#dancingwiththeplanets

Wolffe never pushed for you to share your daughter’s life with him, and you made sure to give yourself the time to get acquainted with her first. To build the bond and love between you two, even though you felt it from the first time you held her. And Wolffe was so patient and understanding with you wanting to take your time introducing him to Aurora. But at the same time, you shared so much with him because you knew he loved it, and it just warmed your heart how calm and attentive he was, with a little smile on his face, when you showed him pictures of her little growing body and shared with him how she was doing. You knew he already felt like she was a part of his life. 

So here you waited, nervously. Biting your nails now. You’ve tucked yourself into your corner, the ‘safe place’ Wolffe designated as yours long ago, saying it was too chaotic in this place for you to ever be wandering around searching for him and vice versa. Though you have a sneaking suspicion his orders have something to do with the time he found you surrounded by a bunch of his flirting troopers- shiny’s, obviously- far away from your agreed waiting point that time. That’s not a mistake any knowing trooper would make with the Commander’s girl. And unfortunately for them, Wolffe didn’t seem to care that Boost had definitely put them up to it, snickering at the shiny’s petrified faces as their Commander marched in their direction and fortified himself in front of you. 

You really did try not to laugh. But they did look like they’d just found out they were committing treason or something. It would have been extremely funny if you didn’t catch sight of that frightening scowl on Wolffe’s face as he turned away from them, before softening it to a look of concern. 

“If they bothered you, I’ll assign them to hard labor in the cargo bay for 10 months, not 5. Just say the word.” 

“They weren’t bothering me, Wolffe.” You smiled, encouraging the frown to disappear from his stern face. 

He let out a huff, “Well that makes one of us.”

Your cheeks tug upwards just thinking about him, about how irritated he’d been with the men– pretty furious actually. Shouting out retributions and threatening to sanction them all to Fox for prison guard duty. He’s truly not that harsh though. You were held tight under his arm, wide-eyed and shocked by his reaction as he shouted, to the point where you had to intervene and tell him it was just harmless fun. His gloved fingers were firm around your arm, unhappy eyes softening as he looked at you regrettably before finally yelling at his troopers to get lost and whispering something to you about encouraging them too much. 

The memory makes you giggle, and warms your cheeks as you remember to relax and just wait for your Commander to come by for you. Butterflies in your stomach and a shy smile on your face, it’s hard to contain your giddiness, you’re just so excited to see him… It’s a special day. 

You finally spot a distinctly marked helmet emerging from the crowd. Not quite the trooper you were hoping for, but you’re pleased nonetheless. Where there’s a Boost, there’s usually a Wolffe. 

You smile brightly at the trooper as he approaches, thankful to see that he’s made it home safely. You know how much these boys mean to their Commander. 

He raises his hand up in an awkward wave, looking a little stiff as he walks over to you and pulls off his helmet. You would be concerned about his behavior if it weren't for the smile that he tossed your way, albeit laced with discomfort.

You raise your eyebrows at him in a ‘what did you do now’ manner, assuming Wolffe’s tardiness is because of him. 

“Uh, hey vod'ika.” He says, coming to a stop in front of you. 

“Hi Boost, successful mission?” You ask, smiling politely.

“Yeah, um, look…I need to apologize for… something,” He says, his hand raising to nervously scratch at the back of his neck. 

You frown a bit, confused but ready to let him say his piece, “Okay?”

“It’s uh, about Wolffe.”

He hesitates, eyes darting up and down like he’s having a hard time maintaining eye contact with you. You give him an encouraging nod, attempting a small smile again despite the pit in your stomach growing bigger, “Okay?”

“It’s just that, uh,” He clears his throat, adjusting the hold on his helmet. “Well w-we knew the Commander was, uh,” Another grunt to clear the windpipe, “Just, uh, that he was going to be meeting your-uh…your daughter,” This time he coughs, seeming to struggle with the admission, “Uh, you know, whenever it was that we got back, that is..”

The smile was wiped clean off your face halfway through that sentence.

“Okay.”

You can see the panic flashing in his eyes, noting your less than pleased reaction already, but wanting to quickly explain the situation, “And..um… well we may have given him,” Another cough, “A little bit too hard of a time about meeting her.”

Insult and defensiveness immediately boils your blood, your frown quickly morphing into a scowl, “What about meeting my daughter?”

His eyes widen immediately, “Oh! No no - osik - no, it’s nothing like that, it's just- ah,“ He sighs, covering his face with both hands and grumbling curses in Mando'a. “Look I’m so sorry it’s just… he was all excited and-”

“-I know he was excited, is he not anymore?” You ask, anxiety and worry making you sound more angry than shaken - which you definitely feel.  

Boosts face morphs further into panic at your distressed reaction, quickly raising his hands in a harmless motion, “No! He's been so looking forward to it! Beaming with pride, ma’am..” He rushes, sounding desperate. “But we… the pack I mean, uh…we may have sort of insinuated that… well that…”

“That what?” You ask, sounding more hurt now. 

He winces, his voice sounding small as he mutters, shamefully, “..that your baby would burst into tears at the sight of his face.” 

Your mouth hits the floor, utterly mortified, “You what!” 

“We’re so sorry, vod’ika.” A second remorseful voice speaks behind you. You whip around to see Comet, approaching you slowly and looking like a kicked puppy.

“C-Comet! Boost! You know how insecure he is about his scar!” You snap, your own nerves getting the better of you. “What in the galaxy did you say?” 

“It was harmless teasing at first! Honest!” Boost defends, jumping back in. “Just stupid stuff about wearing a baby harness over his armor and being a dad and…and he laughed along at first, seemed to like the teasing actually..the boys caught sight of his datapad and, look it was just harmless teasing!”

You sigh, trying to level your disappointment and anxiety. “What’s this about his datapad?” 

“His..? Oh, the picture of you. A-and your daughter. Ma’am.”

“Her name is Aurora.” You grumble, the sadness growing in your chest. 

“Right,” Comet says, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “Aurora, that’s a beautiful name.” He says, an apologetic and guilty smile on his face. “She’s beautiful vod’ika.” 

Your heart tugs a little at the words. She is. The most beautiful. 

“Well I know that.” You still scoff, though your temper calms down a bit. “Wolffe..showed you a picture?”

Comet rubs the back of his neck, nervously looking at Boost, “Not exactly, we grabbed his datapad when we caught sight of the resting screen image. Sorta, passed it around out of his reach.”

“Which picture?” You ask reluctantly. Wolffe saved a picture of you and Aurora as his resting screen image? When had you even sent him one?

“A very beautiful picture.” Comet smiles, “the two of you cuddling or something. She’s laughing.”

Your heart flutters. 

Oh, that picture. 

On his last excursion you’d woken up to a message he’d sent after you fell asleep. The 104th had decided to head out early the next morning into a droid-heavy sector on an already hostile planet. You knew you probably wouldn’t be hearing from him for a few days, which was enough on its own to keep you seriously on edge without the added risk, but he promised he’d be careful and told you he loved you.

You didn’t even think twice about pulling your babygirl up close and snapping a photo. Come home safe to us, you wrote. It was you and your Aurora…she had a big smile on her face as you tickled her, her ear gently caught between your teeth as you bared them like a rascally pup chewing on its favorite toy. It’s one of your favorite pictures of the two of you ever, so silly and tender at the same time, Rory shining front and center in that one, and he set it as his datapad screen.. 

You couldn't help the little smile, just imagining him shouting orders in the strategy room or walking through the hanger holding the datapad, image flashing to life every time he lifted it in his grasp.  You have no doubts, you want that man in your little girl's life. 

These thoughts bring you to sigh, before scowling at the boys in front of you. These di’kuts. You know deep down how much Wolffe has been looking forward to this. It was something you never would have expected from the hot-blooded Commander. You’re not even sure he realized how invested he was in what you had. You think most women venturing into single parenthood would feel confused, maybe threatened, meeting a man who so desperately wants to be a part of little Aurora’s life in any way you shared with him, even if he tried to suppress it and not put that on you. 

He was so patient and understanding with you wanting to take your time introducing him. But at the same time, you shared so much with him because you knew he loved it, and truthfully it just warmed your heart how smiley he would get when you showed him pictures and told him how she was doing. You knew he already felt like she was a part of his life. 

Which evidently now was a problem. “You guys,” you sighed, rubbing your hands over your face, “This is not good I-I don’t know what to do-“

“Please, please, don’t be mad at him if he’s weird, vod’ika,” Comet pleads, bringing you back to the moment, and reminding you that now, you were extra pissed. “It was our fault! You-” he sighs, pain filling his features, “-You should have seen his face when the words left Sinker’s mouth, we got in his head.”

Boost groans at Comet’s words, distress covering his face at the apparent horrific memory. 

“What exactly did he say?” You grit, still not sure if you’re feeling more defensive over Wolffe or your baby right now. 

The two look at each other, deciding who has to be the one to say it. Comet, being the youngest, gets the short end of the stick and crumbles under his brother's glare. 

He sighs, defeated, before speaking, “That the second the baby was in Wolffe’s arms and she got a good look at his scar and the eye she’d burst into tears kicking to get away from him and then his eye would have one of those stress malfunctions and twist around in weird directions before smoking so he’d have to pop it out and then he’d drop it because he’s so uncoordinated and it’d roll on the floor so he’d have a gaping hole in his face which does actually look very frightening and he’d be trying to catch his robotic eyeball as it rolled on the floor and she would be so mortified and scarred that she could never look at him without screaming again.”

The two are silent as you process the words. 

