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You were twelve and thought a lot of things about Maul that first week. It was strange the way he stood at attention like a soldier, as if it would disguise how out of place he was. His arms dangled off his shoulders like snapped, jagged branches, but he displayed the strength of a full grown man. His face was a mismatched puzzle; horns and chin long and sharp, but his cheeks were still chubby from childhood. He sat ramrod straight and never took his eyes off the teacher. Always the first student in class and the last to leave. You couldn't decide if he was shy or didn't like people.

But his tattoos were one of the coolest things you'd ever seen. And you couldn't stop thinking about how he bit a boy's nose hard enough to bleed.

During recess on his first day, Maul cycled between kicking rocks around and watching the other kids. You approached him, ignoring the protests from your friends.

"Hi, you sit behind me in tracking class," you told him your name. Maul stared.

"I'm Maul."

"What school did you transfer from?"

"Does it matter?"

You shrugged. "Just curious."

Maul narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Wanna play with us?" you gestured back to your group of friends, who pretended they weren't just looking.

"No," he said, far more harshly than you expected.

"Oh…maybe later?"

Maul walked away without answering. Your friends were generous with their I told you so's, yet oddly, his rudeness didn't bother you like it would from someone else. It just made you curious.

You tried again the next day. You found him squatting at the same edge of the field, moving rocks and dirt around with a twig.

"We're playing warvolley if you want to join," you said. "Just don't hit the ball with your palms up. Kera dislocated his pinkie doing that once. There was blood everywhere."

Maul didn't look up. "No."

"What about tomorrow?"

"No."

You tried tomorrow anyway, and the next day. And the day after that. Every time you asked him to join you, you offered him something. A seat, a game, even half your lunch once, which earned you a look so suspicious that even you questioned if your pasta was poisoned. Maul either said no or nothing at all— which was still a no.

Weeks of rejection passed. Your friends said that Maul might bite your nose too if you kept asking. That was probably true. You'd seen him fight dirty during sparring matches well enough. But you saw the slight falter in his expression when he was chosen last for group activities, every time. How he watched everyone play at recess like an exhibit at a zoo. There was something lonely about him, so you kept asking.

The student body at Orsis was a wealth of diversity, except for Zabraks. Specifically, Dathomiri Zabraks, which made Maul the prime target for the loud and obnoxious students. Zhet was the worst of them— a Theelin boy whose father was a top donor, which meant the faculty would turn a blind eye to his behavior. He carved slurs into Maul's desk and shoulder checked him in the halls. And during a documentary screening one afternoon, he and his friends flung rubber bands at Maul's head, trying to loop them around his horns.

They never landed a single shot, but they still thought it was the funniest thing in the whole galaxy. Maul never fought back, which was the part you couldn't stand. You'd seen him take kids twice his size down without so much as a sweat— yet he just sat there and took it when Zhet and his minions harassed him. Jaw tight, eyes forward, spine ramrod straight. Maul could easily break his arm in half, and Zhet must've known that because he was a coward with stupid, pink hair.

You just stood up in the middle of the documentary and stomped over to Zhet's desk. You didn't have a plan. The whole class, including the instructor, was staring at you. Zhet was tipped back in his chair, looking at you as if you were stupid, and you kicked the legs out from under him with all the strength you had.

He slammed to the floor with a yelp and the class roared in laughter. The instructor shouted at you, but you were too focused on watching Zhet scramble to his feet, his face burning red.

The instructor dragged you out of the classroom by your arm. On your way out, you caught Maul's eyes and winked at him.

You didn't expect Maul to thank you after that, which he didn't. But he started staring. Constantly. You'd catch him in class and instead of glancing away like a normal person, he'd stare at you until you caved and looked away, embarrassed. But it wasn't the look he used when watching the other kids at recess— it was a calculating one, but no less intimidating.

It was driving you nuts. You planned to confront Maul about it, but he got to you first.

Inside the academy's library, you had a hideaway; a storage closet, tucked away in the far back corner. The librarian gave you the keycard herself, delighted that someone expressed interest in physical books. It smelled like mildew and old clothes forgotten in a dresser. The couch cushion was lumpy and split at the seams, and you chipped away at the cracked leather like dried toothpaste. But it was lined with towering, cherry wood shelves that held hundreds of books nearly lost to time.

It was your own sanctuary. That's why you nearly jumped out of your skin when the door opened and Maul walked in.

"W-what are you doing here?" you placed a hand over your racing heart. "How did you even find this place?"

"I followed you." Maul said, like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

"But I've been here for a few hours?"

Instead of answering, Maul looked around the small space, taking in the old couch, wood shelves, and bad smell.

"Why did you kick Zhet's chair?" He finally asked.

You blinked at him. "Because he's a sleemo and deserved it."

What flickered across his face was more than confusion— like what you told him was downright absurd. Maul frowned at the floor and fell silent again. You felt awkward, so you reached for the crumpled bag tucked in between the couch cushions.

"Zabraks are carnivores, right? Do you want some jerky?"

Maul scrunched his nose at the offered bag. "You're not supposed to have that in here."

"Are you gonna snitch? You don't seem like a snitch."

"No."

"Then take the jerky," you tossed him the bag and he caught it without looking.

He stared suspiciously at it. "Why are you giving me this?"

You shrugged. "Mother said it's polite."

"Polite?" His lips curled around the word like he'd never said it before.

"That's what she says."

For a moment, you thought Maul would actually take it. Then his face turned to stone and threw the bag back at you. It fumbled against your chest when you caught it.

"I don't want it."

"Why?"

But Maul already turned around and walked out, leaving you wondering if any of that actually happened.

You didn't expect him to come back that next evening. He avoided you throughout the day and disappeared during recess. But he did, wordlessly, scowling so harshly that it looked painful. Maul came back the evening after that, too. And the one after that. You never understood why and you didn't think he did either. You don't know when it became normal to find him already in the closet when you arrived, tucked into the far end of the couch by the door. Maul didn't explain himself, and you never asked. You learned that questions made him leave. So you accepted it as his version of a friendship.

Maul always sat by the door, you by the dirty hopper window. His charger became yours because your cable was always frayed. He brought a lavender potpourri satchel for the shelf because his Zabrak sense of smell was far more sensitive than yours. You draped a blanket over the seat when the flakes of leather stuck to your school pants. The moth-bitten hole in the back seams became home for snacks you stuffed in your bra to sneak into the library.

You studied there, completed projects together, tossed balled up snack wrappers at Maul's head when he annoyed you. They never landed. Some evenings passed wordlessly when there were no assignments due. Maul, working at something on his datapad. You, buried in one of the musty tomes.

The seasons passed with you two folded into the quiet of that little room. You were happy in ways that you didn't understand yet, and Maul was as familiar to you as the back of your hand.

Until he wasn't.

Orsis was a dense jungle, smothered in unrelenting, soup like humidity that was especially brutal during the summer. And you, a child of the arid Andrenma desert, were sure this exercise would break you.

You dropped to your knees beneath an overgrowth, the shade providing you minimal relief from the oppressive heat. You felt every swell of your veins in tandem with the rapid beat of your heart. Your skin flushed, and damp with sweat that clung to you like a wet sock. The jumpsuit tied at your waist left your exposed shoulders littered with various cuts from the flora. Some beaded with endless blood, others stung like claws on a sunburn.

The realization dawned on you as you rummaged through your bag for your water skin, which was tragically empt. The bag and its contents were soaked. You were so sweaty that you hadn't noticed it leaked. Rations melted into a half-powder slurry that oozed into the seams of the emergency tracking beacon, and fried the electronics.

You were going to die. Here lies the Princess of Andrenma, died of a heatstroke on a jungle planet because she's an idiot. You couldn't even muster the energy to cry out of frustration. You wondered briefly if you could re-hydrate yourself by licking the sweat off your arms, then dismissed that thought. You'd rather just die.

You pushed yourself against a tree, letting your head fall back against the bark and closing your eyes. Bugs might crawl in your hair, but you didn't care. Your body was beyond spent, the world so hazy that you barely noticed the footsteps approaching you. You opened one eye to see Maul, standing over you. Sweat soaked, and down to his undershirt like you, but far more composed.

"What are you doing here?" you asked between labored breaths. Maul was far ahead of you during physical training exercises. Always ahead of you.

He knelt down next to you and opened his bag. "We have a project to present in an hour."

"Huh?" was all your microwaved brain could so eloquently manage. It took several seconds of you staring dumbly at Maul before you realized he was talking about the Efficacy of Torture project for your psychology class.

Maul shoved a water skin in your hands before you could respond with your permission for him to take full credit for the project. This one was still full and cool to the touch. Why did he bring two?

You brought the container to your lips and drank in large gulps that stretched your throat. You felt the liquid travel through your body like a menthol salve, cooling your superheated insides. Maul had to pull the water skin from you to keep you from drinking it all.

"Are all humans this weak, or is it just you?" he asked, then unceremoniously dumped some of the water over your head. "The sun on Dathomir would turn you into jerky."

The only rebuttal you could manage was a weak kick to his leg. You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the tree. The water was lovely against your face, and made you fantasize about the shower you'd take after this. You felt a little bad. Maul probably wanted to shower too. He'd be finished now if it weren't for you. Why was he here again? How did he even find you?

You heard the unzipping of a bag, a crinkle of plastic, and the rustling of leaves next to you. The acrid stench of vinegar jolted you out of your scrambled thoughts, followed by the familiar tingle of bacta mending your skin.

"You don't have to do that," you said, registering Maul as your bacta savior.

"I know."

He didn't look at you, focused on your arms. You'd watched Maul's hands curl around the trigger of a blaster, split skin and crunch bone with powerful, precise punches. Those same hands were gentle against your skin, mindful of their pressure. The touch never hurt. Not once.

Before you knew it, Maul hoisted you back to your feet, your body officially out of "broiled" territory and now "mildly toasted." Neither of you spoke as you trudged your way back to campus. You felt uneasy, teetering on the edge between anxiety and warmth. It was probably the last of the heat exhaustion lingering in your brain.

The nurse droids nearly short circuited at the sight of you and ushered you into the medbay for fluids before you could protest. Maul had to present the project alone and passed with flying colors. He visited you later that evening and settled in the chair next to you, datapad perched in his lap.

"I took full credit."

Time passed strangely after that. You turned fourteen, then fifteen and suddenly Maul was taller than you. The awkward angles of his body filled into lean muscle, the baby fat trimmed off his cheeks. You were hyper-aware of the space he occupied; on the couch by the door, to your left in the hallways, his position on the field during drills. He was as inevitable as the first breath you took in the morning. Not an extension of you, because you didn't know where you ended and Maul began.

You met Volen in your Politics and Espionage class the year you turned sixteen. They were the kind of person with their own gravitational pull. Beautiful in a way that appealed to all; timeless, and neither masculine nor feminine.

You became fast friends, traded notes, and laughed loudly in the hallways between your shared classes. But you were one of many in their rotation of friends, not drawn too close nor pushed too far. Welcome company to fill in the spaces when Maul was absent.

Volen was a better fighter than you. They'd pin you in the training ring and laugh, hauling you back to your feet by your wrist, only to knock your legs out from underneath you. You didn't mind losing to them because they made training fun, and not the agonizing task your body carried for days after.

Between the grappling and easy banter, you felt the prickle of someone watching you. Brief, but just enough to catch your focus, and land your face against the mat. You called it quits after that.

"Your friend doesn't like me," Volen said with a wry grin after they helped you up. They tipped their chin and you followed it. Maul leaned against the far end of the wall where he always waited for you, arms crossed. You caught him as he switched his gaze between you and Volen, then he looked away and rolled his shoulders.

"No, he's just like that," you looked back to Volen. "Staring is kinda his thing."

"Oh, I know it is," they said, and clapped you on the shoulder. "But he was glaring, not staring. Probably fantasizing about all the ways he wants to kill me."

You laughed it off then because Volen was dramatic, but they had been right. They usually were, you were just unwilling to admit that you didn't know the language of Maul's stares as well as you thought. Because something had shifted in him in those weeks and Maul's mood hadn't changed. It wasn't teenage hormones, because you thought that was above him in some way. You seemed to be the catalyst, a live wire that shocked him every time he was close, but Maul never stayed away. You didn't understand it. You stopped trying.

"Spar with me."

Maul's proposal shocked you. You two rarely sparred because he so easily outclassed you, and the suggestion came out of nowhere. They were the first words out of his mouth when you met him in the hallway after class— by the water fountains, like always.

"Okay, but why?"

"You have bad habits," he explained, already walking ahead, expecting you to follow. You did. "You need someone to challenge you."

You scoffed. "Every fight is challenging for me, but whatever."

The wind was knocked out of you as you slammed onto the mat. Barely a second passed before Maul hauled you back onto your feet. He was quick and aggressive, but you were smaller and nimble. You dodged his punches within a hair's breadth of their landing. He feigned a kick— you anticipated it and slipped the right hook that followed.

But anticipating Maul and matching him were two different beasts. He had the strength and speed of a warrior forged from birth. Every match ended the same way: you on your back, groaning in pain, Maul grabbing your hand to drag you up and do it all over again.

"You are predictable," he said flatly by the fourth time he knocked you down. "Try again."

You didn't have the space to answer before Maul was on you. But there was plenty of space inside you that boiled in frustration.

You couldn't beat him, but you could catch him.

You didn't dodge the next time Maul tackled you. You hooked your thighs around his neck, his right arm trapped against your chest— that was a move Volen taught you. And for one fleeting, triumphant second, you caught him off guard.

But Maul was the top student for a reason. He stood, and you, still clamped around his neck, rose with him like you weighed nothing. Like you were an afterthought. Maul was showing off, you could see it on his stupid face.

And now neither of you would win. You'd make sure of it.

He tried to shake you loose. A sharp jerk meant to throw you off, but you were stubborn and clamped down harder. Your weight swung, Maul's balance with it, and both of you came tumbling down.

The mat punched the air out of your lungs, forcing you to let go. The momentum pulled Maul forward and right on top of you.

Neither of you moved.

Maul's weight pressed you into the floor, his heat soaking through the thin jumpsuit where your bodies met. You swore you could feel the roar of his twin hearts thrumming with your own, single human beat. He was close enough that you could see him properly. A bead of sweat on his temple, the webs of gnarled skin where his horns erupted.

Maul hesitated. He never hesitated; always still and poised to strike like a viper. But the person above you, a boy, not a predator, looked nervous. You could see the tension in his shoulders, his eyes manically flicking between yours. Then it was gone. Cold air rushed over your body as Maul pushed himself from you and stood to his feet.

"We're done."

You propped yourself on your elbows while Maul backed away several steps, refusing to look at you. For reasons unknown to you, it made your heart sink.

Maul was already tucked into his spot on the couch when you arrived that evening. Not looking up or offering a quick greeting was normal, but the silence from him was suffocating. He was hunched over his datapad, scrolling in a way that you knew was mindless. He was stewing and you couldn't ask why, no matter how much you wanted to. But you needed to do something.

There was a half empty bag of spiced nerf jerky stuffed in the couch. You bent over the back, fished it out from the hole, and tossed it over to Maul. He caught it without looking. For a moment you thought he might throw it back at you and storm out like he did when you were twelve. The thought scared you because Maul hadn't walked away from you in years. He was always where you needed him— by your side, around the corner, sat in his spot on the couch. But Maul didn't throw the bag back or leave. He turned it over and placed it beside him. It was…better than nothing, you supposed.

You sat propped up against the arm on your side of the couch, stretched your sore legs out in front of you, and rested them in Maul's lap. That'd been something you bickered about years ago, when either you grew too tall or Maul too muscular and touching each other became unavoidable. You always napped on the couch, and he got tired of your cold feet pressing against his thighs. So, you draped your calves across Maul's lap one day, your feet touching the other side of the cushion. He didn't move, and that became the compromise. The silence and his warmth lulling you into years of cozy, evening cat naps.

The silence hadn't been comfortable lately. You felt a buzzing in your gut every time you were around Maul; like anticipating the drop on a theme park ride that never came. You didn't know what to do with it, but you felt like something would snap.

You were stirred from your light doze when he spoke.

"I do not know what I am doing…"

It was so quiet, you were unsure if you'd imagined it at first. The muscles in Maul's thighs were tense. You didn't open your eyes and didn't dare to move, afraid that he would be reminded of your presence and run off.

Without a chrono, you had no idea how much time passed— maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. Eventually, you heard Maul sigh, the one he used when he was tired and frustrated. To your surprise, you felt warmth encapsulate one of your ankles, and realized it was his hand. Your heart jolted, which didn't make sense because you were already touching him. Touching Maul was normal. You had been friends for years.

You couldn't fall back asleep and eventually pretended to wake up. Your gut told you that Maul knew you were faking, but he never mentioned it.

Something shifted after that day in the ring. The days were the same on the surface— classes, training, studying, Maul's datapad, your books. But you felt his presence sizzle in a room like a match you struck with your teeth. The energy was aggravating and thrilling— and you lived suspended in that dichotomy for the better part of a year.

You caught yourself observing him in a way you thought only artists did. The sharpened lines of his jaw, the proud bridge of his nose. You noticed the thick veins overhanging Maul's tendons; knobby knuckles bulging underneath ruby-red skin, calloused and scarred from battle and ink. You traced the bump in his throat down to the dip between his collarbones— the jagged tattoos across his strong pectorals visible when his shirt collar hung low enough.

And you caught Maul watching you more than once as well. Sometimes he looked away too late. Sometimes, not at all. It made you conscious of the state of your hair and the way your jumpsuit hugged your figure. Which was stupid. Maul had been with you through every awkward growth spurt, hormonal breakout, and overzealous eyebrow plucking. He knew what you looked like and didn't care. Probably. What did you look like through Maul's eyes?

The realization that you even cared dawned on you one morning while getting ready for class. Not a dramatic, grand revelation, but from a simple, mundane thought while you decided between the star shaped hydrocolloid patches or transparent ones.

Which would Maul like better?

And the entire galaxy might as well have collapsed on you in that singular moment. You cared what Maul thought because you liked him more than a friend. You noticed his veins and the shape of his nose because he was handsome.

You wanted to scream. You couldn't stop smiling. You wanted to vomit.

You'd invented a new sensation: vibrating out of your skin. Like someone trapped a swarm of angry wasps in a flask and shook it for thirty seconds. Classes were busy, but the day passed slowly. You were convinced you'd combust in your Chemistry of Mind-Altering Drugs class, but you made it through. At what cost, though? Because now you had to face Maul in the hideaway. You couldn't avoid it, because he'd find you. You couldn't be late, because he'd notice.

You just had to act normal. Nothing had changed. Don't be stupid.

Maul was there when you arrived, buried in his datapad, like always. You dumped your bag next to his, rummaging through the clutter for your study material. You paused when your cosmetic pouch came into view. Should you put on lip balm? No. Stupid.

You plopped down on your normal spot, powering on your datapad. You read the same sentence about the various uses of Glitterstim about four times, absorbing none of it. Were you sweating? The room was cold, you had to be imagining it. You tugged on your shirt anyway.

You didn't look at Maul but noticed his every shift, the gentle tap of his fingers on the datapad, the breath he took. The issue was that not looking at him was obvious, and Maul had a freak intuition that you couldn't hide anything from.

His fingers stilled and you felt his gaze on you. When you looked up, he was watching you over the top of his datapad.

"What?" you asked, too fast and too defensive.

Maul's eyes moved over you, assessing the grinding of your jaw and the tension in your shoulders. You tried to keep your face neutral, and relaxed the white knuckled grip you had on your datapad. But it was useless. You knew it. Maul knew it. He had every quirk of your personality catalogued. This was unavoidable.

"You are acting strange," Maul said flatly. He placed his datapad to the side.

"No, I'm not."

"It is useless to lie to me," his words were pointed, but not sharp. "Something is bothering you. What is it?"

That was the million credit question, wasn't it? You couldn't tell him that he was the most beautiful person you'd ever seen. That he was your best friend, and you might be in love with him and hadn't realized it until this morning. You couldn't ask him if he thought you were pretty because you didn't even know if he found humans attractive.

You opened your mouth but every word died in your throat. Maul was staring at you, expecting an answer. You couldn't give him one. You didn't know what to do. So you moved, pushed yourself on your hands and knees, leaned across the couch, and kissed him.

You pressed a little too hard, your noses squished together. Maul's lips were dry, but not cracked, and he was warm. It was nice.

You leaned back after a few seconds and dared to open your eyes. Maul wore an expression that took you a second to register: shock. His eyes were a pale shade of green, and you could see yourself in the reflection of his irises. Your face was flushed and your pulse pounded in your ears. Maul was frozen. You feared you broke him and shattered everything you two built over the past five years.

He wouldn't move, it had to be you. Always had to be you.

"Say something-"

Maul kissed you— he leaned forward and kissed you. This one was softer, still awkward, but more sure of itself. You relaxed into it, and mutually pulled away after several seconds, but stayed close enough to feel each other's breath.

You giggled not out of joy but release— that buzzing anticipation in your gut finally gone. And Maul felt lighter, he even looked peaceful. Content. You noticed he was the same shade of red as always, while your cheeks burned. That wasn't fair; Zabraks needed a tell too. You'd find it. He also didn't have eyelashes, which was funny.

"Why are you laughing?" Maul asked softly.

You shook your head. "I just noticed you don't have eyelashes."

Maul laughed, a soft, short sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

You didn't need to talk about what happened on the couch because everything that came after was so natural. The routine was still the same— classes, training, studying, Maul's datapad, and your books. The third kiss was easier and shared before you parted ways to the dorms that night. The fourth that next evening as soon as the hideaway door closed. You stopped counting after that. But you kissed during the pauses of your study sessions, in the courtyard during lunch when no one was looking, and when your evening naps evaded you.

Maul was lighter and smiled more, which still wasn't often. But you'd see it when you caught him staring at you. The shift was noticeable enough even to your classmates. You learned Volen had a betting pool that you two would get together by the end of the year. Volen won three hundred credits and bought you a box of condoms, which mortified you. They laughed.

Maul let you rest your legs in his lap like always, except now, he'd occasionally hold your ankle. Sometimes your calf or knee, and lately a little higher. You still had to learn his tells the way blushing was yours. You wanted to ask him if it was okay if you called him pet names— if you could hold his hand in the hallway, or go on a date off world. You had so many plans, none of them urgent. It had only been two weeks. You thought you had time.

Around three am one night, the RA woke you up to inform you that your sister was dead, and an escort was there to take you home.

You didn't remember what she said after that. Something about your mother and a transport, maybe. Your body moved on its own. The RA offered to help you pack your bag, but you dismissed her, politely. Your sister was dead. You repeated it to yourself until the words felt fake. Your sister was dead.

