The air in the infirmary is cold, crisp. Only the AC’s humming fills it with its low, buzzing sound. It’s like a relaxing white noise that is now interrupted with Satoru’s relentless questions. His voice is pleasant, you have to give it to him, but he manages to derail every step of wound care like he’s on a mission. Despite the nasty slashes stretching across his pecs, he is his ever cheerful self. It could be the remaining adrenaline in his bloodstream, or maybe he really isn’t that bothered, either way, his personality makes your job harder.

Luckily, no blood seeps out of the open tissue anymore and you can start disinfecting.

One of your sides—the exposed one—shivers at the cold. Your shirt is bunched up around your left shoulder, giving Satoru access to your chest. He tugs the strap of your bra towards himself once, twice.

It’s a lacy one today, in a pale, lilac colour.

“Sure,” you reply, not letting yourself get distracted. Not yet, at least.

“Awh, how thoughtful,” Satoru coos. Well, he can find amusement in this investment of yours all he wants, but fact is, it’s working. His hands busy themselves with the delicate fabric, his attention only on the pretty spirals, the neatly organized thread running through the textile. A much more effective method than the simple smack of your hand against his when he starts messing with sterile equipment.

This is a dance you already know all too well. He gets hurt. You patch him up. He sabotages that, so you let him play. Just a little.

And yes, you bought that lacy bra for his entertainment.

Satoru only rubs his thumb against the fabric for a while, finding the texture of the lace oddly stimulating. The sight is a bonus too. The top of your breast threatens to spill out as the cup is moved here and there, the gentle lavender colour is a nice contrast against your skin too. The perfect stim toy for someone like Satoru.

“So pretty…”

His finger hooks into the cup and you feel another wave of cold air hit your skin, this time directly on your breast. It spreads slowly, agonizingly slowly, making it difficult to find the needle of the right size to use for the stitches.

Only two will be needed.

“It’s okay. It’s just me,” he mumbles like he’s coaxing a small animal out of its cage. The cup rolls into itself under your breast, the soft flesh falling out completely. Satoru’s lips part. He loves how your nipples react to the cold, pebbling, hardening into more defined peaks. “There…”

You continue working as if nothing was wrong. This is a normal occurrence. The scissors, the tweezers, and needle, these tools dance under your fingers, you move them elegantly into a subtle performance of skill and patience. Satoru often asks for a Donati suture pattern because “it looks fancy”, which means more work for you.

Right now, Satoru’s attention is zeroed in on your chest and you’ll get away with simpler sewing techniques.

His fingers cup the swell on the side, his thumb swipes a half-circle right under your nipple, testing out the stiffness. “They feel bigger today.” A pause. “Swollen.”

You don’t comment yet. First, the needle pierces the edge of cut skin and you pull it through with a focused frown on your lips. Next, you curl the thread around the scissors to create a knot and tug it down while the scissors pinch into the end of the thread.

“So they are.”

“Mh,” Satoru hums, completely in a trance. His pupils are wide and it’s these moments when the Strongest looks at you with something akin to wonder. He might as well start drooling. “Are you getting your period soon?”

That makes you falter and you glance at Satoru for clarification.

“I noticed, they swell before your period. They get—” He pokes your nipple and something sore starts blooming there, making you gasp, “…sensitive.”

The thought that this intimate ritual has happened enough times for Satoru to learn your body is an oddly pleasing, perhaps a bit exciting one. You don’t let it distract you. The thread is curled around the scissors again, from the other side, then again, switching this time too to ensure tightness. A sharp hiss is audible when you finally cut the thread.

For a moment, Satoru watches your face, with his hand still on your exposed chest. Strands of hair frame your face as you tilt your head in concentration. You bite your lip whenever you use anatomical tweezers to angle the needle correctly. You stand there so calmly, Satoru is sure you’d be a wonderful doctor for anxious patients. He really admires that about you.

He gives your tit a small squeeze, feeling for lumps he knows aren’t there.

“Prettiest pair I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“These are the only pair you’ve ever seen.”

“Still,” Satoru almost sighs as his nails dig into your skin, skin that bulges out between his fingers. “Look at that, fuuuck…”

The needle curls out on the other side of the tissue. You twist the scissors, pulling it out successfully.

“So soft, so smooth. I love touching them.”

“Mh, I know you do,” you nod.

“Can I put clamps on them next time?”

“No.”

“Please.”

You shake your head. Make no mistake, despite your composure, the ministrations do have an effect. Every time you get home after one of these sessions, your panties are drenched and you have to ride your toy aggressively for an hour or so to get all that teasing out of your system. So, taking this further could be dangerous. Besides, Satoru may get the wrong idea and ask to see other parts of you next.

“No, Satoru.” You shake your head for emphasis and pretend to shift in your position. In reality, you’re just rubbing your thighs together, thinking it will give you relief. It only makes the ache between your legs worse.

Satoru pouts, his blue eyes averting to the floor like a kicked puppy.

“Can I still pinch them though?”

“Mhm.”

Another satisfying but slightly painful sensation shoots into your now reddened nipple, pressure behaving like a sharp arrow. Your breath hitches and Satoru can feel the light puff of air land on his bare chest.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m just playing.”

You give him a wobbly smile but don’t take your eyes off the knot forming under your tools, closing up Satoru’s wound. The sight of Satoru taking care of your girls—as he calls it—would make things harder. That man is too passionate in a genuine way.

“Really want to do a lot of stuff to them,” he continues, rolling the abused peak between the pads of his fingers.

“Yeah?” you ask to keep the conversation engaging. “Like what?”

There is a moment of silence as Satoru thinks about all the possibilities.

“Like putting those cups on them.”

“With the suction?”

“Yeah. Would that hurt?”

You shrug. “Dunno. Never tried something like that.”

Satoru nods, then tugs on your poor nipple, stretching the skin towards himself. It’s not enough to hurt, just to stimulate the blood flow there further.

“They’d look so good, all…” he trails off, imagining the toys hanging limply from your breasts, adding more weight to your chest and making you so sensitive that just the gentle blow of air would make you whimper, maybe even shield your tits on instinct. “All puffy and excited.”

Words fail you at this point. The last knot sits tightly over the one below and you make the final cut.

“I’m getting hard. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just natural, right?”

“Right.” Right. It’s only in human nature to be turned on by a little nipple play. It’s okay. Your body is just reacting. Your cunt is just preparing for penetration because that is what it’s supposed to do. It’s also pretty normal to think about Satoru getting hard under his pants. You don’t look but…you almost pretended to move again just to accidentally feel the bulge. He’s seen you topless many times now. Did he jerk off after each occasion? As if on cue, you can see his legs spread from the corner of your eye. “Feels good. That I get to do this with you.” “That’s good.” “Mh.”

Satoru’s hands settle on your waist as you finish up.

“You’re always so helpful,” he says with a lazy smile as he leans back against the cold wall. “So patient.”

“Can I cover up now?”

Satoru throws one last glance at his favourite toys, leans forward and presses a gentle kiss just above your nipple. Not directly on the nipple, never there, that’s too intimate. His lips barely move or part but he closes his eyes like he’s pouring his heart and soul into that little peck. He breathes out once, throat bobbing. It’s a far too sensual gesture for an unserious man like Satoru Gojo. “Thank you.” Satoru is disturbing when he shows real emotions, like now. You can tell he needed this.

You throw away the nitrile gloves and rearrange the bra into its original form, pulling your shirt back down over your shoulder.

“Try to get hurt less, okay?”

The sorcerer flashes you a more smug smile now, white teeth flashing.

“Of course.” You both know he wants to get hurt, just so you tend his injuries and he can have some physical connection. Loneliness presents in him in a weird way. But next time, you might bring some nipple clamps yourself.

Which is why you despised-

Miracle No. 3

You were deeply smitten – in love even – with your best friend.

You had debated for a long time if this was a miracle or a curse; wanting someone you could never fully have. Yes, he was your best friend, and therefore you had him. You had him at your apartment multiple times a week. You had him to go on adventures with. You had him to listen when you needed an ear. But he wasn’t yours.

But he was just too wonderful to be a curse. So this lovely and horrid feeling in your chest that made you want to hold his hand had to be a miracle.

It hadn’t crept up on you like that initial puppy crush had. The two of you had dinner together. It wasn’t a fancy date or anything, it was an afternoon run to Taco Bell after work, but while you had eaten it had started raining outside.

The two of you stood in the doorway debating if you should just run for it or wait it out. It had been a blur really. You couldn’t remember who ran first but you did remember that he ended up ahead of you, running in the rain, turning back to make sure that you were still with him, laughing all the way. You didn’t even think about how your shoes were soaked through or how freezing cold you were.

The only thing you could remember clearly was reaching his apartment building, out of breath, dripping water all over the floor in the entry way. He had stooped over, hands on knees, head hanging as he tried to catch his breath. And then he looked up at you, his eyes glowing. They were crinkled in the corner as Adam beamed up at you for that one moment before dramatically dropping it back down, but that moment was enough.

It had felt as though you had been struck in the chest with how strongly the feeling dawned on you. Adam was pretty. And standing in that cruddy apartment building, frozen to the bone, you realized that you were too far gone.