You can’t even say anything. Hands rubbing your eyes and slowly trying to catalog the damage in your head, before sighing, exasperated. You look back up at the boys, both of whom have their heads hung low and regret painting their features, having relived the admittedly vivid horror story concocted by their brother. 

“Right. And where. Is. Sinker.” You demand. 

“Hiding from you, ma’am.”

—————————

Thankfully, Wolffe met you with the same loving embrace and press to your forehead that he always did after a mission. 

Everything was reassuringly normal, until you got into the lift of your building.

“Um…Wolffe?” You ask calmly, noticing the nervous tap of his fingers against his belt, each gloved finger making a loud, tacky noise of resistance with the contact, echoing in the silent elevator. 

"Yes?" He turns to you, immediately stopping the action as well as the swaying on his feet and giving you his complete attention.

“Is everything okay?”

His eyes widen a bit in realization. “Oh. Yes, ma’am! Uh, I-I mean yes, beautiful.” A not so convincing smile spreads across his face.

You arch an eyebrow at him, hoping to lighten the tension with a playful, “Yes ma’am, huh?” 

“S-sorry, love.” He says, attempting a small smile while he adjusts something on his wrist vambrace, “It was a long tour I…I guess I’m a little tense. It was hard on the men and…there was just a lot to do.” 

You smile at him understandingly, the lift door opening. 

Almost there…

You unlock the door. 

We can do this Wolffe… 

“C-cyare,” Wolffe stutters, “Look, m-maybe we should do this another time. I- I don’t think I’m up for this-” He frowns, lowering his gaze to the corner of the tight space.

“Wolffe, seriously, that’s enough.” You frown, sounding unimpressed. “What are you worried about?”

“W-what if she doesn’t like me?” 

“Oh my god.” 

“No” he sighs, “You don’t understand I’m- just look at me. I’m not soft, I’m not pretty, I don’t know how to sing lullabies for crying out-” He huffs, “I don’t even know what babies like to talk about!” 

“Wolffe, seriously, I love my daughter to death, but you are giving an infant old way too much intellectual credit.” You say rolling your eyes. 

Those boys are dead. 

Wolffe sighs again, running a hand over his hair, “But love, you…you don’t understand. She’s going to take one look at me and that will just be it. And then-” His eyes widen, dread swallowing his facial expression, “O-oh my God, my eye. The scar, the cybernetic, wh-what if it scares her-” Wolffe’s face is flashing with absolute horror as he builds up the worst possible scenario in his mind.

Shit, shit, shit. 

What to do..what to do…think...

“Come on,” You say with finality. If you know one thing about your Commander. It’s that the best way to have him deal with a situation, is to give him no other choice than to face it in the heat of battle. 

Your hand hovers over the open button on the control panel. 

“Wait!” Wolffe suddenly snaps, hand snatching your wrist in place.

“Ahh!” You scream, startled. Your arm immediately shoves Wolffe on the shoulder, his form swaying only slightly from the movement “Wolffe! Seriously, you are making me so tense right now!”

“I-I’m sorry it’s just,” He sighs, ”I-if she hates me...please don’t break up with me.”

“Wolffe,” You laugh in exasperation, starting to feel more sympathetic for your poor boyfriend. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you..” You say, lying straight through your teeth. “But I need you to know everything’s going to be fine. I promise. My girl’s got good taste, and she already knows your face. I’ve shown her a million times. I know she’ll love you.”

Wolffe stares down at you with soft eyes. Looking away briefly before straightening up and giving you a gentle nod. 

Your stomach flips with nerves and excitement as you step through the opening door. There’s no way this could go wrong. Not with your Aurora. Certainly not with your Wolffe. No matter how hard and unyielding this man may be in war, even with his brothers, it’s his love and responsibility over them that makes him so stern. He’s protective, he’s caring. 

You try to conceal your own excitement, seeing your little bundle all cozied up in the Nurse Droid’s pouch. Wow, you’ve missed her. You press a gentle little kiss to her head, but don’t want to give Wolffe long enough to start backing for the door before he meets her. 

“Wolffe…this is Aurora,” You say, calmly moving a sleeping Aurora from the nurse-droid’s pouch and into Wolffe’s tense arms. His eyes widen in surprise, arms quickly shifting to find a way to hold her as the slight weight of her slowly lets into his arms. 

His eyes dart around in panic, looking at you nervously for direction. 

“Introduce yourself, Wolffe,” You say quietly, almost unable to contain your excitement at this image before you. “She’s been waiting to meet you.”

Wolffe’s body relaxes slowly. You recognize the almost invisible deep breath he takes in before letting his eyes land on your daughter's sleeping face, and it’s almost as if her peaceful state transmits into Wolffe’s nerves the second he lets himself look at her, really look at her. 

“A-Aurora.” He mutters, more to himself, causing a smile to creep onto your face. You can hear the calm slipping into him like a trance. 

“Yeah,” You almost whisper, placing a hand on her blanket in his arms, the other resting supportively on the Wolfpack emblem on his pauldron, hoping to further distribute a semblance of calm between the two of them. The last thing you need is for Aurora to scare Wolffe away by waking up in his arms screaming. 

That would take some work to repatch. 

“I don’t really call her Aurora much anymore, though.” You whisper, eyes captivated by the image of your girl engulfed delicately by Wolffe’s strong arms. 

“O-oh?” He asks, almost distractedly, glancing up at you before looking back down at the little warm bundle again. 

“Yeah,” You hum, “I’ve been calling her Rory.” 

You hear a deep yet sharp inhale, delivered almost laboriously slow so as not to unsettle the sleeping baby in his arms, “R-Rory?” He asks, his deep voice losing a bit of its composure. 

You grin, finally glancing up at Wolffe, having forgotten to make sure he was comfortable with the encounter so far. And you weren’t all that surprised when he didn’t meet your gaze, still looking at your daughter’s peaceful features. “Like…like roar-y?” He gulps, eyes wide like he’s looking straight into a bright star, “Like a-”

“-Like an animal roar,” You giggle under your breath, “Yeah, I thought you might hear it that way. But it’s R-o-r-y, Rory.”

You look up at Wolffe again, expecting to see a look of amusement on his face, but you’re slightly alarmed to see his features tense, lips pulled back into a tight line and jaw tightly set as he continues gazing at her.

“O-oh.. Wolffe, I’m sorry is this too much? A-are you okay?-” “-That’s the cutest fucking name I’ve ever heard in my life.”

You pull your lips between your teeth, trying not to give away that you’re absolutely elated, surging with love and excitement, unable to hide the smile breaking out on your face. 

“She’s…she’s so beautiful. So much more than in the pictures.” Wolffe mutters, “She looks just like you.”

You can’t suppress the laugh that escapes you at that, muffling it as best you can in front of sleeping Rory. “Wolffe, I didn't give birth to her.”

“She still looks just like you.” He mutters seriously, shaking his head in disbelief at your little girl. 

You admire your boyfriend holding your daughter in his arms. A Commander, hardened by war and tragedy in his life, gently caressing your daughter's forehead with his thumb, you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. Her little head small enough in his palm that he can support her neck and reach all the way around her to stroke her features. Your heart swells with heavy emotions, bringing tears to your eyes at the raw beauty of this moment.

You hate to interrupt them, but Rory runs on her own clock, and evidently…”It’s pretty late Wolffe,” You murmur, leaning up whisper in his ear. “I think Rory needs to rest in the nursery now.” 

“O-oh,” He says, shaking his head gently as if coming out of a daze. Yup, you’ve definitely lost your boyfriend to your daughter, and you are totally and completely okay with it. “Of course.” He looks down at Rory and then to your arms, awkwardly leaning forward for you to take her but not quite sure how to maneuver her without disturbing her slumber. However, he looks slightly heartbroken that his brief time with her is up. 

“Why don’t you take care of her, I’ll show you where to go so you know where you can find her,” You say gently, adding an encouraging smile at the end. 

He straightens up, nodding dutifully at the responsibility and taking extra care to follow you down the hallway into Rory’s nursery. 

He knows where the room is already, but he’s not going to argue for you to take the little girl away from his arms. When you reach her crib, he’s hesitant to place her down, but with some light instruction he settles her in easily. Admittedly it does take some extra coaxing for you to pull him out of there, reassuring him for the umpteeth time as you close the door that no she does not need any blankets and yes she will be perfectly fine. 

“You’re closing the door?” He asks, bewildered at the barrier you’ve placed between yourselves and Rory. “But what if-”

“Wolffe,” You stop him, bracing him with a hand on each shoulder, “I promise you with all my heart that she’s okay in there. Now, come with me,” You guide him to your room, just a few steps down from your daughters, and lead him to his side of the bed. 

He immediately starts removing his armor, having spent the night here with you enough times for the motions to feel natural upon entry. Aurora always spent those nights with your mom or sister, few as they were. She was so little, and you were still getting to know Wolffe when you adopted Rory. You wanted to make sure it felt right to introduce them before you did. 

“Here,” You say, bringing the monitor from your bedside table around to him. “Listen.”

He takes the device in his hands with furrowed brows as he sits on the edge of the bed, looking curiously at it. You squat down in front of him, reaching for the volume knob and making sure it’s turned up a little bit more than usual. You can tell he’s about to ask what the monitor is for. Is it broken? Did you need him to fix it? Then you hear the babble of Rory mumbling in her sleep. 

The slumberful noise makes you smile, just as you know it will to Wolffe. As expected, the sweetest grin you’ve ever seen stretches Wolffe’s features, and he shyly tries to hide it, knowing you’re watching him, as he looks away from the device in his hands.

“Now you can hear her,” You say reassuringly, tenderly squeezing his knees as you rise. 

