No,” he says. Clipped, staunch, final. You know that tone, heard it all throughout your childhood—he will not be budged. 

You frown. “Father, this isn’t a decision for you to make.”

Shaking his head, he crosses his burly arms. “No, bundeet . It’s too dangerous.”

“He killed Jeelia.” 

“And I won’t let him kill you, too.”

You look at Din for support or encouragement, but he leans back in his chair, a mirror image of your father: arms folded, feet planted firmly on the floor. His helmet obscures any emotion that may play across his face, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Leave it to him to force you before the throne of your parents like a groveling subjugate. Must you beg for permission? Humiliate yourself before them if it means they will let you go?

No, those were the old ways. When you were young and naive and foolhardy. When you needed guidance more than freedom. Now you are grown, a woman in your own right. Your decisions are your own, and Din remains quiet to allow you clarity. No possibility of undue influence or coaxing; no chance for muddled rationale. This decision—this choice to venture into the unknown chasing after your greatest foe—is entirely your own.

You square your shoulders. “I’m going whether you like it or not.” You pause, glancing at your mother. “I need to do this.” 

Rising from her place in the corner, your mother steps into the conversation. Firelight illuminates the worry at her brow, the corner of her mouth. She stands beside your father, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to do it,” she says. “We are not asking it of you.”

“No.” You give a firm shake of your head. “I want to do it—for myself. If I don’t bring Crik in for his crimes, I will never be able to rest. My soul will keep wandering until it’s done.”

Your father lowers his eyes to the table. He reaches out, picking at a wayward piece of wood lifting from the finish. His shoulders droop, resigned to the situation. When he speaks, his voice is low and quiet, thin like paper. “And what are we to do if we lose you again, child?”

Your gut twists and your nostrils flare as tears drown your eyes. How long have you waited to hear those words from your father? And the words of your mother from this morning? You have gone without their care and concern far too long. Your head swims beneath this veritable ocean of reconciliation. 

At the sign of your crumbling emotion, Din leans forward. He places his forearm on the table and inclines his head. In spite of the helmet covering his face, there is no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. “No harm will come to your daughter,” he tells your father. “Not if I can help it. You have my word.”

With a singular nod, your father inhales deeply. He has accepted it: your going into the fray. No longer a child. No longer an arrow missing from his quiver. He will send you out tomorrow, loosening you from the bow like a true hunter always does. He must release you in order for you to do as you were made to do: fight for him, fight for the future.

He braces one hand on his thigh, leaning back in his chair, and narrows his eyes. “Do you have any sort of plan? Or are you going into this blind?”

Though your father’s lack of confidence in you stings, you know him well enough to note the underpinning of concern in his tone. He knows you; he raised you. He knows your penchant for rash decision making unlike any other.

Din looks at you, tilting his helmet to the side in thought. “Crick was last reported to be seen on Hoth.” 

“Hoth?” Your father scoffs. “No one survives out there.”

Din nods. “Rarely. It’s a good place to hide for that reason. He’s a wanted man.”

“For what he did here? On Inora?” you ask.

“Among other things. He’s most recently wanted for murdering a senator.”

You sit in the chair beside Din as you process the information. Murdering a senator… A far greater sin than swindling a poor farming community. At least on paper. You drum your fingers over the table top, considering.

“How many fobs does he have?”

“Not sure. I had a hard time connecting with Karga to ask that same question. My guess is at least seven.”

“Lots of people would be angry enough to put a bounty on his head after killing a senator. You’ll have competition,” your father says. “But Hoth…” He shakes his head, a grimace curling his mouth. “Is it really worth it to you, bundeet ? If you don’t find him, you could freeze to death and—”

“We will have all the necessary protective equipment,” Din says, cutting your father off. “Your daughter is a professional. She knows what she’s doing.”

Your father sighs, and the house seems to settle with the sound. A proud resignation: proud of you, but resigned to the possibility of your demise. You suppose that is what most parents feel when they set their child free from the nest. You’re glad you had the opportunity for a real send off from home, though. A true departure; not some terrified and ashamed vanishing act.

You reach for Din’s hand, curling your fingers around the tight leather of his glove. You give a single squeeze and a small smile. Thank you. He nods, his grip on your palm tightening in response.

You look around the table, setting your shoulders back in confidence. “Then it’s settled.” You rise from the table. “We leave for Hoth in the morning.”

//

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-SIX—LOCATION: THE SUNDER

The Sunder slides through the stars like a knife through warm butter. Silent and sure, taking you to your ultimate point of redemption. You recline on one of the two couches in the cockpit, eyes glazed over as you study the vast expanse of space through the viewport. Twinkling starlight and inky darkness—how different from the rolling fields and sparkling sky of Inora.

You said goodbye to your parents early in the morning, just before the sun crested the horizon. The spindly fingers of a pink dawn reached over the brightening sky as your father tugged on your braid, a farewell motion of old. Your mother pressed a parcel between your palms, the sugar bread within still warm from the oven. 

You promised to return, but gave no indication of when. The Sunder and the stars and Din Djarin are your home now. You came to Inora to mend the tattered threads of your childhood, and you’ve done the best you could at pulling healing fabric through the loom. The hole is patched, perhaps a few strands hanging loose, but that’s the best you can manage in such a short period of time. It’s all you need for now. 