That night he offered to let you stay. After all it was raining, and even if he had a car, neither of you mentioned it. As you made your way up the stairs you mumbled a little word of repelling, to dry you guys off only slightly. The two of you took turns showering, and once you got out you realized that your clothes were still soaked. Adam ended up lending you what must have been his baggiest Star Wars shirt and a pair of plaid pants, handing them through the door while awkwardly making a point to let you know that he was not looking. It was an overwhelming amount of fabric. You didn’t know that Adam even needed this sized clothing.

When you came out, Adam’s eyes locked onto you, and you watched as his cheeks turned red. You almost would’ve believed it was a blush as his eyes scanned how swamped you looked in his clothes, had he not started laughing  a split second later at how silly you looked.

Later, the two of you sat on his couch, a cheesy action movie in the background. You could feel Adam look over at you.

“Why did you believe me?” He asked softly.

You looked back at him, and you knew you’d never seen Adam look so vulnerable.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Adam shrugged, “No one else has.” He looked back at the movie, trying to act like he didn’t care. But you knew he cared. You’d never known Adam to talk about something that didn’t matter to him, whether it was his sword or his home or the people he helped at his job. He was so earnest and you knew that he couldn’t be any other way if he tried. You didn’t want him to try.

You swallowed the nervous butterflies in your stomach and scooted closer to him on the couch. You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing your thumb in circles to ease his mind.

“I think people try too hard to make the world make sense. I believe you because the world is a weird place, where strangle little miracles happen every day.”

Adam gave you a lopsided grin, “Is that a new way to tell me I’m crazy?”

You shook your head slightly, “I’m being serious Adam,” you allowed yourself to settle into the couch next to him, shoulders brushing, “it’s crazy what people will ignore simply because they can’t allow themselves to believe it.”

And when you fell asleep on his shoulder during the movie, he didn’t mention it. And if he gently wrapped his arm around you as you dozed off, you didn’t mention it.

Miracle No. 4

There is a spaceship in the park.

You’ve lost the plot to be frank. You thought your minor superpowers was an oddity but now your best-friend-and-crush has a magical sword that he stole and there is a spaceship here to pick him up and take him home.

Adam had his hand on your shoulder and was looking between the ship and you, “I have to go. And I can’t go unless you come with me.”

The idea terrified and excited you. When you first discovered that Adam was a space prince you had entertained the idea of going to his home planet. You had imagined him showing you all of the places you had only heard about through his drawings and his stories. You had not imagined this decision needing to be made as an alien creature crashed its way through the city behind you.

Before you had even fully made up your mind, Adam was tugging you by the wrist towards the ship and it dawned on you that the beast was crashing through the city specifically towards you. Upon that realization you found yourself stumbling after Adam onto the steely ship and into the great unknown.

The seats were in rows of two, so Teela (if you had heard that name correctly) and Adam settled in the front while you ended up in the seat behind Teela. Adam glanced back at you, as if to make sure that you were still there, giving you a small smile before turning back to the front to ask Teela as many questions as he could.

You watched the two of them. They interacted so easily, even with fifteen years of distance between them. You looked at how he smiled at her, how they reminisced about old memories, how comfortable he seemed. You couldn’t remember him ever looking at you like that. But then again, it was unreasonable to expect him to.

You wished you had a spell to remove the lump in your throat.

Miracle No. 5

Magic on Eternia was way more potent than magic on Earth.

The ship entered the atmosphere, and you suddenly felt as though someone had touched a live wire to your veins. You felt as though there was a new energy coursing through your veins. If you tried to keep your coffee warm now, you’d surely explode the cup. If you tried to keep your plants healthy, you’d surely grow a whole new forest.

On the outside you just shifted in your seat a little, feeling jittery. Adam’s eyes drifted from his battered homeland back to you. He gave a look that asked, ‘are you ok?’ and you nodded in response, allowing him to turn back to the planet he’d spent so long away from.

The energy followed you underground, into a room with all of his childhood heroes, into a cell with a robot and drunkard, all the way to the landing dock where the spacecraft had been sat. The energy building in your soul didn’t truly come to fruition until the ship was engaged in air combat, with a newly powered Adam fighting with them outside of the ship, and Drunk-an trying to hold his gun straight.

It all came to a peak when you saw a blast coming for the ship that Adam didn’t see and that Duncan was incapable at stopping, and in your panic and your adrenaline you threw out your hands and the ship crumpled as if hitting an invisible wall. And your world went black.

When you came to, the ship had landed. No, it had crashed. You were stranded in a forest the same color as a burning flame in the setting sun. It was almost beautiful enough to distract you from the fact that you were in space on a strange planet. On the fact that, for the first time in your life, you had used your gift in front of another human being. Adam would reasonably be mad at you for lying.

Next to you sat Duncan, shaving and drinking out of a cannister that he definitely didn’t have before.

“You’ve decided to wake up, have you?”

You tried to sit up, but your whole body screamed in protest, “Where’s Adam?”

Duncan scoffed, “Usually you start with ‘hello’ or ‘thank you for saving my butt’” He didn’t make eye contact as he continued to scrape his face.

You furrowed your eyebrows, “You didn’t start with that either.”

“Well, I know who you are. That boy hasn’t shut up about you since he came back.” That boy… meaning Adam. You couldn’t believe your ears. Adam had “shut up” about you plenty considering that he had just received literal superpowers and returned to his homeland for the first time in fifteen years. This guy had to be nuts to think that you were at all a priority here.

You tried again to sit up, this time being able to rest on your elbows, “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not nearly as much as I normally do, now lie back down.”

You refused to comply even though there was a steadily increasing pain in your head at this position, “You couldn’t be more wrong. Adam couldn’t shut up about Eternia or his sword on Earth. Now that he’s back he wouldn’t spend all of his time focused on me.”

Duncan side eyed you, but continued shaving, “That might have been true before you crushed a ship in midair with your mind and then nearly fell out of the ship unconscious. If lover boy hadn’t caught you, you wouldn’t be alive. Now lay back down.”

You still refused to lay back down, “We’re just friends.” Duncan full out laughed this time, “Do YOU want to be just friends?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If you don’t lay back down, I’m going to knock you back out myself. You’re looking sicker by the minute.”

You groaned, finally letting your elbows out from under you and laying back down. You couldn’t figure out what Duncan was going at with all of this lover boy crap. Adam was just your friend and he treated you as such. Any friend would ask their best friend to go to their home planet. And any friend would catch that best friend when they nearly fall out of the sky. And it was also a friend thing when you knew how it felt when he ghosted his lips over your forehead that night that it rained, almost a kiss, but not quite. And how you felt him hesitantly pull back… it was all just best friend stuff.

“No, now sit back up I can hear you thinking about him over there.” Duncan said, finishing up his shave job.

“Why do you care so much about what I’m thinking about?” You snapped at him, sitting up far too fast. You’re forced to take a moment to steady yourself.

Duncan sighed, “Look. I’m not a feelings guy, ok?” He looked over at you, “You’re starry eyed for this boy and he’s completely crazy for you and if you can’t admit it sooner or later, I’m setting of one of my bombs before Skeletor can even get his hands on us.” Duncan’s eyes flicked to a spot over your shoulder, then back at you.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is.” His eyes flicked over your shoulder again. “Ducan, I’ve been his friend since college, and I never told him about my magic. And then when he does find out I have it, I almost die. Everything else aside, that’s enough for me to not deserve him.”  

Duncan raised an eyebrow, “And what is everything else?”

“Ok maybe I do like him!” You threw one hand up in exasperation, the other keeping you upright. “Maybe I like him and I want to be close to him, and I want to hear him laugh. Maybe I want to be the girl he comes home to and maybe I want him to feel the same way!”

Duncan looked over your shoulder one more time before shifting to his feet, “That’s disgustingly mushy. But at least you finally told him.” With that, Duncan turned and started walking away.

“That doesn’t even make sense, what do you even mean?” You squinted after him, head throbbing through the pain. Duncan tossed a hand over his shoulder, thumb pointed behind him, and behind you.

Your heart dropped in your chest. You turned your head slowly, no choice with the pain you were in, and lo and behold, your best friend in the whole wide world was standing there, a witness to your confession.

His face was beet red, his eyes wide open with the pupils blown. He held his mouth agape as if he simply couldn’t believe what he had heard. He was still in his powered form, and for the first time since he had obtained it, you had time to truly observe. His hair had fanned out, looking nearly golden in the setting sun. Heck, all of him looked golden. His shoulders had widened and his arms- dear God his arms. Adam had gone from being your super handsome best friend to a nearly ethereal being. But then again, he did now possess the power of the gods, it was fitting that he looked the part too.

The only thing you could think of doing was to turn back around, wishing for the ground to swallow you whole.

“I’m sorry Adam, you weren’t meant to hear that.” You couldn’t look at him. You wanted to lay down and sleep, your eyes turned to the ground.

Adam didn’t respond, however. You didn’t even hear him moving. You sat there debating if he had simply walked away, but when you turned around to check, he was still there. His expression had changed; the shock was gone. Instead, he looked both bewildered and relieved.

Much to your surprise, the first thing that he said, after a minute or two of silence, was, “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

You placed your open hand on the ground, playing with the dirt, “You’re allowed to be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?” Adam’s smile dropped at the insinuation that he’d be mad at you.