You shoved your stuff in a bag with the bathroom as the only source of light. You didn't remember if you brushed your teeth. Your sister was dead, and there was a planet's worth of grief waiting for you on Andrenma. The escort waited outside your room and offered condolences

"I'm so sorry for your loss, your Highness."

A title that felt foreign to you, and your sister an abstract concept.

You didn't tell Maul because you couldn't. The boys' dormitory was off limits. You had his personal comm, but something tugged at you. You excused yourself for a moment before you registered that your feet carried you to the hideaway in the library.

It was dark and smelled like it always did— of mildew, and old clothes, and the lavender Maul put on the shelf. You tore a page out of one of your notebooks and scribbled:

My sister died. I have to go. I'll be back.

You wanted to write I love you. It felt right, natural, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. That was something you wanted to tell Maul in person. It was part of one of your plans, and you still had time. You'd be back.

You kissed the note instead and placed it on Maul's side of the couch. You felt present in your body for the first time since you'd been woken up. Tears formed in your eyes, but you willed them back because you couldn't afford to let them fall. Then you turned and left.

The academy was dark and silent as you walked past the library, by classrooms and training halls, and outside to the landing pad where the transport awaited.

You didn't look back because you didn't need to. You'd be back. You were seventeen and believed it.

"Are you alright?"

Din's voice comes through the modulator low and quiet, the way it does when he's worried but doesn't want to make a thing of it. He's in the pilot's seat, gloved hands resting on the yoke, helmet angled slightly toward you.

"I'm fine," you say and make yourself smile. Because, if you don't smile, he'll fuss, and if he fusses, you'll cry, and crying is a new and unwelcome hobby. "Just…the jump. It'll pass."

"We're eight hours out from Nevarro."

"Eight hours is nothing."

He's quiet a moment. “There's ginger root in a tin in the galley if you need it.”

“Good idea.”

You unfold yourself from the chair and pad back to the galley, one hand still resting low on your belly, and you don't see the way his helmet tracks you until you're past the bulkhead.

You're chewing the bitter-sweet ginger and humming something tuneless when the ship lurches.

Not the soft sway of a course adjustment or the gentle bump of micro-debris on the shields. This is a wrench, sideways and hard, and you stagger into the bulkhead with the tin still in your fist, ginger root scattering across the deck plates.

"Din!"

"Strap in,” he says, his voice clipped. "Now."

You don't waste breath on questions. You haul yourself back to the cockpit on legs that feel half-borrowed, and see that the smear of hyperspace is gone, replaced by the hard pinprick stars of realspace and three ugly silhouettes hanging in the void off the starboard quarter.

They look like snub fighters, old Imperial chassis, refitted, the kind of cobbled-together raider rigs that have been slinking around the Outer Rim ever since the Empire fell apart and left its toys to be picked over by scavengers.

"They pulled us out of hyperspace," Din says tightly. "Someone wanted us specifically. Strap. In."

You strap in, the harness clicking across your chest and your lap and you suddenly feel the baby very acutely and press both hands flat to your belly under the straps.

Din's hands are already dancing across the console.

The first cannon shot from the lead fighter screams past the canopy close enough that the deflector wash makes the lights flicker. He pitches the ship into a dive that smashes you into your harness, and your stomach performs a slow somersault you'll be paying for later. He pulls up hard, rolls, and the second fighter overshoots and exposes its dorsal plating to the Crest’s belly guns. Din doesn't even look. His thumb moves once and the fighter blooms into a flower of orange flame and tumbling debris.

"One," he says.

"Din…"

"It's fine."

It is, demonstrably, not fine. The remaining two fighters split – one high, one low – and the cockpit lights up red as the proximity alarms start screaming. He answers them by hauling the ship sideways through a debris field of the kill he just made, letting the wreckage shred at the pursuer behind him. The high fighter takes a chunk of fuselage through its own canopy and spirals off, dark.

"Two."

"Din, the last one…"

"I see him."

The last raider is smarter. He hangs back, fires from range, and one of his bolts catches the underside of the ship in a glancing kiss that makes the whole frame shudder. The lights stutter and somewhere behind you, a relay pops and starts a small, brave fire that the suppressant system smothers in white foam within seconds.

Din curses, low in Mando’a, the kind of word he never translates for you.

He banks hard, brings the nose around and the last raider, too eager, flies right into the killbox. With one squeeze of the trigger, the cockpit lights up gold with the reflected fireball, and then there’s only the dark, and the stars, and your own ragged breathing in your ears.

"Are you alright?" he asks, immediately, before he even checks the boards. "Are you…is the…?"

"I'm okay," you say.

Your hands are still flat on your belly, and you’re not entirely sure your statement’s true, but you don't feel pain or anything wet. All you feel is the slow thunder of your own heart.

"I'm okay. We're okay."

He exhales, then he turns back to the console, and his shoulders go tight again.

"We're losing coolant," he says. "Number two line. I can patch it, but not in hyperspace, and not on Nevarro's vector – the burn we'd have to make is too long. We need to put down."

"How far?"

"Tatooine," he says. "Mos Eisley. We can be there in three hours with what we've got."

You let your head fall back against the rest and sigh heavily. You've been looking forward to seeing the midwife and having a first scan. You want to see proof that the baby you both believe you’re carrying is, in fact, a small and stubborn truth.

"It's only a few days' delay," Din says gently. "I'll send word to the midwife. She’ll wait.”

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

He doesn't answer that. You've learned that he carries everything that happens around you as if he's somehow caused it by not preventing it, and that no argument you make will ever convince him otherwise. So, you just reach across the gap between your seats and lay your hand over his gloved one. After a moment, he turns his hand palm-up, laces his fingers with yours, and you sit like that all the way to Tatooine.

****

Mos Eisley is the same as it ever is.

Heat shimmers above the duracrete, the twin suns hammering down from a sky like beaten brass. The smell of engine grease, bantha, a hundred kinds of spice and at least three kinds of unwashed sentient drift in the dry wind. You step down the ramp behind Din and Peli Motto comes barrelling out of the hangar office with a wrench in one hand and a half-eaten ration bar in the other, already complaining.

"Oh, no," she's saying. "No, no, no. Mando, I told you last time, I told you, the next time you bring me this ship in this condition I was going to start charging double, and I meant it, you understand me, I meant it…"

"Peli."

"Don't you Peli me in that voice, you big tin…" She stops dead, her eyes finding you, and her whole expression changes.

"Hi, Peli."

"Oh," she says again, in a completely different voice.

The wrench lowers and the ration bar gets stuffed into a pocket. She comes at you with both arms out and you find yourself wrapped in a hug that smells of grease and sun and something faintly herbal, and she pats your back like you're her own and clucks like a mother hen.

"Honey, look at you. Look at you, you're glowing. Are you…Mando, is she…?"

Din coughs, a soft mechanical sound.

"She's pregnant," Peli says, leaning back to hold you at arm's length to look at you. You laugh, helpless, because you haven’t said a word and neither has he. "Don't even try to lie to me, I have eyes, I have instincts. Honey, sit down, you shouldn’t be standing in this heat. When are you due? Who's seeing you? Do you have a midwife? Please tell me you have a midwife and you're not letting this man birth a baby in a gunship…"

"Peli," Din says, with the long-suffering patience of a man who’s been here before.

"There's a midwife on Nevarro,” you smile. “We were on our way there when we got interrupted.”

"Interrupted," she echoes flatly, turning to look at Din. "Interrupted how?"

"There were three raiders," Din says.

"Three…"

"It's fine, we handled them."

"We?"

"He," you correct, before Peli can give herself an aneurysm. "He handled them. I sat very still and tried not to be sick."

"Oh, sweetheart." She pats your cheek with a grease-stained hand. "Inside, now. I've got cold water and a cot in the back and a fan that almost works, and you’re going to lie down and let the grown-ups deal with the ship. Mando, get her stuff. Move."

Din does as he’s told and you let yourself be steered into the dim cool of Peli's office and through to the back room where there is, indeed, a cot and a battered durasteel jug of water beading with condensation, and a fan that wheezes more than it whirs.Peli fusses with the blanket, fluffs a flat pillow, makes you sit and drink, presses her palm to your forehead, frowns and then nods in satisfaction at whatever the verdict is.

"Seven weeks?" she asks.

"How did you…?"

"Honey, please. I worked the cantina circuit for eleven years before I took up wrenches. I have seen pregnant. Seven weeks, I’d say, maybe eight. You'll start showing in another four if you're lucky, six if you're stubborn. Are you eating?"

"When I can keep it down."

"Ginger?"

"Din keeps me stocked."

Her eyes go soft. "Of course he does. Alright, you sleep, you hear me? The droids and I will get this hunk of carbon-scored junk back together and you and your man will be in the air by sundown tomorrow, I promise."

"Thanks, Peli."

She pats your hand then lingers a moment, and something complicated moves behind her eyes – fondness and something else, something more worried. Then she's gone, the curtain falls shut behind her, and you’re alone with the wheeze of the fan and the dim red glow of the lamp and the very small, very stubborn rumour at your centre.

****

Out in the hangar, the suns have started their long slow tumble toward the horizon, and the heat has gone from hammer to slow burn. Din has stripped off his chest plate and cape and is up to one elbow in the coolant assembly, working with the patience of a man who’s rebuilt every piece of this ship at least twice.

Peli is on the other side of the engine, doing the work that requires two hands and a tongue free to swear with. The pit droids scurry in and out with parts and tools and the occasional incomprehensible squeal.

She lets the silence go on for a while, letting him think she’s going to let it be when, of course, she isn’t.

"So," she says, casually. "Nevarro, huh?"

"Nevarro," Din agrees.

"Karga's still got that nice, clean little settlement going? Schools and everything?"

"Yes, growing by the day so I understand."

"And the midwife?"

"I’ve heard good things."

"Mm." Peli wipes her hands on a rag. "And what about after the midwife? You got plans?"

The wrench in Din's hand pauses for a beat then resumes.

"She stays on the ship with me."

Peli goes quiet as the pit droid nearest her hands her a hydrospanner and she takes it without looking. "With you," she repeats.

"That's what I said."

"On the ship. On this ship. The one we’re currently rebuilding because it took three raider hits this morning. That ship?"

"Peli..."

"With a baby?"

Din sets the wrench down and straightens up, the helmet turning toward her, slow and deliberate. And whilst she doesn’t flinch, she softens her voice just a little.

"Mando…honey, I'm not…I'm not trying to start anything, I'm not. I think what you two have is the sweetest damn thing I’ve seen on this rock in a decade and that is not a low bar, because I cry at weddings, I cry at funerals and I cried last week at a commercial, so don't…"

"Peli."

"…don't think I'm coming at you from a bad place, alright? I'm coming at you from a place of love and a place of having raised three nephews and a niece in a hangar very much like this one, and I'm telling you, Mando. I'm telling you. A baby…on a ship…with your job?"

He doesn't answer.

She presses, gently. "What's the bunk situation? You've got the one. Where does the kid sleep?"

"We can build."

"Build what, a crib? Where? Bolted to the deck plates next to the carbonite chamber? Next to the armoury?"

"It's not…"

"What happens when she's eight months along and you take a hit like you took today? She can't run, Mando. She can't tuck and roll. She can't even bend over. What happens when you've got a colicky newborn screaming its lungs out and a quarry breaks cover and you have to either fly or fight and that baby is crying on the bridge…"

"Peli..."

"…what happens when the kid's two and walking and gets into the maintenance crawl when you're in hyperspace? What happens when it’s four and asking why every door on the ship is locked and what's in the cargo hold and why daddy comes home with blood on his armour…"

"Stop."

She stops, wipes her hands and doesn’t apologise.

"I love that ship because you love it," she says quietly. “But Mando, it’s not a home. It's a weapon with bunks in it. And she…" Peli jerks her chin toward the back room where you’re sleeping, "…is carrying your kid. Your kid, Mando. Don’t you want it to have grass? Don’t you want it to have sky?”

He says nothing.

"I'm saying she needs a door, Mando. A real door, that opens on something that isn't vacuum. A patch of ground. A neighbour. Somebody who can come over with soup when she's so tired she can't see straight, because honey, I am here to tell you, the first six months you cannot see straight, you cannot, and a man in a helmet is not enough. I don't care how many tribes he's got, one man is not enough."

"I…"

"And you." She points the spanner at him. "You need a place to come back to. You think I don't know what your face looks like when you come in off a hunt? I can't even see your face, and I know what it looks like. You need a door to walk through where the killing stops. You need to not bring it home because home is somewhere else."

He stays silent as the pit droid offers her another tool and she waves it off.

"I'm done," she says. "That's all I'm gonna say. You do what you want because you always do. But you asked me to fix this ship, and you didn't ask me about the rest of it and I'm telling you about the rest of it anyway because somebody has to and I don't see anybody else lining up. So there. I said my piece."

She turns back to the engine, and he doesn’t move for a long moment.

When he finally does, it's only to pick up the wrench again. His hands are steady, but Peli, who’s known him a long time, sees the way the helmet tips, just slightly, toward the back room where you’re sleeping.

She doesn't say anything else.

She doesn't have to.

****

You wake in the dim red glow of the lamp with no idea how long you've slept. The fan is still wheezing and there's a fresh jug of water by the cot and a covered bowl beside it that turns out to be a clear broth, still warm, with thin slivers of vegetable floating in it.

You eat slowly, sitting up on the edge of the cot. Your stomach accepts it without complaint, which feels like a small miracle. You finish the broth, drink half the water and when you press your hands to your lower back and stretch the kinks out you feel – astonishingly – almost human again.

You pull your boots back on and smooth your hair. Then you push the curtain aside and pad through the dim office, past Peli's cluttered desk with its lopsided stack of credit chits and tools and out into the hangar.

The suns are nearly down, and the heat has finally broken into something that's only warm instead of murderous. The ship sits on its struts in the middle of the bay, panels open along her belly, guts spilled neatly onto tarps on the duracrete.

A pit droid is hauling a length of coolant line across the floor. Peli is up on a ladder doing something to the dorsal vent whilst Din is on his back under the starboard wing, one knee up, both arms vanished to the shoulder into a panel.

You stand in the doorway and just look at him a second.

He has his sleeves shoved up, the flight suit dark with sweat between the shoulders. The light catches on the curve of his helmet and makes it shine. One booted foot taps a slow, distracted rhythm against the deck plate, which is something he only does when he's thinking hard about something that isn't the work in front of him.

You don't notice that, exactly. You notice that his foot is moving, but you don't read it.

"Hey," you say, softly, so as not to startle the man with both arms inside a power coupling.

The helmet tips. He goes still – that whole-body stillness he does, where every part of him reorients to you – and then he slides out from under the wing and gets to his feet in one easy motion, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt.

"Hey." He comes to you, stopping just short of touching, because his hands are filthy. He tips the helmet down at you in that way that always undoes you. "You slept."

"I slept hard. What time is it?"

"Local sundown. You were out maybe three hours, so you obviously needed it."

"Did I miss dinner?"

"Peli's making something. She wouldn't let me near the hotplate."

You laugh, reach up without thinking and brush a smear of grease off the corner of his vambrace with your thumb, his whole arm going still under the touch.

You don't notice that either,

"How bad is she?" you ask, nodding at the ship.

"Not bad. There’s damage to the coolant line, two power couplings and a relay in the cockpit. The hull plate on the port underside took a chunk, but Peli's pulling one from a scrap Naboo cruiser she's got in the back which should hold." He hesitates. "We'll be up by afternoon tomorrow and on Nevarro by nightfall."

"Good." You let out a breath you didn't quite know you were holding. "The midwife…"

"I sent word. She'll see you the morning after we land. She wasn't worried."

“That’s a relief.”

“Mm.”

That's all he says. Mm. And you, dopey with sleep, broth and the relief of a body that’s stopped trying to mutiny on you, don't hear what isn't in the sound. You only hear that he’s here, the ship will fly, and the midwife will be waiting on the other side of one more jump.

You move into him, press your forehead against his chest and close your eyes. After a beat his hands settle at the small of your back, careful of the grease and careful of you, his thumbs drawing two small slow arcs against your spine.

"Tired?" he asks.

"A little. I’m mostly just glad you're in one piece."

"I'm always in one piece."

"And I'm always going to worry about it. We're at an impasse."

A soft puff of sound comes through the modulator, and his hand slides up between your shoulder blades and rests there. The other settles, very lightly, at your hip, his thumb brushing the soft place just below your waistband, where his foundling sits curled and stubborn inside you.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment and neither do you.

The hangar is full of small sounds – the pit droid muttering at the coolant line, Peli humming something tuneless from the top of her ladder, the slow tick of cooling metal as the suns finally give up and slip below the rooftops of Mos Eisley. You can feel his breathing, slow and even, and the very small pause before each inhale.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, eyes still closed.

"You."

"Liar. You always say me."

"Because it’s always true."

"Mm-hm."

He goes quiet again. The thumb at your hip moves, just once, almost like he means to speak and then chooses not to.

If you'd opened your eyes then, tipped your head back and looked at him, if you'd been less drowsy, less full of broth and less relieved, you might have caught it – the small careful angle of the helmet, looking past you toward the open hangar doors, toward the dark settling fast over the rooftops, toward some middle distance that isn't the middle distance of a man thinking about a coolant line.

But you don't open your eyes.

"Come on," you murmur. "Peli's going to yell at us if we don't eat."

"She will."

His hand lingers at your back another second, then he steps away, taking his warmth with him, and you blink up into the visor like you've just been woken from a second small sleep.

"Go on in. I'll wash up and follow."

"Don't take forever."

"I won't."

You don't see him stand there a moment longer in the empty bay, helmet tipped down toward the spot where you’ve been standing. You don't see Peli, from the top of her ladder, watching him watch you go. You don't see the way she sets her wrench down very quietly across the rung and waits, like a woman who’s said her piece and now has the decency to let it work.

You only see that she's climbing down to join you, wiping her hands and calling something cheerful about stew and about how she hopes you like nuna because that's what she's got. You laugh and say you'll eat a bantha hoof at this point, and she cackles and pulls you into the office by the elbow.

Behind you, in the bay, Din stands very still for a long moment under the copper sky.

Then he picks up the rag from his belt, and wipes his hands, slowly, finger by finger, the way a man does when he’s not really thinking about his hands at all.

****

Peli's stew is, against all odds, very good.

You tell her so, twice, and she preens like a sand-cat in a sunbeam and tries to pretend she doesn't care. She pours you a second bowl over your protest and pours Din a bowl too when he comes in. She sets it down in front of him without a word, and he carries it off into the back room to eat in private, and she watches him go with an expression you can't quite read.

"Is he alright?" she asks, casually, once the curtain has fallen shut behind him.

You glance up from your bowl. "Din? He's fine, why?"

"No reason. He's quiet tonight."

"He's always quiet."

"Mm. There's quiet and there's quiet." She tears off a piece of flatbread, dunks it and chews. "You'll know better than me."

"He's been working since we landed, he’s tired,” you shrug, smiling, scraping the last of the broth from your bowl. "He'll sleep on the way to Nevarro tomorrow. I'll fly the boring middle hours."

"He lets you fly?"

"He lets me fly the boring middle hours."

She tears off another piece of flatbread and points it at you like a small, accusatory weapon. "Can I ask you something nosy."

"You're going to ask me anyway."

"That's fair.” She watches you over the rim of her bowl with eyes that have, you realise a little too late, been sharpening this question for some time. "You two getting married, or what?"

You choke, very gently, on a spoonful of stew.

"What? It's a question. It's a perfectly normal question to ask a pregnant woman about the father of her baby. Nuns ask it. bureaucrats ask it, hell bartenders ask it. I’m being downright restrained. I’ve not yet asked you about names, or about the bunk situation…I’m leaving you acres of dignity here…"

"You’re leaving me no dignity at all."

"…and all I want to know is whether the man in the helmet has put a ring on it. Metaphorically or Mandalorian-ly. Whatever his people do."

You set your spoon down. You can feel the heat crawling up the side of your neck, and you reach for your water cup to hide behind it, Peli watching you do it with the patient, satisfied air of a woman who knows she’s landed a clean shot.

"It's…it's not a ring," you say, finally. "From what he’s told me, it’s not…there's no ceremony, exactly. No officiant or party. It's just…words. A vow that you make. You say the words to each other and that's the marriage."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"No witnesses?"

"You can have witnesses if you want but you don't need them."

"No cake?"

"No cake."

"Honey." Peli puts a hand over her heart. "That is the saddest thing I've heard all year, and I had a fuel coupling explode in my face in spring."

You laugh, in spite of yourself. "It's not sad. It's…it's actually kind of beautiful the way he tells it. You don't need anyone else to make it real. You just decide, the two of you, you say it, and it's done."

"Mm-hm." Peli's eyes haven’t moved off your face. "And has he?"

The laugh dies a little, in your throat.

"Has he…what?"

"Said the words, whatever they are." She tilts her head. "You said the words make the marriage. So, have they been said?"

You stir your stew, very slowly, and watch the slivers of vegetable turn in the broth whilst you try to think honestly about it – about whether anything Din has murmured to you in the dark of the bunk, in the soft sleepy hours before dawn, in his own tongue or in yours, has been the words.

He’s said many things to you, called you many things. He’s pressed beskar to your forehead and your temple and the back of your hand and whispered into your hair in a language you only half know.

But you don't know. You don't know if any of it was the words. You don't know what the words even are because you’ve never quite worked up the nerve to ask.

"I…” you start, and then stop, because it’s suddenly a much harder question than you were ready for. "I don't…I don't know, actually. Maybe? He says things in Mando'a sometimes and I don't always know what he means."

"Oh, sweetheart."

"It's not like that. It's not…Peli, he loves me. I know he loves me. He…he brings me ginger root. He remembers the things I tell him. He makes sure that all my needs are taken care of. He protects me. He is…he’s married to me in every way that matters. Whether or not we've said any specific…"

"Honey."

"…specific words…"

"Honey, breathe."

You breathe as she reaches across the table and pats your hand. Her palm is warm and rough and smells like engine grease and flatbread, and there's something in her face you can't quite name. It’s not pity, not exactly, but something gentler. Something that almost looks like I'm sorry I asked, except Peli’s never been sorry she asked a question in her life.

"I'm sure he has said them," she says. "Or he's going to. A man like that doesn't get a woman pregnant and not say the words. He's just…he's him. He probably said them once, very quietly, while you were brushing your teeth, and figured that counted."

You laugh. "That does sound like him."