Hours after leaving your ancestral home, with a slice of sugar bread heavy in your stomach, you listen to the silence of the ship’s cockpit. H-Ten elected to remain with your parents as a technological aide, and Ka’ered limped to the galley as soon as the turbolift opened to the annex. Leaving you and Din alone on the ship for the first time in weeks. 

You forgot—forgot about so many of the little things while you were away, while you were fighting to get back to this very room.

You forgot how quiet it could be with just you and Din on the ship. Depending on your mood or Din’s disposition, that silence can speak volumes. Today there is a reflective edge to the quiet, a heavy sense of relief too.

You stand from the couch. Your arms feel heavy hanging at your sides, and the curved ceiling seems to stretch higher and higher, pushing you closer to the floor. You are small but not helpless; disconnected but not alone. You stand on the edge of an island, marooned by the mistake that dropped you here. But that island is moving , chasing after a faraway ship that will offer you safety from the storm. You are not being rescued. You are rescuing yourself. 

You should speak. Before this strange, deep feeling turns your tongue to stone, you should say what foreign words are tugging at the back of your throat. 

“Thank you.” Your voice splits the tranquil bubble, and Din turns in his chair as though startled. 

He hesitates. “For what?”

For what? Great question. You aren’t sure. Not really. 

You inhale slowly, stepping toward the pilot’s chair as you look around the room in thought. When your gaze returns to Din’s helmet, you stretch out your arm. He wavers before sliding his gloved-palm against your outstretched hand. You curl your fingers around his.

“Thank you—for everything. For coming to get me from Breeth’s. For taking me to my parents’. For not giving up on me.”

He says nothing, and you allow the words to drape over his shoulders like a hand-crafted shawl, knitted together with love, before continuing.

“You could have left me at Breeth’s. When you found out I’d screwed up, you could have left me and gone on your merry way. Even after coming to get me, we could have just gone on to the next bounty; you never had to take me to Inora. And even after that, we don’t have to take the time to bag Crik.” You shake your head in disbelief, laughing under your breath. “I don’t know why you do it, but… Thank you, Din.”

“You really don’t know why I do it?”

Rolling your eyes, you scoff, though there is something in his tone that lights your skin aflame. Something deep and significant and world-shaking. You brush the feeling aside. Not the time. Not on a hunt so important.

“You’re kind of a hard man to figure out, ya know? I like to think I know what makes you tick, but I’m just a beginner. They could write books on how to figure you out, Mandalorian.”

Ignoring your play for humor, he clears his throat. He leans forward in his chair. “ Tá tú cosúil —”

The cockpit door opens on a whoosh, and Din sits back, his tongue sealed behind his lips.

You frown, heart tripping in your chest. Inoran—coming from the mouth of Din Djarin. You are like , he’d said. Like what?

You would question him if you could, but his attention is diverted, sweeping around you to land on Ka’ered, leaning against the railing that borders the two steps into the cockpit. You resist the urge to cringe at the sight of your friend.  Broken . It’s the only word that comes to mind when you see him. 

A vicious scar mangles the right side of Ka’ered’s face. He lost a considerable amount of his cheek in the Ashwig attack, and the best your mother could do was stitch what remained of his face together. The rudimentary surgery pulls the right side of his face taut, his mouth stretched upward as though caught by a hook. Due to the unnatural and persistent pull, his right eye twitches open and shut, the pain forever embedded in his flesh.

And his leg—

The Ashwig swallowed his left leg without pausing to take a bite. If you close your eyes, you can still hear the sound of the limb tearing from his body, of his agonized screams ripping through the clear night. Only a cauterized stump remains where his leg once was, and despite the crude prosthetic your father fashioned out of wood, Ka’ered still walks with a pronounced limp. He grips the railing as he sidesteps his way into the cockpit. The wooden boot on his false leg (an alternative to a false foot) bangs against the thinly carpeted steps. The sound rattles your bones. A death walk, surely. 

You push down the lump rising in your throat and paste a shaky smile to your mouth. “Hey, Ka.” You try to force the anxiety from your voice, but both men know you well enough to sense your unease. “How are you feeling?”

Ka’ered drops to the end of the nearest couch, abandoning his cane, also a gift from your father, to the floor. He scrubs a hand down the unmarred side of his face. “Take a wild guess.”

You glance at Din, feel the shame rise to your face in a wash of heat. You don’t blame Ka’ered for the sardonic bite that has colored his words since leaving Breeth’s mansion. Anyone who survived what he did would probably be more callous than what the doctor has become. It’s just… You can’t help but feel like all of this—his mood and his injuries—are somehow your fault.

“I think we have more bacta patches in the fresher if—”

Ka’ered traps you beneath a dark look. “I’m fine, Scout.”

Point taken.

You dare to sit on the opposite side of the couch as him. Hands on your knees, your eyes wander around the cockpit, aimless and uncomfortable. Din swivels the pilot’s chair to face the flight controls. The mood is heavy.