You shrugged, “I didn’t tell you about my magic. I didn’t tell you about my feelings. I nearly fell out of the spaceship.”

“Well- I mean, why didn’t you tell me about your magic?” Adam slowly began stepping his way towards you.

“It wasn’t nearly this strong on Earth. There I could only really do small tricks, warming drinks and all that.”

Adam’s eyebrows went up, and you could see his amused expression as he came to stand above you, “Is that why my coffee was always the perfect temperature?” Adam lowered himself so that he was sat right next to you.

You nodded, keeping eye contact with him, “Yeah. You deserved the perfect coffee.”

 Now at the same level as you, Adam’s shoulder brushed yours. His face was still ruby red, and his eyes flicked back and forth across your face as if he was nervous.

“I thought I lost you there for a moment.” He whispered, “I- I thought I’d never get to tell you, when you passed out, I mean.” He briefly turned his face away from yours as he tried to piece his words together. When he looked back at you, for the first time ever, you noticed Adam’s eyes flick down towards your lips for a moment, only a moment. You wondered if he had ever done that before and you just hadn’t noticed.

Adam’s eyes were a deep hazel, and in them you could see years of love and adoration that you’d ignored out of fear. You could see it clearly now. His red cheeks when he saw you in his clothes, the forehead kiss, begging you to come to his home with him, all of it pointed towards the truth behind it all-

Miracle No. 6

Your best friend was in love with you.

Before you had a moment to figure out what to do next, Adam’s hand had found its way to your jaw, stroking it gently. His eyes moved down to your lips again, but he didn’t lean in any further, stuttering out the start of a sentence that sounded like ‘I’ll only do it If you want me to-‘the rest of it getting lost as you closed the gap.

This was a miracle that you were going to respond well to.

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

His armor gave a sharp ting from the impact on the metal stool. You finally turn to him and your eyes widen. 

Every time you see him now, he gets shinier. It almost blinded you. You imagine a grin marring a face. Would it be wide? Would it be sheepish?  Plump, thin, dry, full? Your brow perks in question, half impressed. 

“That’s new. Must have been a good puck.”

He shrugs, clearly not willing to talk about his endeavor, although a sense of pride overcomes him at the fact that you noticed. Your eyes follow each new piece of beskar, smiling lightly when you tap it with the glass in your hand and it ripples with an authentic sound.

“The red and the spare parts were starting to look a bit rough,” you murmur, glancing up at him from the lip of your glass. He attempted to recline against the back of the stool, his hand resting on the back of yours, but his body was stiff. Something was bothering him. 

He shrugs again, and despite his usual silence, this sudden quiet felt heavy. His mind was muddled in worry, anger and what you could pick up as mourning. Your eyes narrow sharply, bumping your shoulder with his, he barely moves. He’d usually play it up, feign as if you were disturbing his brooding. He stays completely still, unmoving. He was thinking about the child he had retrieved and given away for credits, about how he reminded him of you. 

You’d look at him differently, he already feels his shame consume him now. It would only get worse by the time you found out. Despite his frequent communication, holos and calls, the past few days he’s been silent. The second he knew about the kid, he cut off any and all transmissions from you. He knew you would have told him to back off, to save the child and leave as if he had seen and heard nothing.

By the way your face relaxed in relief when he entered the cantina he knew he had worried you with his actions. You were playing off your care for his well being, like you always do. You weren’t part of the guild anymore, your excuse of coming back for some good drinks was an obvious lie. 

It tasted like rubbing alcohol.

He wonders how long you waited for him, how many days have passed since you stationed yourself at the very same stool you sit in now, only to not find him there after your several missed calls. By the swell of your eyelids, he knew he couldn’t hope for ‘not too long’. 

It had made him even more anxious than he thought and he couldn’t handle it, not with the way you had smiled at him now, not knowing that he had been benefited from imperial trash. But it was as if you already knew. Your stare became analytical and he knew that was your most valuable skill. 

He stands, having heard the jolly and obnoxious fanfare of Greef Karga trailing from somewhere in the room. 

The sudden turn of his body made the whole bar quiet, all stares were directed at him, you arch your brow in question. He leaves purposefully, striding to the far side of the room and to the booths. You watch as he sits with Karga, pocketing a couple pucks more and ultimately standing again to stare at the man, clearly in irritation. 

Mando’s hands twitch, even when he approaches you again his voice is stiff, tense. The first words he spoke to you were said in a rush, polite yet urgent. He tips his head to the door leading to an alley.

“May I speak to you, outside.”

Formal, always with you when he was serious and eyes were watching his every move. It was one of those things you made fun of him for, especially when he could be so snarky when you were alone. You step outside without a second thought, arms crossed and back leaning against the wall of the back of the building.

You eye his belt pocket stuffed with fobs, you groan. He always offers to split his jobs equally, at times you just joined him without wanting any of the credits. You had enough already, and you didn’t want dirty money in your hands.

“Are you planning on asking me to go with you?” you sigh.

He’s silent, you continue.

“You know I don’t take jobs anymore, I-“

“I need your help.”

…

10 Years Ago…

He’s new, just gotten out of his merc group and the pucks he’s been receiving have been less than gratifying. He shows up covered in soot and grime, his body aching to sit down. Luckily, the seats next to you were empty, like always. 

It was like a hazing ceremony for the newbies, everyone knew how much you loathed talking to the other members, giving a pointed glare, threatening to cut their hands off when they didn’t back off from initiating a conversation.

To his luck, sighing as he sat, his forearms resting heavily against the bar table, you said nothing, just eyed him and continued on with whatever you had been doing in your holopad before he came along. A group of hunters laughed on the side, sitting in one of the booths. 

Mando, still in his disoriented state, had bumped into you as he shifted, prompting him to apologize a little too slowly, making you finally straighten up to stare. So he was the cold, silent type. 

Your eyes were dull, mouth starting to form a frown. The creases between your brows deepened the longer he stared back. Your eyes drift over his armor, the mismatched pieces, painted different colors, most likely being passed down onto him or reused.

He had no desire for vanity it seemed, and based on his disposition he wasn’t in the business to improve it either.

The group laughs and your gaze drags behind his shoulder to them, narrowing so much he freezes. He thought you were staring at his armor, clearly a piece of a stormtrooper, recycled for a better purpose.

“I’m not an imp,” he says bluntly. He didn’t mean for his words to come out roughly. It was just his fatigue. He tenses as you place your glass roughly against the counter. You felt your emotion rise quickly, the urge to reach for your blaster swirling through your tipsy and influenced mind. 

But you’ve always had a soft spot for Mandalorians. You give him a look, eyes softening after a couple of seconds.

“I’m sure beskar is hard to come by nowadays, isn’t it?” you mumble, your elbows stabilizing against the bar counter. He sits up like a scolded child, nodding to you softly. His mind swirls with questions. Most would assume his people’s armor was made of iron, some other common metal that could easily pierce through or be destroyed. 

You drag him into silence as you both stare at each other, but after a beat you turn away, waiting for Greef to come through the doors to take a look at his options. The doors slide open and the cantina’s chatter moves to murmurs. Your head lifts, you quirk a brow when Karga gestures for you exaggeratedly, shouting your name.

“Imps aren’t as polite as you, I’d imagine.”

You smiled at him as you lifted yourself off the stool and the crowd quieted, staring as the improbable happened before their very eyes. Din’s eyes follow you, scooting into a booth with Greef, nodding along to whatever was being said and staring at the pucks presented to you. Then Karga reaches into his pocket with a sigh, pulling out another puck to lean closer and whisper against your ear. 

The sudden scowl at Greef’s words threw Din off, you were starting to glance around the room. When you caught his gaze it made him straighten in surprise. 

You shake hands with Greef, nodding sternly as you slid the puck into your pocket. You head straight to the Mandalorian, extending your hand with confidence. 

“I need your help.”

…

“How’d you get your hands on this?”

Your palms drag against the metal panels of his ship, the yellow paint chipping along the tips of your fingers. You flick the pieces off, he stops, waiting for the ramp to lower. He glances back at you, still expecting the blank look you had from the cantina, finding a calm expression instead.

It made his chest flutter, your small smirk growing the longer he stared in what you could detect as nervousness and a hint of fear.

“Borrowed it,” he responds gruffly, as if attempting to make his voice deeper than it already was. Would that impress you? 

You scoff. He had hoped you would have been impressed. You give him a look instead.

“Borrowed it,” you repeat sarcastically back to him, starting to trek up the steps of the crest before he could. He shakes his head before following after you, climbing up the cockpit to see you already buckled into the co-pilot chair. Unexpected for a bounty hunter. He was sure you would have liked to take the lead. 

The coyness in your gaze as he scooted past you to the pilot's seat perturbed him. Your eyes fluttered around the control center, as if you had seen better. Your holier than thou attitude was throwing him off. You gesture to the controls as he orients himself in the pilot’s seat, and he huffs. He’s sure he was going to regret agreeing, he can feel his irritation rise at your expectant look.

“The quicker the better. The pickup is close but the drop off isn’t.”