"It does, doesn't it." She squeezes your hand and lets go. "Eat your stew and forget I asked. I'm a nosy old woman with no children of my own and too many opinions about other people's.”

"Noted."

"Eat."

You do as she asks and don't notice that she glances, just once, over your shoulder at the curtain behind which Din is sitting with his bowl and his helmet off and, very possibly, his stew gone cold in front of him.

You don't notice that the curtain is not quite hanging the way it was a moment ago – that it's shifted, slightly, as if someone on the other side has been standing very near it and has only now stepped back.

You don't notice any of it.

You only notice that the stew is good, and the flatbread is warm, and Peli has, mercifully, moved on to a story about her nephew and a loose nuna and a wedding tent. And you laugh and let the question slide quietly off the table and out of your mind.

Where it sits in Din’s.

You don't think about it again.

You don't think about it when Din comes back out, helmet on, bowl empty, and stands behind your chair with one gloved hand resting very lightly on the back of your neck while Peli tells the end of a story.

You don't think about it when his thumb strokes once, slowly, along the nape under your hair, and you tip your head back against his hand, smile up at the visor and agree to go to bed.

You don't think about it when he walks you up the ramp, his hand at the small of your back, and the bay lights dimming behind you.

“Sleep tight!” Peli calls in a voice that has gone unexpectedly soft. You don't think about the way Din lifts his hand off your back to wave at her without turning around or about how the way the wave is, somehow, an answer.

You only think, as you peel off your boots in the dim bunk, crawl under the blanket and feel the mattress dip behind you as he settles in at your back that you’re tired, warm, and very loved, and that tomorrow you’ll be on Nevarro, and the midwife will lay her cool hands on your belly and tell you that you’re definitely carrying Din’s foundling.

His arm comes around you, his bare hand spreading wide and gentle over your stomach, holding it there, the beskar resting against the back of your skull.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

"You too."

You feel his breath move against your hair through the modulator, slow and even. The same lullaby you’ve fallen asleep to a hundred nights now.

You don't feel the way his hand stays awake on your belly long after the rest of him pretends to. You don't feel the small, slow circle his thumb traces, once, just above your navel, and then again, and then again, like a man counting something out and weighing it.

You don't hear him, much later, in the dark, when he thinks you're deep under – when your breathing has gone slow and your body has gone heavy against his – speak, very quietly, into your hair.

And in the morning, when you wake to the smell of caf you can't drink and the wheeze of Peli's fan starting up in the bay below and Din already dressed and moving quietly around the bunk, you won’t ask him what he was thinking about last night, when his hand was on your belly and his forehead was against your hair, because you haven’t noticed.

You’ll only smile up at him sleepily, and he’ll press the beskar to your temple and let it linger there, and you’ll close your eyes, lean into it, and think that everything is exactly where it should be.

Tatooine outside.

Nevarro ahead.

The midwife waiting.

And Din will be thinking about you, as always. But you won’t know that he's thinking of something else, too.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @seikamuzu

You watch as Mando treads further and further from your home, kicking up dirt with every confident, hunky step of his boots. Your eyes travel up and down his frame as he walks, wishing so very badly he was making his way to you instead. You hated when he left. But loved to watch him leave. Mando's body language is something you've seldom witnessed on a man. Assured, certain and absolutely positively unafraid. His gait engrosses you, your head following the modest swagger in his step, eyes trained on the slight sway in his hips as if he's carrying something all too burdensome between his legs. You take delight in watching him, studying his behavioral patterns and subconscious habits, honored to have the kind of closeness to a Mandalorian that many desire. 

You stay bent over the kitchen sink, peering through the window as you watch his silhouette become tinier and less distinguishable in the Naboo sun. The Kid sits perched on the counter beside you, babbling incoherently. He looks up at you with his wide black eyes, attempting to brainwash you into playtime mode. You shake your head at the little green monster, his itty bitty teeth peeking through his wrinkly lips. 

"Your father needs to eat tonight, as do you. Help me with dinner and we'll play as loooong as you want." You speak softly to the child as you lift him into your arms, and he responds with the sweetest coos and babbles you think ever heard while you lodge him on your hip. You set him down in his spherical crib, bouncing slightly as he settles down inside. You make your way to the front door, grabbing your harvest bin and checking behind yourself to ensure The Kid follows suit. 

You squint your eyes as you make your way to the garden, the sun painting your face golden and warming your skin delightfully. You perch your basket under your arm, resting it on your right hip, rocking it by habit. You bend down to pick your necessary ingredients for the meal, avoiding the ones The Kid tends to nonsensically complain about. The wind caresses you gently, the quiet serenity of the Naboo plains soothing your loud thoughts. Your blessed formality you’ve been accustomed to for a month now.

Your arrangement with the Mandalorian was simple. You watch his kid while he goes about business, feed him and keep him busy until he comes back. Occasionally rendering the same treatment to the Mandalorian when he takes rest. 

Understandably, you were hesitant to accept. Caring for the child of a Mandalorian? It wasn't similar at all to the responsibility you kept as a teen, watching over the littles of Naboo and becoming your neck of the woods' designated babysitter. No, this was different. You were put in charge of a child whose father could probably think of 17 different ways to end you before you had the chance to say "I'm sorry! It was an accident!". And then you laid eyes on the little booger, his preciousness enamoring you with a single look into his onyx eyes. 

When Mando first came across your home one afternoon, he was unsure of you too. Typical for someone of his nature. He needed lodging and repairs to his ship, something you could only partially provide. He approached you battered, tired and all too ready to crash on any surface he was offered. From the stories you've heard, Mandalorians are not as trusting as any regular citizen of the galaxy. They operate on their own rules, (or Creed, which you've come to learn) and a set of values that would choke a Wookiee to death with all its restrictions. So naturally, you were elated at the prospect, but with slight trepidation as to not break any of his rules. 

You let Mando and The Kid into your home on the premise that he would allow you to care for him, too. Initially, he wanted to leave the child with you while he tended to his ship’s repairs and other errands while lodging someplace else. You were having none of it. Partly because it's in your nature to nurture and wholly because a big, armored man was sat at your doorstep covered in Gods knows what, exuding the most magnificent masculinity you think you've ever seen. 

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First Night

"You can lodge as well, Mandalorian. Please, come inside." 

"I'll sleep on the ship." He said, helmet tilted past your shoulder as the child made himself at home, watching as he acted as if he'd lived there his entire 50 some years of life. You squinted up at him, giving him a once over before stepping aside and outstretching your arm, beckoning him to come in. You flashed your best smile, and softened your gaze at him to try your best and convince him that you were trustworthy. 

"If the baby stays, you stay." You said finally. 

He stepped inside, wooden floors creaking under his weight. You watched him starry-eyed, the afternoon Naboo sun gleaming through the windows of your living space, glinting off of his Beskar armor as he made his way into your humble home. The gentle wind through the windows flows through his cape, flicking the edges softly. You closed the door behind you, making your way to one of your storage vessels, grabbing a pillow and a couple soft blankets for him. He watched while you prepared a makeshift bed out of your conform couch. You moved with a solid content, a notion Mando would never comprehend. He wouldn't be all too eager to allow a stranger into his home, but the way of your people strictly chartered you to nurture the healing and resting of any passersby you deemed honorable. And Gods, did you deem him honorable. 

He watched you while you gently brushed the cushions with your hand, embarrassingly cleaning off any remnants of your earlier meal from the fabric. You laid the softest blankets you had over the surface, tucking them between the cushions and perching the pillow up on the furthermost armrest. 

"Thank you" He spoke, his voice flat and deep through the modulator. 

"Of course." You look at him, visor too dark to see beyond. You smile up at him as he stands there, seemingly unsure of what to do next. 

You introduce yourself, your name settling into the quiet noise of the plains. 

He repeats it. It rolls off his tongue in a way where it implies he has great familiarity with it already. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

"Are you hungry?" You asked, placing your hands on top of your hips as you hear The Kid next to you respond to the offer in soft, excited coos. You speculated, and remembered an extremely detrimental rule you seemed to have looked over. They aren't allowed to de-mask themselves in front of anyone. Anything. So you speak before he can. 

"I can leave a meal out for you. Please, eat when you’re ready." You outstretch your hand, directing him to the couch. He takes slow steps towards you. You crane your neck up at him just as he approaches, your heart rate flicking up as he does so. His steps are slow, nonthreatening and soft.  For a man of his stature, you notice he's outwardly gentle despite his size and unyielding appearance. Reassuring. 

He reaches for the pouch rested on his utility belt, leather gloves audibly rubbing against the fabric and a gentle clatter coming from inside. Credits. Imperial. You reach your hands up, enclosing them around his. They're huge. Warm. Could probably engulf your face in one of his palms. You gave a gentle squeeze and softly ushered his hands back to his belt. You didn’t want his money. Sure, you could use it, but truly, it seemed exploitative and Gods forbid if you exploit a man and his child in their time of need. 

"Stay as long as you both need. I could use the company around here" You spoke softly, tilting your head toward The Kid while he watched from his spherical crib. 

"We'll only need a couple days. I don't want to trouble you." He replies. He nods suavely at you before he turns his back towards the couch, and lowers himself with a plagued sigh. You take a beat before speaking again, facing him while putting your back to The Kid. 

"What troubles you, Mandalorian?" You ask tenderly, keeping a cautiousness not to pry too much into his business. 

He takes a second before responding, slightly angling his visor up at you. "Nothing. Nothing you should burden yourself with." You tilt your head at him, smiling softly in understanding. "Can you promise me he'll be safe here?" You turn to look at the child, big shiny orbs peering back up at you, a soft babble leaving his lips as he outstretches his tiny arms towards you. Your heart melts at the sight, immediately feeling a profound connection form with the little green monster. You feel yourself naturally gravitate towards him, your body suddenly manifesting an internal magnet. The sudden wave of emotion temporarily ails you, pulling at your heart strings and overwhelming your chest with a simmering maternal burn. 

"As long as I breathe." You respond suddenly, mysteriously now aware of his father's quandary. Something, someone is after the child. And yet, the hardened soldier sat behind you is entrusting you to his nestling. Or, what do they call it on Mand'alore? Foundling. Easily the highest degree of honor within the Mandalorian Creed. You cradle The Kid in your arms, resting a finger between his 3 little appendages. He squeezes it, curiously bringing your hand to his mouth. You hear an amused grunt behind you coming through the modulator. 

"Stop that. Friends are not food." He says. You chuckle quietly. You reluctantly settle him back into his metallic crib, gathering the soft material inside and resting it over his tummy. He settles down and you begin rocking his cradle, softly bouncing it against gravity. You watch as his eyelids flutter closed, an instant snore escaping his lips. “Someone’s not so hungry after all” He says, a soft chuckle emitting from his helmet. You smile in response. 

"Gods, he is the cutest thing I think I've ever seen." You say with an unbelievable chortle. You turn to face The Mandalorian, his arms now outstretched behind him, cradling the backrest of the conform couch as he watches you interact with his child. You feel a whisper of something whirring deep inside your core, his aloof position of sitting now sparking a new inquisitiveness about the man sat before you. You motion to sit next to him, a meager cushion now separating you from the first prospect of an intimate interest you've had in a long while. You lower yourself onto the inner corner of the couch, resting your back against the armrest so that you're facing him directly. 

"He's alright." You chuckle at his lackadaisical response, knowing he would probably tear a rift into the galaxy at the mere likelihood of something coming into harm's way of The Kid. "Fair warning, he can be a handful." He says with an amused shake of his head. You nod in understanding, looking at him, stupid smile still plastered on your face. An awkward silence fills the room as the moment settles, and you continue watching him. His visor is aimed at the child, so you're not sure if he's able to see you or not. You don't fret. 

Seldom do you come across someone with such experience in life. Someone who's seen the ins and outs of the Galaxy, and still chooses to fight for it regardless of its goods and bads. You take the opportunity to study every visible dent, every scuff and defect in his armor. You can almost hear the stories of what he's seen emit through them. It captivates you, the complete opposition of life experience sitting across from you. You notice the small rips in his tunic between the gaps of his armor, a dark brown settlement of dried blood encrusted on the torn edges.

"You're really good with him" He speaks suddenly, and your gaze snaps back up to meet his, visor now facing you directly. You laugh shyly, a white hot simmer flooding your face. 

"I've always been good with the little ones. The futures of our Galaxy. They deserve the best, don't they?" You say gently, leaning into the subject matter to deflect from the fact that he just caught you infatuatedly staring at him. How on Naboo were you going to sleep with him laid in the room right beside yours? 

“I guess you’re right” He replies, voice low and barely coming through the vocal filter within his helmet. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · First Night, continued 

Mid-night has fallen, and the wintry breeze snakes its way between your curtains. The wind feels velvety against your skin, each force of air flowing through your nightgown. The moon paints a pale glow over your tan skin, your complexion glowing beautifully despite the low light. The spectral silk curtains hanging from your bedroom archway flow open in the night breeze, allowing you to see clearly into your living space.

You lie there, watching with sleepy eyes as the Mandalorian quietly makes his way to the sleeping child. You wonder, how does he manage to tread so softly despite wearing the heaviest thing within the walls of your home supplementary to the walls themselves? He presses a button on the highest point of his crib, and closes the shade. The Kid is now enclosed, innocently oblivious to the roaringly large world around him. He knows nothing but peace at this moment. You smile pleasingly as he pushes the crib to the other side of the room, out of your view. 

You notice the Mandalorian hasn’t moved from his spot. You look upwards, aware of him now watching you. Your heart skips a beat for a moment, and your cheeks flush, warmth spreading to your ears. You sit up slowly, regarding him with a nod. 

“Will you leave again tomorrow?” You ask, internally jumping at the sudden intermeddling question you gathered the nerve to ask him. 

He approaches your bedroom archway, reaching out and gently moving the curtain to the side, subtly ducking his helmeted head to pass through. He stands there for a couple beats, visor pointed directly at you. He watches you intensely,  curiously, and you can almost feel his gaze travel down your legs. Your skin engulfs in goosebumps, and Gods, you can just about feel your legs part under the dominance of his stare. 

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to take rest for a day before venturing out again.” He says politely, breaking the tension with his completely unreasonable request. You think to yourself, are Mandalorian’s allergic to respite? 

“Of course you can rest for a while. As long as you need.” You adjust your positioning, straightening your back and sitting criss-crossed on your cotton-sheeted mattress. You smile at him, eyes traveling to the empty space beside you. You look back up at the Mandalorian, subtly tilting your head in invitation. 

“I’m sure the ventures of a Mandalorian are lonesome. I’d welcome the company as well” You leave the statement open-ended, considerately moving a few inches over to make space for the large-statured man. He lets a few seconds pass before responding, your tired eyes looking up at him, tension building between you. You’re sure beyond the rest of his talents, this was one of his favorites. Leaving you to revel in the pressure, seeing how much you could take before you show any visible signs of intimate turbulence.

“I shouldn’t keep you from sleep” He says unsure, his feet firmly planted where he stands but verbally expressing (and in no way convincing, might you add) wanting to do otherwise. 

“Please, I insist. I’ve got all the time in the world to sleep” 

He doesn’t miss a beat before responding. “Not with him around.” He says, helmet tilting behind him towards the sleeping child. 

You chuckle quietly. “Scarcely ever do we have a real Mandalorian come around this part of Naboo. I’d like to get to know you, if you’d let me?” you question softly, motioning your hand towards the space beside you. He seems to make his mind up right then. 

He finally steps forward, slowly making his way to the other side of your bed. He lowers himself, bracing his arms to accommodate the low height of the frame. He sits, weight sinking into your plush mattress. He turns halfway to face you, the Beskar bound to his body almost sparkling under the moon’s casted light. You both sit there in comfortable silence, and the only sound accompanying you in the dark room are the whistling gushes of night breeze coming through your drapes as you silently watch each other. You look up at him, noting the tension in his shoulders. You try to ease him by initiating a simple conversation. 

“Have you eaten?” you ask gently, curious to know if he enjoyed your cooking. 

“While you were showering” He replies almost instantly, a mild warmth spreading across your cheeks, the idea of him perceiving you while you’re naked instigating you to imagine what he’d look like when he’s naked. You’d probably showcase an astonishing loss of your self respect at the sight. You nod your head in content. 

He moves smoothly, lying back and positioning his hands behind his neck for support, now looking at the ceiling. You raise a knee to rest your cheek on, and wrap your arms around your bent right leg, outstretching your left. Your heart skips a beat, your bare left foot now only mere inches from his torso. You fiddle with a scar on your right calf as you both enjoy the serene silence of a chilly Naboo night. 

“It was delicious. Thank you” He speaks again, gaze fixed on the ceiling, his voice low and deep through the vocal modulator. Your chest feels warm. You’re truly glad he enjoyed it. Cooking has always been something you loved. Since you were a child, always messing the kitchen and clumsily helping your parents to prepare meals. Delicious. You repeat to yourself, a smirk twitching its way onto your lips. You could definitely get used to hearing that from him. “I’m sorry you have another mouth to feed. If it’s too much trouble, I can get The Kid food while I’m out.” He sounds..apologetic. And for a moment, you ponder on the lot of untrustworthy, malicious and currency-obsessed people he must have encountered to be so apologetic for simply wanting to feed his child. You smile at him, looking up from your hands. 

“Mandalorian, please understand me when I say this” You start, firming your tone while keeping your voice soft and lowered. “You and your son are welcome in my home at any time. To stay for however long you please. Do you understand?” You finish, looking him directly in the visor to render any thought that resembles doubt void and null. 

He turns to face you, observing your own blurred reflection in his helmet. You stand strong on your statement, keeping your focus fixed on where you thought his eyes would be. 

A minute passes, your eyes still fixed on his visor, keeping your unrelenting gaze directly on him. You wait for a response while he watches you back, his helmeted head turned towards you, breathing slow and steady. “Understood” He replies, his tone smooth and obeying. A moment passes, and you both stay looking at each other, unmoving. You watch as he slowly turns the rest of his body toward you, resting his weight on his right elbow. You see his free hand moving slowly, snaking towards your bare foot closest to his torso. The fabric of his clothes rubs against your soft sheets. 

“May I?” He asks, the resonance in his voice caressing your ears and stirring your core. You nod at him, biting your lip as he moves closer to you. 

He takes it in his hand gently, squeezing the soft ball of your foot. You relax under his touch, albeit sudden. The firmness of his fingers send rousing waves of heat through your core. His grip is strong, yet gentle. Much like a protecting caress. You exhale deeply while he squeezes, your head suddenly feeling 100 times heavier. You rest your head on your knee once more, rolling your forehead against your cool skin, your body gaining heat with every press of his fingers. You flinch as he squeezes a tender spot, your head rising to meet his gaze. 

In the absence of raw eye contact, the Mandalorian sits up as your eyes meet his visor. He takes your foot in both of his hands, gently but firmly pulling your weight from under you and dragging you towards him. Your nightgown rides up to your hips, just covering your panties. He places your leg down once you're reclined, your hair bunching up above your head, and your feet planted on the mattress so your legs are bent. You breathe deeply, eyes darting around his body as he handles you, your mind failing to keep up with the sudden development in affairs. Words of wisdom reverberate through your head; Be careful what you wish for. 

He kneels in front of you, towering over your figure below him. He adjusts the rest of his body, his helmet pinned still as his eyes stay stuck on you. He reaches up, hooking the hem of your panties in his fingers. He keeps his eyes directed at yours as he slides them down, lifting your feet to remove them fully. He moves slow and cautious, a carefulness in his touch that leaves you craving for more. He hurls them aside, banishing them to the moon-cast shadows. He grabs your right leg by the ankle, bringing it up to his chest and planting the sole of your foot on his strikingly cold Beskar. He raises your other leg, gripping your foot in both of his hands as he begins to massage again. 

His fingers glide so smoothly over the pads of your feet, one hand working your tired arch and the other digging into a squishy part of your sole that seems to send a lustful wave of full-body, thigh-squeezing chills every time he presses it. He squeezes it once, twice, and his head tilts naughtily the third time he notices what happens when he touches that spot. You look up at him, eyes glazed with sensuality, noting the slight falter in his gaze. 

“That feel good?” He says, his words breathy and smug. 

“Gods, yes. How are you so good at that?” He lets out a breath you can almost assume is a chuckle, and his hands slow as they travel up to your ankles, strong fingers and palms working the knots all the way up to your calves. He pauses at the bends of your knees, slowly and sensually squeezing, rubbing the absolute hell out of your most tense areas. He leans his weight forward slightly, pushing your legs closer and closer to your chest, and admittedly, forcing your thighs further apart. 

A voltaic pressure begins to build in your core. The Mandalorian continues to rub the soft skin in the bend of your knee, now working his way down your thighs, and riding both hands to a stop under each of your cheeks. He squeezes them both gently, slowly caressing the soft, plushy fat, hands traveling up to your hips, and back down to your ass. He pulls his left hand back, bringing it down to a slap on your right hip. You yelp, your legs parting as you flinch from the sudden plague of tingles through your body. A shiver runs down your thigh, noting that you’re now on full display. 

You look up at him, eyes now wide and awake. You rest your legs on his hips, pulling him closer to you. He lets out a soft hum at the sight of you splayed open under his grip, his for the taking. “Fuck” At almost a whisper, he lets it out with a deep breath, fingers seemingly more tense than before. He wraps both arms around your thighs, pulling your lower half to meet his. Your center meets his warm bulge, firm and radiating a dizzying heat between your legs. He grinds up against your pussy, your clit feeling his shaft throb behind its tight fabric prison. He groans deeply in response, bearing more of his weight down on your pussy, itching to get inside you. 

You hum as he grinds into you, your hands reaching between you both and tugging at his belt. “Mando, you’re torturing me” you grumble frustratedly. He lifts his helmet to look up at you momentarily, your breasts bouncing under your nightgown with every grind of his hips into yours. He ignores you, reaching under the thin fabric and taking each one of your breasts into his large gloved hands. Your mouth hangs agape as he kneads them softly, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over your nipples. You flinch when he pinches them gently, his gaze pinned on them as they stand at attention to his touch. “Your tits are perfect,   ” Your name rolls smoothly off his tongue, thick and syrupy as if he’s known it all his life. Your head dizzies at the sound of your name, a desperate whimper quietly escaping your lips. He lets them go with a squeeze as he continues grinding against you. 

The warm skin of your ass tacks to the cold armor plates, the sudden temperature play teasing you, goosebumps littering your skin. He places both hands on your knees, pushing them apart as his head lowers, his gaze now fixed on your pussy. Your hips buck slightly with need, watching as the Mandalorian removes his gloves, one at a time. His fingers travel up your inner thighs, dragging his short nails over your sensitive skin while your legs wrap around his thick waist. You squirm, eager to see what else he can do with his hands. He stops suddenly, looking to your chest, and back up at you. He tugs on your nightgown bunched up around your waist. 