“Seems we’re back where we started. What are you going to do with me, Mandalorian?”

Din twists far enough in the pilot’s chair to give Ka’ered a passing glance. Unflustered, as always, by someone chomping at the bit to rip him a new one. “I know someone,” he says, voice even. “He can offer you shelter for as long as you need it. A teaching job too.”

Ka’ered balks. “A teaching job?”

“Yes. Teaching medicine.”

Shoulders slumping in his seat, the doctor’s brow puckers in consideration. “Oh.” He crosses his arms and turns his gaze to the floor. “I’ll… think about it.”

Din just shrugs and returns his focus to the navigation panel. 

Quiet resumes. An unfriendly quiet. You drag your teeth over your lower lip and risk a glance at your friend. Or someone who once considered you a friend.

“We need to get you a hover-chair.”

Ka’ered looks up from the floor. His eyes slide to yours. Snake’s eyes, you think—narrowed and suspicious and ready to attack. “Very funny.”

“Not a joke. Not a joke at all!” Your tongue trips over itself to right your piss-poor attempt at low-ball humor. “I mean it. It could… help you get around until you’re…”

“Normal again?” He shakes his head on a humorless snort. “You’re dreaming, kid.”

Kid. The word doesn’t possess the same affection as when Din says it.

With a sigh, you place your hand on the empty space separating you on the sofa. You lean in, lowering your voice to a hush. “Ka’ered, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head again. “Not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t screwed up at Breeth’s, you would—”

“—have still been a slave to Breeth’s every whim. Stop apologizing for everything. My universe doesn’t shift at your every decision. I made my bed. I'm lying in it now.”

You recoil. Harsh words. Words that needle your stomach. How much of it is true? You’ve apologized more in that last week than you have in the last five years. Your outer shell of steel has gone soft and pliable, and you now stand exposed. Your soft underbelly is on display for those you care about most to strike. 

You curl your arms around your middle, biting on the inside of your cheek. The urge to apologize catches at the back of your throat, but you swallow it. Maybe Ka’ered is right. Maybe the Ashwig attack isn’t your fault…

After a moment’s struggle, Ka’ered lifts himself from the couch. He tells Din he’ll think about the offer of sanctuary, but he wants to meet the man in charge before making his decision. He won’t risk falling into the hands of another Breeth. You can’t say you blame his reticence. 

Watching him fumble up the stairs and into the annex is like watching a lonely blind man grope through a crowded street. You avert your eyes out of respect until you hear the cockpit door slide shut.

When Ka’ered is gone, you slip from the couch with a groan. “Well, that could have gone better.”

Din chuckles. He waves you over with a flick of his wrist, and you dutifully come to his side. “He’ll come around.”

“Maybe… maybe not.”

“He’s right, you know.” Din pokes the hip closest to his shoulder. “You apologize too much. Not everything is your fault. Things happen—with or without you.”

You ignore the comment for now. 

“Who is this friend you’re talking about?” Sliding your arms around Din’s neck, you lower your chin to his shoulder. You inhale, breathing in the scent of his freshly laundered flight suit and the grease oiling the joints of his armor. Your mother did that; a parting gift. “I don’t know you to have many friends, Mando.”

“I have friends,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” You twist your face to stare into the visor of his helmet. “Name five.”

Grumbling under his breath, Din grabs your waist and pushes you over the table of his legs. He swats your ass, the movement playful. His hand cracks against the soft material of your leggings. Your gasp dissolves into a giggle as he massages his fingers into your flesh. You twist to your back, leaning forward, hands fitted around the back of his neck. If it weren’t for the helmet, you might kiss him. A simple point of connection after a few days of chaos. 

“Really, Din—where are we going? You don’t know anyone who could give Ka’ered a teaching job.” Narrowing your gaze, you tilt your head to the side. “Do you?”

Din fits his hand in the small of your back as he adjusts the flight control with his knee. He nods to the ship’s viewport, indicating the course ahead. “We’re headed for the Outer Rim. To pay a visit to Luke Skywalker.”

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-SEVEN—LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED JEDI TRAINING CAMP

Hours later, the Sunder lands in the same place it did seventy-six days ago: on a rocky patch of earth swallowed by fog and mystery. From the open mouth of the cargo hold, you peer into the mist, imagining what lay beyond the edge of the clearing. Skywalker’s academy sits at the very edge of the known galaxy, but maybe that was always his intent. You don’t know much about the Jedi—only the rumors that swirl through the galaxy like hushed whispers—but it seems to you that the Jedi thrive on secrecy and shadow. You couldn’t pinpoint your location even if you tried.

You suppose it doesn’t matter. You are here, standing in the Sunder and on a planet you never thought you would see again. You have been afforded one too many second chances over the course of your obstinate life. 

You refuse to fuck up again.

Something thuds on the cargo hold floor behind you, and you look over your shoulder. Din stands in front of an open weapons cabinet. He slowly strips himself of his armor one methodical movement at a time. Like a priest preparing for a ritual sacrifice, his mood is a solemn one. Not quite sad, not quite happy either. Sober perhaps. There is a chance that the hunt for Crik could go sour and—

You shake the thought off. It is poison to an already-feeble stomach. 