He hums in response. The opportunity was too great, he didn’t want to waste it, especially since you asked for his help out of everyone in the guild and you had just met him that same day. Clearly he leaves an impression. He might want to make it good. 

The credits were surprising, even for a top ranking member, but the name he could make for himself was better. Working with a ‘big shot’ so early in his ‘career’ would give him a namesake, make people back off.

It was a day's travel of silence, occasionally he would catch you staring at him and quickly divert your gaze. Sometimes you would catch him staring at you.

You were small in stature, tiny but mighty, Greef had said. He doesn’t doubt it but he’s sure his hand could cover up your entire face, without even extending his fingers. He wondered briefly how easily he could lift you if necessary. Too easy, he chides in his head. It would be worth risking a stabbing to his ribs, just to see you squirm. 

You bite your fingernail as you watch him from afar. You weren’t opposed to the possibility of being handled either, albeit, you had less spiteful thoughts in mind.  

He was a mass of muscle, his armor only added to it. You were staring at his shoulders and chest, how they puff up with every breath and sink with every exhale. You get lost in the display in front of you, his legs spread to get himself comfortable on a crate in the hull and his back leans against the panels. 

You’d look away, shining your blaster even if you swore you could see your reflection on it already. You’ve seen Mandalorians throughout your life, never quite as awkward, or quiet, or large. It almost made you feel giddy. You could tell he wasn’t as bad mannered as the rest of what seemed to be the galaxy. 

He was rather exceptional and he thought the same of you. Everyone was afraid of you, such a puny being, barely meeting his shoulders. You intimidated, you snarled, you hissed, and you hit but he had been the exception. At least for now. 

You had smiled at him, very lightly. He stares at you beneath his helmet, watching as you peek over at him and quickly look away. At least he hopes you take to him kindly. 

Despite this, he wasn’t as relieved by your silence. He knew you thought yourself better than them. But you were still a bounty hunter, among the cruelest people in the galaxy. You shouldn’t be pretending. He wonders what has brought you to where you are now. He wonders how many lives you have ruined. 

You slept with your arms crossed, your back against a crate and your blaster at your side, close enough for you to snatch quickly if provoked.

You were hiding something and that made him cautious, enough to keep his gaze steady on your sleeping form. He only pretended to be sleeping, crossing his arms on his chest, leaning his head back against the wall. It was too bad he couldn’t stay awake throughout the ‘night’. 

You yawn the moment you awaken, a device on your wrist having alerted you of a message from the clients. You kick his foot as you stand.

“Get any sleep? We’re here.”

He clears his throat and squares his shoulders, being left in the hull as you ascend to the cockpit, not bothering to hear his response. 

The planet was mid-rim, mostly factories and ports getting shipments in and out, barely any smiling faces as you walked past tall buildings and packed apartments. It was depressing to witness so many lives at the hands of tyranny. You wonder if you would have ever come across this planet, if you would have seen the people before the Empire had risen.

If the war would have never happened, or if it ended differently. Maybe then.

When the fob started beeping incessantly you groaned, the transaction was meant to take place in an alley, the most vulnerable place you could be in a city like the one you were in now.

It was ridden with imperials, any suspicious activity was seen as resistance and walking along with a hulking Mandalorian was anything but normal. You watch the streets below from beside Mando, your hood firmly placed, a shadow to him. You were his guide, not allowing him to see the fob in fear he would run off with it. 

You turn to the alley quickly, tugging him along by the forearm. 

As you turned the corner you were met with a metal chest, lanky iron arms stiff at its sides as it stood at the foot of the alleyway. 

“Come with me,” its voice says bluntly. The droid was old, a model used to drive cargo vehicles. You stare at it for a moment, weighing the risks. It takes a step back, as if urging you further within. You place the fob in the mandalorians hand and follow. He walks behind you, his footsteps now becoming faint, as if he were stalking prey. 

Or afraid. 

“Please, handle with utmost care.”

You had stopped at the dead end, a large rectangular crate was floating on a hovering moving dolly. You had felt the Mandalorian’s anxiety peak at the droid's presence, the mere sound of it speaking making his hands twitch and his feet shift, ready to attack if necessary. A calming hand at his vabrance made his head tip towards you, his arm pulling away quietly, resisting your empathy.

“I’ll take care of it,” you muttered, lacking any judgement. He shook his head, stepping forward.

The crate it had brought was pushed forward, urging you both to open it. The hum of the dolly grated your ears. The buzzing became an annoyance as nobody moved an inch. 

“What is it?” you ask sharply.

It shakes its head, again pushing the crate unto you.

“What’s inside?” you press more sternly. If a droid could sweat the one in front of you would.

“I was directed not to say until you had successfully retrieved the cargo.”

You attempt to argue and you hear a sigh from beside you. Before you could stop him, Mando had already dived in, wanting to leave as soon as possible.

“Dank Farrick.”

His body was blocking the opening, it wasn’t until you heard loud cries and whines that you realized what it was. He picks the child up by their pits, they blinked up at him as he lifted them in the air. Your breath stutters sharply, the baby's gaze lowering down to your face.

“Her name is Yemp Giv. Please handle her with utmost care. She is to be delivered to her family.”

She cries, her paws flailing and her feet kicking. For a few moments you stare, a Wookiee, a baby Wookiee. Golden haired and so small, you’re sure she was barely just a toddler, knowing very little about the world around her.

The cries tug at your heart, her eyes staring into yours, her arms reaching out to scramble off of his arms and into someone else’s in panic. You reach a hand to her head, and through the simple feel of warmth instead of cold metal and leather her cries quieted to whines.

In an attempt to calm, Mando had pulled her to his chest, only making her tremble quietly. Your hand taps on his shoulder gently, you extend your arms.

“Let me.”

He handed her over delicately, she was shaking and he was shaking. It made you hush her gently, her paws gripping the tunic underneath your hard and cold jacket and thick cloak. He didn’t know how to help a crying baby, he was full of embarrassment and shame at having startled her. 

“Hello Yemp, it is very nice to meet you.”

You attempt to lighten the mood, shaking her paw as she wipes her eyes with the other. She blinks up at you, dark pools of black making you melt. She rumbles in response, sad and worried Wookiespeak coming from her maw. She glances at your side, to the Mandalorian, and flinches away to bury her head against your neck.

Your eyes flicker to him, you grimace before schooling your features, not so subtlety stepping farther away from him in the process.

“We’re going to bring you home.”

Mando didn’t understand Wookiespeak, a few words perhaps, greetings and gratitudes but he couldn’t decipher whatever murmurings and whines the child was making, muffled against the fabric of your tunic.

You point to yourself, reciting your name, then you nod beside you, “Mando. He’s a Mandalorian.”

She lets out a low and long groan and you nod in response.

“Yes, you’re safe.”

You hid her in your cloak, cradling her in your tunic and making it seem as if you had a rather protruding stomach. It was a tense few minutes, walking in a path to the ship hangars, trying to act normal in front of troopers.

She was fussing, at times making you look down your shirt to press your finger against your lips, making civilians in your vicinity give you questioning looks.

The moment you were back in the ship and the ramp had pulled in all the way you sighed in relief. She was tired, the fear throughout the day and the stress she might still have had made her sleepy.

She yawns, baring her tiny teeth and long tongue. She was everything about a Wookiee but miniature sized. You’ve never met a Wookiee so young, a child yes, but definitely not a baby. They were highly protected by their families. She could barely make out the syllables of her words, slurred and clipped. Just barely making out of babble. 

Mando had made a makeshift cradle quickly, emptying a crate full of weapons and gathering some of the blankets he had in his bunk, making a warm pod, a tiny pillow made of a spare tunic set up on the side.

You climbed up the ladder to the cockpit after she fell asleep, keeping a watchful eye on her, making sure her breaths had steadied out. He sighs when he hears the doors slide open, turning slightly to see you stepping in, grabbing your bag from the co-pilot seat and lifting it to inspect. 

He stares for a moment, watching the way you sigh softly into the air and reach inside. You pause, glancing at him, suddenly feeling awkward at the silence and sudden observance.

He flushes, you start to stare back, sternly. It was unusual to have someone be so confident around him. He instilled uneasiness, his pure bulk made it hard to be around and his lack of a face had people unsettled.

You knew he was concerned, if not for the way he refuses to look at the baby than for the way he hasn’t relaxed his shoulders at all. You could feel the question buzzing beneath his skin. 

“I’ve done this before. We’ll be fine. I assume you’ve only done merc jobs, maybe even some hits, all noble of course, if it’s for your people.”

His helmet tilts, he sighs, finally turning in his seat fully. He didn’t like talking, he hated it actually, everyone wanted to know something about him, they wanted to dig into his mind, but you already knew things he hasn’t even told you. You shrug at his silence.

“Not judging, by the way, I was the same.”

“How do you-“

“A hunch,” you say sarcastically, as if his motivations were obvious. 

It was fairly easy to decipher him, he never took off his helmet, he was strapped with weapons, he had a separate comm from the one he uses with the guild. Something he thought he was good at hiding. He shook his head, lips pursing. You were just vigilant, that’s all.

“Well, we don’t know anything about this-“

“I do, she needs help getting to her family. I’d thought you would understand. You’re a Mandalorian after all. Aren’t you?”