The two of you go to bed early, using Rory as an excuse to cuddle quietly in bed and whisper to each other for hours, wrapped up in each other's arms. Wolffe detaches himself from your arms every so often to make sure the volume on Rory’s monitor is working alright, normally when she gets too silent. It feels wonderful and warm and extra special to be held tightly in Wolffe’s grasp this time, like you’ve shared the most beautiful part of yourself with him and he embraced it more than you could have even hoped. 

—--------------- 

You wake to a sound you’re all too accustomed to. Groaning instinctively at the high pitched cries ripping through the monitor. Your arm swings out to your bedside table to lower the volume a little as you roll towards the edge of the bed, only to waft against the air when you do. 

Instead, you hear a deep groan, then a startled gasp in the bed as Wolffe bolts up. And for a brief moment, you panic at the speed in which your boyfriend is sprinting out of the bed and towards your door.

“Wolffe, wait!” You shout, completely awake now as you jump up and catch his arm just outside the door.

“But it’s- it’s Rory! She’s…she’s..” He gasps, nearly pulling out of your grasp, but slowing his stead when you’ve gently wrapped your arms around him, sensing that he should listen to you first.

You sigh, relieved that you prevented your boyfriend from bursting into your daughter's nursery ready to fight off a threat, probably scaring her in the process.

“Hey, she’s okay, hey.” You say, guiding his face to look at you. “She’s okay, I promise.”

He looks a little confused, eyes still swimming with alarm from having woken up to the cries of your distressed baby. You can feel his heart pounding beneath the skin of his chest, he was scared. He’s used to waking up to blasters and bombs going off, and you feel awful for not preparing him for this, having experienced him jolting awake in the middle of the night, trembling and covered in sweat. Letting him hold you tightly to his overheated, sticky skin as he mutters needless apologies into your hair for waking you. 

The cries of Rory startled him at first, especially being such a disturbing, foreign sound. Jumping into soldier mode to take down the immediate threat is his body's natural reaction.. 

“Wolffe, look at me,” You mutter soothingly, one arm wrapping over the warm skin of his muscular shoulders, hand resting on his cheek, the other down by the waistband of his synthetic shorts. You trace gently against the black fabric hugging his form, hoping to calm him with your touch. 

The heat of his body radiates off him, warming your bare arms against his skin. You hope the skin-to-skin contact is as soothing to him as it is to you. 

“Babies cry…a lot.” You explain gently, “Aurora has trouble sleeping through the night still, she’s probably just hungry.” 

“Oh I-I knew that. I’m,” He sighs, eyes closing as he looks down in shame, “I’m sorry.”

“No my love, please don’t be. I know you just want to protect her.” You say, pressing a warm kiss on his collarbone, then pulling him down to press your lips into his cheek. “Come see, it’s okay.”

You have Wolffe leaned back in the nursing chair holding Rory and a bottle in no time. Her eyes are glued to his face. Unblinking, calm, analyzing each of his features through whatever sharpness of vision she has at this age. Wolffe isn’t any different, you notice, letting her take him in while he does the same. You allow your gaze to follow his, looking at each of her sleepy, delicate little eyelids, her button nose, those cheeks that you just want to smother in kisses. It’s so hard not to squeeze this little thing with how much you love her. 

“So,” Wolffe grumbles, sounding gruff and sleepy, but peaceful. “You…you don’t think she's afraid of the scar?”

“Are you kidding,” You say gently, “Those eyes look pretty relaxed to me.” 

You smile, continuing to gaze into your daughter's face. Wolffe holding a milk bottle in his hand and feeding it to her with strong, steady hands. She almost doesn’t blink, the way she’s staring up at him, big eyes stretching uncomfortably wide to get a good look. Pure curiosity and interest swimming in her pupils. Her gaze flutters down his face minutely, before resting on his eyes again. It’s unbearably captivating, and you shake your head at her reaction to him. 

“If anything,” You add with a giggle, “I think she’s going, ‘damn, look at that scar. Nobody’s gonna mess with me with this guy around.”

A small grin spreads across Wolffe’s face, and despite the forced doubt in his tone, you know he’s eating every word up, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what she’s thinking.” He says with an eye roll. 

“That’s what I thought,” You tease, flashing him with that endearing smile he claims can win him over anything.

He huffs, but the grin on his face spreads to a full fledged smile as he glances over your features, “Like mother, like daughter, eh?” 

It’s been a long week. You recently got promoted to manager after your boss decided, literally  at the flip of a dime, that she was going to go traipsing around the galaxy with her new girlfriend. No judgment…to each their own. But a little more responsibility and a proper heads up really would have been nice. Because honestly, you’d only just started working at 79’s a few months ago and officially got handed the keys and a manager's book on her way to the space port. So basically, you got the post-it note rundown version on how to keep this place running a week before she left, abandoning the place in your care. 

And you’re not gonna lie, it’s been tough.  

You rolled your shoulders and groaned at the soreness you felt all over. You’d never intended to become a full-time manager and server, and the business side of things on top of the late hours you spent here nightly, it’s really, really had you doubting your competence.

Throwing your coat and hat on, you open the door and feel the cool air bite into your skin with a hiss. Coruscant can get pretty windy in the later hours of the night. The evidence of such shows when a big gust of wind suddenly hits you from the side, threatening to wrench the door violently from your hands before you can lock it. 

You whisper out a few curses, feeling your hat swoosh off your head with the wind while you struggle with the door for the upper hand in your game of tug-a-war. 

Dank farrik. You grunt out in frustration. I liked that hat.

You dismiss the hat as a lost cause, given the layout of the windy city and the open space highways, odds are it didn't survive. You’d just have to make the trek home tonight without it. 

When the strong gust passes, you take advantage and finally clip the door closed, making sure to test all three locks with a jiggle before leaving the bar for the night.

“Excuse me-” A voice slurs from behind you, instantly provoking a panicked scream to cut through the previously silent night. 

You whip around, looking to the dark area where you think the sound originated from. Your hands covering your beating heart as you catch your breath.

There, leaning against the wall connecting the street to your bar, just barely lit by a dying street light, sits a wide-eyed and frozen clone in white and orange armor, holding what looks to be…your hat? You sigh, agitated by the scare, but let your hands relax down by your sides.

“Uh..I- I’m sorry!” He says, holding up his hands in a show of surrender, making you furrow your eyebrows.

You take a few steps towards him, closing the distance between the two of you, not at all worried about your safety with the trooper. If anything, you’re worried he’s the one in need of help, sitting crookedly propped-up, half-asleep and definitely intoxicated by the looks of it. 

“I-I’m not a threat.” He promises, raised hands waving out and away from his body as if to confirm his own words. 

You sigh tiredly, rubbing a hand down your fatigued face, “I know, honey.” You say, letting yourself squat down to rest on your heels so you can get a better look at him. 

He nods once more, acknowledging your understanding, before glancing down at the warm cloth in his hands, scrunching it up a bit with furrowed brows before his eyes widen in recognition again and he quickly holds it out to you, “I think this got away from you.” 

He offers up a kind, crooked smile with your hat, further holding it out to you and encouraging you to take it, and you can’t help but smile as you reach for it. 

“How very thoughtful of you, -” you do a quick once-over of the clone, not immediately noticing any distinguishable rank marks on his armor. You try the word out apprehensively, spelling it out slowly, “-Sergeant?”  

He straightens up instantly, eyes widening once more and using his arms to further push his body up against the wall. You lift your hands up, ready to slow him down if he tries to stand.

“S-Sergeant?” He stutters, baffled as if accused of something. “N-no ma’am. It’s Marshal Commander Cody of the 212th, at your service.” 

Ah. So. You’ve got a stranded, drunken Commander on your hands. A Marshal Commander at that. Certainly not your usual stray trooper lingering around the closed bar intoxicated. Not that it happens all that often, but you can’t say you’ve ever had the responsibility of a Commander on your hands.  

You smile apologetically at him, hoping you haven't come across as uncaring on account of your fatigue, despite also trying not to giggle at the slurred version of a clearly rehearsed introduction. “My apologies, Commander Cody. It’s been a long night, and admittedly, I’m not the most familiar with clone armor and rankings.”

The Commander sighs, leaning back at-ease again. He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head a bit before looking overwhelmed by the action, “S’alright, I don’t blame you. I would think myself a sloppy shiny if I saw me like this.”  

You pause for a moment to think. Not quite sure what to do with him. There definitely wasn't a chapter in your manager’s booklet titled What to do when you stumble upon an intoxicated Commander of the GAR passed out in front of your bar. You were just gonna have to wing this one.

“Well, speaking of which, Commander,” You say, enunciating his title and earning another sweet smile from the man, clearly he liked hearing you say it. “Care to tell me what you’re still doing out here at this hour?”

He huffs, shrugging a shoulder lazily and letting his head lull back against the wall to gaze up at you. “Just… catching hats for beautiful civvies.” You smile sweetly at him, and though you’re pretty sure he was just kidding and not really flirting, you can almost see the hearts in his eyes at your response, further provoking a giggle to escape you. This poor guy is really out of it.  

“I see,” You say, the smile not quite leaving your lips. You tug the beanie on as you push up from your squat, his eyes following you as you rise. He frowns a bit at the sudden distance between the two of you, from his perspective at least. “Well, as comfortable as you look down there, it’s a bit late for both of us to still be out, wouldn't you say, Commander?” You put extra emphasis on the title, bringing a slight blush to his ears and having him shuffle his extended feet back a little.

“O-oh, yes. Of course,” He says frantically, trying to match the speed of his words with the speed at which he rises, “Allow me to escort you- whoa!”