“Get it off” He reaches around you, hooking the hem of your nightgown in each of his fingers. You sit up a few inches to help him get it off as fast as you can, lifting your arms as he pulls it over your head. He tosses it to the side, heatedly disregarding wherever it went. As if he’s denying the prospect of you ever wearing clothes again. 

He sits back up on his knees, now watching you settle back down. He observes you; hair splayed messily around your head, breasts and nipples resting large and natural on your chest, the nooks and crannies in your frame holding an artistic mix of varying complexions and curvatures exactly where he wants them. A body so sublime, so made for him, it almost feels like an imaginary manifestation of his own subconscious version of a perfect woman. 

“I could get used to this view” His voice is low, gravelly with temptation as he watches you writhe beneath him. You smile in response, eager to see what he’ll do next. 

He takes a single finger, and slides it between your warm, wet folds, softly grazing your clit. You whine, bucking your hips forward in need, greedily whimpering up at him. 

“Why won’t you let me pay you for staying here?” He speaks again, a tint of wickedness lacing his voice, his finger stopping in its tracks. 

“Because” you reply, hoping you can dodge your way out of it.  

“There has to be some way I can pay you.” He applies pressure, curving his finger against your swollen bud, flicking it firmly. You flinch, nipples hardening as he continues teasing you. “Or, I can take my cute kid and my foot massages and find some other place to lodge. An Inn, maybe. I hear the customer service in Naboo is pret-” 

“Okay. O-okay” You cry, the tension in your core building fast. He continues flicking your clit, watching your legs jerk and your voice go higher and higher, dripping with need. “I know a way you can pay me.” You buckle shamefully quick. 

“Is that so?” He teases, adding a second finger to his torture, one continuing to tease your clit, the other rubbing your slick entrance, spreading your wetness to your labia. His fingers are strong, talented dexterity showing in his ability to stroke you in two spots at once. You watch them, thick and long, sure enough that he could rock your world with just a slight curve to his fingertips. You take a deep breath before responding, shakily trying to hide the distress in your voice. 

“This, you can pay me like this.” You reply, motioning your head to his fingers, now wet and hot with your essence. He slips a finger inside of you, before suavely entering a second one. Gods, his middle and ring finger. You gripe in agony, his digits deliberately slow-moving and so, so filling. You grip the sheets beside you, surrendering to the ride. 

The Mandalorian shakes his head, his voice deep and heavy with infatuation. “You have to be more specific than that, sweetheart.” You groan, his fingers slowing to a halt while awaiting your response. “Fuck me, please. You can pay me by fucking me. Does that work for you?” You don’t even recognize yourself, the huffs of frustration and whines of urge falling on deaf ears. You’re not used to being teased. Hell, you weren’t used to being tortured. He was driving you up the wall with his antics. Your cheeks burn hot with shyness and your hands desperately grasp at his, trying to get them to move. 

“Greedy girl” He responds smugly, a shakiness in his voice that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. How does he do it? How does he manage to keep his composure while you feel his cock against your thigh, practically thrashing to get out of his pants? 

He pushes his fingers inside of you, your walls clenching around them. He curves his fingertips, leans forward and absolutely goes to town on your pussy. You watch his arms, wishing you could watch his muscles tighten while he works you. His heavy fingers move fast, curling up into that one spot, his palm brushing against your clit with every thrust of his fingers. You buck your hips into his grip, feeling your wetness coat his hand. You look up at him, marveling at the sight before you. The Mandalorian now has his bulge in his free hand, squeezing through his pants and groaning as he rubs himself to the sight of you. 

“Mando..please” you beg, a futile attempt at steering his plans away from where he wants them. He leans forward, visor aimed right at your face while he relentlessly works on your hole. He speaks, ragged breathing carrying his words. “I’ve always..” he grunts, his bulge not letting up beneath his grip. You feel him twitching, you know it can’t be long until he caves. “..wanted to try one thing.” He finishes, your eyes now looking up at him, fluttering closed with each curl of his thick fingers. Lewd sounds fill the silent room, your wetness now audible to him as well. 

“Hm?” A sultry hum settles in his ears warmly, sending a shiver down his core and resting right into his tight balls. 

“Sit on my face.” He requests. Your heart skips a beat, and you smile up at him, tilting your head curiously. “And how would that work, Mandalorian?” You reply naughtily, a hint of wickedness lacing your voice. 

Without missing a beat, Mando lurches forward, hooking his arms under yours. Gods, does he smell good. His scent is thick and intoxicating, stirring your head and evoking a binding allurement to the hardened soldier handling you. He raises you, turning you both around until he’s lying flat on your bed, your legs straddling him as you sit on top of him. Your naked frame soft and plushy against his solid, unyielding armor. You feel his hands work their way up your thighs, squeezing your hips and rubbing your ass, giving each cheek a gentle smack as he groans under his helmet. You bend forward, giving him ample space to knead the doughy fat, moaning into his ear as he kneads. 

You wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing the thickened muscles and rubbing as much surface as you can manage between his shoulder plates. He moans submissively under you, a sound so thrilling to the ears you think you’d cum right then from the way it rattled your core. You lower yourself, your folds now cradling the raging erection in his pants. He tenses up as you do this, the gap between his armor and clothes cradling your bum perfectly, his cock fitting between your legs much similar to a piece of a very carnally, animalistically sensual puzzle. 

“Turn around” He breathes, and your hands can almost feel the heat radiating from the bottom of his helmet. Gods, he must be dying in there. You wickedly drag your pussy against his clothed cock as you move, drawing more heated grunts and groans from his throat. You settle yourself down in your new position, now facing his feet. You relax under his grip as he pulls you backward, thumbs hooked in the bend of your knees. He lets go of your legs, and suddenly you hear an audible release of air, the clear sound of the Mandalorian’s heavy breathing and the warmth of his breath against the skin of your back. “Shit” His now unfiltered voice reaching your ears for the first time. Velvety, hot and bothered, and deep enough to jolt your soul. You smile to yourself, now aware of his newfound vulnerability and exhibit of trust. 

“Come here” He directs. You lie backwards, obeying his command with not a smidge of hesitation, his breath meeting your nape. He groans softly in your ear, reaching his hand up and cupping over your eyes while his lips latch to your neck. His stubble scratches your skin, sending tingles down your spine. It's short, prickly, and you wonder; what color? You tilt your head to the side, giving him full access as he darts out his tongue and slides it over your skin, softly biting the crook in your neck and grinding up into your pussy. Suddenly, Mando removes his hands, releasing your tender skin from between his teeth. 

“Don’t look, okay?” He asks gently. 

You nod. “Of course.” 

You feel his hand reach between your legs, his hips raising to reach his belt. You assist him eagerly, fiddling with his pants trying to free his throbbing erection from its fabric prison. Once you both get it free, you feel a hand snake up your back, another one gripping the fat of your left hip, rubbing your skin and gently pushing you upright with his other. 

Mando revels at the sight of you, his head swirling with all kinds of gripping emotions as he watches you rock your hips side to side, purposely jiggling your ass over his bare face. He inhales your scent as you taunt him, your pheromones enveloping his pre-frontal cortex and flipping a switch in his core. An animalistic path of his nature never walked before. He watches you, the world around him seemingly slowing down. His thoughts quiet themselves, and the only thing he knows is you. Your soft body, your luring scent, the warmth radiating from your skin and your features contorting with pleasure as you both taunt each other to hell. His only goal at this moment; giving you what you so justifiably deserve. 

“Bend over, gorgeous.” He says sternly, and you listen. Happily. You bend forward, scooting your knees backwards until you feel Mando’s breath against your heat. You come face to face with the head of his cock, a considerable amount of pre-cum slowly dripping from the tip. It’s magnificent. Dense, brunette hair caressing the hilt. Shaft thick, long and wired to take whatever the hell it pleases from you. You crane your neck forward, running your thumb over the engorged veins littering his shaft. You plant soft kisses up and down his length, stopping at his frenulum before sliding it past your lips. He tenses immediately and a whiney groan leaves his lips, while your mouth travels up and down, wetting his length. You go down on him like this for a minute, his hands kneading your ass and spreading your cheeks, leaving you on total display above him. 

He buries his nose in your ass, arms hooking under your legs, hands locked at your hips to hold you in place. His scruff rubs against your sensitive skin, and you smile at the fact that he’ll probably be smelling you on him until his next shower. You feel his warm tongue dart from his mouth, determinedly finding your clit with pristine precision. You moan loudly, your back arching from the sharp wave of pleasure. He spreads your thighs, allowing himself more access between them. He continues lapping at your clit, taking it between your teeth every so often, causing your body to jerk and writhe. You push back into his mouth, rolling your hips and in essence, riding his face like the world’s finest speeder bike. 

And he can’t get enough. He’s never been so infatuated with the taste of something. It was unique, and he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t fathom stopping. The Mandalorian didn’t know how long you could go at this, but he knew he could go on for hours. He knew you were close. He continued sucking at your clit and thrashing his tongue eagerly. He releases one of your hips, his hand making its way behind you and between your folds, right above his mouth. 

You whine in response when he slips two fingers inside you, resting your breasts on his stomach and opening yourself to him fully. His fingers urgently curl downwards, finding your spot and stroking against it relentlessly. You wonder; Gods, is he trying to ruin me? You gasp as he suddenly withdraws his fingers from your walls, pushing them back into you and going at your G-spot once more. He continues tormenting you this way for a minute, each time he pushes them into you, warmth flushes to your core. He knows what he wants. And he calculates when it’ll come. Your walls are fluttery, clenching with need when he withdraws. And when he notices the subtle tremble in your thighs, breathlessness in your moans, he prepares; opening his mouth as wide as he can. 

One, two, and..

The Mandalorian hums frenziedly, the lewd sounds of his tongue lapping up your essence as you burst, your pussy completely gushing into his mouth. He maintains his grip on your hip while you gasp and moan in revelation, astonished that someone just made you do that. His tongue doesn’t let up, hungrily whipping against your clit. Your body thrashes against his abdomen, your hips pushing you deeper into his mouth. As he slows, your arms and legs shudder and wobble weakly. He takes a few beats, softly licking the last drops from your heat, your body rendered gelatinous. You continue stroking his length, although he’s seemingly forgotten about his own raging erection. 

You hear him swallow softly, exhaling with a satisfied breath. “Again?” You hear from behind you, the Mandalorian’s voice absolutely dizzy with adoration. You blink hard, catching your breath and lazily shaking your head. 

“How on Naboo did you do that?” You ask, breathily huffing the question. 

“Not sure. It’s more intuitive than I thought.” 

You try to continue working his cock, but you fail miserably. You rest his length halfway into your throat before you lose focus and let him take control. He continues gently licking your pussy, while you stay hopelessly drooling and gagging on his cock as he fucks into your mouth. He knows you’ve had your orgasm ripped from your soul, but it doesn’t seem to waver any disturbance in his endeavors. He’s doing this not only just to please you, but for the complete love of the game. You continue rocking your hips back, his tongue every so often slipping inside of you, curling against your walls. 

He seems to be complacent in this current position, as you hear no complaints from his end. You match his rhythm, bobbing your head as he rolls his hips up, throat fucking you. Mando’s rhythm falters as he grunts, the sounds coming from his throat a heavenly mixture of submission and the internal conflict of trying not to blow his load directly down your throat after the fun’s just getting started. You continue moaning on his cock, the palpable throb in his shaft pulsing against your tongue. You buckle up for the home run, calculating your next move. 

You rest your weight on one of your elbows beside his thick leg, letting your fingers travel under the fabric of his loose pants. You run your nails down his hips with the other as he continues messily fucking your warm, heavenly mouth. He shivers against your touch, his thrusts tensing and faltering so very obviously. You arch your back, throwing your ass backwards and putting on a very lewd show for him. His hands fall to his sides, his voice dipping with every thrust of his hips. Your throat gargles and salivates for him, your hands and mouth now sloppy with spittle. 

You run your nails down his hips one last time, traveling over his thigh and between his legs. You take his balls in your soft hands, squeezing gently and kneading softly. They’re soft, warm and just the right size. You think to yourself; I could probably fit both in my mouth if I tried. You shift your weight to your shoulders, letting your head hang heavy and allowing Mando full reign of your throat. You feel him tense as he continues thrusting, squeezing your eyes shut as tears work their way down your cheeks. His mouth attaches itself back to your clit so suddenly, you know he’s close. You can feel it. The tense coil between both of you stretching and gaining pressure, ready to snap at any moment. He wraps his arms around your legs once more, now squeezing your cheeks and hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave a mark. 

Mando provided his all. Your mouth is just too warm, too soft, too inviting. How was anyone supposed to last with such an enchanting set of lips and a warm, tight throat wrapped around his cock? He eats you as if his life depended on it, treating your pussy as if it were his last meal. You deserved that, at the least. As long as he could go on for. 

You feel his body tense under you, hearing Mando suddenly whine against your heat. His tongue laps at your clit and entrance furiously, absolutely rejoicing in your taste, letting it guide him through his orgasm. “Fuuucking hell” He grunts and his muscles jerk violently, his hot seed spilling into your throat while he groans a string of sexy, wet expletives into the air. You try your damndest to swallow as it comes. His thrusts slow to a stop. You lift your head from his length, gasping and licking your lips clean. As you lift your head from his shaft, you suck his pulsing tip before releasing it with a smack of your lips, earning a last soft whine from his throat. 

You sit up straight on his chest, bouncing slightly while his breathing settles. You both savor each other’s presence, newfound intimacy thrilling and fresh. His hands rest on your hips, his fingers drawing nonsensical doodles on your soft skin. You bend slightly to support some of your weight on your hands, perched on his abdomen. Your hair sits messily on your shoulders, and he watches as you take a moment to rest on top of him. He appreciates your contentment of your new spot, not so eager for you to move either. A view he could very quickly get used to. You run your hand over the smooth Beskar, wondering to yourself; Does he have abs? Is his happy trail sparse? Or thick and paving? You hear a shuffle, and a click before he speaks again. 

“Come here” He says, voice now filtered through the vocal modulator. You turn slowly, mattress sinking under your hands and knees as you crawl to him, his helmet reflecting back at you. You look up at him with smitten eyes, his spent, not-so-little friend resting contently between his balls. You smile, sleep dizzying your gaze, watching as the Mandalorian pulls your sheets from under you both. He unrumples them, laying them over your frame while you get comfortable beside him. 

Silence takes the moment, both of you fixing your gazes to the moon-lit ceiling. “So” You speak finally, your voice landing pillowy soft on his ears. 

“You’ve..never done that before?” You ask sheepishly, tilting your head so it rests on his shoulders. 

He breathes a chuckle in response. “I have not.” 

“Didn’t seem like it” You both laugh quietly, allowing the moment to settle as he brushes a finger over yours. A flickering flame simmers between you, leaving you yearning for more of him. 

You smile with a newfound excitement, thrilled for the future of your arrangement with the steeled soldier lying beside you. 

Your chest ached. You ran a hand up his arm, onto his bare shoulder. The muscles beneath his black and crimson skin were tense. He pushed against the covers like he was trying to get away from whatever horror was plaguing him, still no closer to consciousness. You faltered. Maul might not have his lightsaber in hand at that moment, but that hardly mattered when he could call it to him with the Force over just about any distance. Besides, he was a ruthless, efficient fighter. He needed neither his weapon nor the Force to kill you, even if it was just an accident because his sleep addled mind didn’t recognise you.

But still. You had sworn, to yourself if not in words to him, that you would always be there for him. You weren’t going to leave him on his own now.

You ran your touch across his collarbones to his other shoulder, so that you could have a hand on each side of him. Then, you knelt above him just enough to have some leverage, thumbs massaging his skin.

“Maul?” You tried, to no avail. “Maul, come on. Wake up.”

Still nothing.

So you shook his shoulders one time. His blazing amber eyes snapped open instantly and he lurched forward before you could so much as take a breath.

He flipped you onto your back and dropped his weight over your hips, both hands wrapped tight around your neck. He was somehow completely free of the sheets which had been trapping him. And he wasn’t just squeezing your throat and arteries, he was pressing your neck down into the mattress with all the fury he could muster burning through his veins. Your vision was already darkening – you had a couple of seconds before you were out. You used them to claw your nails into the insides of his wrists, to try and drive your knee into his back.

Head spinning, you saw the exact moment his expression changed into one of recognition. He flew back like he had been burned. You gasped for air, your head tilting a little from how woozy you felt. Your heart thundered as you brought your hands to your throat.

When your vision cleared enough, it was to see an expression of utter horror on Maul’s face. He was holding his hands aloft as if he didn’t know what to do with them, a line or two of blood running down his forearms from damage you had dealt him. He seemed frozen in place. You made efforts to steady your breathing, then went to lay a hand on his thigh. A motion you thought would be comforting while you got around to speaking.

Instead of that, it spurred him into action. He leapt to his feet and began to slowly back away from you, hands still raised in front of him in a display of placation, to make himself seem less threatening. His chest was heaving.

“I… I…” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “My darling, I…”

Fighting off the lingering dizziness, you sat up and got your feet on the floor.

“Maul, I’m alright,” you rasped.

Your voice gave you pause – you sounded anything but alright. Maul stopped too, his face a mask of devastation. You touched your throat gingerly, determining how hurt it felt. The ache below the skin said it was definitely going to bruise. But the longer you sat there, the worse Maul looked. So you dropped your hand back to your side and, convinced you weren’t going to pass out, stood up. The Zabrak looked like a wild animal ready to bolt, one which would lash out with claws and teeth if its exits were compromised. And in his haste, he had backed himself towards the floor to ceiling windows instead of the door.

Thinking that having him hear your damaged-sounding voice again would make things worse, you raised your own empty hands a little and took a step towards him. That was a mistake.

Maul shot past you, hugging the walls to stay as far away from you as he possibly could. His posture was once again immaculate, his shoulders and back cutting hard lines in the half-dark. He snatched up his shirt from the back of his desk chair without missing a stride, ignoring you as you began to follow after him. You jogged a few steps across his bedroom when he flung the door open and you realised he was just going to leave without a word. The Zabrak extended a hand behind him and called his lightsaber to him without first needing to check where it was, walking into the pitch black corridor running through his quarters seamlessly. You, of course, couldn’t see a thing.

You scrambled to follow him, flicking on lights so you didn’t trip over your own two feet.

Maul crossed the main living space with a grace befitting any predator, utterly surefooted. You were almost woozy again by the time you got the main lights on.

“Maul, please wait,” you called as best you could, because clearly just following him wasn’t going to help.

He gave you a fiery glare over his shoulder, though he refused to turn to face you. You stopped before you were close enough to touch him.

“Please just stay alright? Please,” you muttered, but his only response was a harsh scoff. “Maul,” you tried again, growing almost a little desperate. He stopped punching in the keycode to unlock his door.

“Stay?” He mocked slowly, sneering. His words were venomous. “You want me to stay with you, after what I’ve just done.”

The hand which he had been resting over the keypad dropped back to his side. You tried your best to make your voice sound more normal, to stay collected in case this was the calm before he lashed out. The only way he could deal with anything unexpected was through anger.

“We can just talk,” you offered quietly, “or not. I could make tea.”

“Tea,” Maul hissed, as if the very idea was abhorrent. “Do you realise, are you even capable of comprehending how close to death you just came by my hands? Do you have any understanding whatsoever of what I could have done? Of what I would have been responsible for and then carried with me for the rest of my own life? When I swore to protect you, it was inclusive of myself. Yet I am nothing other than what my Master carved me to be-”

“I am not afraid of you-”

“Well you should be!” He roared, his eyes wild.

He spun to face you, finally, but now he had his lightsaber in hand and he was advancing on you with his teeth bared, every line of his body rigid with the drive to fight. The fury radiating off him was actually enough to make you back up, and he didn’t stop until you were pressed against a wall on the opposite side of the room, his towering, muscular frame caging you in. But even through his temper, he never once lost concentration on his weapon. It was angled perfectly so that if the blades were to be ignited, neither would come anywhere near you.

Maul’s gaze caught on your throat, where a ring of bruises was no doubt already starting to form. He began to reach towards you, but suddenly realised what he was doing and went to drop his hand; you caught it before he could. With both of your hands wrapped around his own, Maul became very, very still. He grew even more tense, hardly breathing. You manipulated his fingers to lay flat, and he let you, but barely. Wordless, you started raising his hand towards your own throat. He realised what you were doing immediately and pulled away sharp, but despite the new distance, you still kept a hold of his hand.

“Maul,” you murmured, watching as fear and fury warred across his face. “Let me.”

You bowed your head when you brought his hand up this time, so you could begin laying featherlight kisses on the backs of his knuckles. You decided he probably hadn’t stopped you yet because he couldn’t believe what you were doing. You gently turned his hand over and frowned when you saw the wounds you had inflicted on his wrist. The bleeding had already stopped, but you had raked your nails deep into his flesh.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, pleased to find your voice was improving.

You weren’t brave enough to look up and see Maul’s expression, but his unnatural state of stillness told you everything you needed to know. You placed another kiss just below his palm, just above the start of the first scratch. An apology, even if you would make the same choice over again. It was clear that your attempts to kick him hadn’t been all that successful.

With your head still bent over his hand, you turned it again and laid it over your throat in a single motion. Your only indication of anything at all from your partner was a single intake of breath, only just audible. But he didn’t pull away this time. You made sure his hand went exactly where his grip had been before. You knew how deeply rooted Maul’s fears and prejudices were, even if he never spoke to you about very much at all. Words weren’t nearly enough to reassure him; he needed physical proof of what you were saying. You had to show him you weren’t afraid of him, prove to him that things really were alright. Even then, he would still struggle to believe you.

When you looked up again, still keeping his hand on your throat, Maul’s anger had cooled to its usual simmering frustration. He couldn’t wrap his head around what you were doing, or why you would put yourself at such risk. You offered him a small smile, your thumb stroking over the back of his hand.

“I almost killed you,” he muttered, voice harsh. “I didn’t – when I dream, I do not always immediately recognise my surroundings upon waking. This is why I didn’t want you to share my space at night. I will have the next suite across converted into something you can use instead. You will have your own door to access my quarters, if you wish, but I cannot allow-”

“No.”

Maul stared at you, incredulous.

“No?”

You shook your head.

“I’m not afraid of you, and I am absolutely not going to start hiding from you. You’re the person I trust and care about most in the galaxy Maul, I’m not going to let you push me away.”