Though visiting home did you well, you have yet to reconnect with the snarling girl of one-hundred-seven days ago. Something in you has quieted since returning to your birthplace. You don’t like the feeling, that tranquility in your chest. The places that once churned with anger and regret have turned peaceable and mellow. It is… unnatural. Uncomfortable.

Inhaling sharply, you wade through your clouded mind to find a spot of clarity. Now isn’t the time for introspection. Time is wasting with Crik ever on the move. 

You close in on Din’s side, leaning against the weapons cabinet as he hangs the remaining portions of his armor. “What is it you’re going to say? To Grogu?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, avoiding your pointed gaze. He exchanges his tac belt for a heavy cloak, and the fabric transforms him from a warrior to a wanderer. “But I want to see him. Just in case.”

Just in case. The sense of foreboding shrouding those words brings a chill to your spine. Your mouth runs dry. Fuck, just what is it you are asking him to do? Sacrifice himself for you and your quest for revenge? It’s too much. It is all too much to ask. 

Surely someone else is on the hunt for Crik; you cannot be the only one. A renown swindler, an expert smuggler—you remember Din said there are at least seven fobs with his name on them floating around the cosmos, if not more. Someone else could do this; someone else could bring him in. 

But no. This is your fight, and Din offered it to you so easily, so confidently. He wants this maybe as much as you do. 

“Hey.” Din touches your shoulder. You blink, and the belly of the Sunder comes into focus, as gray and cold as it has always been. Din though—Din touches your arm with a warmth that goes straight to your stomach. “It will be okay.”

“Yeah.” You step away, nodding in earnest as you hurry to tidy the floor. You shove a random boot beneath your arm then grab a scratchy blanket and throw it over your shoulder. “Yeah, I know. It will be fine.”

You move deeper into the cargo hold, further away from Din and the nerves that cling to your skin like a germ. Your arms grow heavy with the objects you collect from the floor. When was the last time someone cleaned up in here? Would a little organizing kill the man? You can barely form a path to the turbolift with the number of boxes scattered across the cargo hold. It’s almost as if the Mandalorian’s habit of decluttering and stripping the ship of any human touch was suspended. As if he were preoccupied with something— someone —else over the last few months.

On that thought, you drop your gathered items to a wooden crate in the middle of the ship. You sigh, hanging your head in remorse. It’s wrong to brush aside Din’s attempts at comfort; it’s wrong to overlook the obvious signs of his affection. But you can’t help yourself. Not when you and your mistakes are the reason he now straps on a pair of hiking boots so he can say goodbye to his son. Just in case.  

It’s too much. It is all too much to ask.

The wooden crate you lean against boasts a small pile of veritable junk. In addition to the things you picked off of the floor, there are a few wayward screws and an empty holster draped over the corner. Out of curiosity, you lift the holster and find it is not empty; the weapon inside is merely small. You haven’t seen it before, and you pride yourself on your knowledge of the Sunder’s weapons cache. Not so long ago, Din made you catalog every Makerforsaken weapon in the ship and this definitely wasn’t in the small blaster container.

The weapon is small, only large enough to fit snugly in the palm of your hand. You curl your fingers around the black hilt, rubbing your thumb over the ribbed base. Strange thing, this weapon. You frown as you turn it over in your hand. It pulses with an unseen energy, like a mystic heartbeat, and all your worry about Din and the weight of what is to come, about Crik and journeying to Hoth, about your own complicated existence, vanish. The weapon catches you in its trance, and you stare back, unblinking. You find a small circle inlaid on the side with your nail. You cock your head, scratching the button as you ponder.

Across the room, Din must wonder at your sudden silence. His canteen smacks against the weapons cabinet as he turns to look for you. When he sees you, you hear him take two hurried steps forward. “No! Don’t—”

Too late. You push the button. 

With a hiss, the weapon in your hand extends. 

A jet black blade fringed with glowing white light cuts through the dim atmosphere of the ship. Long—sharply hewn point—heavy— alive. The weapon is bold and understated at the same time. It is haunted and holy. It is something otherworldly, sent from the heavens or maybe the pits of hell. Maker, you don’t know. You don’t know but it clings to you. 

Your initial instinct is to drop the thing, to escape what is so obviously not meant for you, but your fingers tighten of their own accord. As you stare, the weapon’s power seeps beneath your every pore. You swear you can hear the blade itself singing a far away lullaby, a song of old, one that touches something deep in your heart.

Yes. Yes! it calls. Our mother, our mother.

Your heart pounds, and your ears ring. Blood rushes through your veins, potent and sizzling with energy. You cannot breathe—cannot think—as the words of the weapon flood your senses. Sight and sound merge into a pinpoint focus on the faraway language that curls through your mind.

Mother—mother—mother.  

Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate.

Come to us, Mother. Return to—

“Scout.” Din’s voice is low and gentle, a shepherd consoling a lost sheep. You startle, gasping for breath as his hand comes to rest on top of yours. The words which consume you begin to fade, dripping from your mind like ink spilled on blank parchment. “That’s not yours.”

You do not look at him. You cannot look away. “But—”

“Let me take it.”