You lean over quickly to catch the Commander as he loses his footing, wrapping your untrained arms awkwardly around his chest and shoulders before he could face plant into the concrete. 

“-Walk me home?” You finish, laughing a bit breathlessly as he groans in your arms, muttering out an apology. “Funny, I was just about to offer the same to you.”

“N-no, Ma’am. That’s not necessary at all,” He mumbles, trying to straighten up and out of your arms. You’d slipped down onto your knees to support the Commander as he’d lost his balance, currently propping him up with a hand to his shoulder. “I was just, uh, you know. Setting up my line?” He pauses to clear his throat, “Ma’am.” 

“Your line?” You ask, nodding unconvincingly at the ‘I’m not drunk you can take me seriously’ look he’s really gunning for. 

“Y-yeah,” He chuckles, glossy eyes meeting your gaze as you steady his arms for support.

“Well you know because I- uh,”. He scratches the back of his neck uncertainly, the words slipping out before he could think them through, or come up with something better. “Just- uh, well I-I fell. Right?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip to keep from laughing, “Yes, you did fall.”

“Exactly, hah, I uh- well cause I fell for..for you?” He shakes his head in confusion, a dramatic frown on his face, and this time you can’t help but let a little laugh escape you, to which his eyes widen and he huffs in exasperation, “Ah forget it, I don’t know. Something about falling for you.” His frustrated face is blushing in embarrassment and you place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Commander, I think it’s best if I walk you home now.” 

He sighs, “Yes ma’am, I think that would be best.”

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

You weren’t actually sure where you should take the Commander, but the Republic Military Base seemed like a good bet, plus it was close to 79’s. 

To say that The Coruscant Guard was surprised to see a civvie stumbling towards the base with a Commander slung over their shoulder at this hour would be an understatement. In fact, you’re pretty sure bafflement isn’t even a big enough word to cover it. 

The two Guards posted at the front gates went through practically every stage of emotion before settling on one: shock, concern, understanding, humor, then downright hysterics. 

In fact you were pretty sure they were crying under those buckets. 

And Cody, poor Commander Cody, just leaned right up against you and glared at them, not even bothering to defend himself. 

Eventually, one of them made a call to a Commander Fox who called a Captain Rex who called someone in Cody’s battalion to retrieve him at the gates. 

You could hear the laughter approaching from behind the walls before it even opened, prompting the Commander to mutter a “Kriffing hell, here we go.” He grumbles out another apology, before the gates slide open to reveal two fully armored troopers in white and orange armor, who just melt at the sight of their Commander in your arms.  “Ooooohhhhh, Commander,” One of them bellows, “There you are!”

“Oh we’ve been absolutely distraught! Worried sick, sir!” “Thank goodness this lovely lady brought you home! You must have been so cold out there in the dark!” You can see the two Corrie Guards trying to stifle their laughter as Cody mumbles something under his breath. You can feel the purposefully muffled insults hitting your cheek and turn to smile at him, prompting him to look up at you with apologetic, guilty eyes again. Your locked gaze was suddenly interrupted by one of them clapping a hand on the Commander’s shoulder, imbalancing you for a moment before he was pulled onto a new shoulder. 

“Awe, come now, Commander. Leave the poor girl alone,” The trooper sighs dreamily as the Commander shrugs him off, reluctantly glancing back at you a couple times as he walks away, sporting much more coordination now than you’d thought he had.  

The one closest to you chuckles, lingering by you for a moment, “Thank you, for making sure he got back safe.”

You smile at him in return, “Well, I don’t think he would have left me out there alone if it were the other way around, would he?”

The clone pauses, tilting his head at your words before speaking, “No, he most certainly would not.” He seems to nod at you again in appreciation, before moving to walk towards his Commander and brother, waiting just inside the gates of the base. 

You could hear Cody muttering to the other trooper as they waited, the latter hollering back at the two of you “Waxer, get a move on.” Waxer throws a quick wave your way, before turning and clapping a hand onto one of the Corrie Guards.

“Make sure she gets home safe, will you?” He says, waiting for the shock trooper to confirm with a “Yes, sir!” 

You assume the Guardsman starts to comm someone for an escort, so you watch the three troopers retreating into the base, catching the tail end of their conversation.

“No. You said what to her?”

“That you fell for her?”

“Would you two lower your voices! She might hear you!”

“Oh, Commander,” Waxer cries out dramatically, heaving between bouts of laughter, “What happened to your smooth game, sir?”

The other trooper laughs at the taunt, you never caught his name, and you can vaguely hear Cody threatening them both with something unintelligible in the distance. 

“Must be some girl, eh Boil? To make our savvy Commander forget how to flirt!”

“Oooh she is at that,” You hear Boil sing, “One time I caught her restocking the higher shelves at 79’s, and she was wearing this pretty little number that just barely gave me a peak at-”

You have about 15 seconds to do this. Probably less. 

Despite the sensitive time issue, you still take a moment to grunt obnoxiously loud, angrily kicking both your feet against the sealed durasteel, pointedly demonstrating your unhappiness, as if that wasn’t clear already. The soles of the Mandalorian’s boots echo irritably against the hold as he stalks away from you, having locked you inside the bunk again. It’s become his favorite form of punishment, when dealing with your snarkiness has finally struck his last nerve.

You’ve really been testing him the last few days, testing your boundaries. And growing more bold as you drew the lines between what you could and couldn't get away with. Already you’ve learned that for the most part, he’s unwilling to do more than just intimidate you into submission and confine you to the closet you’ve been sleeping in, alone thankfully. 

Despite your crossness at being locked up again, this was actually the reaction you had been hoping for. With the stolen writing tool in hand, you quickly raise yourself up into a crouch on the cot, bitterly uncapping the marker and committing irreversible damage. 

The rub of ink squeaking against the camera lens is just as satisfying to hear as it is to see. 

And about to be as detrimental to you as it was to the camera when he realizes what you’ve done. 

You lower away from your crime, leaning back on your knees to admire your art, acknowledging that you only have about a second to do so in gratification before- 

“-WHAT!”

…That.

Heated strides are pounding against the floor above you instantly, retracing their steps. You ready yourself for the shit-storm that’s about to hit you. He was already pissed, that’s why he - literally - threw you in here not even a standard minute ago. But your window was limited in the first place, so you had to take advantage. The destruction had to be done one, before he realized that you’d swiped his marker. And two, in a time-frame you knew for certainty that he wouldn’t be staring directly at the monitor. 

Admittedly, your smug, self-satisfaction was diminishing with each second his pounding footsteps neared you. 

The door slides open with a dramatic hiss, revealing the fuming Mandalorian already reaching in to find the weapon on you. It isn’t hard. You’re sitting there on your knees, uncapped marker shamelessly propped up in your wrist. You’re ready to own this.

And oh he’s absolutely boiling, instantly snatching the marker out of your hand.

It’s almost comical really. The way he’s kneeled over you in the bunk, looking rapidly back and forth between the fresh marker he’s fisting and the blacked-out camera in the corner, like he can’t believe what you’ve actually done. He scratches at the lens, examining its fixity. You did good. It’s amusing, until his gaze turns to you. 

Oh, you just know he’s giving you the look. The now you’ve fucking done it look. But what’s worse is the stare you’re hitting him back with. Pure defiance. You can almost see it fueling his rage, and it’s absolutely delicious. 

The grip on the marker in his fist tightens, worn leather rubbing against cheap plastic. And his shoulders rise and fall with deep, only semi-controlled exhales. The slight crack in his resolve makes you preen, and your eyes reflect your triumph ever-so-slightly. 

You’ve never heard him huffing with such laboriously controlled breathing as he is right now, like wind blowing on a cheap holo-recorder. He visibly gulps down his rage before whipping the marker up in front of your eyes. 

“Where. Did you get this.” 

It’s not even a question, it’s a demand for you to answer.  

You keep your mouth shut, having felt unduly rebellious this morning and dangerously uncaring of the consequences. 

He glares down at you, presenting you with the opportunity to change your mind about your muteness. Silent for much longer than you would have given him credit for, he finally huffs out a breath and looks away from you, shaking his head. 

Another surge of pride swells in your chest. Pride at your insurgence. Pride in how you’re wearing him down.

But that feeling quickly diminishes in your gut, replaced with confusion, and a little bit of insecurity, when his apparent show of irritation turns into slow, disbelieving chuckles. 

The smugness on your lips slowly pulls down into worry, until your smirk has sunken down into a tense frown and your eyes widen in anticipation of his next action. You watch him, silently, once again reminded of how unhinged this man is, and second-guessing your boldness given your situation. 

He continues shaking his head, the movements short and instinctive, almost as if he isn’t actively attempting the motion. He stops only when his gaze lands on you, and stays there. The satisfaction on your face is wiped clean off. From the way his helmet is tilted at you, meaningfully, contemplative, you get the feeling that this time, he’s going to do more than just lock you in the bunk for a time-out.

Your eyes sting, demanding you to blink and forcing you to miss a half-second of your weary observation of him. Uncertainty slowly growing in your chest, mixed with a little bit of regret. 

But no, it had to be done. You couldn’t let the opportunity slip to fight back, to show him that you weren’t going to roll over and submit to his rule so easily.  

Nevertheless, the harsh glare from his visor is making you anxious, fidgeting slightly in your place as you lose nerve. Your gaze flickers downwards before you force it up again to maintain your stance. You box out your shoulders, straighten your spine, and hit him with it - the look. 

Do your worst, asshole. 

He hums, a calm and unsettling noise that, admittedly, sounds a little bit like, 

Oh, I will. 