He tenses. You got him, it stings. He stands defensively, his hand already at his hip, warning you. His pistol charges up with a sharp zing as he disables the safety. You just roll your eyes, turning back to your bag, your back now facing him.

“You need to learn how to pick your fights-“ you started, tensing as he refused to sit back down, instead inching closer, crowding you against the side panels. Your fist curls at your side, ready to pull your blaster on him. 

“What was she saying?” he asks stiffly, throwing you off. 

Your jaw clenches and your hands busy themselves with rearranging your pack. You feign confusion, but he leans closer. You feel heat encompassing you, you're not sure if it was from his proximity or the fact that he was leaning his head down. He was huge. His hand splays over the console, right beside your hip. 

You turn to face him, your ass lightly brushing against him, he doesn’t react but he steps closer. Your body flushes in heat, his helmet meeting your gaze as he bends over. It was meant to be intimidating, you felt anything but.

He could tell. Your eyes wander away from the dark T of his helm, not in fear, but something else. Your stern appearance crumbles into an awkward facade of annoyance at his proximity. 

“That your stupid,” you state blandly. He sighs low, the sound genuine. It made your shoulders stiffen. You relinquish, knowing he would never stop asking based on his unwavering stare.

“She thought you were an Imp. She was scared you were gonna-“

His shoulders slump, he steps back instinctively and you breathe out a heavy sigh. Your brows were apologetic, arms crossed as if you had stepped into a room you weren’t really supposed to be in. 

“Look, it’s not personal, she’s just been through a lot-“

“I know.”

Everyone knows about Kashyyyk. Her family, the ones paying for her safety must be some of the lucky few to have escaped. You shake your head at his defensiveness. Amidst the silence you leave, pushing off of the wall and climbing down the ladder. He didn’t know why he had let that affect him, he shouldn’t care about a child’s opinion of him. 

But the next day he made sure to be gentle, walking with heavy steps, alerting you both of his presence. You were feeding her some ration meat, cutting it into pieces and placing it on her plate. Her teeth haven’t fully grown in yet and she was biting anywhere she could to help them along. Teething. 

“Good morning.”

The sound makes her stop, her dark eyes widening and her nostrils flaring when he steps forward to sit on the makeshift table heavily. The warble she gave out was quiet, timid and whiny. You smile lightly, biting off a piece of jerky. His helmet tilts in your direction, your eyes flicker back to him, ignoring his silent question to start parting her hair into sections, braiding away from her face as she chews on a wooden fork.

“She said good morning,” you say softly.

Din’s shoulders shake, only for a second. You assume he had chuckled, continuing to watch as you ran your hands through the soft locks in a gesture of comfort. She eats loudly, at times whining for a cup of water she couldn’t reach that was farther down the table-crate. He hands it to her before you could and the hesitation is back in her gaze, she stares at his hand, extended and firm. 

You’ve caught her following the brightly colored hues of his gloves the day before, you’re not sure her species was able to even see the bright orange but it was clearly distracting for the young Wookiee. Her four fingered paw meets the tips of his fingers, her mouth opening in awe. 

He stiffens, the tiny pads of her fingers, her little paw pressing against the leather. She coos and he feels his heart melt into a puddle. He feels his throat harden, a thick glob of emotion building in his neck. The tender moment was interrupted by his sharp cough, fisted hand going to the front of his helmet as if he were clearing his throat.

“We need to stop for fuel.”

You purse your lips and before you could speak he reaches out to pet her head lightly. He chuckles, louder this time, his chest puffing as she huffs.

He turns to you and your eyes soften at his delicate tone.

“It’s safe there.”

…

“Stay still.”

She retorts at you angrily. 

“Don’t talk back to me.”

Her body tries to wrestle out of your grip, wanting to be let go to see the other people around. You glance beside you, asking if it was alright. He nods to you.

“She’ll be fine.”

Her feet land on the ground, your hands still under her pits. Once you let go she takes off. She plays with the other children of a subclan of Mando's covert, hidden in an abandoned town in an outer rim planet.

Villages around the galaxy were pillaged, the empire destroying everything in its path and subsequently not caring enough to check back on it. Perfect for housing wandering travelers.

You stare, keeping watch from afar, not wanting to invade the space of the other Mandos but ready to intrude if anything were to happen. He nudges your shoulder lightly, making your eyes widen in fright. You were overprotective, it was almost endearing to watch.

His voice was at ease, arms crossed on his chest calmly. He leans down to talk in your ear.

“How do you know so much about Wookiees?”

You briefly glance in his direction, he moves closer, your legs almost touching. He just wanted to hear you better, you were a rather petite woman. It was mostly an excuse to be so near.

“I grew up with a Wookiee, he was a little younger than me, but I’ve always seen him around.”

He hums. He couldn’t even imagine you as a child. Or maybe he could and you’d be just as you are now, belligerent and at times, when comfortable, playful.

He wants you to be comfortable, especially as his guest amongst his people, who still seemed reluctant by your presence. He knew you could feel their glare, the intimidation they tried to instill in you when you had appeared from behind him. You had sensed their disapproval. 

The temporary camp was being packed up to move to another planet, staying in one place was dangerous, especially with imperial manhunts starting up again as the rebels recruited even more Mandalorians, from other factions, into their armies. 

Every Mandalorian was under scrutiny, especially if they were in packs, as they usually were. 

You had sustained a stare down with the armorer, your eyes hiding a glint of amusement as she ominously attempted to take you apart with her vizor. She had nodded, hands gripping her weapon tightly as her shoulder had brushed against yours roughly. 

Most would be in awe at seeing so many Mandalorians at once but you weren’t. You stood without fear, and had been as respectful as possible. You keep your head down, focus only on the child. 

“You hail from Coruscant?” he asks, a little bite to his tone.

The most diverse planet in all of the galaxies. Of course he would think that, it was logical. Not many Wookiee would travel to different planets, if they did it would be Coruscant.

He wasn’t wrong either, you lived in the jedi temple most days of the year throughout your youth, rarely venturing out to other planets without your master or his apprentice to accompany you. 

In a way, like most Coruscantian stereotypes, you were a protected child, rarely offworld because the planet had everything you needed, people and culture included.

“Yes.”

He hums, crossing his arms. You had to bite your cheek to hold in a sharp inhale as his arms bulged. 

“Daughter of a senator.”

Your face morphed, you huffed a laugh. You look up at him and he looks down on you. He sounded confident in his assumption, as if he had figured you out completely. 

“You serious?” you ask gawkily. 

He shrugs.

“You probably want to rebel against your parents.”

You laugh and his breath stutters in his throat. He stares at the image of your smile. He composes himself, not wanting to think of the flutter in his stomach, or the way his heart pounded when you leaned your hand on his forearm as you straightened up.

“No, I am not a senator’s daughter.”

You chuckle the remnants of your laughter away. You don’t think he would believe you were basically a monk as a child and soldier as a teenager. You tilt your head. In some ways, maybe you were a senator's daughter; a ward, even an heir to dark lord Vader’s command. 

“Would you want me to be? Think you have a chance to score a princess?”

He pushes your hand off, huffing. His face reddens beneath the beskar as your smile widens into a grin of tease.

…

“It’s been three days… and they’re still not here.”

You rock the pod you had both split some credits on. She was napping, cuddling the small doll that you had bought not so long ago after another stop on another rural planet. The rush of the river nearby and the sound of trees and brushes billowing in the wind soothed her to slumber in the evenings. 

Her family hasn’t come, and you were both becoming anxious.  Mando paces around, picking up dirt from his heel. 

“What if they don’t come?”

That makes you raise your head. It was an agonizing thought. Something you now had to think about considering a child was in your temporary care.

“Resistance…” you attempt. He stops mid step, turning to look at you with his hands on his hips.  You knew that stare meant that he wholly disagreed. The three weeks worth of travel gave you both familiarity. 

“They can’t even take care of themselves, much less a youngling,” he says with a bitter scoff.

You sigh. You’ve heard of them rescuing targeted children, even those with certain abilities. But you knew deep down she would just be in even more danger.

“What do you suggest then?” you snap back.

The tension increases, his mouth opening and closing, mind fuddling with an option for the best possible life for the child hidden in the pram.

“We take care of her.”

A foundling, his foundling. The goal is to keep Mandalorian culture alive, to build a community. It was early, much too early for his life and his career but it would be honorable. His own adoptive father took care of him in his early thirties. He’s sure he can manage, freshly 27. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thought of it, holding a babe in his hands, nurturing them to grow strong, especially with weeks traveling with one. He cared for Yemp, building a bond quickly, having an emotional connection with each laugh, even each cry for attention.

And then there was you-

“That ‘we’ is very presumptuous of you,” you cut his thoughts in a murmur. 

He crosses his arms. The meet up point was in a small cottage, near the edge of a clearcutted forest, the outskirts of a town. It was easy to sneak out of the tree line and trudge back into it to disappear. An easy pickup location. 

You watch the evergreen leaves sway pensively. 

Your leg bounces from where you were sitting on the cottage’s outdoor bench. You couldn’t imagine the anxiety the baby Wookiee must be feeling. If you felt a pit in your stomach widen with each hour, you’d think she had it worse. 