Without warning, he presses the inlaid button, and the blade disappears within the hilt on a soft whoosh. In an instant, the magnetic hold of the sword is gone. The vice-like grip that held your mind releases, and you sag backwards, falling against Din’s chest. You exhale, trembling.

“What—what was that?”

“It’s called the Darksaber.”

“I heard it… singing.”

Din stiffens. The tension is subtle, but you can feel it in the way he shoves the Darksaber in his waistband with a snap. There is something wrong here, something very wrong. 

Din circles to face you, his hands firm on your shoulders. “What was it you heard, mesh’la ?” The concern in his voice is evident, and that concern is strong enough that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt you have opened something bigger than yourself.

You want to answer him and parse out the strange words that still ring in your ears

but—

Ka’ered enters the cargo hold. “Ready to go, Mandalorian?”

Turning your face to the newcomer, you blink away the tears rimming your eyes. Your muscles vibrate with unspent energy, your stomach a clenching pit of anxiety. You feel sick. Whatever it was you saw and heard in the Darksaber, it feels like too much for you to consider right now. There will be time later, after Grogu and Crik and righting the wrongs of so long ago…

Din isn’t so quick to sweep the moment under the rug. “Your timing is shit,” he tells Ka’ered. 

Ka’ered looks back and forth between you and the angry sheen of Din’s helmet. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You answer the question in unison. 

Your eyes flash to Din’s, and you grit your teeth. “It’s fine. We need to get going anyway.”

You can almost feel him roll his eyes as you brush past. “Scout—” 

“Mando, please. We can talk about it later.”

“When later?” 

“I don’t know. Just—later.”

“I’m getting tired of all the laters. There are things we—” 

A two-toned beep fills the cargo hold. Din shakes his head in frustration as he hurries to the table on which he left his communicator. He glances at the face of the tech piece then shoves it in his back pocket.

“Gods-fucking-damn-it,” he mutters. He grabs his knapsack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “Skywalker is ready.”

“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” 

As you prepare to slowly follow Ka’ered down the loading dock, Din catches your bicep at the top of the ramp. You look away from the unsteady doctor to meet the inexpressive helmet of your lover. You already know what he is going to say before he says it, but still, you listen. 

“Later is going to come, Scout. Before we go to Hoth, you and I are going to sit down and talk. About everything.”

A tucked-away sliver in your chest flares in indignation. He can’t tell you what to do. Since day one the Mandalorian—Din Djarin—has never been able to tell you what to do. Though you love him, though you would happily kill for him, you are not his puppet. You are not his plaything. You are your own, molded by the hard work of your own hands. 

Have you really changed so much in your months with him? Have you truly forgotten what it means to be fashioned out of fire and brimstone? 

The ember of that faraway girl—so brash and rude and everything you need to be on this next hunt—glows in the pit of your stomach. You cling to the hot violence of your youth, stroking it between love-soaked fingers. Come on, you think. Come to life again just this once.

There—you see her—in the corner of your heart, backed between a rock and soft place. You stretch out your hand, and she snarls. Somewhere inside, you smile.

You jerk your bicep out of Din’s hand. “We’ll see about that,” you bite, your tone gone cold with disdain. You take a few steps down the ramp before tossing an upturned brow over your shoulder. “Later.”

/

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-NINE—LOCATION: HEGORA

Din can tell you feel out of place. Out of practice. Out of control.

You duck, you thrust, you parry, and yet— 

you fail.

Time and time again, the muzzle of his gun comes to rest on the exposed flesh of your waist or the small of your back. “Dead,” he says, the word toneless. “Again.”

It is the strangest thing, this sudden change in you. You struggle where you did not struggle before. Though you fight him with the tooth-and-nail bite of the first day he met you, you are uncoordinated and sloppy. You do not think before you act, and you pay the price. With painful repetition, your back, your ass, or your knees become intimately acquainted with the soft earth. 

To your credit, each time he bests you, you accept defeat without argument. You rise on trembling legs, square your center, and you fight him again. You are dogged, a typhoon struggling against the house upon a rock. You do not give up. You fight your hardest but it is as if every sliver of training he has drilled into you over the past six months has disappeared. You have reverted back to your old ways—and he’s not sure how to respond.

Since arriving at Skywalker’s academy, you have retreated into yourself. You are standoffish, bordering on cruel. During Din’s brief meeting with Grogu, you stood to the side, arms crossed, face pulled tight in a frown. You gave Ka’ered a half-hearted wave when he elected to remain at the academy to help Skywalker with his trainees; you barely said a word on the trek back to the Sunder , even after Grogu reached out to toy with the end of your braid in a kind farewell. Irritable—despondent—a mere fragment of the girl he has come to know and love.

So he elected to bring you to Hegora before facing the frigid wilderness of Hoth. It has been one-hundred-one days since Din last brought you here yet it feels like one-hundred-one lifetimes with all that has passed. It was here, though, where your partnership first began to blossom, and he is hopeful it is here he can root out whatever bitter weed is now poisoning you.