He’s propped back into the door frame now, visor still locked onto your face, turning the marker over pensively in his gloved fingers. He lets you worry for a while, occasionally tilting his head to look at the scribbled over camera before landing on you again. Letting the closed-end half of the pen lean up against the wall with his wrist, he rests his weight there, tapping it in a thoughtful manner.  

The sound is taunting, loud in the quiet room. It sings, ‘What are we going to do with you?’ with each tap. But despite your nerves, there’s still enough defiance in you to hold your gaze with him, however meek it may look, patiently awaiting your sentencing. 

You’re preparing yourself for something new. Having definitely brought the troublemaking up a notch. If back-talk could get you locked in your bunk for having a snotty attitude, then you’re pretty sure destruction of property would entail a little more than that. 

Whatever the hell it takes to make this asshole drop you off on the nearest planet and wish he’d never wasted the time. 

All things considered, the words he chooses definitely succeed in puzzling you a little bit. 

“Give me your arm.” The Mandalorian says, hand still thoughtfully twirling the marker between his fingers.

You blink at him. 

“My…my arm?”

He nods at you, “Give me your arm.”

His hand is raised out toward you now, open palm awaiting the weight of your arm expectantly.

Your gaze flickers between his pressuring gaze and extended palm. 

No. You want to say.  

I don’t know what this is. But no. 

I’m good.

“Hurry up,” He encourages. You’re offset by the way he’s talking. Relaxed, satisfied. Like he’s the real winner of this round. And just like that, he’s succeeded in putting you in your place again, holding something invisible over your head that makes you nervous, that warns you to obey.  

Reluctantly, but careful not to take too long, you lift your forearm out to him, eyes cautiously watching him and his movements.

He closes the distance between his palm and your wrist, turning it over gently in his hand until he’s pleased with the side displayed to him. With clear intent, he lowers his resting arm, still holding the uncapped marker, and draws a short, straight line across the expanse. 

He releases his hold on you, but you keep your arm floating in the air, staring at the line for a moment. The crooked, horizontal mark ugly on your skin. 

You’re about to ask, even though you’re inclined not to, when he interrupts you with a gentle finger hooking under your chin, redirecting your gaze to him.   

“Where’s the cap, sweet girl?”

“Um..” You blink, “It’s- uh.”

You’re still trying to wrap your head around the meaning of the line on your arm, and he wants to know about the kriffing cap?

He tilts his helmet at you, inquiring again. 

“I…I dropped it.” Your gaze falls to the ground, searching for where the lid to the marker rolled off of the cot. You catch sight of the shiny piece of plastic resting next to his boot, “There.”

You look up at the Mandalorian, whose gaze hadn’t followed yours to the ground. “Down there?” He asks, nudging his head down yet still maintaining contact with you. 

You nod your head, tentatively. 

“Well be a good girl and pick it up.” 

That has you swallowing, nervously glancing down again at the cap by his heel. Reaching down would put you in a very precarious position. Hunched over the edge of the bed with your knees still propped up on the end. You have the feeling he won’t do you the courtesy of moving out of your way. After all, he wants you to squirm under him. He wants the show of dominance. 

You curse him mentally, knowing he won’t give until you do as he says. Your jaw sets as you crawl closer to him on your knees, reaching the edge of the cot. He’s at a much greater height advantage with you in this position, kneeling on an already low surface. You tilt your head up, the edge of his helmet resting down against his chest, giving him the semblance of power and authority. You decide to try asking, even though you already know the answer. 

“Would you mind mov-”

“Yes.” He interrupts impassively. Like he’s about ready to lose his semblance of calm again, which makes your teeth grind, “I would, very much, mind moving. Now lean down and pick up the cap you dropped when you were being a brat.”

You clench your jaw. 

Just do it. You defaced a valuable part of his ship that he used to keep an eye on you and he let you off scot-free. Just this once, let him humiliate you. You still destroyed the camera. You won. 

It takes you a beat. But slowly, you bend your upper body down, crouching as much as you can without compromising your body’s integrity. He’s planted firmly in the ground, as always, your vision gliding down his unmoving form as you lower before him. You tense as your face nears his thighs, quickly moving further and stretching your fingers towards the lid. Your fingers graze it, just about to wrap around it when his foot moves, sliding further back and taking the lid with it. Your hands quickly brace themselves flat on the ground, catching the top half of your body before it barrels over. 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. You risk a glance up, glaring at him from your vulnerable position by his knees. “Lost my footing.”

It takes everything in you not to snap back at him.

Lost my footing, my ass, you insufferable tree.

You bite your tongue and look at the lid, it’s just a stretch away. You spread your knees further on the cot, quickly reaching out to recover the marker lid and whipping your body back and out from beneath his legs. 

“Here,” You spit, thrusting the marker lid toward his chest. His hand whips out and catches your arm before it whacks against his chest, swiftly rotating it and bringing the marker back down to your skin. He slashes a second dark line along your arm and you grunt in agitation, trying to yank your hand away as his grip tightens. 

“That one,” He growls, jostling you until you still in his hold, “Is for making me ask twice. And this one,” Wet ink drags along your skin for a third time and you breathe out a long, irritated sigh, watching the third mark stain your skin, “Is for making me put up with the bratty attitude all day.” He drops your arm, swipes the cap out of your hand, and turns on his heel, pocketing the marker as he approaches the ladder. 

“You forgot one.” You snarl back, just as he’s about to grab the first railing. 

He whips around, “What did you say?” His tone is short, snapping in irritation at the fact that after all that, you still have it in you. 

You wrench your arm up, showing him the inside of your arm with three tallies. 

“You explained the last two,” You preen, using a mockingly polite voice that’s meant to piss him off further. And oh just from that widened stance you can tell it does. “One for making you ask twice. One for being a brat. So what was the first one for?”

“For destroying my monitor.” He grits out. “But now that you mention it-“

Suddenly the Mandalorian is not across the hold from you but right in front of you. You barely have time to trip backwards and try to lunge behind a crate before he’s gripping your hips and thrusting you against the wall, the impact forcing a whimper from you. 

“Give me your goddamn arm.” He growls, reaching for it anyway and nailing it to the wall next to your face. He definitely has your attention now, attitude and courage dead and buried as you feel the weight of him crushing your bones. He whips out the marker with his free hand and your heart nearly stops when he shoves it in front of your mouth. 

“Bite.” He orders. 

“Wh-what-“

“Do you really want me to ask twice?” He snaps, startling you to respond. 

You obediently open your mouth, allowing him to push the top half of the cap between your teeth. You gently bite down, feeling your heart stutter and your legs losing feeling at the way they’re stretched to keep up with the height the Mandalorian has raised you to. The cap stays propped up between your lips as the Mandalorian brings the marker down to your skin again, and for some reason, this starts to feel much less stupid and far more alarming to you. 

“That’s one more for not shutting your fucking mouth when it’s good for you,” He hisses, “One for raising your voice at me. And this one,” He pauses, voice lulling down to a scary, deep, timbre, “Is just for my benefit.” 

He instantly releases his hold on you and steps back, having finished his work. You lose an inch of your height as you slide down the wall, stumbling to find purchase again on the floor. The cap slips from your lips and you gasp as you hear it clanging off somewhere in the hold, immediately tensing at its loss. You’re about to glance around the ship and look for it when the heaving Mandalorian takes a step toward you. Your attention snaps to him and instantly your arms cross tightly around your waist for security and you look up at him, taking an extra step away to offer you a cushion. 

The heavy rise and fall of his chest would make anyone think the Mandalorian had just taken down a beast, watching it cripple before him. He raises the weapon in hand as he points it at you. “Well?” He asks, breathlessly, “Why don’t you count those again. Did I get them all, sweet girl?” He asks, voice straining with restrained tension. 

There was a lot of weight behind that “sweet girl” that you haven't heard from him before. For the first time, it sounds more like a threat than a term of endearment, and you really, really,  dislike it. Almost as if he was giving you one, final, chance to be his sweet girl. 

“Well?” His voice brings you back to his inquiry, “Did I forget one?” 

Your heart pounds in your chest, but it doesn't look like his is doing any less than yours. Chest heaving, he looks like he’s ready to roll up his sleeves and armor and draw a few more on you. Ready to restrain the beast once and for all. 

He huffs at your silence, taking a step towards you. Your hands raise in a flash, defensively sheltered in front of you as he nears. “N-no! You…that’s all,” You stutter. 

He slows to a stop before reaching you, chest still heaving slightly as he dares you to change your mind, his tone dangerously charged. “You sure?” He challenges. 

You nod instantly, quick and exaggerated to show him you get the point. 

This seems to please him, and he nods, however still fuming, and turns to make his leave before you stammer after him, “W-wait.”

The Mandalorian pauses, taking a beat to stare at the wall before him before turning slowly. Embodying the posture of a man at his wits end and barely hanging on by a shred of patience before you. His helmet lands on you, tilted questionably as you rise from where you’ve rushed to the corner of the hull, picking up a little plastic lid that earlier had clattered to the corner. 

“I-I dropped this,” You murmur, hand crossing protectively over your form and marked-up arm, eyes averted to the floor, “I’m sorry.” 

The Mandalorian is frozen in place before you, staring down at the lid in your hands. He watches your fingers tremble slightly, holding the fragile lid he’d forgotten about in the heat of his disciplining. Gloved fingers slowly wrap around the plastic, and he hums, surging with delight on the inside. 

The anger in his chest slowly warms to a slight pleasure, and he grins triumphantly under his helmet. He caps the marker slowly before you, before tucking it into his utility belt.

Looping his fingers under your chin, he lifts it gently until your reluctant gaze meets his, and he recognizes the anxious, uncertain gleam in your eyes as a search for approval.