Maul was back to staring. For once, he seemed speechless, though you knew that wouldn’t last for long. So you took the opportunity to grab his other hand and lead him back towards his bedroom. He let you, but again, probably only because he was struck by utter disbelief. You flicked lights off as you went, eventually leaving you both in the dark once again. You could barely see the Zabrak’s outline, just the hard glint of his eyeshine reflecting what little light was seeping through the open bedroom door into the hallway.

“Come on,” you told him, “it’s really late. I want to go back to sleep.”

That was when he dug his heels in.

“I will not permit you to risk-”

“Then we’re both going to be standing out here for a really long time,” you challenged.

His lips might have pulled back into a silent snarl, but you couldn’t really see well enough to tell.

“You are impossible,” Maul growled, but it wasn’t really you he was angry at.

Sensing you were winning this particular argument, you sauntered closer to him until you could press a kiss to his shoulder. He watched you in a way which you guessed was supposed to be impassive, but that was hardly the truth.

“I get worse when I’m sleep deprived.”

You smirked at him, because you knew he could see perfectly well even if the reverse was not at all true. Another tug on his hands made him start walking again.

Maul complained incessantly when you insisted he at least run some water over the wounds on his wrists if he wasn’t going to treat them properly. He eventually conceded, however, because it meant he got to watch you tend to him – though on pain of death, he would never admit it.

When you finally got back into bed and he tried to confine himself to the very edge of his own side, you all but draped yourself over him and tucked your head against his chest when he tried to make you move. After a good long while of considering what he wanted to say, Maul finally admitted, in a sense, what was worrying him so much.

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” he murmured against your hair, so quiet you could barely hear him.

You snuggled in closer, pleased when he lightly laid his hands on your back.

“You won’t,” you said with absolute certainty, eyes already starting to close.

“You don’t know that.”

You cupped his jaw and the side of his face, hoping he might find it a little soothing.

“It was only because of how I woke you up. If I’d left you alone, it would’ve been fine.”

Mando remains silent so Zeb follows his line of sight, catching you leaning over the bar seductively and blowing Mando a kiss.

“Can’t say I blame you,” Zeb mutters, his eyes still on you.

The chair scrapes against the floor, earning Zeb’s attention. “Keep your eyes to yourself,” Mando warns.

Zeb gives him a crooked smile, “just saying…she’ll make you go insane, that one.”

As if on cue you saunter over.

“Hey,” you purr, fingers ghosting along Mando’s glinting armor.

“Hi baby,” he says softly, though his voice never loses that gravelly edge.

You dip your head near his ear and whisper, “I’d like you to take me home now.”

He quickly drops some credits on the bar and with his hand held out for yours, nods at Zeb.

Before you even step foot onto the gangway of the Razor crest and without warning, you loop your arms around his neck and push him against the ship’s loading gear.

He grunts and pulls you in closer, running his hand down your back. Your breath catches as his hand slides down to the back of one of your thighs, lifting it around his waist. He does the same with the other leg and lifts you into his arms.

“Eager tonight aren’t we?” he murmurs. “Are you already wet for me?”

You nod and start to tug on his helmet.

“Good girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear.

Din had first met you on Tatooine the day he had first met Peli. You were her younger cousin, forced to help her out with mechanic work even though that was the last thing you had wanted. You had no family left — your parents had been taken captive by Imperials when you were a child and ever since then you had been under Peli’s care. It wasn’t that you didn’t adore Peli because you did but you wanted more for yourself. You wanted to explore the galaxy, see what else was out there other than the desert and dry air of Tatooine. If you had to spend your whole life on this arid planet, you might just walk out into the desert and let a Sarlacc swallow you whole. Din had admittedly been fascinated by you with the way you had completely ignored him, barely sparing him a glance as you mumbled to yourself about the state of his ship. Before he had left the planet, Peli had asked him to take you along with him. She had framed it as ‘payback for watching the little womprat’ but really she wanted you to go out there and see the galaxy like you had talked about. Din had grumbled but, reluctantly, agreed. Those first few days on his Razor Crest had been bathed in nothing but silence until the one day you had finally talked to him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of smelling your own breath in that helmet?” you had asked him. The first words you had spoken to him. It had taken him by surprise. Of all the things you could have said to him, he hadn’t been expecting that.

After that, the sarcastic, teasing comments started coming more and more. His exasperated replies, the tilt of his Beskar helmet tilting to the side as you asked the most ridiculous questions had become your favourite thing. You didn’t fear him, you just liked to get under his skin in a way that made him feel like an actual person and not a bounty hunter. It was how a friend would treat him because… he guessed that’s what you two had become over time. He had to admit, you could be helpful when it came to taking care of the ship but you also often had good ideas for helping him go after his bounties.

However, this idea was awful. Truly.

You had suggested to be the bait. The bounty was a man of luxury who lived to be surrounded by money and beautiful women. The one sure way to lure him out would be to dress up, flirt a little and convince him to come back to the ship with you but Din hated the very thought of it.

“No,” he said simply.

“Come on! You know it’ll work or are you trying to say I’m not pretty enough to pull it off?” You placed your hands on your hips. You were baiting him. He knew it, you knew it.

An exasperated sigh left his modulator, his finger raising to point at you. “Don’t start.”

“Din, come on. It’ll be fine! You’ll be there lurking in the shadows if anything goes wrong. I can do this.” You had placed your hand on his forearm, his armour cool beneath your hands. He gazed down at it, his helmet barely moving so you didn’t notice but that simple touch was short circuiting his brain. It wasn’t often that you touched him — you were very respectful of his creed but whenever you did, it always sent him into a tailspin. Not that he could really feel but just the gesture itself was enough. Not many people showed him affection — well, nobody did so it was foreign for him. His body didn’t know how to react but he never pushed you away.

“Fine,” he relented. “But if things get hairy, I’m bringing him in co-”

“Yeah, yeah, cold. We know the line.”

He huffed, turning back to face out of the windows of the ship into the dark, starry span of space. “Go get ready then.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 

Seeing the plan in action confirmed Din’s thought. It was the worst idea anyone in the whole damn galaxy had come up with. The cantina was full of patrons, seedy types, the ones you didn’t really want to socialise with unless you had to. The type of people Din was familiar with but not the ones you were. These weren’t the type of people you should be around. You were… good. They were not. Din was currently leaning against the back wall of the cantina facing the bar, fingers looped in his belt, one hand on his blaster in case he needed to pull it out in a pinch. His eyes under the helmet were solely trained on you, watching every single move you made.

Currently, you were sitting at the bar with the bounty in question — Kenth Cardell. A fake laugh from you sounded throughout Din’s helmet as you laughed at some terrible joke the man had made. Kenth was leaned in close to you, your hand on his forearm in a move to entice him. Din’s jaw was clenched under his helmet. Every time Kenth’s eyes landed on you, looking over your body or landing on your chest (where they focused most of the time) Din’s blood boiled. It took all the strength he had not to march over there and rip you away from the creep. But, he had to trust you. He did. Some of the time.

His whole body was taut, a feeling building up inside of him that he’d never felt before. It was foreign, unwanted. Each time Kenth leaned forward to brush your hair out of your face or when you giggled at something he said, a pit of anger bubbled up inside Din. It was all consuming, an anger like he’d never felt before. The hand poised on his blaster tightened. His jaw was clenched so hard he was sure he was about to give himself a headache.

Jealousy. That’s what it was.

Din Djarin had never been a jealous man. He had nothing to ever be jealous of before but now seeing some guy all over you? He was experiencing it for the first time and had no idea what to do with it. It was like a dam had burst open inside of him, showing him something he had hidden deep inside him since the moment he had met you. The only thought ringing through his head each time Kenth made any kind of physical contact with you was ‘it should be me’.

Feelings didn’t come easy to Din. With his creed, he had cut himself off from really growing attached to anyone. Grogu was the exception — he was a child, someone Din had taken under his care. But to have romantic feelings for someone? That had never really crossed his mind. Of course he’d had encounters in the past — hook ups and one night stands but they had never really meant anything. They were just a way to satisfy his needs. But now, as he looked at you, smiling a smile (that was entirely fake, he knew that deep down) at some other guy, he released that his heart belonged to you. It was a gut punch to realise he could feel this way about someone.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even realise when Kenth had placed his hand on your leg but he caught it in time to see the man slowly slide his hand up to the hem of your dress. It barely had time to slide underneath before Din had marched over there, blaster out and pointed at the man’s head.

“Hands off,” he growled, his words laced with venom. Kenth instantly pulled his hands away, placing them in front of him in a placating gesture. “I was told to bring you in warm but I don’t think they’d care if a little ‘accident’ happened.”

Your eyes widened. You’d seen him angry before but never like this. It was like his mind and body weren’t working together, like he was acting on pure instinct. If you could see his eyes right now, you’d see how they were raging with a storm so big that the man in front of him was sure to scurry out of the door. The only reason he wasn’t right now was because a blaster was being held to his head.

“On your feet,” Din hissed, pressing the blaster closer to Kenth’s temple. The man was instantly on his feet. Din shoved him forward then darted his hand out to grab your wrist, dragging you along with him as he made his way out of the cantina.

“What are you doing?!” You yelled at him, trying to get yourself out of his grasp but it was to no use. He wasn’t being rough but he was way stronger than you.

“I told you this plan was stupid!” He sneered at you, his helmet rounding on you.

“It was working until you came in and ruined it!”

“He had his hands all over you!”

“And, I was handling it.”

Din came to a stop, the blaster still pointed at the bounty but he faced you, anger seeping out of him through his armour. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was furious but you were confused as to why. As far as you knew everything had been going great. Sure, Kenth had been a little touchy but you would’ve never let it go too far. You had been so close to getting him to come back to the ship with you until Din had showed up and ruined everything.

“His hand was sliding under your skirt for kriffin’ sake! I don’t think that’s handling it,” he growled, the sound menacing coming from his modulator.

You tilted your head, getting a good look at him. His whole body was tense, his blaster held firmly to Kenth’s head even though he was facing you. Then, it hit you. He was jealous. He was jealous and had no idea how to handle it. A smirk crept onto your face, your eyes glancing down to his hand that was still clasped around your wrist.

“Are you jealous?” You teased.

“No.”

“You are.”

“Don’t mess with me right now,” he said through gritted teeth. He nudged Kenth in the head, making him move again, dragging you along.

“That’s adorable.”

“Be quiet.”

The tone in his voice left no room for argument so you dropped it. For now. You let Din lead you to the ship, your eyes focused on the way his shoulders were ramrod straight, his whole posture locked in. The tone of his voice when he spoke had been commanding, angry. It was a stark difference to how exasperated he usually sounded. You had to admit that a jealous Mandalorian was hot. Anyone else would probably be terrified but you were amused. Knowing Din’s past and his creed, you were certain he had never felt anything like this before. It made butterflies flutter in your stomach to know you were the first person to ever bring up these emotions in him.

Once back on the ship, the bounty firmly locked in the carbonite, Din rounded on you. You took a step back, hitting the cool wall of the ship. One of his hands landed at the side of your head on the wall, the other hovering uncertainly by your hip. He was breathing heavily in his helmet, trying to calm himself down. Your eyes glanced down to where his hand was then back up to his visor, hopefully meeting his eyes.

“It’s okay, you can touch me,” you whispered.

His hand hovered for a moment more before he finally, finally made contact with you, his gloved fingers digging into your hip just right. “You’ll never let another man or woman or kriffin alien touch you like that again, you understand me?”

“Why?” You asked innocently. Once again you were baiting him.

“Because…” He was at a loss for words. What could he say? That he wanted you? That he was the only one that should get to touch you? No, he couldn’t. “Just… don’t.”

“Okay,” you said quietly, your hand coming up to rest on his that was on your hip. “I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

Your eyes widened at those words, your whole body igniting. He hadn’t even meant to say them, they’d just spilled out but the effect they had on you? That would stay in his memory for the rest of his life.

The silence was deafening after that. Then, it was like he came back to his senses. He tore his hands from you, taking a step back then without another word he ascended up the ladder into the cockpit. You didn't follow, still too stunned by everything that had just happened. His jealousy, the way his hand had felt on your hip and the ‘good girl’. It all felt like a fever dream. This was the most you had ever got from him.

Din sighed to himself in the cockpit. This was dangerous. He couldn’t let this happen. Feelings weren’t something he was accustomed to. He felt uncomfortable, unlike himself. No, he had to put a stop to this immediately. So, he did the only thing he could think of, typing in the co-ordinates to Tatooine.

copying and plagiarizing is not okay.

I know at the end of the day, there’s no such thing as an original idea anymore, but when you have THIS many back to back to back similarities, it’s hard to pass off as flattery, inspiration, or coincidence.

(Especially when the author copying left kudos on MTES just a couple months ago, only to then publish their own fic a few weeks later.)

All this to say, if you are inspired by a piece of fanart or fan fiction, please use that inspiration with careful consideration. Tag the source material, credit the author, something, anything. Or, better yet, find a way to portray what you loved from the source material in a new and unique way, rather than copying aspects line for line, design by design.

Seeing this copied fanfic has left me feeling deflated and defeated, my writing motivation doused. I have spent YEARS creating and writing this story. To see it be reused and claimed as someone else’s has me feeling robbed and cheated.

To everyone in the fandom, creator and consumer alike, please don’t do this.

Rex wakes up before you almost every single morning. He simply doesn't really have an ability to sleep in and his body naturally wakes him up at the exact same time every morning. He'll lie there for a while just watching you sleep, one arm draped over your waist, enjoying the peace and quiet. Will eventually carefully slip out of bed and make caf/tea so it's ready and waiting for you by the time you wake up

Likes having you sit with him while he's working on armor/weapon maintenance. Doesn't even necessarily need you to help, he just likes your company and wants to listen to you talk and this always feels like a good opportunity

Not great in the kitchen, like he's decent but not particularly good, but he likes helping you if it's something you like doing. Mostly just likes feeling useful and wants to spend time with you. Will do dishes or something while you cook and just talk and steal kisses

Has a tendency to stand rather than sit. He's usually leaning against walls or hovering near furniture instead of actually using it. Doesn't realize he does this and gets awkward when you tease him about it cause like. he doesn't know why he does this either it's just a habit lol

Sharing a bed takes some adjustment for him and honestly for a bit at first he doesn't sleep very well. He wants to be cuddling you but at the same time he's not super used to it yet and so it prevents him from sleeping much. Also every time you move it wakes him. This improves with some time though

The concept of having personal belongings feels strange to him sometimes and he'll hold onto trivial things you give him for a really long time. Like if you ever leave him a lil handwritten note or something sweet like that he keeps it forever. But also more casual things like if you ask him to hold a hair tie for you and then forget about it he will just. keep it for you for weeks until you realize one day he still has it around his wrist and are like ??????

Very accustomed to schedules and routines so days with absolutely no plans really throw him off. He'll be mildly restless and trying to create a structure for the nothing. By the end of the day he's usually relaxed and happy but getting him there's a process

Mildly bossy sometimes especially when it comes to chores or errands and stuff. Assigns tasks between the two of you and sometimes phrases requests more like orders without meaning to. Doesn't really realize how authoritative he sounds and so he'll tell you to do something in kinda a commanding way, you'll raise an eyebrow at him, and then he realizes and clears his throat as he awkwardly adds "…Please."

Frequent physical affection takes some adjustment because it doesn't occur to him often at first that he really can just ask for it whenever he wants it. He'll be having a rough day and just kinda hover near you mostly unintentionally until you realize the man needs a hug lmao

But when he realizes he can kiss you pretty much whenever he wants it blow his mind a little. The two of you will be in the middle of a conversation and he'll keep getting distracted by your lips before remembering like oh wait. that's my partner. I can just-- and then kiss you and completely lose any other train of thought. It takes months for the novelty to wear off (and even then it kinda doesn't?)

When he's really stressed or drained after campaigns he doesn't typically really like talking about it much, especially right after, but it is when he generally gets the most needy and affectionate. Where he usually prefers holding you and giving you comfort, this is when he needs to be held and soothed

"Stay still", you whispered, tending to your colleague's wound. You sat beside them, holding their chin and running a damp cloth down their cheek to soothe the sting.

"It's hurting, you know, it's hard not to move", they complained, hissing when you cleaned the area around the fresh cut.

"Just be quiet, I'm almost done", you said impatiently. Finally, you reached for the bacta patch on the table near you.

The moment you turned your gaze away from your friend, you saw him. No, you saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

"Lord Maul", you called, your voice calm. You have gotten used to him now, his ghostlike presence, always sneaking around the shadows you casted.

Quickly, you finished patching up their injury. It should heal completely in no time. You have a way with medicine, it's why Maul keeps you around, to assist the mandalorians in this matter. Once the look of his eyes on you thickened the air with tension, your colleague got up and bowed their head to both of you, leaving you alone with him.

"What is it?", you asked, absentmindedly putting the medical equipment away, "everything alright?"

He was too quiet for your liking. You looked up at him again, taking notice of his expression now, an anger so raw you couldn't hold the contact.

"What were you doing with them?", he demanded an answer, slowly stepping towards you.

"Nothing! They were wounded, Maul, I was helping them!", you tried to plead.

"You were too close."

"Nothing happened, I promise you!"

He seemed unsatisfied with your explanation. To make this right, before he came any closer, you got up and cupped his face with your gentle hands.

"Maul, listen to me, please."

His eyes widened at your boldness, but he remained silent.

"I love you", you muttered, staring straight into his eyes, "I love only you. I would never break the trust you have in me. You're the only one I want, desire and love. Please, believe me, okay?"

He didn't say anything right away. Instead, you watched as he blinked fast and swallowed hard. You kissed his cheek tenderly, whispering another love confession in his ear. And so, he also let it out:

"I love you, too, my dear", he held you suddenly, needing to feel your warmth, "I apologize for judging too harshly."

"Right, Sarvek said he repaired the hyperdrive properly this time, so we should be good to go." You said, flicking a few buttons to prepare for the jump.

Maul and you were on yet another mission to deal with underworld trade. It had been a month since your run in with Dooku, and with no signs of the Separatists trailing you, Maul had decided it was safe enough to run business as usual.

Aside from business however, your time with The Shadow Collective had been only getting better. The mando's were really warming up to you, especially after that night out, after which, a few more followed. Rook had actually joined you for some sparring sessions, allowing you to both get to know each other better. She was still a little frostier than you would've hoped but to be honest, she was becoming your friend.

Your training with Maul was improving too, you had gotten to grips with the double bladed sabre, now he was teaching you the more aggressive side of juyo. Alongside that, you'd taught Maul how to meditate properly; casting his hate aside momentarily to achieve inner peace as he pondered. Your lessons fit together perfectly, two side of the force coming together in peace to teach one another their skills.

It was poetic really, you hadn't at all envisioned this was how joining Maul would be when you first accepted his offer. Now, you were laid back in his ship, sipping fresh cassius he had made for you as you both cruised through hyperspace for the fourth time this week.

"There's been a lot of disruption lately, any reason why?" You asked Maul, swivelling round in the pilots chair to face him.

"The war has continued longer than anticipated, prices across the galaxy keep rising, and people don't want to pay." He replied, clutching his mug of tea.

"So?"

"So, we make them." The words rolled off of Maul's tongue like it was such a natural response. It still didn't sit completely right with you, the killing, torture, criminal activity. You had yet to take the plunge to the dark side, while you weren't technically a Jedi, you still refused to use your anger in combat. You could tell Maul disapproved of your rectitude, trying to push you further with each mission you went on to use your hate - but you resisted.

"3 hours until we reach Zygerria, anything you want to do to fill the time?" You placed your mug down, looking up at Maul in the co-pilots chair suggestivley.

"I can think of a few things." He hummed, his husky voice sending shivers down your spine.

And off you went, down to the barracks. You'd come to know Maul's quarters on the ship quite well. The two of you were at it like rabbits, any chance you got when you were alone, you took it. You spent pretty much every other night in his chambers, it was an impressive feat that no one had noticed anything yet. At least that what you thought.

The pull in the force grew stronger with each encounter. As your bodies connected, you felt a release not only physically, but through the force itself. You had each tried to find more information on the topic of 'force bonds' like this, but nothing came of it. Maul had said himself, this was a bond in the force like no other - it wanted you two together, physically, emotionally, in every sense possible. You just had to figure out why.

Just as you both laid on the bed, tired but so very pleasured, you heard the navigation chime. Maul went to address it, pressing a hard kiss to your mouth, biting your lip ever so slightly as he left. You smiled to yourself, you enjoyed his affection, as rare as it was. You weren't in a relationship by any means, aside from the bedroom, Maul tried to keep his intimacy with you to a minimum.

He would occasionally find himself slipping up; checking on you after a battle, fetching things he knew you needed, buying ingredients specially for you so that you could make your favourite dishes. He found himself questioning his own actions, for no one else, he went to these lengths. His cold, oppressing demeanour didn't work on you like it used to. Once upon a time, you were scared of him - he was a Sith, an enemy to you, now most mornings he wakes to find you soundly asleep in his arms, clutching at his chest.

A dispute arose within his mind. He'd often find himself using the mind palace you showed him, debating his feelings. Whether he wanted to admit it or not - he had a soft spot for you, which had not been his intention when he had first recruited you. His connection to you strayed him from the path of the dark side, deep down he knew he had to do something.

He had to turn you. He had to make you join the dark side. That way, your hate would encourage his, and together, both of you would be stronger. Strong enough to finally defeat Darth Sidious.

As you stepped off the ship, the heat of the Zygerrian sun hit you. But you had come prepared, dressed in a practical two piece outfit consisting of shorts and a tank top for the weather. Nonetheless, Maul wore his same black robes. You had told him he was going to get too hot but, stubborn as ever, he refused to change.

A feline resembling man met you at the bottom of the ramp, introducing himself as Raney, the leader of the Zygerrian slaving industry after the death of Queen Miraj Scintel. His face was riddled with scars and one of his eyes had been replaced by a white prosthetic.

"Lord Maul, please allow me to show you the progress of our operations." The man bowed to Maul, extending his arm in the direction of a great, beige building with guards scattered around its exterior.

"Very well." Maul spoke cooly. The three of you began towards the castle, you trailed behind, Raney speaking to Maul in a hushed tone, as if he didn't want you to overhear. You didn't think much of it, in reality you were here mostly as muscle, plus the topic of being involved in slavery unsettled you deeply.

You reached the gates, they slid open allowing Raney and Maul to enter. Following behind them, you went to proceed; but you were abruptly stopped by the two guards defending the entrance.

"No slaves allowed in the castle!" One of the thugs bellowed in your face.