Din knocks you to the ground again with a firm elbow to the center of your chest. You weren’t looking, were distracted by something off in the distance, so he took the opening. You hit the ground with a weak grunt, your palms breaking your fall before your head can connect with the ground too. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, and you groan, angling your head back to face the sun.

“Damn,” you mutter—as though you had a chance, as though you were even trying.

Frustration worms beneath the concern cocooning Din’s patience. He grabs the front of your tunic and lifts you from the ground with a rough heave. “For fuck’s sake, Scout. What’s wrong with you?”

He tries in vain to keep the irritation out of his voice but he cannot understand this change in you. All your skill, all your focus—gone in the blink of an eye, shattered like glass upon an unforgiving floor.. 

You shove him away. “I don’t know. I just—” You sigh, neck drooping, eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

“Are you scared?”

Head lifting, you narrow your eyes. “No.” 

Din scoffs, the irritation in his chest flaring with your obstinance. “Liar.” He flips his blaster over his wrist to return it to its holster. “There are things we need to discuss.”

“Yeah?” You brush your braid over your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

With a dismissive wave of your hand, you step away, reaching for your canteen discarded on the ground. “I just want to get this over with, Din. I don’t want any distractions.” You take a swig of water then wipe the back of your hand across your mouth. You keep your gaze fixed on the horizon, and he wonders where your thoughts float off to.

Gently, he sets out to plead his case. You are skittish, and for good reason; he must tread carefully. Still, Din can’t shake the feeling that setting out for Hoth with so much other weighing down the hunt is a bad idea. 

“We should talk—about the Darksaber, about what your father said to me on Inora, about Grogu and what’s going to—” 

“No.” You shake your head and toss your canteen to the side. “I can’t do that right now. We need to get Crik.”

“We won’t get Crik if you are distracted.” 

Eyes snapping to face him at last, you stab a finger in the direction of his chest. “We won’t get Crik if you are filling my head with—with other things.”

“These aren’t other things. It’s your future, our future.” He winces at the edge in his voice. Gently—gently—he can’t fuck this up for fear you will run to Hoth with your vision painted scarlet.

“I don’t want to talk about our future. I want to get Crik.”

“So do I.” He pauses to ease his tone to a caress. “But I want to know that you’re with me.”

You hesitate, and the bewilderment that twists your brow almost makes Din wish he hadn’t said anything at all. 

“Haven’t I made myself clear? I’m with you until the end.”

“The end of what? This job? This year?” He steps forward to take your hand, but relents when you withdraw, shoulders pulling back in defense. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Talk to me, Scout.”

You work your jaw back and forth for a moment of consideration. Your eyes darken as a nameless emotion rises to swallow your face. When you speak, your voice is hardly a whisper, a soft breeze caught in the grass. “I’m with you to the end of the fucking universe.”

The breath in Din’s lungs catches in his throat. He grunts to dislodge the feeling. He nods. “Fine.”

“Good.” You blink, swallow hard, find a comfortable place for your feet to rest. You fist your hands and square your center. “Now fucking fight me, Mandalorian.”

Cocking his head to the side in approval, Din pulls a small blade from the belt on his waist. He flicks his wrist, and the smooth, shining piece of metal ejects with a click. “Show me what you’re made of, mesh’la. ”

With an angry screech, you shift your weight onto your back heel and attack. Your right leg explodes outward as your hips rotate in a semicircle. The heel of your foot strikes Din’s wrist, and his fingers reflexively relax. The knife falls to the ground.

But Din Djarin is quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in his body. He needs to be ready—just like you.

As the knife tumbles to the ground and before you can resume your fighting stance, Din circles his fingers around your offending ankle. He yanks, pulling you roughly in his direction. You collapse, your forearms taking the brunt of your fall. Still, you crawl forward, desperately searching for purchase between the grass and the dirt. He grits his teeth and tightens his hold on your ankle.

“Not so fast.”

But you are quick. Always has been, always will be. And this journey to Hoth will test every hard-trained muscle in your body. You need to be ready—just like him.

Propelling your weight over your shoulders, you flip to your back, your free leg swinging as you go. The firm tread of your boot connects with his arm, and again he releases you. Grunting in frustration, he withdraws a different knife as you scramble to your feet.

A line of dirt cakes your cheek. You spit a wad of blood to the ground. Beneath his helmet, Din smirks.

Sunlight glints off of the painted blue dagger you unsheathe from the leather scabbard tied around your thigh. As if you can sense his amusement, a grin of your own captures your face. Somewhere overhead a bird caws, circling the valley, the same valley in which you sparred before. 

He moves first. 

Din angles his shoulder inward as he rushes forward, but you have enough time and enough wherewithal to step to your left, positioning yourself just out of reach. The corner of his pauldron catches your shirtsleeve. He catches a whiff of your perfume—a gift from your mother—on the wind. He was close, but not close enough. Fast, but not fast enough. 

Reaching out, you fist your hand in the loose fabric around his neck and use the momentum of his body to jump onto his back. You cling to him like a lichen to rock, bearing down hard from your position above his head. Your legs wrapped tight around his chest, you lean hard on the back of his neck, trying with all of your strength to force him to his knees. You knock his head to the side with an errant elbow. He teeters, but does not fall. 