“There’s my good girl.” 

--------------------- You…are not really sure what you should be doing with yourself right now.

In fact, you feel pathetic. 

Basically, in the span of a few hours, you’ve gone from rebellious badass to disciplined, badly behaved child to self-punishing, useless piece of bantha fodder. In fact, since the incident earlier, you’ve done nothing but sit silent and pretty as a loth-kitten hiding from a threat, ears and head bowed down in shame. Knees to your chest, you willingly - yes, willingly, and without having been asked - sit just outside the bunk and under the watchful eye of the monitor in the hold. Just so he can keep an eye on you. 

This pisses you off for a number of reasons. One, you are not, I repeat, not, a child. You’re a grown ass woman, however young or limited your knowledge of the galaxy may be. Two, you have nothing to be sorry for. As puny as you feel in this moment, at least you’re not rolling over and submitting to whatever fucked up version of a wife he thinks you are. And three, perhaps the most irritating conclusion you’ve come to over and over again… neither of those first two things matter in the slightest because now you’re scared as shit of testing your captor again. And now, even more than before, you feel stuck. Stuck and defeated.  

It feels pointless, having destroyed the lens in the bunk, if you’re willingly going to sit out here and let him watch you. But now just…doesn't feel like the time to spit in his face further and crawl into the newfound privacy of your cot. 

It would be best to just…stay.

Stay and sit like a good girl.

This is bullshit.

You roll your eyes at your situation, fingers tracing over the lines on your arm for the thousandth time. It’s not like there’s anything else to do but think about what you’ve done, and, once again, you find yourself contemplating the meaning behind these markings. Evidently, he’s keeping track of the times you misbehave. Based on whatever made up scale or level of tolerance he has at the moment, which is great for you. 

Regardless of the absurdity of it, you can’t deny the sick, nervous feeling in your stomach that forms whenever you ruminate over the meaning of the tally marks. 

It sends a shiver down your spine, the fact that you’d tested him and he finally showed you that it wouldn’t be tolerated. 

Because in the last few days, your greatest consequence was sitting in a locked bunk until you were done screaming or crying or “throwing your tantrum.” But the Mandalorian always came to you when he felt like you’d had enough time, and let you start over with him until you did it again. 

But this time, you’ve hit another level. Your boldness and willfulness to continue to fight against him finally unlocked the next punishment. And it’s weird and confusing and you’re all the more pissed and frightened because you don’t even know what it means. 

What even is your purpose here?

The question causes a shiver to run down your spine. 

Oh, don’t go down that road..

You know what your purpose here is. 

To be his. 

Another wave of sickness spreads through you, and you immediately try to backtrack your thoughts, focusing on the immediate problem at hand. More than once in the last few standard hours you’ve found yourself sinking deeper into your thoughts than you’d like to go right now. 

These are the thoughts that left you weeping and shaking without restraint for the first couple of days, before you learned to block those trains of thought off. 

Those can be revisited. 

In time. 

Your fingers slide down your arm, catching on the invisible grip of ink each time the pads of your fingers meet the beginning of a new line. 

Six. Six lines.

The same six lines you counted a standard hour ago. Probably the same six lines you counted 3 standard hours ago. 

You huff out an aggressive exhale, dropping your arm and leaning your head up against the wall. Your eyes wander around the hold, narrowing in on every dangerous object in sight and wondering why the hell he still hasn’t hidden any of it. In all fairness, you assume most of it is hidden in all the cargo bins laying around. The control panel to your left flickers and catches your attention. Curiosity compels you to stand up from your stupid, self-punishing position on the ground and just push the keypad to open it, but you’ve crossed enough boundaries for the day. 

Maybe for a few days…

You hate the unsettling, anxious feeling in your gut, reprimanding you as if you’ve done something wrong. You feel like a child in time-out, which isn’t terribly off the mark since you’re sure that’s what he considers kicking you in the bunk is. But you’ve put yourself here. Under his supervision. It makes you sick. 

You try to shake the remorseful thoughts out of your head. No. This will all be worth it if you can climb into the privacy of the bunk tonight and finally feel safe from him. Finally have a place to hide. 

The hold creaks a bit and finally breaks your thoughts. It’s been quiet for the last few hours. You wish you actually knew how much time has passed. All you can do is just sit and stare. Count the bolts on the walls. Admire the flashing lights in the control panels. See if you can track the movement of the ship with the dangling chain in the corner, it hardly moves. 

It’s no different from anything else you’ve done since you’ve gotten here, aside from the crippling anxiety attacks, lashing out, and endless naps you’ve taken to pass the time.

Another long, tranquilizing sigh escapes you. You feel substantially calmer than earlier. In a strange way, the calmest you’ve been. Just sitting here. Thinking. Breathing. 

You feel an even odder sense of calm when the silence of the ship is finally interrupted by the meticulous steps of the Mandalorian’s boots approaching the hold. A sense of reprieve fills you, a release from your self-inflicted punishment. 

The door to the cockpit slides open, and you hear him take another step towards the ladder, pausing for a moment before his boots appear. He’s in no rush to join you in the hold, deliberately slow in his movements. 

Given how shaken you were earlier, you’re surprised that you maintain your state of calm at his reappearance. 

Though admittedly, the more of him that appears through the open-space leading down into your hold, the more reluctant you feel to face him, or his ire.

His boots meet the ground, cape blocking his hulking form until he turns to face you, immediately tracking your seated position on the floor. He’s still for a moment, and you’re sure he’s considering how he should approach you. 

You find your eyes are trained on his boots, suddenly not in the mood for any more confrontation now that he’s before you. Certainly not in the mood to be the one to break the silence. At least you have something new to count, casings in his leg strap.  

Then he says your name. 

That interrupts the pattern of numbers in your head, your gaze almost flickering up to meet his before narrowing back down. 

You don’t recall ever giving him your name.  

He says it again, gentler this time. 

Despite the increased confusion and pounding in your chest, you hum quietly to show him you’re listening. Your gaze lowers further to admire your own boots instead. Still scuffed up and ragged from your resistance boarding his ship. 

He sighs, not unkindly, and through the blurry edges of your vision you watch him crouch down onto a knee before you. Low enough so that you’re compelled to meet his gaze across from you. 

With your attention on him, he tilts his helmet at you. And you can’t help but feel like it’s a slightly more playful gesture than usual, almost like he’s teasing you. But you frown, shrinking away nonetheless. 

Having lost your eye contact to your boots again, the Mandalorian sighs, coaxing you with a gentle tone, “Come on, mesh’la, don’t hide from me.”

You don’t respond. Eyes flickering to a random crack on the wall. You wonder how that got there? Was he fighting a creature in here and they bashed their head open on it as they fell? Did he forget to lock down a crate and it slid corner-first into the wall? Or maybe he was just walking to the fresher in the dark one night and tripped, landing helmet-first into the corner and groaning before he stood up. 

The thought of the Mandalorian for once having a graceless movement brings the ghost of a smile to your lips

“What are you thinking about?” The Mandalorian hums, it almost sounds like he has the trace of a smile on his lips too. 

It wipes yours clean off. 

It becomes evident that you’re not going to answer, and, predictably, he sighs. “I think you’ve had plenty of time down here. Why don’t you come up into the cockpit with me?”

You don’t say anything, not sure when the sudden decision to become mute became a thing, but it was your automatic response to him this time, so may as well go with it. 

“It will be good for us, I think.” He pauses, considering his words. “We could talk.”

Talk?

He’s waiting for your response this time. And despite the unexpected timidness in your disposition, you murmur, “About what?”

He sighs, though this time it carries the weight of slight relief. “Well,” He begins, clearly contemplating his words carefully, “I…wish to understand you. Understand how you’re feeling. What you want-” 

“-You know what I want,” You interrupt, careful not to snap your words at him. 

“I don’t.” He says calmly, “If I did, I would give it to you.”

You stare into his visor, trying to look through the black screen and meet his eyes, but only able to meet your own. Your reflection is disheveled. Despite holding back the tears today, your eyes are still swollen and red from yesterday. Your hair is a mess, features solemn, defeated. 

Look at me, you plead silently.

I know you can see how hurt I am. 

Listen to me. 

You gather yourself, looking deep into your own reflection, gulping down your courage into your chest before you voice your needs. 

“I want to go home.”

You don’t know what the Mandalorian expected to hear from you, but clearly it wasn’t that. He is normally quick to respond, even when he is patient with his timing. But you can tell he has no words for you here.

“Tell me what else you want.” 

Don’t dismiss me. 

I only want one thing.

“I want to go home,” You repeat, calmly. 

“No,” He says strangely, “Not that. Pick something else.” 

“That is everything to me. That’s all I want.” You say steadily. 

He’s presented you with this moment. There is no better time for you to say it. To plead with him and show him how much you need this.

He’s silent, and you would swear that his steady position kneeled before you is faltering a bit. 

“I…cannot give you that.” He says, “I’m sorry.”

“You said if I wanted something, you would give it to me.” You say, your brave crumbling a bit in your chest, you can feel yourself losing this fight, and despite the peacefulness of it, the magnitude feels heavier than any past encounter you’ve had. 

“I did. And I will.” He says gently, “Just not that.”

In an instant, tears fog up your vision entirely, and you watch his blurry form tense in front of you. “Mandalorian,” You say, the words coming out almost as a whisper, having lost most of the sound to the lump in your throat. Your brave encourages you to move forward, to plead with him completely so that he hears you. With your chin wobbling and your eyes flooding with unshed tears, you reach out and rest your palm gently against his arm as it rests on his knee. He is unmoving as you do so, eyes trained on the pain in your face. 