"Slave?!" You shouted back at him, dumbfounded. Maul immedietly turned around, ignoring whatever Raney was saying to him at walking back towards you.

"She is not a slave, she is with me. And you will let her pass - if you value your life." He commanded, his calm carriage nearly breaking at the Zygerrian's words.

The guard growled, stepping aside reluctantly to allow you through. Maul placed his hand on the small of your back, leading you into a position between him and the Zygerrian leader, subtly suggesting to the man that you are of equal importance in this.

The Zygerrian's as a species were known for their slaving; men, women and children alike. But following Queen Miraj's passing, it seemed like their focus shifted mostly towards female slaves. At least that's what you had heard around the galactic underworld. Maybe it was because of your clothing, or maybe it was because of Maul's position as leader that the Zygerrian's assumed you must be owned.

You continued to tour around the castle where Raney showed you both the extent of their operations. It was mostly spice smuggling as opposed to slavery now, it seems that market had died down also after the queen's death. *Thank the maker.* Eventually, you were lead to an underground bunker which Raney stated had their payment to Maul inside.

Maul instructed you to keep guard as they entered, the other Zygerrian guards lined the corridor, watching you. Their faces twisted perversely when you turned to face them. You caught their glances, they snickered to each other from across the hallway. Hostility bubbled inside you as you scrunched your nose, debating whether or not to confront them, if you could take them on by yourself if things went sideways.

"Somethings funny, ugly?" You bellowed towards a hefty guardsman, who bore a grotesque smile as your sentence landed on his ears.

"Why would your master drag around a slave like you? You are merely property, why does he keep you so close?" The man looked you up and down suggestively, making you shrivel inside with repulsion.

"I can show you if you'd like?" You unclipped your lightsaber from your belt, igniting it.

"Oooh a fiesty one, I always like it when they fight back."

Overcome with revulsion, you force sped over to the Zygerrian, holding your burning sabre to his throat. "You dirty, slaver scum! I will rip those horns off your head and use them to disembowel you and the rest of your hideous friends!"

"Oh come now, we know you wouldn't do that. Your master would be so very disappointed in you." He laughed to himself, bearing his rotten fangs.

"He's not my master, and he certainly doesn't control me. So there's nothing he can do to stop me from doing this- gggraaa!" Your sabre made a swift impact with the mans neck, his head dropping to the floor.

The other guards reacted immediately, igniting their whips and snarling their teeth. You felt a surge of satisfaction tremble through your body at the thought that you would be the one to rid the galaxy of these slavers, the adrenaline rushing to your eyes. The force flowed into your movements as you leapt at an oncoming Zygerrian, his whip wrapped around your lightsaber, allowing you to twist your body and throw his shoulder downwards. In your anger, you stamped a foot on his neck, choking him before you slammed your boot down again, crushing his windpipe.

More guards appeared from behind the pillars decorating the hallway, around 13 of them. A challenge, but nothing you couldn't handle. Excitement tingled within you as you readied in the juyo stance, revelling in the chance to finally use the skills Maul had taught you. You yelled, bringing your sabre up and charging towards a guard, whip in his hand ready to strike.

"Y/n!" Maul's voice echoed through the corridor, making you freeze.

You faced him, dropping your sabre down by your side. You realised how this situation looked, so, you projected through the force the memory of moments prior to Maul's mind. He saw what they had said to you, a flicker of red formed in his eyes as he looked towards Raney, whom was now fast approaching you.

"You killed my guards! Insolent female, I shall have you whipped for your- hgrckhh!"

Maul's fist raised in the air, removing the oxygen from the leader's lungs "You dare disrespect my associate? Your contemptuous behaviour will not go unpunished." The zabrak's voice was laced with rage as he held the man.

He clawed at his neck, the veins in his forehead bursting through his skin as he struggled. Maul lifted him higher as the guards stood staring, not wanting to receive the same fate. The room corridor fell silent as the squeaks of Raney's breaths grew fainter, the Sith's grip on his throat unrelenting.

Maul met your gaze, you looked to the floor, ashamed you'd caused such a scene. You knew the Zygerrian was wrong, but seeing the life draining from his eyes so slowly sent a chill down your spine, you couldn't bear to watch any longer. You shut your eyes, Maul noticed, sighing. He released the man from his grip, dropping him to the floor with a solid thud.

Raney gasped harshly, his hand stroking at his neck as his guards came rushing over to him. "My Lord, I'm so sorry for mine and my men's inappropriate manor, I did not mean for-"

"Silence." Maul cut him off, striding over to where you stood.

"Not to me. To her." He said, placing a hand on your shoulder. He spoke almost as if he were parenting the man, his arrogance and disgust littered in his tone.

"M- My Lady- I-... I apologise. I did not realise you were a warrior of- of such calibre." You gazed down at his whimpering figure with distain, dragging your eyes upwards to see the rest of his men. Your stare caused them to flinch, then, one bent down to a knee.

A few groaned between them, then they all followed. Each lowering to a knee in front of you and Maul. A small smile crept across your face, a sense of power and pride overwhelmed you, seeing these men kneel at your presence.

"See that your payment to my collective is doubled by the next quarter." Maul commanded down to Raney, who now scrambled to stand.

"B- but my Lord that's impossible-" He stuttered over his words, pure fear shaking the weak specimen to his bones.

Maul ignited his sabre. "I will not tolerate failure."

The red glow illuminated Maul's yellow eyes, which narrowed in hatred as they met the Zygerrian's. "Yes... my Lord."

Retracting his lightsaber, Maul extended an elbow out for you to take, a gesture he'd not yet done before. You knew what he was doing, so you linked your arm around his, allowing him to guide you out of the castle. The Sith showed every Zygerrian there how a real man treats a woman, with the upmost respect.

As you walked back to the ship, you questioned him. "Hmh, how come you doubled the payment? Are we low on supplies?"

"No. Those credits will go to you, as compensation for their insolence." Maul kept his eyes forward with a straight face. You could sense a feeling of frustration coursing through his body - he was genuinely enraged by how the Zygerrian's treated you. Being from a matriarchal society, he viewed it at fundamentally wrong either way, but it was you they were directing their disrespect towards.

He felt like an extension of himself was the one being affronted, feeling almost personally attacked by their actions. But of course, it wasn't him, it was you. The bond in the force causing him to receive your emotions and thoughts as they occurred - just like when you were training at the temple.

The two of you got back to the ship, Maul, with the datachip containing the credits from the Zygerrian's on it, inserted the device into his holotablet to upload the currency. You both sat in the cockpit, this time, you assumed the passenger seat and left the pilots seat to him.

"I appreciate your efforts Maul but... I am not yours to defend." You spoke as he began the flight procedure. He remained silent, clearly deep in thought.

"I could handle myself." You said after a pause, beginning to feel slighted by his disregard.

"I don't doubt that." He finally chimed in, lifting the ship off the ground and into the atmosphere.

"Then why did you intervene?"

"Well, I couldn't have you kill off all of the castle guards. There'd be none left to continue operations." He replied with a hint of sarcasm, getting the ship into hyperspace, then turning to face you.

"Hmm." You knew that wasn't the reason. "I wasn't going to kill all of them."

"I am aware."

His stunted sentences made you question whether or not it was wise to keep digging. You wanted more than anything to know how he was feeling, what he was thinking - and from his change in demeanour you could tell there was something going on inside his head.

"I sense... you're keeping something from me. Care to tell me what?"

Maul reflected on his actions, he too was going to kill the leader of the Zygerrian syndicate, all because he disrespected you. He couldn't look past that, his attachment to you was influencing his choices. This topic had arisen before, he was scared that he would fall too deep, stray too far. So, he did the only thing he knew how to - push his feelings away.

"I do not see the point in your efforts to understand my train of thought. I did what I did because that's what I deemed suitable. Does that answer your query?" He responded flatly, emotion building up inside his chest.

"Not really. I just..." You paused for a moment, you too were experiencing a similar conflict. All you wanted was for him to admit it, that he was attached to you. "I just want to know... how you're feeling?"

"How I'm... feeling?" Maul seemed genuinely confused at your question. Never before had someone asked him how he was feeling inside. The unfamiliarity of it further forwarded his fear, his fear of his own emotion.

"Yes."

It seemed, in this moment, Maul reverted back to his past. His days with Sidious where he would respond to any affection with aversion. For him, it was the most natural response he could think of, but for you, it was devastating.

"You may have gotten the impression from my action of showing you my past that I would be willing to disclose my personal thoughts with you but... you're mistaken."

Your breath caught in your throat. *This whole time, he thought we weren't bonding?* You tried desperately to silence the thoughts racing through your mind as Maul continued.

"You asked me what I would have to do to gain your trust, and I did it. There was... nothing more beyond that."

"Nothing more... beyond that...?"

"...yes."

You tensed your fists as a crushing regret came down upon you. He was actively trying to back out of everything that had been building up between you these past months. You felt like a fool, you felt used.

"Your attempts to 'know me' are in vain, my dear. I am not a man who-"

"No. I get it. You don't need to say any more."

*Stars, maybe he really is who I thought he was.* The image of Maul you had in your head when you first met him was a cold, calculated, closed off man who felt emotion's purely to fuel his personal ambitions. But, over the months, as you grew closer, that image shifted. You saw a broken man, one who never learned the intricacies of human connection, and one who was willing to learn.

However, that's not what Maul wanted you to see, and he was starting to close up again. It pained him, truly, to say what he said to you - in reality, all he wanted was to pour his heart out and let you fill it back up again. A pang of regret pierced his chest, in his effort to remain powerful in the dark side, he had just tried to push away the one person who gave a damn about him, even if it was only a little.

You got up from your seat, retreating to the barracks for the remainder of the journey. Truthfully, you wanted to cry. You had given everything to help Maul and you thought that he was really beginning to settle into life with you. From what you now understood, he didn't want you to know him, he didn't want you close, he didn't want you to care. But you did. You did care. And you hated that you did.

When you landed, you left the ship in silence, heading straight to your chambers to meditate. Maul made no attempt to stop you, he realised he had to think longer on what he was going to say to you. A wise decision, considering his choice of words on the ship resonated so poorly with you.

A few days passed, neither you nor Maul had spoken a word to each other since that conversation on the ship. You had helped with tasks on Mandalore and trained by yourself. Occasionally passing him, you felt an agonising tug in your chest through the force, you knew he felt it too. The thought of leaving the syndicate crossed your mind, however, you were committed to stopping Sidious, and you knew the council wouldn't believe you if you told them who the chancellor really was. Staying was your best bet.

Compunction clouded Maul's head, after having days to reflect, he finally realised how he should've reacted. In all honesty, he found it hard to break away from his old ways, but the thought of upsetting you was too overwhelming. One way or another, he had to come to terms with his emotions, and you were the only one willing to listen. One evening, you were sat in your chambers, meditating, when you heard a timid knock at your door.

"Enter."

Maul's dejected figure stood in your doorway, holding that oh so recognisable pot of his.

"Tea?"

You gave him a nod and he joined you on the floor of your room, pouring you both a mug. The candle you had previously lighted flickered overhead, illuminating Maul's softened eyes as you each sipped your tea.

"This reminds me of that night, the one where you showed me your mind. I think about that night a lot. But I guess I shouldn't, seeing as it didn't mean anything."

Maul breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Maul?" You stated, placing the mug of tea down.

"It did mean something. You mean something." His eyes remained glued to the floor, almost as if he was frightened to make eye contact with you.

"Well I sure hope I do, because you have no problem disclosing your 'personal thoughts' with me in the bedroom!" Your anger was at a boiling point, that notion of being used kept ringing in your head no matter how hard you tried to push it away. You knew he wouldn't stoop so low as to treat you like that, but with his apprehension to tell you his cogitation, your mind filled in the blanks.

"That is not how I intend for you to feel."

"Well it is. And if you're too much of a coward to tell me how you feel then maybe I made a mistake trusting you." The words just fell out of your mouth. You felt a burning behind your eyes, the blood vessels in them creeping towards your pupils.

You took a beat, breathing heavily. You'd just insulted him to his face, over not sharing his emotions with you. "Maul, I'm sorry-"

"No... you're right. I am a coward. I haven't been forthcoming." His honesty surprised you, you leaned forward to hear what he was going to say.

"I... I am loosing my grip on the dark side of the force. My anger, my hate, I can feel it slipping away and... it's all I've had, for as long as I can remember." You daren't breathe whilst he spoke, all you did was listen.

"This bond between us, this connection, it's all so...new. The emotions I am experiencing are confusing and I- I don't know what to do." Maul's face scrunched as he turned his head away from you, you could swear you heard the slightest sniffle radiate from his direction.

"And I'm afraid that, if we are separated, I would not be there to aid you."

You thought long and hard, you'd been through this before, that inner turmoil. Maul wasn't by any means a good person, he couldn't regulate his emotions so his first response was to push you away, which is a red flag in itself. But you could tell he was bluffing before, and you were right. You did mean more to him, and he knew that - he had his emotions now in check, but it was his actions that mattered most.

"What can I do to help?" You asked gently, raising a hand softly to his chin and lifting his head to look at you. In the faint candlelight, you caught a glimmer of a sheen overtop his eyes.

"Y/n, my dear, I implore you... join me in the dark side. Your potential could be more than you've ever dreamed of. We can finally stop Sidious, save the galaxy! Is that not what you want?" His voice sounded desperate and pleading. As he gazed supplicatingly into your eyes and soul, you couldn't help but be stimulated by his words.

"I- I um." Now you were really conflicted. *Is this all just a ploy to get me to join the dark side? Has it been the whole time?* Doubt swam in your mind, it's not that you didn't trust Maul, it's just that the dark side itself often corrupts those who use it. It was that you didn't trust.

Falling to the dark would make you irredeemable, but on the other hand, Maul was right, it would make you stronger. You had already trained in the Sith form of combat, all that was left was to take the plunge and you would be ready - fully indoctrinated.

"I need to think. This is a lot to take in." Maul understood, nodding into your hand still on his face.

"But, thank you, for listening to me. I think, deep down, I know you have good intentions Maul." Your remarks meant much more to him than you realised. You were the only person to see through his hard outer shell and break through to his true frame of mind. His heart swelled with a rapturous sensation in the force. You were so perfect for him, he thought.

He let out a breath of relief, rising to his feet. You followed, placing the tea on top of your drawers and perusing him. Maul headed for the door to your chambers, sliding it open and standing in the doorway, relaxing his shoulders.

"What I wanted to say was... I'm sorry. I apologise for my earlier words, they didn't come out as I had intended. It's... my fault, you're only trying to help." He admitted. His vulnerability oozed through the force, tugging at you to walk closer to him until you were face to face.

"I think I just failed to see that as... I do not think of myself as a person one would want to 'know'. You're a good person, Y/n, a better one than you think you are." He peered at you through sorrowful eyes, in his mind, he'd let you down. Not getting a grip on his emotions in time to stop himself from saying something stupid.

"If you think you have made a mistake, I understand. And if it is any consolation, thank you." Maul's body slinked out into the corridor, but not before you laid a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn back around.

"No. No I haven't made a mistake trusting you. You said the wrong thing, apologised, and learned. That's more than any council member could say they did." Your hand remained on his chest as he smiled down to you tenderly.

"You're my friend, I'm not giving up on you that easily." You gave him a wide, affectionate smile. Your hand on his chest could feel his two hearts suddenly being thumping harder. That sheen returned to his eyes, but just as you noticed, Maul buried his head into your neck, careful not to prod you with his horns. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, you felt his cool nose make contact with the skin of your collarbone.

After a pause, you hugged him back. Snaking your hand over his back and the other behind his head, you held him close. Maul felt his body tremble as he fiercely attempted to hold back the long overdue tears welling up in his eyes. The two of you stood like that for force knows how long, simply engulfed in each other's embraces, wholly and utterly one.

"May I stay here tonight, with you?" Maul muttered into your shoulder, sheepishly.

"Of course." You whispered back, placing a featherlight kiss to the side of his head.

That night, you slept bundled together, neither one of you ever letting go of the other. At one point in the night, Maul found himself awake, simply staring, admiring you. You risked everything for him, you understood him, how could he not be completely and totally consumed by you. He was, you were all he could think about. But he didn't see that as a hinderance anymore, if you were to join him in the dark, his passion for you could push him further than ever before. He smiled to himself, stroking a gentle finger over your face as you slept.

Simultaneously, you were deep in a dream, the same dream, the one you had every night. Only tonight, it was so eerily vivid. You watched yourself as you walked through a whimsical house, decorated with all kinds of plants, artwork and artefact. You noticed a hefty lump on your belly protruding from your dress as you exited onto a beach. There, a small child came running to you from afar. As they got closer, you could clearly see something - the child bore horns atop their head and brown markings lay over their pink skin.

A zabrak-human hybrid. This was Maul's child. Then, you felt a large hand on your back, gliding around your waist. You craned your neck to see him, Maul, in civilian clothing, looking calmer and more healthy than you had ever known him. He gazed at you, his eyes full of unrelenting love as he lifted the child and placed them over his hip.

You were seeing a family, your family, with him. In your semi-lucid state, you pondered. You were not about to have a child with this man, nor with any man for that matter. If this was truly what you wanted, it was far, far in the future, but it did make you think.

You’ve thought about a great many things, in the long warm afterglow of that night. You’ve thought about the shape of his face under your fingertips, the unfiltered laugh, low and surprised, and the warm, hoarse, human voice underneath the modulation, and the soft warm patient slide of him with nothing in the way. You’ve carried all of it, in the days after, like a small bright stone in a pocket, taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in your hands.

You’ve not thought about him taking it out in the quiet moments and turning it over in his.

You should have. You should have known. He’s a man who takes things out and turns them over in his hands – that’s the whole architecture of him, that’s how he’s built every interior room of himself. You’ve given him a thing to turn over, and he’s begun to wear it smooth.

The first week is very good.

He’s quieter in a way that’s not withdrawn but settled, the way a man who’s been given something that has rearranged his small interior furniture and is taking the time to learn the new layout is quiet He sits closer to you in the cockpit. He touches you more in small, absent ways and calls you cyar'ika more often. He says it through the modulator, and you hear, every time, the human voice underneath, because you’ve been given it once and you’ll never not hear it underneath now.

The second week is where it begins.

It begins so small you almost don’t notice and you only do because you’ve now spent a year learning to notice small things about him.

You’re in the bunk with the lights out. He comes down from the cockpit and strips his armour, piece by piece, laying it aside in the careful ritual he’s built around the night cycle. He climbs in behind you in his undershirt and his trousers with the helmet still on, pulls you back against his chest and splays his hand across your stomach, his thumb beginning the small, slow, absent, familiar circle of your skin.

And then his hand stops a second too long.

You feel him hold his breath and feel the helmet press, very lightly, to the top of your head. Then you feel the small involuntary tightening of his fingers against your stomach, as if he’s been about to do something and stopped himself.

Then the thumb resumes, the breath is let out and the helmet stays. You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes, let him hold you and tell yourself it’s nothing.

It happens again, three nights later. He bends to press the brow of the visor to your forehead, and you feel him pause, the cool beskar a hair's breadth from your skin, and you feel the small held breath of him through the modulator. Then the visor presses down and he pulls back.

You look up at him in the half-dark.

"Din, are you alright?”

"Yes."

He’s not alright, but you don’t push, instinct telling you that he’s not ready to look at whatever it is yet.

You let it lie and it gets worse.

He starts to take longer to settle in the bunk. He starts to lie behind you with his hand on your stomach and not move at all, to hold so still it’s like he’s teaching himself not to. When he takes you in the dark, he starts to keep one hand always braced against the bulkhead beside your head, as if he needs the anchor of something cold and unyielding to remind him of where the discipline is supposed to live.

He starts to fuck you, in those nights, with a small, new, desperate edge underneath the old patience. Not rough, just…wanting. You feel it every time in the small involuntary catch in his breath when he buries himself in you, the small held-back sound he makes through the modulator when he comes, the way his hand tightens on your hip and then deliberately eases, the way you can feel him pulling against some invisible leash.

You know what the leash is and yet you don’t say, because you also know that the thing he’s leashed against is a thing he can’t be allowed off the leash for again. Maybe not ever. The Creed has given him one negotiated night because you built him an argument he could climb through, and the same argument doesn’t climb twice. You both understand that and asking him for it again will be asking him to break the thing the night only carefully bent.

So, you let him stay leashed. You hold him afterwards, tell him you love him and feel, every time, the small flinch of him hearing it whilst you pretend, every time, you don’t.

But it doesn’t work.

The third week is when you have to start admitting it’s not working.

This is when he starts to pace again. Not the wide easy pacing of a man with nervous energy to spend, but the small, contained pacing of a man who’s holding something down with his hands and can’t quite manage to hold it down with the rest of him. He paces the cockpit between jumps, he paces the hold at night, he strips his rifle and reassembles it twice in one evening, which is something he hasn’t done since the first month of you living on the Crest, when you were still learning to read him and he was still learning to be read.

You try twice to talk to him. The first time is in the cockpit, where you lay your hand on his bare forearm and stroke the skin there gently.

"Din?"

"Mm."

"Talk to me."

He doesn’t turn his head.

"There's nothing to talk about, cyar'ika."

"There is."

"There's not."

"Din…"

"There is nothing."

His voice through the modulator is very level and so you take your hand off his forearm and nod as though he’s given you an acceptable answer.

"All right," you say softly.

The second time is in the bunk. He takes you from on top this time, the way he sometimes does when he wants to watch you – your hands braced on his shoulders, your weight in his lap, his hands at your hips guiding the rhythm. He finishes with the small held-back sound through the modulator and then lifts you off him with the careful competence he always brings to it, laying you down beside him, and beginning the slow absent stroking of your stomach with his thumb that means he’s settling toward sleep.

You lay your hand over his. "Din."

The thumb stops.

"I miss it too," you say, very quietly. "I do. But I have it in my head, and it’s enough. It’s more than enough. We don't have to chase it. We don't have to…to keep looking back over our shoulders at it. It’ll still be there in a year, or five, or twenty. We don’t have to chase it."

The thumb doesn’t resume and he remains silent for a long time before responding.

"I’m not chasing it."

"Din…"

"I'm not, cyar'ika. It was a gift. I know what it was. I'm not…" the vocoder cuts on a small uneven breath, “I'm not the kind of man who chases gifts."

"I didn't say you were."

"Then don't worry about it."

“I only…"

"Sleep, cyar'ika, please."

You sleep or at least pretend to. Behind you, in the dark, his hand stays splayed across your stomach without moving, and you understand, lying there with your eyes closed, that you’ve pushed and he’s pushed back, and that’s the end of the conversation for tonight, and possibly for longer.