He dips at the waist. With half of your body poised near or above his shoulders, the sudden shift throws your center of balance off of its smug perch. You gasp, and your hands release his helmet and his arm to grip his pauldrons. Din uses the change in position and the momentary fear to reach over his shoulder and locate your armpit. He grips hard, securing his hold, before throwing his hips backward and up. You slide from his back with a soft oof. 

But you take him down with you. Your fingers remain attached to his pauldron, and as you fall, he tips to the side. When you hit the ground, his knee buckles beneath the weight of your body pulling against his. He falls, and his head bangs against the earth with a heavy thud. 

Upper hand found, you push him to his back, setting your knees on the juncture between his shoulders and his armpits. The fine point of your dagger digs into the flesh of his neck. You grin, sweat glistening on your forehead. “Gotcha.”

He swallows past the dry patch in his throat. “Unfair advantage. I hit my head.” He sucks in air as he struggles to catch his breath. “I’m out of practice.”

You cluck your tongue in mock-scolding. “Excuses, excuses.”

“No. It’s the truth.” Gently, Din removes you from your seat upon his chest so he can sit up. “That time on Inora was the longest stretch of unpaid leave I’ve taken in awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You need to get out more.”

“You just want to see me work in the field without my armor on.” He nudges you with his shoulder, and the smile with which you reward him is enough to steal his breath away all over again.

“Maybe.” You give a playful shrug of your shoulders, nudging him back. “A girl can dream.”

A moment of quiet passes. Din extends his canteen to you, and you drink readily. You dutifully look away when he takes his own mouthful of water. One day , he muses. One day soon. 

Hegora has not changed in the months since he first brought you here, but you have changed. He has changed. The landscape still rolls into infinity, gentle and graceful and everything Din sees you becoming. The rocks remain steadfast, the treetops swayed by the eastern wind. Din is somewhere between the rocks and the trees, forging a new path, a new Way. 

With you. 

“Let’s hash it out then. Right now. Before tomorrow, let’s put it all out on the table.” 

Din looks away from the distant grove of trees, pulled from his thoughts by your resolute voice. “Really?” 

You nod. A sweaty lock of hair falls in front of your face, but you push it away. “I hate to say it—really I do—but you’re right. We have things to talk about, and we should do it before we go after Crik.

“Okay.” Bracing his elbows on bent knees, Din begins with a question. “Why have you been so angry since we left Skywalker and the kid? We’ll go back once this is all done, give him a proper home…”

You pause to peer up into the bright, blue sky. Drawing in a deep breath, you steady yourself. Din covers your hand with his gloved-palm, and you turn to look at him. Your face softens as your fingers twist to notch between his. 

“I needed to dig in,” you say. “Try and find the me from before. The girl who fought so hard against everything and hated everyone.” You hang your head on a sigh. “I found her, and I thought she would help me get ready to fight Crik, but…” Twisting a blade of grass between your fingers, you shake your head. “I don’t think it worked. She’s not… me anymore.”

“No, she’s not.”

You look up. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Guess not.” You blink, eyes wide with questions. Din just squeezes your hand. “I like you like this. I mean, I like you angry and rearing for a fight, but I like you like this too.”

“Like what?”

He hesitates then moves to cup your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushes over the smear of dirt on your skin. “You know it now, all of the things you ignored before. You are forgiven—treasured—” His heart lifts to his mouth, and he does not fight the confession any longer. “Loved.”

He swallows hard. He watches your face. He waits for you to respond.

Loved—I love you. Please hear me. 

You suck in a quivering breath as tears flood your eyes. Scoffing, you shake your head and avert your gaze to keep the tears from flowing. With a laugh, you shove his shoulder. “You would,” you whisper, wiping your now tear-stained cheeks. “You would tell me you love me like this. So matter-of-fact.”

Din rubs his hand along the back of his neck, his face warm. “Can’t seem to stop forming attachments to the people who come into my life and are supposed to be temporary. First Grogu, now you…” He shakes his head on a rueful chuckle of his own. “I’ve got a type, I guess.”

“I’m not temporary, Din. I told you: to the end of the universe.” Before he can question you any further, you twist your legs to the side and angle your torso to better face him. “My turn for a question. The Darksaber, what it said to me back on the ship… What does it mean?”

“Gotta tell me what it said first.”

“It called me its mother. Sacred mother—holy mother—at last joined with her holy mate, it said. A bunch of nonsense, but…” Your brow furrows as the brief moment of amusement drains from your face. “I felt it—in my gut and in my head.”

Din leans back, resting his weight on his palms. A cool breeze whispers over the heat rising in his body. His heart thuds against his ribcage. Externally, he is relaxed, a man lounged alongside his partner. Internally, the significance of your revelation is not lost upon him. In fact, it drowns him in reality. If the hunt for Crik goes sideways, he risks losing you. Mandalore risks losing you. Suddenly, cruelly, the promise he made to you to bring Crik to justice seems foolish.

“Mando?” You wave your hand in front of his visor. “Hello?”

He snaps to attention, clearing his throat. “There is a legend. On my home planet, the Darksaber is wielded by the rightful ruler of Mandalore. This is widely accepted. But there is a legend about the Mand’alor’s mate…”

You lean close, hooked on every word. “Well?”