“Please,” You whimper, your face as steady and as strong as you can make it despite the tear that loses the battle against your will, slipping over your cheek, “I want you to take me back home.”

Despite the thick armor beneath your fingers, you can feel his arm tensing under your grasp. His hand unoccupied by your hold raises to your cheek slowly, with permission, and you allow him to wipe the tear from your cheek, connecting with your pain. 

“I’m sorry,” He says, hand quickly lowering from your face. The movement startles another few tears to shed as he gently pulls both arms from you, rising to a stand. Your lips part as you watch his towering figure loom before you again, and he takes a step away from you, “But I will not do that.”

Suddenly the Mandalorian turns and is walking towards the ladder, and you feel your escape, your connection to him and his understanding, slowly shattering. 

“N-no,” You stutter, tears freely sliding down your cheeks now. “W-wait, Mandalorian, please!”

He ignores you, ascending the ladder as you scramble to your feet behind him. You’re slow and clumsy with your movements, your legs half asleep from having been folded up and unused for hours. 

You chase behind him, quickly following him up towards the cockpit. You hear the sliding door open and close before your eyes can reach them, and you haul yourself up quicker, gaining your footing on the second floor. The door is closed before you, and you sniffle as your near it, trying to encourage it to open again. 

It’s clear he’s locked it, not wanting to hear anything else you have to say. But you’re determined not to give up yet, gently tapping on the door with your shaking hand. “M-Mandalorian,” you whimper, “Please open the door.”

Silence. 

You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your heart in your ears, the pressure of a headache building up instantly, and your whimper lets out into a sob. 

“P-please open the door.” You ask again, tapping more gently than the first time, as if your hand has given up even if you haven't yet. 

“Please,” You beg, falling to your knees in front of the closed door, eyes shut in agony as tears squeeze their way through them. “D-don’t leave me alone out here.”

Your palms are digging into your eyes as you try to use them to stop the endless stream of hurt escaping you, and you lean forward, hoping to find support against the closed door. Your mind doesn’t register that you’re collapsing further forward than you should until your body lands into two arms instead. You’re blindly pulled and lifted into a pair of arms, suddenly surrounded by comfort, and you’re cradled protectively into the Mandalorians lap. His gloved hand holds your face to his chest as you sob, slowly rocking you back and forth. You reach your hand against his chest, firmly holding the space between his chest plate and cowl, not wanting him to relinquish his hold on you. Your fingers squeeze tightly as you yank him as close to your face as possible to maintain the nearness, afraid of being alone again.   

Distantly you can hear him humming to you, reassuring you, shushing you to calmness in his arms. 

You’re not sure how long he holds you, petting your hair and skin until your shivers die away and your shaky sobs fade into heavy breathing against his neck. All you know is that it’s the safest you’ve felt in a long time and you really don’t want him to let you go. 

--------------------- You feel your body jostled a little bit, and you move your cheek, frowning at the soreness you feel in your cheek as you pull it away from the hard surface it was resting on. You move around a little bit, stretching forward until you find a soft spot for you to sink your face into again.

There’s a continuous humming in the background that’s growing louder as you come into consciousness, but you decide to dismiss it a while longer. 

It only takes you a second to recall what happened and put together where you are, but you don’t move even as you do.

The Mandalorian shifts you again only slightly as he leans forward to adjust something on the controls. You relinquish your body to move fluidly with him as he leans back carefully, clearly trying not to disturb you. 

Eventually, you encourage your eyes to bat open, fighting against the salty seal of dried tears. You wince as they do, blinking in your bright surroundings. You’re tucked into the Mandalorian’s chest as he sits in the pilot's seat, your body cradled into one arm that holds you steady to him, legs draped over both legs as he leans back to keep you securely against him. 

You gather that you must have fallen asleep in his arms, tired out from crying on the floor, and instead of leaving you in the cargo bay or locking you in the bunk, he kept you here with him. 

You wonder if that’s just because you destroyed his ability to keep watch over you as you slept.

Your eyes flutter closed again, not ready to meet whatever you’ll be up against next. Instead you focus on the still slumberful rise and fall of your breathing, feeling the Mandalorian’s chest moving slightly as he does the same. He’s clearly been awake, keeping you steady as you dozed off and piloting the ship or whatever the hell he usually does when he’s up here. 

A sudden sharp pain causes your closed eyes to squeeze together before fluttering open, and you realize that the pounding in your head has only intensified since earlier, which is annoying. You can feel the Mandalorian shift his gaze above you, and can only gather that his stupid ability to be aware of every situation means he probably knows you’re awake now too. Doubly annoying. 

Still, you don’t move. You’re not really sure what you would move for. His hold on you is surprisingly comfortable, and in all honesty is nicer than sitting in the dark hold alone down the ladder. Here at least, you can see the stars. 

You’re itching to look out at the stars. And assuming he knows you’re awake now, there’s no reason not to. You adjust your head, drowsily turning your face towards the window and leaning back against the Mandalorian’s chest, but for now you’ll just pretend he’s not here. This moment is about you and the stars. You’ve never been to space. Hell, you’ve never been off your crap-hole of a planet, so you don’t know what hyperspace is supposed to look like, but you don’t think this is it. The stars are clear as you slowly move through them, and you decide you must be close to a destination, something you hadn’t even thought about in your short time on this ship. 

But even now, your only focus is the array of lights you seem to pass in slow motion, and the stunning few stars and planets exploding with color around you. 

It’s utterly beautiful.

A content sigh escapes you and your lips part. If your eyes weren’t so agitated, you’d allow them to well up as you take in the beauty before you. 

This. 

This is not so bad.   

“Do you like it?” 

His voice cuts into the silence, vibrating against your ear and intruding into your moment with the stars. You hold back your sigh, it’s not like you’d truly forgotten he was there. 

Still, you manage to nod slowly against him, keeping your focus on the incredible sight before you. For all the faults you can throw at this guy, showing you the stars isn’t one of them. 

“They’re beautiful.” You further offer, not necessarily sure why.

He hums against your back, and you’re suddenly aware that he’s been running his hand up and down your arm peacefully, probably to help coax your previously sleeping form to remain tranquil.

You’ll leave it for now. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, gently. Even your own stubbornness can’t keep the slight hopefulness and excitement out of your tone a little. You’ve never seen anything exciting or beautiful in your life. 

“To a warm, green planet. Lots of lakes, mountains..” He says, continuing to trace your arm. Your chest swells a little bit at his words. You never dreamed you’d be able to see real mountains covered in green, real lakes not filled to the brim with mud, “Somewhere for us to take it easy for a little while.”

Us. 

Of course he had to say ‘us.’ 

Your vision falters a little bit, and you fall silent. Your mood sours a little bit, envisioning what the next few days will bring, and soon you’re sulking in the Mandalorian’s hold instead of resting peacefully. 

Almost as if he can sense your mood change, his own form begins to stiffen beneath you, becoming less comfortable and more floor-like. 

You decide to try and ignore it, despite your own irritation rising at him. Your gaze flickers down, automatically being drawn to the lines on your arm as you do, and pretty quickly, you’re pissed all over again. Consequently, your eyes flicker over to his belt, where you can see the marker he assaulted you with earlier tucked snugly into a pouch. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

You blink at his words. “What?” You ask, bafflement lacing your tone as you sit upright and face him for the first time since you’ve woken up. 

“I said. Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing. Don’t.”

The look of displeasure on your face quickly morphs into a scowl at his words. 

The fucking audacity. 

“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He snaps instantly. 

“I am not lying, asshole.” You grit, trying to disentangle yourself from his arms. He won’t let you go, and you get the feeling it’s just because you want him to.  

“Ugh!” You scoff, smacking your arm against his chest plate in irritation. He takes the hit without saying anything, trying to hold you tightly in place as you fight against him. “Wait to ruin a fucking calm moment you dick.” 

A noise you can only attune to a growl escapes his chest in irritation and his hands squeeze at your arms harshly to still you, “Stop it.”

“Let me out of your arms.” You grit out menacingly, stilling to stare him head on in the visor. His arms don’t let up, but he meets your gaze with his own stern one, and you can almost see his jaw clenching in anger beneath that bucket of his. 

“Sit. Still. Sweet girl.” He warns, watching your eyes flicker across his helmet in agitation, as if you’re sizing him up.

You don’t move, maintaining your eye contact with him, a scowl on your face as you wait for his next move. 

You stare each other down, curled up in his lap and held down by his arms, damn near straddling him as you do. You don’t even care, right now it’s about showing him that he can go to hell. 

Seemingly satisfied with your obedience, he slowly nods as he looks up at you, your new position having given you the height advantage as you tried to rip yourself out of his arms. 

“Grab the marker.” He says, tilting his head in the direction of his belt. 

“No.” You bite, all the attitude in the world bleeding into your expression and voice. 

“Grab. The marker.”

You let him sit on his demand for a moment, disrespected and unanswered, then throw it at him again, “No.”

The heaving of his chest is slowly growing heavier and heavier, albeit silent, and you’re preening at the effect you have over him again. 

Here. 

This is when you have the power. 

He says your name, deep and guttural like he’s using it as a threat. “Pick up the marker, now, or else.”

Or else?

Is he fucking kidding with that?

You draw in a breath, ready to bark back at him-

“Be my good girl.” He growls in a final warning. 

A shiver runs down your spine making you shift above him, face hardening and jaw clenching in anger. 

Oh, I fucking hate it when he says that. 

You look his visor up and down as if in a final show of defiance, before plastering on the fakest, most pissed-off smile you can manage, and reaching down to yank the marker out of his belt.