The third week ends and the fourth week is Helvista.

It’s a long bounty, seven days of hard tracking on a swamp moon, a quarry who moves at night and sleeps in trees, a stretch of work that leaves you both filthy, underfed and tired down to the small bones of your wrists. You eat ration bars on the bounty's last night without speaking, haul the carbonite slab into the hold at dawn and shower, one at a time, the way you always do.

You come out into the warm dim of the night cycle with your hair damp and your skin warm and find him sitting on the bench by the carbonite chamber with the helmet on and nothing else and a look about him that you’ve not seen in a month.

His visor turns and he watches you cross the hold.

You don’t stop in front of him, moving past him to the bunk, because you understand, from the small set of his shoulders and the careful angle of his helmet, what he wants, and that the bench is not where he’s going to take it.

He follows, his hand coming around your waist from behind and pulling you back against the warm heat of him, the visor pressing to the side of your throat with the small hungry edge of a man who’s been holding something down for a long time and is, tonight, going to let himself stop.

"Cyar'ika."

"I'm here."

He turns you, pressing your back to the bulkhead, then he kisses you through the helmet as his hands go under the loose sleep shirt you’ve pulled on after the shower, finds your breasts and palms them.

You should have stopped him then, but you don’t.

You want him too. You’ve wanted him for a week of swamp moon and longer than that of small held-back hands on your hip and a leash neither of you is talking about. You want him and so you turn your face up to the visor, let him push the shirt up over your head, and guide you into the bunk.

He bends you forward over the edge and that’s the first place it goes wrong, only you don’t realise it at the time.

He’s taken you from behind before many times. There’s nothing wrong, in itself, with him bending you forward over the edge of the bunk, pulling your hips back against him and pressing the visor to the back of your neck while his hands run the small inventory down your sides.

But you understand, with a small far slow part of your mind, that he’s chosen this position because he can’t see your face from it and that he’s choosing it because tonight, he doesn’t want to have to remember whose face it is.

You set the thought aside, because you want him.

He presses against you, hard, the blunt heat of him sliding through the wet of you, and the small, low sound he makes through the modulator is rougher than the small, low sound he made through the modulator a week ago. He sheathes himself in you in one long stroke, you cry out against the mattress, and he presses the visor to the base of your skull, beginning, with very little patience at all, to fuck you.

It’s not the rhythm of any night in the bunk before.

It’s hard, harder than he’s been before. This is a man who’s been holding something down for four weeks and who’s decided, somewhere on the swamp moon or in the shower or on the bench, that he’s going to stop holding it down for the next ten minutes, and that the way he’s going to stop holding it down is through you.

His hands grip your hips tighter than usual. You felt the small involuntary pulse of pressure where his thumbs dig into the soft place above your hipbones, where you register, dimly, that there will be bruises tomorrow. He pulls you back against him on every stroke, using you as the anchor he’s been bracing against the bulkhead for. The small, hoarse sounds through the modulator are not the warm, low, pleased ones you know. They’re rougher, the sounds of a man working at something. The sounds of a man trying.

"Din."

"Mm."

"Din, slow…"

He doesn’t slow. The visor presses harder to the base of your skull. The hand on your right hip slides up your back, fists in your hair, and tips your head back. Not gently, not the careful tipping he’s used before, but a harder tipping. A tipping that pulls, that hurts a small clean line down your scalp, and you make a sound that’s not entirely pleasure.

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

He keeps going, the pace never breaking. The pressure of his hand in your hair doesn’t ease and the other hand on your hip pulls you back harder. The visor presses to the side of your neck and the modulator catches a small, rough sound that’s almost a growl. You feel him driving toward something, chasing something, and the small, far, slow part of your mind finally understands.

He’s chasing the feeling of having no helmet between him and you.

He can’t have it. The helmet is on, the Creed is on, the leash is on, he can’t get it off, and he’s trying, in the only way left to him, to fuck through it.

You know you can’t let him – can’t let him chase a thing through you that you’re not going to be the chase for.

"Din."

He doesn’t slow.

"Din."

The visor presses harder, the hand in your hair tightening.

"Stop."

The word comes out small. You don’t even know, at first, that you’ve said it. You haven’t said stop to him before. There have been times when you’ve asked him to slow, to wait, to give you a moment, but you’ve never, not since this all started, said the word stop.

He doesn’t hear you and you say it again, louder.

"Stop, Din. Stop."

He stops so completely it’s as if a thing has been switched off inside him. The hand in your hair releases. The hand at your hip releases. The visor lifts from the back of your neck and the rhythm breaks. He holds inside you a long, shocked moment, breathing through the modulator, and you feel the long uneven shake of him.

Then he pulls out, fast, and steps back. You hear him stumble with the small, uncharacteristic ungainliness of a man whose body is no longer obeying him. You straighten up off the edge of the bunk, slowly, and turn to look at him.

He’s standing in the half-dark of the bunk alcove. The visor’s angled at you, but only barely, the rest of him angled away, shoulders set, hands at his sides, the breath through the modulator coming in small, uneven bursts. He looks, you think, the way a man looks who’s just watched himself do something he doesn’t believe he’s capable of and is, in the space afterward, deciding what kind of man he’s going to be on the other side of having seen it.

"Cyar'ika…"

"Din, it’s alright."

"I…”

"Come here, it's alright. I'm all right.”

You reach for him, but he flinches back, a half-step, no more, and you feel it in your own chest like a blow.

"Cyar'ika…"

"Din, stay, please."

But he doesn’t stay.

He turns and goes across the hold, lifting his discarded flight suit and clumsily pulling it on over his naked form before heading for the ladder. You watch as he climbs it, then hear the small bang as the cockpit hatch closes, the lock engaging.

You stand naked in the bunk alcove in the half-dark with the warm wet ache of him still inside you, listening to him moving above, then sit down on the edge of the bunk and lay both your hands flat against your thighs, breathing slowly, the way he’s taught you to breathe when you’ve come back too hot from a fight and can’t bring yourself down. You take the breaths, count them and let your shoulders come down.

Your hips hurts and when you look down, you can already see, in the small backwash of light from the hold, the dark beginnings of bruises above the bones. You press one with your fingertip and the small, bright ache of it is almost a relief.

You scout the floor for your trousers, pull your sleep shirt back on and think, first, about whether you’re alright.

You are – you know you are. Your hips are bruised and your scalp feels tender and there’s a small soreness inside you that’s nothing you’ve not had before. You’re alright. You said stop and he stopped, the way you knew he would. He stopped completely.

The Creed is a discipline, and the discipline has held, even at the end, even with him chasing something through you that he can’t have.

You sit there a long time wondering if you might cry and quickly realising that you won’t. What comes instead is a long, slow, steady clarity telling you, firstly, that he’s not alright and secondly that he’s not going to be alright by himself.

The third thing the clarity tells you is that you’re going to have to go up there after you’ve given him some time to be alone with the thing he’s just discovered about himself, the way an animal that has been caught in a snare needs a stretch of being alone with the snare before it’ll let anyone near to take it off.

But you know the stretch can’t not be too long, because you know the decision a man like Din Djarin is capable of making about himself, when he’s just hurt the woman he loves and it’s not a decision you’re going to let him reach unattended.

Standing up, you move slowly, around the hold, making yourself useful. You fold the blanket that has slipped off the bench. You pick up the scarf from where it migrated days ago to the small shelf beside the bunk, fold it and put it back. You drink a glass of water and stand in front of the small mirror in the cycler looking at your reflection.

Your hair is wild from his hand and there’s a small flush along your throat. Your eyes look tired, but not frightened, and you don’t look, when you turn at the waist to check, like a woman who’s been hurt past mending. The bruises on your hip are already coming up dark, and you trace one with your fingertip, thinking about how you’re going to tell him about them and deciding you’re going to tell him the truth, because the truth is the only thing that’s going to be useful to him tonight.

You wait fifteen minutes and then walk to the foot of the ladder, laying your hand on the rung.

"Din?"

The cockpit hatch doesn’t open, not that you expect it to. You stand at the foot of the ladder with your hand on the rung and speak up the shaft just loud enough that he can catch your voice through the hatch.

"Din, I'm coming up in a minute. I just want you to know that."

You’re met with silence and you stand there a moment longer, stroking the cool metal of the rung with your thumb the way he strokes your stomach, and you breathe.

"I'm alright," you say quietly. "I want you to hear me say that.”

The cockpit hatch doesn’t open and he doesn’t answer.

You wait two more minutes and then begin to climb. At the top of the ladder, you lay your hand against the hatch.

"I'm at the hatch. I'm not going to open it because I want you to open it when you're ready. I'm just going to sit here on the ladder and wait."

Sitting down on the top rung, you lean your back against the bulkhead beside the hatch, fold your arms across your knees, lay the side of your head against the cool metal, close your eyes and wait.

You don’t how long you wait for but, eventually, the lock disengages. You don’t sit up or push the hatch open. Rather, you wait for him to open it.

The hatch slides open from the inside and when you open your eyes and look up, you see him sitting in the pilot’s chair, turned to face the hatch, with the helmet on, the visor angled at the deck plating between his feet.

He doesn’t look up as you climb the last two rungs and sit down on the lip of the hatch, your legs dangling into the shaft, your hands folded loose in your lap.

"Hi.”

"Cyar'ika...I…"

His voice through the modulator is the voice of a man who’s been crying. You don’t know how you know that because, in all the time you’ve flown with him, you’ve never heard him cry, never even been entirely sure he’s capable of it. But the small uneven catch in his breath and the slight thickness in the way the modulator handles the word tells you that he has and is.

"Can I come in?" you ask softly. “Or do you need me to stay here?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

"Come in," he says, eventually.

You don’t go to him. Instead, you go to the copilot's chair and sit down in it sideways, so that you’re facing him, your bare feet tucked up under you, your hands still folded loose in your lap. You look at the dash, at the dim glow of the navigation readouts, at the small steady spin of the proximity scanner, so that he doesn’t have the weight of your eyes.

He doesn’t look up, the visor remaining angled at the deck.

"Din, I need to tell you some things, okay?"

"Yes."

"Firstly, I’m physically alright. I’ve got two bruises on my hip from where your hands were and my scalp is a little tender from where you pulled my hair, but that's all.”

He doesn’t answer and the visor stays angled at the deck. You watch, very faintly, the small involuntary shake of his shoulders under the flight suit.

"Secondly, I'm going to tell you that I love you and I want you to hear me say that now, before I say anything else. I love you, Din. I’m not any less in love with you tonight than I was this morning.”

The vocoder catches a small broken sound that’s almost a word and also not. You sit with him while he takes in what you’ve said and let him have whatever time he needs.

"Alright," he says quietly.

"Good. Now I'm going to tell you the third thing. And I'm going to say it once, and then we're not going to talk about it tonight again, because tonight isn’t the night to talk about it. We’re going to talk about it tomorrow, or the day after, or when you’re ready. But I want you to hear it once tonight, because I want you to carry it into whatever you’re about to do with yourself in your own head, and I want it to be in there with you."

The visor doesn’t move.

"You were chasing it, weren't you?"

He doesn’t answer.

"You were chasing the way it was that night, and you’ve been chasing it for four weeks. I’ve watched you chase it and I haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how to say it without taking something away from you that I’ve got no business taking. But tonight you chased it harder than you’ve chased it before, and tonight I felt it, Din. I felt you trying to get through the helmet at me with your body because you can’t get through it any other way."

The vocoder catches a small, wrecked sound.

"I’m not angry," you say. "I want you to hear that. I’m not angry, Din, because I understand why. We had something that was real, and it’s not something a man can put down easily after he’s had it. I should’ve understood that better than I did. I should’ve asked you, the morning after about how you were going to carry it and I didn't, and for that I’m sorry.”

You uncurl your hands and lay one palm flat on the armrest of the copilot's chair, facing up, as an offering.

"But you can’t chase it through me, Din. Not because you hurt me, but because if you chase it through me, you’re not being true to yourself. You’re not letting us be what we are to each other. I don’t want to be a thing you have to fight your way through your armour to reach. I want to be the thing inside the armour with you."

You let out a long breath, and still, he says nothing.

"That's all I wanted to say. “

You sit there watching the proximity scanner until he finally speaks and, when he does, the voice through the modulator is very small. The voice he keeps for the things that hurt him.

"Cyar'ika."

"Yes?"

"I…I didn’t know that I was. I thought…I thought I had it under control. I thought I had…I had set it down the morning after. I had taken it out and I had looked at it, and I had set it down. I told myself I had."

"I know."

"I told myself I had every morning. Every morning I would pick it up and look at it and set it back down, and I told myself the setting down was the work. I told myself I was doing the work. I…"

The vocoder catches.

"But I wasn’t doing the work," he says. "I was wearing it smooth."

"I know, Din. I saw you do it."

He bends forward in the chair and lays his hands across the visor of the helmet, the way a man holds his head in his hands when he’s trying to keep something inside it.

"I hurt you."

"Not badly."

"I hurt you."

"Alright, you did, a little. And I said stop, and you stopped. I want you to hear that part – you stopped. You stopped completely, Din, the second I said it. You heard me and you stopped."

"That’s not…that’s not the bar, cyar'ika. That’s not the bar I want to meet."

"I know it isn't."

"I don’t want to be a man who has to be told to stop. I don’t want to be a man who…who chases a thing through the woman he…" the vocoder cuts on the word.

"I know, Din."

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, his hands remaining flat against the brow of the visor. You don’t move from the copilot's chair, but you keep your palm up on the armrest, letting it be a thing he can come to if he wants.

"I’m afraid."

The vocoder almost strips the word, but you hear it anyway.

"Afraid of what?"

"I’m afraid that I’ve…I’ve learned a thing about myself I didn’t know was in there. That there’s a man in here who…who wants past the Creed. Who wants past it badly enough to put his hands on you and pull. And I don’t…I don’t know what to do with knowing that cyar'ika. I’ve built my… my whole self on top of the Creed. The Creed is the floor. If I’m the kind of man who…who pulls against it through you, then I don’t know what the floor is."

You sit with his words for a long careful moment, because the thing he’s setting down between you is a thing that matters, and you’re not going to answer it cheaply.

"Din, will you come over here? I’m not going to ask you anything. I just want you over here because you’re too far away, please.”

He doesn’t move and the hands stay on the visor.

"Din, please."

Finally, he stands slowly and crosses the small space between the chairs. He doesn’t look at you or sit. He stands in front of the copilot's chair with the visor angled at the deck and his hands hanging useless at his sides.

You reach up and take both his hands in yours, gently drawing him down to you. He comes down to his knees in front of the chair, kneeling between your feet on the deck plating of the cockpit, and you cradle his hands in yours and turn them, slowly, so the palms are up, and you lay your own palms flat on them, and hold him there.

"Listen to me."

The visor remains angled at the deck.

"Look up, Din."

He looks up slowly.

"There’s no man in there who wants past the Creed. There’s a man in there who loves a woman and wants to be close to her. That’s all that is. You’ve built your whole self on top of the Creed, and the Creed is the floor, and the floor is fine. The floor is not cracked. The floor held. You said yes to a negotiated night, took it, and then you tried, for four weeks, to carry it without telling me you were having trouble, and that’s the only place anything went wrong tonight. You should’ve told me. The next time you have trouble carrying something, you need to tell me. Yes?"

The visor is very still. "Yes.”

"Good."

You stroke his hands with your thumbs.

“The night in the hold was a gift, we both said so. But a gift isn’t a debt or a thing you have to chase. A gift is a thing you get to have once, and the having of it doesn’t require any more havings to stay real. The night in the hold is real, it will stay real and it will be real in a year, and in five, and in twenty. I’m not going anywhere, Din, and the night in the hold is going to be one of the things I take with me to whatever is on the other side of a long life on this ship with you. It doesn’t need to happen again to stay real. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," he replies, softly. “I hear you."

You sit there with his hands in yours and after a long moment, you feel the long shudder of a breath go out of him through the modulator that you understand, with a small flat clarity, is the first whole breath he’s taken since the bunk.

"I’m sorry, cyar'ika."

"I know."

"I won’t…"

"I know."

He lays his forehead against your knee and you place one hand against the back of the helmet and hold him there, stroking, very slowly, with the pad of your thumb, the small place where the lip of the helmet meets the collar of his flight suit, the small bare strip of skin you’ve touched a thousand times.

"I'm going to ask you something now, Din, and I want you to answer it honestly.”

"Alright."

"Do you need a stretch of nights where we don't do anything at all? Just…nothing but sleeping.? Just my back against your chest and your hand on my stomach and the helmet on and nothing else? Would that help?"

You feel the small careful stillness of him at your knee, the slow consideration of a man who is, for the first time in four weeks, letting himself actually look at what he needs instead of what he’s supposed to be capable of.

"Yes."

The word comes out small.

"Yes, I think…I think I do. I think I need that."

"Then we'll have that."

"Cyar'ika…"

"We'll have that, Din. As long as you want it. You tell me when you’re sitting with it clean, when you’ve stopped chasing it, when you’re settled. And then we can go back to the way it was before, the way I love, Din, the way I love…"

Your voice catches small and unexpectedly, and you steady it quickly.

“And we won’t be chasing anything. We’ll just be having what we have, alright?"

"Alright."

You stroke the back of his helmet.

"And we’re not going to talk about doing the other thing again. Not for a long time, maybe not ever. I’m not going to come to you in six months or a year and ask you to take the helmet off. The night in the hold is not a thing I’m going to ask you to give me again. If it ever happens again, it’ll be because you, the man inside the armour decides that you want it, and not before.”

The vocoder catches a long uneven breath and the helmet nods slowly.

"And if that night never comes, I won’t be wanting for anything. I have the one night here." You lay your free hand flat to your sternum. "I have the shape of your face under my fingertips, and I have the sound of your voice without the modulator, and I have the feel of your mouth on me and I’m full of it, Din. I don’t need another helping. I want you to never, ever again be lying behind me in the bunk wondering if I’m wanting more than I have because I won’t.”

He doesn’t answer and you feel, against your knee, the small uneven shake of him. You sit like that a long time, letting the time be a thing that happens around you until he eventually lifts his head, the T shape of the visor finding your face.

"Cyar'ika, will you let me see the bruises?"

You don’t flinch at the request. Instead, you stand, gently drawing him up, take his hand and lead him down the ladder, across the hold and into the bunk.

You sit on the edge and ease the waistband of your trousers down, slowly, so he can see. The dark shapes above your hipbones have come up in the last half hour to a deep blue-purple, the kind of bruise that will be ugly tomorrow and uglier the day after and will, by the end of a week, be a soft greenish-yellow.

He looks at them for a long time.

“I’m sorry.”

He kneels slowly and lays both hands very lightly on you, cradling the curve of your hips, his thumbs not pressing, just settling near.

"May I?"

"Yes."

He bends, the brow of the helmet pressing, very lightly, to each bruise in turn, holding there a long moment, breathing through the modulator, his thumbs stroking once across the soft skin above the bones.

Then he moves and climbs into the bunk behind you, pulling you back against his chest with the helmet at the top of your head and his bare hand splayed warm across your stomach.

His thumb begins the small, slow, absent circle, and you close your eyes, feeling the warm familiar weight of him. You feel the visor against your hair, the bare hand on your stomach, the thumb in its small slow rhythm, the bare arm warm along the underside of your breasts.

The helmet is on. The Creed is on. The bruises on your hip ache, dully, against the warm length of his thigh behind yours, and the small, clean ache of it is, somehow, against every odd, a comfort – a thing you can feel, a thing that proves you’re both still inside your bodies. A thing that will, in a week, be greenish-yellow and then nothing at all.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"You’re welcome."

"I love you."

The vocoder catches a little on the words, and you hear, underneath, the human warmth of the voice you’ve been given once and will not be given again, and the hearing of it underneath is not a thing that hurts – it’s a thing you have.

You lay your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers through his.

"I love you too, Din."

His thumb resumes its small, slow, absent circle against your skin.

You don’t know yet how many nights of just-this it’ll take. You don’t know if there will be a slow careful return to the long, patient rhythm of how it has been, or whether something between you will have to be built newly out of the rubble of tonight, piece by piece, the way the covert he lost is a thing that can perhaps, in some long quiet future, be rebuilt out of the materials at hand.

You don’t know if there will be other nights when he’ll need to lay his bruised wanting at your knee and have you hold it, or whether the work of tonight will be enough.

But you know that you’re both here.

Closing your eyes, you let the warmth of him be the thing your body settles into. You let the small slow circle of his thumb be the metronome your breath organises itself around as you sleep.

When you wake, in the small blue hour before the Crest's day cycle comes up, his bare hand is still splayed across your stomach, and his helmet is still pressed to your hair, and the long warm length of him is still against your back.

He’s still here and the work in front of you both is work that two people who love each other can do.

You lay your free hand over his on your stomach and close your eyes again, sleeping another hour, against him, in the small, warm, blue dim, before the day asks anything of either of you.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

PART SIX

Taglist: @thelittlebats @sassythejedi @millercontracting @porganas @lovely-kitsune-exe @themilkhasjustexpired @dream-alittlebiggerdarling

“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.

Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.

“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.

Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.

“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.

It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.

“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.

“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”

“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.

“Good, that’s what I thought.”

When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.

Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.

Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.

A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?

“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.

“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.

“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?

“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?

“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.

“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.

It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.

The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.

“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.

A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.

Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.

“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.

“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.

The colonel sighs.

“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”

You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.

“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.

But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.

Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.

It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.

You don’t even know if you should say anything

“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.

With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.

Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.

“You like it? It’s cute right?”

The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.

Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.

Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.

“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.

You’re stunned.

Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.

So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.

“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.

You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.

“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.

You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.

“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.

Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.

“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.

Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.

You can’t wait till this is over.

It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.

“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.

So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.

You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.

And it pisses you off all over again.

But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.

The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.

This time you decided to bring something else along with you.

It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.

“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.

With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.

You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.

“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.

A bit stunned, you give it to him.

He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.

“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.

“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.

Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.

“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.

“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”

A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.

“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.

“Din…” you repeat it.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.

Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.

When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.

“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.

“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.

“What do you say, kid?”

Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.

The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.

Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.

“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.

“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.

Suddenly, a chuckle follows.

Din laughed.

You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.

“A fair statement.” Din agrees.

And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.

Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.

The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.

“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.

“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.

“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.

That’s when you realized he just joked with you.

“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.

“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.

“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.

You stay stubbornly quiet.

“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.

Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.

“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.

“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.

“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.

The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.

“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.

“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.

“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.

You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.

You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.

Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.

Except that time comes sooner than expected.

The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.

Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.

“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.

You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.

But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.