“Younglings are sacred. They’re protected in my culture,” he says softly. You nod softly. You knew very little of his traditional sect. You were used to the boisterous kind of Mandalorian, warriors that looked for danger. 

Mando liked to keep his peace, deciding to sacrifice his safety for the good of his covert. 

“Then she should stay with you.” 

There was a moment of silence as he thought it over. He nods once, firmly. 

“This is the way.”

Your shoulders relax. The sun was starting to set and you sigh. Another day without any signs of Yemp’s family. You wonder if they had gotten lost. You wonder how many were together. 

What if they had given up on her. She’d have to give up her past life and memories to make new ones with Mando. Would she be bitter? At her family, at the two bounty hunters who she was given to? 

You hold that bitterness in your own heart, for your own life. You clear your throat as you feel a lump start to form. You place your hand in the pod, pulling her blanket up to tuck her in more securely. 

But your life was so much crueler. Stripped entirely of past bonds, forced into compliance with what once was your master's other apprentice, an older brother perhaps, turned dark, molted and into a machine who had no mercy or sympathy left in his heart.

Lord Vader turned you into an agent of hate and bitterness from knowing things could have been different if your master would have been at the temple. He could have saved you, all of you. You hated everyone involved in your entrapment to become of service to Lord Darth Sidious. 

You wonder if she’d hate you both for leading her path astray. 

“I think I would like to visit,” you say suddenly. He sits next to you on the bench, his binoculars thumping against the wooden surface in defeat. He crosses his arms as if he were thinking of your request, his silence hidden as forethought. 

He turns to face you. 

“You’d spoil her.”

“Someone needs to,” you retort automatically. 

He audibly tsks, already offended by your claims on his parenthood. 

“You’d turn her into a soulless warrior,” you say softly, eyes unfocused. You hide the fact that you mean your words by the blunt tone of your sarcasm.

He snorts. He gestures to the pram. 

“Have you seen her teeth? She’s already there.” 

You snort, recalling two teeth that came in the week prior. The way she tore into meat now is much more efficient than before. Your chuckles quiet into something warm.

“She’s going to be strong and very tall.” 

He imagines her to be taller than Paz. He imagines earning his clan signet and passing it onto her. He would rather use whatever beskar he finds to build her an armory. Now that he thinks about it. He would spoil her more than you. 

You glance in his direction and he catches your gaze. You had a kind smile, when it's not muddled with bad faith and annoyance. He nods again, reassuringly. It doesn’t ease the stiffness in your shoulders. 

…

You both stay a week more. The cottage was filled with the aroma of meat and stir fried vegetables even after dinner had ended. Mando could cook and very well apparently. Yemp chewed loudly, biting into the steak and tearing it easily. 

The night rolled on, soft chirpings of crickets and the faint shuffling of leaves and bushes keeping you awake as you kept watch. 

Mando sits beside you, his large form keeping watch. His chest rises and sinks with each breath. You glance over at him, distracted. His armor was fraying at the edges from blasts and other physical damages. 

He displays it like medals of honor. You open your mouth to say something sarcastic, mostly a joke about him needing more credits to afford some better armor but his body tenses. He stands suddenly and from your relaxed state you turn with panic to the treeline where leaves and branches shake. 

Two large figures appear, a curdling gargle and groan. He points his pulse rifle to them, you grip his shoulder to stand down. Something akin to relief floods your system. You take a deep breath in.

It all happens quickly, the two wookies, Yemp’s older siblings, pass you her identical fob. A bag full of credits. Less than what was promised which made them fear you wouldn’t give her over. The heartbreak in your face as they pleaded for her despite their lack of funds made Din pause. 

You were more saddened by the fact that they thought you cared more about credits than delivering the child. The credits were accepted, as they would have been even if the dropoff was done by himself. 

She was asleep. Both of you stood quietly watching her, not knowing if to wake her up or let her be. Her mother and father had been killed two weeks ago, hence the wait and less than half the credits given. Her last memory of them was when they put her in a transport cruiser, hidden beneath crates of building material. They were fleeing the sixth planet they had found refuge in, rumor of imperial ground forces closing in. 

She would ask for them frequently, small things reminding her of her family. You braided her hair and she mentioned how her mother had pretty braids too. She saw Mando chopping wood and proclaimed her father could carry much more. 

Her siblings were barely adults, they miss their parents too. You fed them leftovers from the evening. They could barely take care of themselves. It makes you worry how they would take care of their sister. 

Mando discusses plans with them as you make your way to the cottage’s bedroom to place Yemp, still sleeping, in her floating pram. You could hear him give them advice, ask if they knew how to use a blaster if needed. They respond with weak grunts and nods. It makes you wince at the thought of them being in danger. You wish you had a prayer, a blessing, anything to leave them with. 

You had nothing to give them hope. 

Din starts to lead the pram out to her remaining family but you stop him. You suddenly scramble amongst your belongings pulling out a bag full of credits, a pistol, rations, anything useful to them. You were careful enough not to wake her as you crammed it in the pram. You knew they wouldn’t accept the help outright. 

Your hands shake as Mando chips in his own amount, pulling you away softly from the pram to close it. Someone was going to sneak them into a cargo ship going to another mid-rim planet. They had pointed on a map he had pulled out, nodded as he asked them questions. 

It felt like you were attempting to stall them. Mando closes the pram as you attempt to open it again. He stands in front of it. You cross your arms. 

“We can take them with us,” you retort. His hand envelops over your bicep.

“They need to keep moving,” he says softly, his grip on your arm tight. He stares down at you, urging you to think with a clearer head. Nevarro was too open, full of imps, gangsters, hunters who would leap at the chance of turning in three young Wookies. One was risky, three would create a spectacle.

He watches you start to shake your head, pull your arm away from his grip as if his touch burned you. 

“Dank- Farrick!” 

You rub your temples, pacing. The baby wakes up at your expletive. You freeze. Her soft gurgle and chitter forces you to take a deep breath in. She didn’t fully understand why your eyes were so wet as you cradled her against your shoulder in silence. 

She fell back asleep as Mando caressed her head, her paw weakly tapping against your chest as if to soothe your shaky breaths. 

She never saw you again. Her older siblings ran off into the woods with her pram in tow. 

He doesn’t acknowledge the tears in your eyes, falling in tandem with your heavy blinks. He warms the engines, flies out of the atmosphere and goes into hyperspace, ignoring your dazed stare out of the side of the window, acting as if he didn’t feel the same hopelessness and deep worry on the trip back to Nevarro. 

…

10 years later…

“I need your help.”

Your brows furrowed, he was almost shaking.  He steps closer, grasping your shoulders.

“I gave him over to them.”

Your mouth opens to question him, his vague sentences starting to worry you.

“Who-“

“He was a child and I gave him to them.”

His head nods to the other side of the city, a place where you knew you would never get too close to. You shake your head, you had told him all of the reasons to never accept their pucks. 

“The kid, it has the same abilities as you.”

You couldn’t breathe, your mind blanks and you could vaguely feel his hands run over your arms. His gloves running over the skin of your forearm makes you come back to yourself.

“You gave a child away to imps?” you mutter. He leans down closer, helmet almost connecting with your head. At any other time your heart would skip, now it just sinks to your stomach.

“If I told you what I was going to do, what would you have done?”

You shake your head disgusted attempting to step back or shove him away but his hand on your forearm keeps you from leaving. You scowl and his helmet tilts, wanting a genuine response.

“I would have stopped you,” you hiss, shoving his hands from you as he loosened his grip. You shake your head as you start to pace. 

He watches you, his posture straightening, and despite the look you give him, full of anger, he finds himself hopeful.

“Good.”

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

I hope this made sense, but who knows... I'm in a Din mood rn, if you can tell.

Starlight Masterlist

The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.

No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.

You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.

At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.

It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.

But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.

Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.

One of the many reasons he keeps you.

Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.

Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.

The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.

He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.

You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.

You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.

You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.

He's not a normal person.

His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."

His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.

Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."

"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."

"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.

"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.

Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."

The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."

"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."

The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."

Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."

You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.

They always die.

It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.

You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.

But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.

Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."

As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.

Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.

He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.

The lights go out.

Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.

You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.

Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.

You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.

The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.

You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.

The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.

"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.

"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"

"And join your boss," his twin finishes.

Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.

Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.

Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."

"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.

Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.

Your neck is naked for the first time in years.

You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.

He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.

Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."

"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.

Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.

The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.

You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.

His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.

You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.

It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.

Your littermate deserved this too.

Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.

In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?

You stare at it.

It smells really good.

Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.

Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?

It's almost like…

You twitch your whiskers.

As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.

The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.

No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.

Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.

That's it. He's just a cat person.

A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.

Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.

You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.

But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.

Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.

Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.

You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.

Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.

Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.

This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.

Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!

You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.

No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.

The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.

You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.

You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.

Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.

Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.

He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.

You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.

There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.

You curl up in a little ball and watch him.

He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.

When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.

You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.

Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.

If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.

He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.

He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.

This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.

A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.

You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.

Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—

when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"

Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.

And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.

"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.

"CAW! CAW! CAW!"

Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.

Oh. Kitten.

Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—

In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.

The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.

Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.

The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.

"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.

Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.

Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.

"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?

He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.

She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.

Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.