“I haven’t thought about it for a long time. I learned about it as a kid, didn’t think it mattered, wasn’t really sure if it was real. But then I won the saber and—”

“Din, tell me for fuck’s sake! What does the legend say?”

“The Mand’alor’s mate will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.” He continues quoting those ancient words drilled into his head as a boy. “Fire and ice, fury and forgiveness. She will be two sides to her own coin. She will rule longer than the Mand’alor himself, and she will bring an upheld peace to the clans.”

“So you think… the Mand’alor’s mate… is me?”

“If you believe the legend, then who else?”

“What about Grogu?”

“After Hoth, we’ll go get him. He can come with us.”

“To Mandalore?”

Din shrugs. “If that is what we decide. But we don’t have to make up our minds now.” 

Rising to his feet, Din offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you to standing. Your body falls flush against his, and he molds his fingers to the curve of your hips. He dips his head to press the curve of his helmet to your brow. You hum with appreciation as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers find the unshorn ends of his hair, and he is home—here, with you, on the Hergoan hillside.

“You really do, don’t you?” The whisper cuts through his honey-sweet reverie.

“What?”

“Love me.”

Without hesitation, he responds. “Yes.”

The corners of your mouth pull into a girlish smile. Your eyelashes flutter across your cheekbones, and the sun shines from beneath your very skin. He is besotted. He is in love. 

He reaches out to curl his finger around the ends of your hair. “My girl,” he whispers.

You laugh and roll your eyes in jest. “Your mate, apparently. Not sure we had an option to avoid all this. We might have been fated to end up this disgusting.”

Din thumbs your chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “In another life, I’d fight fate to make you mine.”

“I still have questions.”

“I know. For what it is worth, me too.”

Sliding your hands from his neck down his arms, you peer up at Din with a sweet glaze covering your face. So unlike before, so precious now. “Kiss me,” you whisper. “Before tomorrow comes and things get desperate, kiss me.”

When your eyelids flutter shut, Din pulls the helmet from his head. He drops it to the ground, and he thinks he hears it roll away, perhaps down the slope, but he doesn’t care. He catches your face between his hands, and he kisses you. Over and over, his tongue roaming through the open cavern of your mouth. He kisses you until your knees buckle and you sink to the waiting earth. 

He takes you beneath the sky, amidst the waving field grass, with your legs wrapped tight around his back. He buries himself to the hilt of you and spills himself within you because he cannot help it and you beg him ( “Inside me, Din. Please. Please.” ).

After you have both found release, he sucks a dark mark on the side of your neck as you catch your breath, your nails drawing idle patterns along the skin of his shoulders. “My mate,” he murmurs.

“My Mand’alor,” you reply.

When night falls, he sleeps beside you under the stars. You lay tucked between his arm and his chest and your cheek is hot on the skin of his collarbone. Hegora spins on its axis, hurtling through the universe at break-neck speed, but you are safe at his side.

He could ask for nothing more.

/

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH

Snow and ice—as far as the eye can see. Blinding whites and blurry grays, all mixed together in a cacophony of bitter cold and wind. You stand at the top of the loading dock, bundled in the winter gear you stopped to purchase on Nevarro prior to entering Hoth’s atmosphere.

You stare into the beast that is Hoth’s unfeeling climate, and the beast stares back.

Yesterday…

Letting go of the girl you were for good…

Mandalore and the saber’s mate…

His mouth on yours and his body between your legs…

He loves you…

Din loves you.

More than you are able to process overnight, but it’s okay. You have time. Surely, you have time. There will be time for talking and planning and learning the true depths of each other when your business with Crik is through. But first you must complete the one thing you set out to accomplish. Long before Din and offering yourself to the Guild, there was Jeelia.

You suck in a breath. For Jeelia—always for her.

Sensing your resolve, Din interlaces his fingers with yours. He cocks his head to the cold wilderness as a gust of wind sweeps snow up the loading dock. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH 

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice. 

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do. 

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding. 

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face. 

And he will be the first to fall. 

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist. 

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.” 

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer. 

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip. 

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs. 

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them. 

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again. 

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper. 

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster. 

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin. 

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.” 

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle. 

“What can you tell me about this man?” 

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!” 

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face. 

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

/ 

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp. 

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind. 

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold? 

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far. 

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars. 

“So, what now?” 

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip. 

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—” 

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable. 

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire. 

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward. 

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

/

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace. 

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all. 

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.” 

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in. 

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.” 

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice. 

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.” 

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering. 

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.” 

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break. 

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers. 

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest. 

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too. 

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance. 

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach. 

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek. 

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog. 

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it. 

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward. 

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod. 

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods. 

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm. 

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik. 

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear. 

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you. 

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal. 

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet. 

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back. 

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod. 

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer. 

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple. 

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.  

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds. 

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg. 

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent. 

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters. 

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead. 

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes. 

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other. 

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain. 

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in. 

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs. 

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.”

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough. 

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags. 

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side. 

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet. 

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.