“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.

Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.

“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.

She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.

“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.

His helmet tilts towards you.

“Sometimes,” you shrug.

“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.

“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”

You want to strangle her.

“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.

It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.

All you can do is shrug again.

Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.

“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.

A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.

“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.

“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.

“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.

“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”

You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.

A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.

“Kid.” Din chides.

“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.

Din sighs, truly parental.

“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.

“I do.” Din answers, confident.

“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.

“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.

Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.

“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.

“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.

“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.

“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.

They were to remind you to come home safe.

“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.

A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.

“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.

You turn and find he’s already looking at you.

Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.

Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.

Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.

“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.

“No, I stole it.” You quip back.

“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.

“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.

“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.

You playfully elbow him.

Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.

“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.

“Mweh!” He squeals.

“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.

“No.” Din answers back firmly.

“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.

“No.” Din repeats again firmer.

A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.

“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.

Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.

You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.

The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.

Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.

Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.

You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.

“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.

“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.

“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.

“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.

“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.

You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.

Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.

It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.

Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.

“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.

“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.

His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.

The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.

“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.

“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.

“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.

“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.

With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.

“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.

“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.

“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.

As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.

And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.

Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.

“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.

Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.

“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.

“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.

Then you hold up the new charm.

“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.

“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.

“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.

“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.

“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.

Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.

“What do you say, kid?” Din says.

Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.

Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.

“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.

The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.

You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.

“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.

“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.

This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.

But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.

The wound isn’t looking good.

You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.

You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.

Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.

Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…

“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.

“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.

Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.

You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.

“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.

You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.

A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.

“What was that?!” One of them screams.

Then a blaster shot silenced him.

“Step away from her now.” Din.

Or someone sounding like him.

The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.

Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.

Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.

And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.

You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…

And he’s here to save you.

A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.

He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.

What is he doing?

The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.

“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.

“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.

Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.

“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.

An exhale escapes Din, relieved.

“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.

“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.

Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.

“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.

Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.

You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.

“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.

He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.

“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.

It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.

“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.

How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?

“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.

There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.

But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.

“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.

You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.

But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.

Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.

A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.

Raid strike this week, get ready

It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.

“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.

“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.

As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.

Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.

Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.

“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.

“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.

Din doesn’t say anything.

“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.

“Seems like it,” Din agrees.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.

Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.

The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.

“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.

Din simply and silently nods back.

Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.

But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.

It’s time to fly.

“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.

“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.

All you can do is laugh before parting ways.

“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.

You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.

Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.

Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.

“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.

“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.

“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.

The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.

Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.

That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.

A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.

But again, you’re proven so wrong.

Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.

A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.

But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.

Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.

It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.

So you do.

You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.

Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.

“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.

“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.

“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.

Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.

You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.

Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.

It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.

The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.

“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.

“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.

“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.

“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”

Teva takes a moment then sighs.

“Make it quick.”

Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.

“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.

“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.

The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.

Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.

“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.

“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.

But in a flash, he zooms past you.

“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.

Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.

Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.

Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.

Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.

But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.

All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.

“You were incredible.”

“You flew… amazing.”

Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.

Then you laugh.

“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.

“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.

“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.

Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.

Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.

“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.

You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.

Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.

The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.

“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.

“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.

“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.

“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.

Of course he’s a damn natural.

Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.

“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.

“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.

Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.

“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.

Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.

Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.

You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.

He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.

Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.

A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.

Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.

Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.

You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.

Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…

Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.

“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.

His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.

“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.

A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.

You even tell him that.

“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.

A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.

The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.

Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.

He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.

“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.

You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.

“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.

You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.

“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.

This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.

“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.

“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”

It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.

“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.

You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.

“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.

Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.

So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.

A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.

“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.

In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.

“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.

Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.

“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.

“You wanna see?”

He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.

“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.

Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.

The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.

“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.

“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.

“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.

“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.

He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.

There you arrive at your x-wing.

“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.

“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.

“Get in,” you urge.

Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.

“Can we even fit in this?”

“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.

The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.

Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.

“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.

As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.

“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.

You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.

“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.

“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.

You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.

So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -

Right between the V of Din’s legs.

You crouch low and drag him down too.

“Wh…what are you-”

“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”

“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.

“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.

The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.

You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.

“See… told you we’d be fine.”

He stays quiet.

It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.

You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.

But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.

“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.

“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.

“I would.” You immediately counter.

“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.

So you try to recover fast.

“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.

You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.

Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.

You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.

“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.

“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.

His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.

Din exhales, breathy and deep.

You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.

Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.

Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.

You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.

The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.

He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.

“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.

Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.

Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.

Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.

Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.

But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.

Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.

“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.

You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.

“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.

“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.

His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.

“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.

“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.

Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.

His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.

“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.

“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.

“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.

“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.

“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.

“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.

Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.

So you lean closer to his helmet.

“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.

But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.

How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.

“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.

“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.

This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.

Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.

It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.

So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.

Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.

Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.

Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.

The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.

“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.

Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.

“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.

He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.

A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.

His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.

Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.

He quickly hisses your name.

“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.

Who are you to deny your mandalorian?

He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.

Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.

You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.

A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.

He nods firm, so sure.

So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.

When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.

Now you don’t want Din to leave it.

A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.

Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.

His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.

“Where?” He slurs urgently.

“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.

“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.

“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.

Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.

His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.

Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.

“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.

You shake your head no.

“You’re the only one.” You reveal.

His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.

An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.

After this night, you find him everywhere now.

Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.

Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.

The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.

You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.

Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.

You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.

But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.

“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.

“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.

He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.

“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”

You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.

But you’re reminded he does have a home.

“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.

“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.

“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.

“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.

Slowly your eyes close on their own now.

“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.

Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.

“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.

A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.

You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.

But those daydreams get shoved away fast.

Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.

Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.

Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.

That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.

“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.

“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.

Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.

You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.

“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.

You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.

“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.

“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.

He barks a laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.

“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.

“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.

It makes you and Zeb snicker.

Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.

“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.

“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.

But he leaves you and Din alone.

It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.

So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.

He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.

You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.

Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.

You don’t hear from Din for half a month.

It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.

Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.

It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?

“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.

“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.

He smiles at you kindly.

“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”

Shit.

“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.

“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”

Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.

“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”

He is. But he’s more than that.

He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.

“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.

It’s unfortunately true.

How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.

The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.

Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.

Din has returned, but he’s not alone.

Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.

At least Din and the baby are safe.

Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.

“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.

“Tell me about it.” He sighs.

The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.

“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”

His somber tone says more looms.

“Din…” you mutter cautiously.

He turns to you.

“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.

“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.

Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.

But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.

The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.

“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.

His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.

“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.

You nod, fighting harder against tears.

Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.

With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.

This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.

You throw yourself into any available mission.

Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.

“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.

You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.

But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.

Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.

“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.

“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.

Absolute dread is unleashed in you.

You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.

“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.

Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.

“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.

“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.

“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.

“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.

Anger burns through your veins.

“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.

“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.

More Delphi officers stand up.

Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.

You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.

Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.

Ward calls out your name. This is it.

Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.

She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.

“I should sit you out on this mission.”

“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.

Her smirks grows bigger.

“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.

You’ll happily accept that too.

The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.

Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.

Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.

That’s what this feels like.

You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.

Yet Din remains inside.

And Ward gives the command to light the place up.

“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.

Then, the stronghold goes under flames.

You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.

“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.

Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.

A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.

“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.

Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.

Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.

But Ward of course arrives first.

You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.

“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.

Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.

“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.

“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”

Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.

You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.

He’s here.

Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.

“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.

The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.

While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.

He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.

“Welcome back,” you croak out.

Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.

“Had to bring this back.”

With a watery laugh, you shake your head.

“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.

A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.

Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.

“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.

“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.

Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.

Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.

Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.

Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.

It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.

Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting

Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.

Wolffe never thought babies were his thing. Too loud, too fragile, too unpredictable. He’d spent most of his life around soldiers and warzones, not soft blankets and tiny socks. But then he sees you sitting in the corner of the barracks lounge with someone’s infant tucked against your chest, his entire brain short-circuits.

Wolffe’s gone after that.

Because now he’s imagining what your child would look like. If they’d have your smile. If they’d curl tiny fingers around his scarred hands without fear.

It unsettles him how badly he wants it.

Later that night, he corners you in the corridor, arms crossed, trying to act normal while absolutely failing.

“You’re good with kids,” he mutters.

You grin. “That surprise you?”

“A little.”

His eye lingers on your mouth before dropping lower. “Made me think.”

“Oh?” you tease.

Wolffe steps closer, voice rough. “Thought about you carrying one around that looked like us.”

The silence after that is dangerous. You blink at him, cheeks warming, and he notices immediately. His smirk is slow and wolfish.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That got your attention.”

When you shove at his chest, embarrassed, he catches your wrist easily and pulls you closer.

“Don’t start blushing now, cyare. You were the one making domestic life look tempting.”

Then, “Besides, I think youd look good carrying my kid.”

And the bastard sounds entirely too pleased with himself when your knees nearly give out.

Cody

Cody has always been good at adapting. New battle plans, impossible odds, sudden chaos, he handles it all with a calm smile. But nothing prepares him for seeing you with a baby asleep against your shoulder during a base gathering.

You’re swaying gently to keep the little one asleep, absentmindedly rubbing tiny circles over their back while talking to someone nearby. The baby’s fist is curled in your shirt, completely content.

Cody feels something in his chest go painfully soft. He’s done for.

He leans against the doorway watching you for way too long, helmet tucked under his arm while his mind wanders somewhere dangerous. Somewhere warm, somewhere domestic.

You catch him staring eventually and raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve had that look on your face for five straight minutes.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re pretending not to think very loudly.”

That gets a laugh out of him. But he walks closer anyway, gaze drifting back to the baby.

“He trusts you,” he says quietly.

“Well, babies can tell who’s safe.”

The words hit him harder than they should. Because Cody suddenly imagines coming back from deployment and finding you in shared quarters with a sleepy infant curled against your chest. Imagines hearing tiny footsteps running toward him. Imagines home.

He’s absolutely cooked.

The baby wakes and starts fussing. Before you can soothe them, Cody crouches beside you and offers his finger. Tiny hands grab him instantly.

Your expression melts. And stars, that look from you almost kills him.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You’d make a really good dad.”

Cody freezes for half a second.Then his eyes darken just slightly as he looks between you and the baby. “That so?”

“Mhm.”

He stands slowly, close enough now that your breath catches. “Careful saying things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I already spend enough time thinking about you.”

Your face warms instantly.

Cody grins, completely unrepentant. “Now I’m imagining you pregnant and looking at me like that too.”

You choke on air while he laughs softly, leaning down to murmur, “And honestly? That mental image is becoming a problem.”

Rex

Rex doesn’t notice it happening at first.

One second he’s walking into the medbay looking for Kix, and the next he’s stopped dead in the doorway because there you are with a baby balanced on your hip like you were born for it.

The little girl is babbling at you while clutching your name tag, and you’re answering her with complete seriousness.

“Oh really? That’s fascinating. Tell me more.”

The baby squeals happily and Rex feels his heart fold in on itself. You look so natural like this.

And suddenly he’s wondering what it would feel like to have a life outside the war. A tiny apartment somewhere quiet. You laughing in a kitchen while a child toddles after him calling him dad.

It hits him hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

The baby grabs your cheeks with both hands, making you laugh louder, and Rex is completely helpless after that.

“You break easy around kids, Captain?” you tease when you notice him staring.

“Only this one,” he says automatically.

Your eyebrows lift. You start laughing and he groans because now he’s embarrassed and you look adorable laughing at him.

But then the baby reaches toward him.

Rex hesitates before taking her carefully, surprisingly gentle for someone built for war. The baby immediately grabs his blond hair and giggles.

Your expression softens instantly.

And maker, that look from you nearly ruins him.

“You’re good at that,” you murmur.

Rex glances up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Something shifts in his face then. Something quieter. More vulnerable.

“I think…” He pauses. “I think I’d want one someday.”

Your breath catches slightly and Rex notices. His gaze drops to your lips before meeting your eyes again, warm and steady. “With the right person,” he adds softly.

The silence between you suddenly feels charged.

Then he smiles, slow and devastating.

“And if you keep looking at me while holding babies, you’re not making it easy to stay responsible about that.”

Fives

Fives notices things other people don’t. Tiny details, expressions, habits.

So the second he sees a baby crawl straight past three shinies and make a beeline for you, he’s paying attention.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the hangar, laughing softly while the little boy climbs into your lap like he belongs there. The kid immediately grabs your face with sticky hands, and instead of recoiling, you kiss his palm dramatically.

“Well, hello to you too, tiny menace.”

The baby shrieks with delighted laughter.

Fives feels something dangerous spark low in his chest. Because you don’t even realize what you look like right now, smiling all soft and sleepy, holding that kid like it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. Like you were made for it.

And suddenly his brain betrays him completely. He imagines a baby with your eyes and his curls. Imagines hearing you laugh like that in the middle of the night while holding his kid. Imagines waking up beside you with tiny feet kicking between you both.

He’s staring so hard Echo has to elbow him. “You look insane right now.”

“Shut up.”

You glance over at the sound of their bickering and grin. “You wanna hold him?”

Fives tries to play it cool. “Depends. Is he gonna throw up on me?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, hand him over.”

The second the baby settles against his chest, tiny fingers gripping his blacks, Fives is absolutely finished. Completely gone.

And then he looks up and catches the expression on your face. “You’re good at this,” you say quietly.

Fives smirks automatically. “Good with my hands, mesh’la.”

You snort. “That line work on everyone?”

“No.” His eyes flick down your body slowly. “Just the people I think about having a future with.”

The teasing leaves his voice at the end, replaced with something warmer, realer.

Your breath catches. Fives notices immediately, grin turning wicked. “Kriff,” he murmurs. “You really liked that one.”

Then he bounces the baby lightly and adds, “Careful or I’m gonna start thinking about putting one in your arms for real.”

Fox

Fox is exhausted almost constantly.

Coruscant never sleeps, which means neither does he. His life is paperwork, politics, and trying to stop the galaxy from collapsing every five minutes.

Domestic thoughts don’t happen for him anymore.

Until you. Until he walks into the Senate daycare during a security sweep and finds you sitting in the middle of a pile of toddlers like some kind of battlefield medic for tiny disasters.

One kid is asleep against your side. Another is braiding your sleeve strings together. A third is demanding you read the same holobook for the fifth time.

And you’re handling all of it with this calm, patient smile that hits Fox directly in the chest.

He leans in the doorway longer than he should.

Then one of the toddlers waddles over and wraps themselves around your leg while whining sleepily, and you scoop them up without hesitation, kissing their forehead automatically.

Fox is done for.

Because now he’s imagining coming home to this.

To you waiting up late with a baby half-asleep on your shoulder. To tiny socks left around quarters. To hearing laughter instead of blaster fire ringing in his ears.

It’s terrifying how much he wants it.

“You look scary when you stare,” you tell him eventually.

Fox crosses his arms. “Occupational hazard.”

“Mhm.” You smile knowingly. “Or you just like watching me babysit.”

His silence gives him away instantly. Your eyebrows rise. “Oh my gods,” you laugh softly. “Fox.”

He exhales through his nose, already doomed. “You’re good with them.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m thinking things I shouldn’t.”

Your smile turns dangerous. “Such as?”

Fox steps closer slowly until he’s standing right in front of you, gaze dropping briefly to the baby in your arms.

Then back to you. “Such as how good you’d look holding mine.”

The words come out low and rough and your face heats immediately. Fox notices, eyes darkening just slightly before he leans down near your ear. “And now I can’t stop imagining it.”

Bacara

Bacara is not soft. At least, that’s what everyone assumes.

The commander of the Galactic Marines is cold efficiency wrapped in armour and discipline. People straighten when he enters rooms. Troopers go silent.

Then he sees you holding a baby and suddenly the terrifying commander looks like he’s forgotten how to function.

It happens on leave. Some little girl from the settlement toddles toward you with grabby hands, and you crouch instantly to pick her up.

The child presses her face into your neck like she trusts you completely.

Bacara feels something sharp crack open in his chest, because you look beautiful.

You sway gently while talking to the girl, smiling every time she babbles nonsense at you. The kid eventually falls asleep against your shoulder, tiny fist curled into your shirt.

And Bacara cannot stop staring.

He starts thinking things he’s never let himself think before. About family. About seeing you heavy with his child and knowing, for once in his life, that something good belonged to him.

It scares him with the intensity of it.

“You’ve been glaring at me for ten minutes,” you say eventually.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bacara walks over slowly, eyes fixed on the sleeping child in your arms. His expression softens almost imperceptibly.

“She likes you.”

“She likes everybody.”

“No,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip.

You shift the baby slightly. “You ever think about kids?”

Bacara’s gaze drags up your body slowly before meeting your eyes again. “Never used to.”

Your breath catches. “And now?” you ask softly.

His voice drops lower. “Now I can’t stop picturing you full of mine.”

The honesty of it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

Bacara notices instantly, thumb brushing briefly against your wrist.

“You’d look good like that,” he murmurs. “Safe, happy. Full of my child.”

And somehow the bluntness makes it infinitely worse.

Hunter

Hunter hears the baby laughing before he sees you.

Bright, uncontrollable giggles echo through the Marauder, and he follows the sound automatically, only to stop dead in the doorway.

You’re lying on the floor with a baby balanced on your stomach while Omega sits nearby absolutely delighted by the whole thing.

The kid is cackling every time you make exaggerated shocked faces.

“No way,” you gasp dramatically. “You stole my nose? Give it back!”

The baby smacks your face happily. Hunter’s chest aches instantly. Because this, this easy warmth around you, fits too well.

He’s spent so long protecting people that sometimes he forgets there’s supposed to be more to life than survival. But watching you with that child makes something painfully domestic settle into his mind.

A home somewhere quiet. Hunter’s completely lost in the thought before you notice him.

“You just gonna stand there looking mysterious?” you tease.

Omega snickers. “He’s doing the staring thing again.”

Hunter sighs. “Traitor.”

You laugh, and the baby reaches for him immediately.

The second Hunter takes the child, tiny fingers latch onto his bandana and tug hard enough to make the kid squeal triumphantly.

Your smile softens.

And stars, that expression from you nearly drops him.

“You look natural,” you murmur.

Hunter glances up. “With kids?”

“Mhm.”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face then disappears beneath a crooked smile. “That dangerous for me?”

“Very.”

He steps closer, baby balanced carefully against his chest while his eyes stay locked on yours.

“You know,” he says quietly, “seeing you like this is giving me ideas.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “Hunter—”

“I’m serious.” His grin turns softer. “Can’t stop wondering what our kid would look like.”

The air between you suddenly feels too warm.

“Think they’d have your smile or my attitude?”

Howzer

Howzer falls a little bit in love with you every day already.

Seeing you with a baby just seals his fate completely.

You’re visiting one of the families on Ryloth when their infant starts crying mid-conversation. Before the parents can apologize, you hold your arms out automatically.

“Can I?”

The mother hands the baby over gratefully. And somehow within seconds, the crying stops.

You bounce the little girl gently against your chest, murmuring nonsense in a soft voice while her tiny fingers curl around yours.

Howzer stares like a man witnessing a divine revelation. Because you look radiant. Warm sunlight catches your face while the baby blinks up at you sleepily, completely calm now. You kiss her forehead without thinking, and Howzer feels his entire heart cave in.

He’s gone. The dangerous part is how quickly his mind jumps ahead.

He imagines children with your laugh running through open market streets. Imagines you teasing him while a baby naps against his chest. Imagines slow mornings and peace and a future he never thought he’d get.

“You’re staring again,” you say with amusement.

“Can you blame me?”

You grin. “I’m holding a baby, not performing magic.”

Howzer smiles softly. “Feels pretty close.”

The baby yawns, nestling deeper into you, and he physically has to stop himself from saying something reckless immediately.

Unfortunately, he fails.

“You’d make an incredible mother.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Howzer notices and steps closer, voice gentler now. “I mean it.”

There’s something devastatingly sincere in the way he says it. No teasing, no deflection. Just completely honest.

Then his gaze drops briefly to the baby before returning to you, warmer now. More intimate.

“And selfishly?” he murmurs. “I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you’d look carrying my child.”

Your breath catches hard enough that he smiles instantly.

“Ah,” he says softly, delighted. “There you are.”

Then he brushes his fingers against yours where they rest against the baby’s back.

“Good. Means I’m not the only one thinking about it now.”

You lower yourself gently to lie on top of him, wrapping your legs around him and panting quietly as you bury your face in his neck. His arm comes up instinctively to wrap around your naked frame, pulling you closer to him. You seem so fragile like this, so precious, and so completely at his mercy. He supposes he's in a similar position, although to his surprise, the feeling doesn't trigger a fight or flight reflex in him. It feels good, in a way. He almost feels safe. It's not like he could ever reach the state of feeling fully safe and at peace — he doesn't think so — but these quiet moments with you — when you're pressed against him, and his brain is still foggy from his orgasm — are the closest he'll ever get to it. He feels a small, involuntary smile spread across his lips when he feels your face press against his neck. You leave a small kiss there, and he can feel your sleepy smile on his skin. He truly could stay like this-

"I love you." You murmur against his neck, and it is as if his brain short-circuits. He immediately goes still, and even his breathing seems to stop for a moment after hitching in his throat as if he had just been hit. He remains still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open. Then his hand tightens on your back before he tries to shove you away.

"Liar." He growls, moving frantically in order to get away from you.

"Maul. Maul!" You say softly, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. He stills again, and you press your forehead against his, taking your mental shields down and letting him in.

You feel his sharp intake of breath, and then the shuddering exhale that sounds suspiciously like something between a manic laugh and a suppressed sob. His arms tighten around you, almost crushing you against him, as if he's afraid you'll vanish. His hearts hammer against his chest, feeling as if they could jump out at any moment.

"You are a fool." His voice is strained, thick with emotions he's trying to suppress.

"I hate you." He growls, but it sounds more defensive and desperate than aggressive, as if he's trying to convince himself rather than you. "I hate what you're doing to me. I hate how you look at me. I hate how you make me feel. You make me soft." He spits the words out like they burn. "You should run. I will bring you harm. I will. I should have killed you when I had the chance. I should have."

He's sounding borderline crazy at this point, and you can feel his whole body shake beneath you. You know him well enough not to interrupt yet, though. And you are proven correct, for he soon stops talking, and the only sound that can be heard in the room is his uneven breathing.

You drop your mind shields completely, ensuring that you specifically direct the feelings of love and trust you have for Maul towards him. He makes another choked sound and buries his face in your hair. You soon feel wetness spread where his face is pressed against you, but you make no indication of it, knowing it would quickly snap him out of his vulnerable state. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, one of them coming around his neck and splaying across the back of his head, scratching softly against his scalp, just the way you know he secretly loves it.