You shudder awake with a violent twitch, pressing up on your elbow in a split second, prepared to move. You're stopped from moving further by Din's hand on your shoulder. He's knelt beside your cot, visor fixed on you.

You're on a new planet. The foreign atmosphere gives that away in an instant, the chalky taste in your mouth and the swarming heat on your skin. Your jack-rabbiting heart calms a bit.

"Din?"

You know he's only waking you because he must. The momentary calm banishes again as you push yourself up again. Din lets you this time, his gloved hand retreating to his side.

"It's not an emergency." He says, knowing your train of thought already. He tilts his head slightly, gesturing towards the ramp door. "I need to leave the ship. I didn't want you to wake and..."

Your trailing gaze darts back to his visor quickly, swallowing as you fill in the end of his sentence. Din doesn't finish it, but his shoulders readjust in a minuscule motion.

"I'm getting supplies. Watch the kid. Please."

You're nodding before he's finished his sentence. The sleep in your system is already dissipated and you push up, shifting onto your feet and trapping your pained hiss behind gritted teeth as Din rises to his full height.

There's a beep from his valance as he punches a button then a soft hiss as the pressure changes, the ramp door beginning to lower.

It's habit to watch the sliver of the outside grow, the new terrain stretching out before you as the mouth of the ship opens. As expected, a seemingly endless spread of sand greets you. You wrinkle your nose.

Din hadn't indulged the reason or destination of this particular trip. You hadn't asked. A deep slice in your thigh courtesy of a vibroblade and a mouthy Twi'lek had kept you off your feet and eager to rest.

The slice had been by pure luck—or so you thought.

But Din's silence following the patch up in the ship, his quietness suddenly uncanny, left you beginning to wonder if he was questioning your ability to fight. Weighing up your ability to defend.

And if those things were up for debate, certainly so was your position on his ship.

It had just been passed 3 years, almost six cycles if you counted how time passed on your home planet, since you had joined his crusade. Your job had one very simple, very crucial objective.

An objective that was now babbling at your feet, tiny claws reaching out for you.

"Hey, you," You say, reaching down to scoop Grogu up into your arms. He reaches his arms up as he does, making a happy gurgle as you tuck him against your hip.

His round, dark eyes peer up at you, his big ears twitching mischievously and you couldn't help but smile. You turn so he could see the stretch of desert and are surprised to find Din still in the mouth of the ship. He's turned back, his dark visor giving away nothing of his expression.

It's then you get the feeling once more; you're being evaluated. Your usefulness being weighed up. You shift beneath the weight of his gaze, unmoving but still not speaking.

"Did you forget something?" You ask, just to break the silence.

Din finally shifts, his helmet giving a small shake in answer. He doesn't speak, just stares another moment, before he's turning, his cape catching the wind as he strolls down the ramp.

You watch him go, heart in your throat, pondering with an ache of melancholy if your time on the Crest was coming to a close.

Another burbling noise from the little green monster in your arm tugs your attention away. You look down, smile already pulling at your mouth at his clawed hand reaching for you.

"At least I know you still like me," You murmur, letting his cling to one of your fingers. "You wouldn't fire me, would you?"

Grogu makes a noise of agreement, gripping your finger tight. Then he opens his little mouth and tries to direct your finger into it, the clearest declaration of his hunger he can give.

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the ship, mentally tallying up your list of things to do.

—

By the time of Din's return, the sun has dipped low in the sky and the dunes glow a scorching orange in its rays.

You see him coming in the horizon, the only figure out on the desolate landscape. You wonder, for not the first time, if he's burning up beneath all his armour. He never seems to use the fresher to cool off like you do.

It's as he reaches the ship, his footsteps heavier than usual and betraying his tiredness, do you realise he's returned with a bag. Your eyes glue to in instinctively but you bite your tongue and swallow the burning question of what the contents of the bag is.

"Get what you need?" You ask instead, hands laying flat on your knees, avoiding the bandage on your thigh.

You're knelt besides the ship wall, sitting on your feet, one of the panels hanging haphazardly by a single screw and a box of tools beside you.

There's a function for cooler air on the Crest but it's been busted since a gnarly shoot up leaving the atmosphere of Coruscant months ago. You've been trying to fix it for weeks, each time with no avail.

Today is no different.

“You haven’t fixed it.” Din says candidly, instead of answering your question.

That suddenly familiar worry of your usefulness shirks up within you.

“Yet.” you counter, aiming for optimistic. It’s impossible to tell what the immovable expression of Din’s helmet means. “It’s not the same problem as I started with, at least.”

After a moment, he gives a short nod as if he understands — which is mean because there isn’t a single thing you can think of that Din Djarin is bad at. Besides talking to Jawas, of course.

He passes you and you force yourself to keep facing forward, even as you long to trail his broad figure. You squint at the tangle of wires within the panel and sigh. It’s feeling pretty fruitless. You were hardly a mechanic to begin with and—

A loud clatter beside you makes you startle, something heavy dropping into your toolbox.

You jump back and after a quick second, realise that it’s Din who had dropped something purposefully. Trying to calm your racing pulse, you lean forward and peer in.

“This might help.” He says.

You blink down at the new tool he’s given you. It’s the one spanner size that’s missing from your toolbox.

The last one had been lost when you lobbed it at an intruder’s head in a blind panic. Not your proudest moment— even if it did distract the guy enough for Din to put him down.

You swallow your heart in your throat. “Thank you.”

You don’t hear him retreat but the part of you that fizzles like a freshly born star when he’s near dims, a giveaway to his movements. You curl your fingers the new tool and try to tell if this a good sign or not.

Behind you, Din clears his throat.

You peer over your shoulder, your brows knitting together — it’s not often he calls your attention so forwardly, much preferring to stand and wait, staring long enough til you notice and flush.

He’s still standing in the hull, one hand curled around and holding the bag he returned with. You twist fully, letting him know he’s got your attention.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. You stare, waiting patiently and try not to let your eyes roam—especially after the last comment he made when he absolutely caught you staring at the broadness of his shoulders, eyes drinking in the cut of his figure.

You’d be a terrible criminal, cyra’rika.

What’s that supposed to mean? You had retorted, flustering just a bit.

He had turned and fixed you with a tilt of his helmet that meant he was likely smirking underneath it.

You have shifty eyes.

Your face had glowed fiercely at the reminder that just because you couldn’t see his eyes, that didn’t mean he couldn’t see yours.

Across from you in the Crest now, Din coughs awkwardly.

“I,” He starts. One of his hands clenches, the leather crinkling as he does. “I have something. For you.”

Surprise piques up inside you, fiery and delighted. It warms your stomach and there’s no fighting the smile that pulls at your mouth even if you wanted to.

Gifts from a bounty hunter are few and far between and he’d already replaced the spanner. Your bounty hunter in particular doesn't like to spend his credits unwisely.

Even less commonly does he acknowledge that something is a gift—but you've learned to love the quiet hum he gives you when you thank him for something.

"Oh?"

He shifts his weight ever so slightly, the most obvious indication that he's nervous.

You sit up a little straighter. The anxiety from earlier pools in quickly.

He gives a tiny, almost inaudible huff and then, instead of reaching into the bag, he pushes back his cape and reaches back. His skilled hand unclips something sheathed at his waist. He drops the bag and steps forward, his hand outstretched.

You hold your breath without realising.

It's... a dagger, you realise.

A very beautiful blade by all standards. As you press up to your knees, rising to get a closer look, the details of its intricacy begin to call out to you.

The hilt is twined in a delicate, leathery fabric, not yet moulded to any hand. The pommel holds a promise of a shimmer as though it's embedded with a mineral. And the blade itself... A darker metal curls through the lighter one that encases it, like smoke on a sunlit sky.

It's expert craftsmanship, with a precise balance of two metals — and if you stare a moment too long, you swear the darker one matches the hue of Din's armour. His beskar armour.

"Will you accept it?"

It's with the gravel of Din's voice do you realise you haven't moved. You haven't reached out for it, haven't even blinked since he offered it out to you. You exhale, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.

It's elegant beyond words. It's too much.

Too much for you, too much as a... a... What was it?

A gift? A reminder of your sole duty on the Crest? Of what you nearly failed at during your last mission together? The wound on your thigh seems to throb painfully as if in response.

He's never got you a gift that's anything less than helpful.

"I," You breath, finally tearing your eyes off the dagger and looking up at the visor fixed on you. "Din, I—"

Your gaze drops back to the blade in his hands. This time, you're certain it's beskar twined within the steel.

"It's very beautiful but..." I'm not worthy of beskar. "I couldn't, it's— it's too much. I can't accept it, Din."

The words come out clumsily and you wonder if in your attempt at being polite, you've gone too far in the other direction and offended him. You wring your hand against your thigh, pressing your knuckles into your wound. The pain dances along your nerves, a welcome distraction as you force yourself to meet his gaze.

The hum of the ship fills the space between you and like almost always, you have no idea how to read his silence.

"I understand."

And then he's stepping back, resheathing the blade into its holster in one fluid motion. He does it so quickly you don't see the tremble in his wrist, his hand just a touch unsteady. Above you both, there's a beep in the cockpit.

This time, you do manage to clock his body language, well aware of the way his guard has suddenly been wrenched up and the anxiety in your veins quickens with a sinister twist. Oh stars. You've definitely made it worse. You should've just accepted the dagger.

He turns and wordlessly heads towards the ladder to the cockpit and you watch him desperately, a dozen words caught in your mouth and none of them the right ones to say aloud.

"I—"

Din pauses, one gloved hand on the rung of the ladder, facing forward. He gives you a moment to speak. Your mouth dries.

When it's clear you aren't going to, you catch the slight sigh he gives, his shoulders dropping an inch.

"Grogu will miss you."

What?

You don't even get a moment to consider what he’s said or to digest the implications before he’s climbing the ladder, deft and quick. By the time you’re on your feet, the swish of his cape is disappearing into the hatch on the ceiling.

You stare at it a moment, all your unsaid words suddenly transforming into confusion. Your mouth opens then closes, your hands held out in front of you in evident bewilderment.

“What—” You begin as you take the rungs twice as fast, following Din’s path up to the cockpit. “—is that supposed to mean?”

You’re halfway up when The Crest suddenly lurches to the side with a rumble, the powering of engines thrumming beneath your feet and you stumble to catch your balance. Below you, you hear the familiar hiss of the ramp closing.

Stars, what is he doing? He hasn’t been this eager to leave a planet since a bounty back on Hoth.

“Where are we going?” You ask, forgoing your unanswered question. You shift forward as the Crest continues to rise with a powerful whirling sound.

Casting an eye at the passenger seat, you’re relieved to find it already occupied by your favourite green friend. Grogu coos in your direction at the sight of you and despite the situation, you can’t help but smile.

“I can take you wherever you wish to go.” Din’s flat response has your smile fading, your head whipping around to face him.

But he doesn’t take his focus off the control in front of him for a moment, stoic and silent as he continues to initiate takeoff. The Crest rises higher, the sandy ground of the planet out the window growing smaller and smaller.

Wherever you wish to go?

Does he— does he think you want to leave?

Your head spins in a tizzy as you try to clue together how the hell he had come to that conclusion. The Crest rocks as it breaks through the atmosphere and you stumble again, struggling to keep your balance.

For whatever reason he’s thinking it, he’s wrong.

Action finally possesses you. You surge forward and slam your hand onto the console, killing the power to the thrusters.

The ship stalls with a loud droning noise, coming to a shuddering stop before it begins to float in the darkness of space. The only light is the glowing orange of the planet and stars beyond the glass.

“Why do you think I want to leave all of a sudden?” You demand hotly.

For a moment, you think Din will continue the silent treatment that he’s all but mastered. His helmet, visor gazing out through the windshield, doesn’t move — until he tilts his head toward you slightly. He sighs quietly.

“I don’t imagine after…” He waves a hand idly and you scan his figure intensely, searching for what he could possibly be referring to.

After…?

It suddenly seems quite obvious.

Even if you had no idea what it had meant to Din, clearly this has to do to you turning down his gift.

“Din,” you say very quietly.

His helmet turns another inch, his chin tilted up to show he’s listening.

You swallow and it feels like your heart in is your throat, burning and bursting all at once. But you have to ask.

“What did the dagger mean?”

Now he averts his gaze, his helmet dipping as he mumbles something, nothing, his voice almost too low for his modulator pick up, a gift, but in the gravel of his murmuring, you hear one unmissable word: courting.

Oh.

Oh.

It was a… courting gift.

A dagger blended with beskar, given as a courting gift from a Mandalorian. It meant you- and him — the hope you had been harvesting, the hope of something more blooming between you two, it had not been unrequited.

Your mind casts back to the exact phrasing as you turned what you believed to simply be a gift too prized for you— it’s too much, I can’t accept.

Maker. No wonder he thought you wanted to leave.

Whatever is crossing your face must be the opposite of subtle because as you grapple to find a response to that, Din’s head tilts back up.

“You didn’t know.”

There's a tiny wobble of relief in his voice.

“No,” You breathe. Blinking hard, suddenly you feel a bit wild because Din all but proposes to you but doesn’t even think to check if you knew the depth of what he was offering? Of the real question behind his gift?

You shake your head. “No, I didn’t know, Din.”

Silence lulls between you, charged and heavy. Even without seeing his face, you know Din must be squirming beneath his helmet — his intentions, his feelings, out in the open and you still staring at him speechless.

You manage to find your voice.

“May I see it once more?”

The request comes out softer than you intend, your courage suddenly quivering in your chest. You will it to rise, to embolden you. Din had been brave — now it's your turn.

Without a word, he shifts and reaches back to release it from its sheathe on his waist. For a split second you see it, the hesitation in his hand.

Then he's holding it out, balancing in his open and trusting palm, held out for you. The thickness in your throat grows.

You swallow tightly and grip your courage, searching within you for that warm, safe feeling that beats like a drum, Din, Din, Din. You seize it tightly.

Eyes fixed on the blade, you ask quietly, "Would you... offer it to me again?"

It's impossible to draw your eyes up, too nervous to see yourself reflected in the darkness of his visor.

"Yes."

Your heart becomes a supernova.

"Will you?" You whisper, finally daring to look up at him.

Your protector, your partner, the man who showed you the softness of his heart and asked for nothing in return. "Will you offer it to me again?"

The subtle motions of Din are something you've come to learn with the years you've spent at his side. Now, staring up at you, the inclination of his armour gives away his surprise.

Then he's rising to his feet only to step before you and sink down, brought to his knees before you. His hand remains steady, the offering held out, and this time the meaning of it cannot be misconstrued in any way.

"Cyare," He murmurs — and it's beloved, it's please, it's don't part from my side for as long as you'll have me.

Something within you trembles and your bottom lip quivers in emotion and then you're moving without thinking, sagging until you're on your knees too.

Equal heights, each of you in a position of devotion, facing toward each other.

Hand reaching out, you clasp your fingers around the hilt of the dagger and say thickly, "I accept."

There's a ragged exhale through the modulator of Din's helmet. He shifts, moving to strip the gloves from his hands and the sight of so much skin from him is enough to make you falter. But there's barely time to recover your stolen breath before his bare hand curls around yours, far larger, the dagger gripped in both of your hands.

His skin pressed against yours burns like starlight. You stutter out a breath, your smile coming so easily at the sight of your joined hands.

Din's other hand raises up and pauses momentarily, halting as if he's unsure if he's allowed before it settles gently on your cheek. You lean into the warmth of his skin and hear another sharp inhale through the modulator.

"I—" He begins, quickly cutting himself off. His thumb on your cheeks begins to wander, soothing over your skin lightly. He urges you forward and you bow your head, forehead pressing to the cool beskar of his armour.

"Thank you."

"You're thanking me?" You chuckle wetly, emotion clinging to your words. His thumb on your face traces another soft circle and you shudder beneath the loving touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“You could have been clearer." You chastise lightly, though your evident joy means your words don't have any real bite.

“I offered you beskar, cyra’ika,” He murmurs, voice warm and full of love. His thumbs draws another delicate circle. “How much clearer could I be?”

His point makes you laugh, eyes opening and seeing your own reflection in his visor. "I don't know," You say, averting your eyes down to your still intertwined hands. You squeeze your hand and feel him echo the motion. Your heart sings.

"Use your words?" You suggest with a cheeky smile, well aware that words were not a strong suit of your Mandalorian.

Din sighs, a faux long suffering one, and the mere familiarity of it makes your heart ache in the best way.

The worries of earlier bubble up within you, the reminder of why you had been so sure the dagger had some other meaning.

“I,” You begin, pulling back lightly and casting your gaze towards Grogu, who had been suspiciously silent as if knowing the significance of the moment before him. “I wasn’t thinking about the beskar, I was being stupid.”

With your free hand, you cover Din’s hand with yours, hiding your face away, which suddenly feels a little warmer. The nudge of your hand against his does nothing to alleviate the glow.

“I thought it was, like,” You mutter quietly, embarrassed. “You were saying I wasn’t doing my job well enough or— or something and I started worrying you were gonna…”

You can’t even finish the sentence with how foolish you feel.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?” Din asks, his voice dubious and warm. Like the mere thought of that is so far from believable that it’s amusing to him.

“Shut up,” you groan, eyes closing as if it can save your from your further flustering.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” You murmur.

His hand in yours tightens, the other on your face coaxing you out of hiding with the gentlest of nudges.

"Never. As long as you want it, I want you with me." He says and in his voice you hear nothing but utter devotion. "Close your eyes."

You follow his command without hesitation, darkness cloaking your vision and you feel his hands retract from yours. The dagger remains in your palm, still cradled in your fingers. Then, there's the tell-tale hiss of his helmet and you inhale sharply.

"Cyare," He says and this time, it's with all the richness and roughness of his natural voice.

The timbre of his voice is like gunpowder sprinkled across your soul and when his hand finds the curve of your cheek once more, it's set alight.

"May I?" He asks. You can feel the soft heat of his breath fan across your lips and feel your heart quiver in response, bursting forward, as if trying to reach him. His thumb soothes across your cheek, full of wanting.

Your nod would be imperceptible if it was anyone other than Din — if his gaze wasn't trained on your face, drinking the details like a starved man, finally with uncloaked eyes.