You hold it up before him, like the good girl you are.

“Three more lines.” He snarls, as if the three words are all he can grit out. 

You keep your gaze locked on him for another long, tense moment, before batting your eyes twice and grabbing the marker with both hands. 

You gently uncap the lip. 

His helmet is firm on your face.

Place the lid in your lap. 

Hold out your arm. 

Lower the marker. 

And before the asshole can even register what you’re doing, you draw a long, thick, ugly line across the arm plating of his Beskar. 

Boy. 

If you thought you’d seen this guy tense up before…the utter stillness that rakes through him in that moment shocks you into stillness yourself. 

And before you can even look at him with that prideful gleam in your eye, he has you whipped over his knees with your limbs trapped beneath him. 

A startled scream rips through you as you kick out in anger, finding yourself completely subdued under his arms, your body bent over one knee with the other holding your legs down. With your arms supporting your weight against the floor, you try to reach out and whack him with your remaining free limbs, but you can barely reach the armor plating on his arm, and it hurts you probably more than it does him.

“I would keep that arm down by your face if I were you. You’re gonna need it.”

Absolutely fuming, and admittedly, increasingly terrified as his hand slides up the back of your thigh, you scream in rage and try to free yourself once more. 

“Don’t touch me!” You shout, ignoring the shiver that courses through you as his hand grazes beneath your ass. Your eyes widen and you tense up, trying to swing back at him again. 

This time, he catches the arm, humming as if pleased that you so graciously offered it to him. Now you’re trying to yank it back from him, your body contorted in an awkwardly uncomfortable but not bone-breaking position. 

“Hm. Interesting.” He hums, ignoring your squirming form and pitiful noises you’re making under his hold. “I’m surprised I only gave you six, sweet girl. Nine including the three you didn’t draw.” 

He drops your hand, and you whip it down quickly to help support the other arm, tired from holding all your weight. Gasping with the newfound relief, you stare at the lines on your arm, counting the same six lines and unable to ignore the invisible three. 

“But I don’t think that’s enough for what you just pulled.” He says thoughtfully. 

Then his hand is resting above your ass again. 

Your eyes widen and you try kicking away from him again, screaming your unhappiness, “No!” You shout, “Don’t touch me!”

Despite your protests, the Mandalorian effortlessly pulls your leggings from your hips, sliding them down to your knees that are trapped beneath his thigh. You can feel your underwear clinging to your hips still, which only slightly settles the nausea in your stomach. 

“Be still.” He says calmly, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down your back. “And tell me how many times you misbehaved, so that we can move on.”

You scream one final time, letting your limbs kick as much as they can before relaxing in defeat, an angry sob escaping your body. 

He shushes you gently, continuing to sooth you with his hand on your back, waiting for your heart to stop pounding so intensely in your chest. “Breathe. Relax, sweet girl,” He hums. 

His words should make you fume. They do. But the constant anger can only last so long, and soon you’re focusing on the feeling of his hand running up and down your spine, soothing you until you adjust. He continues making soothing noises and praising you. And in a few minutes you’re still under his hand, only the tired rise and fall of your breathing moving you. “There we are.” His hand slowly comes to a stop on your back, satisfied with your state. “There’s my good girl.”

You take a slow, tentative breath beneath him, before giving into his earlier request. Knowing the only way out of this, is through. And you put yourself here, so you’re gonna get yourself out. 

You clear your throat, glancing at your arm, before muttering, “There are supposed to be nine.”

“Nine times you misbehaved?” He hums, before clucking in displeasure. “All in one day?”

You close your eyes, trying to maintain your calm.

Fuck, nine times in one day is a lot. 

“I’m sorry,” You murmur pathetically, tears springing to your eyes. 

You really did do this to yourself. 

“I know you are, sweet girl.” He says earnestly, his hand running up and down your back again, trying to soothe your tears away and your body back into calm. “And since I know you are, how about we just do six?”

You sniffle, the action painful when your head is almost upside down no matter how much you try to lift it. You nod instantly, grateful that he’s downgrading the punishment. “Yes, please.” You murmur.

You know exactly what’s about to happen. You’re about to get spanked. 

If it wasn’t so daunting and - fuck - you’ll admit to it, well-deserved after nine incidents in one day, then you would probably just yell at him some more. But you don’t even want to imagine what a step-up punishment from this looks like. 

“Count them for me. Out loud. Understand?” 

He pauses between commands, you know it’s to give you an extra moment to prepare, but you don’t think you’ll ever be ready. 

“Yes, sir.” You say.

Crack! 

You whimper, your body jolting forward at the first impact, and forcing yourself to exhale the tension, not having expected the blow to come with so much force. 

“O-one.”

Crack! 

“O-oh.” You whimper, eyes squeezing shut at the force of the second smack. You steel your hands firmly ahead of you, trying to brace yourself further and gather strength. 

He is not holding back when, admittedly, you thought he would, and you can feel your eyes stinging with tears again. 

A gentle hand lands on the worn skin of your bottom, and you jump with another whimper. The gentleness of the touch unfamiliar to the skin already. 

“You’re doing well, sweet girl,” The Mandalorian coos. His hand starts to move over the tender skin in a soothing rub, and you sigh contentedly at the momentary relief. 

“How many was that?” He encourages gently, not rushing you to get it out.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself again, “Two.”

Crack! 

“Ow!” You cry, jumping forward. Your mind shouts at you to count it out, get it over with, but you know that it means delivery of the next one.

Another whimper escapes you as your Mandalorian praises you again, his hand soothing your hurt bottom. “I know, baby, I know it hurts.”

Your whimper escapes as a small cry, “M-Mandalorian I d-don’t know if I can do this.”

He coos at you, continuing to rub your bottom soothingly, and for the first time you realize that he’s doing so with his bare hand. You don’t know if the leather glove would have made your punishment better or worse, but you can’t deny the immediate relief his bare skin offers yours in its absence. “You’re halfway done, I know you can take it.”

You shake your head immediately at his words, “N-no, I don’t think I can-”

“Hey,” He says, gently but firmly. “You were bad. This is what happens when we’re bad. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about disobeying me. And we’ll be grateful that we’re only doing 6 now instead of 9, yes?”

You don’t want to hear the words, but you can’t deny their truth in his mind. And you really, really, don’t want him to add on to those 6.

“O-okay,” You sniffle, “I’ll take it.” 

He hums at your surrender, continuing to soothe your skin for a moment, “I can move to a different spot, if that would make it easier for you, sweet girl?”

Would it? I guess he would know. 

“Okay.” You nod, sniffing again, “Thank you.”

“Look at your arm and count the last one.” He responds. 

You take another deep breath before glancing at the tally marks somewhat irritably, “Three.”

Crack! 

You gasp, your hips thrusting away at the impact. Your arms adjust firmly in front of you as you try to still your body from shivering in the Mandalorian’s hold. 

The blow, delivered with the same force as the first three, hit closer to the area between your bottom and your inner thigh than just your cheek. And instead of feeling a sharp pain, pleasure courses through you. 

And not just that, it definitely gushes a little bit from you. 

Suddenly your heart is pounding again, nervousness and confusion at this new revelation. And you have to stop yourself from whimpering again as the Mandalorian lowers his hand to the abused area, rubbing it soothingly like he did the last one. 

“Is that better, sweet girl?” He asks. 

Holy fuck. 

What the fuck?

“U-um,” You stutter, voice breathless as you focus on his skin rubbing the sensitive flesh, dangerously close to where you’re pretty sure, the evidence of your pleasure is starting to dampen you. 

“I can move back-”

“N-no!” You shout, definitely louder than you needed to, the Mandalorian’s hand freezes in its slide back to the previously abused skin. 

“Th-this was…easier.” You say, nervously. 

His hand slowly returns to lower, nearing your inner thigh and you close your eyes, chiding yourself for getting pleasure from this. 

“Whatever you want, babygirl.” He hums. 

Your teeth grit and you try to be silent at his words. Words that normally enrage you that are now contributing to the unbearable feeling of pleasure you’re worried will soon show between your legs.

Oh Maker. 

“That was, four.” You gulp. 

He hums. Before lifting his hand from your skin, the Mandalorian drags his fingers lightly between your thighs, where they rest, tracing them away from you and causing you to gasp lightly and lift your bottom up towards them. 

You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment, hating yourself more and more by the minute. 

“Sensitive, babygirl?” He asks. You can’t tell if you hear smugness in his tone or just his normal taunting at your punishment. 

“Y-yes,” You gulp again, trying to cover it up, “I-it hurts.”

He clucks sympathetically, “Well, you’re almost done, brave girl. You’ve been so good for me.”

You’re about to respond when his hand makes contact with your bare cheeks again. 

Crack! 

“Oh! Maker.” You whimper quietly, waiting expectantly for the feeling of his gentle hand to follow. When it does you exhale in further pleasure, biting back your groan as the Mandalorian adjusts you over his knee. The movement shifts your underwear, gliding the fabric across your folds. You gasp audibly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks at the noise. But you’re so tender and coated in an obscene amount of slick that wasn’t begging you for friction until now.

And now that it is, you can’t get away from it. 

“Where did you go, babygirl?” The Mandalorian’s voice husks lowly in your ear. His head lowered down in your direction. “Did my good girl forget how to count?”  

“F-five.” You say breathlessly. 

“Mm,” He hums, “I know. You’re taking your punishment so well babygirl. Such a good girl. Last one.” 

Last one. 

Crack! 

Another whimper escapes you as you’re jostled forward by the spank. “O-oh.” You sigh, pleasure further seeping between your legs. He hit you full force with that smack, closer to where your body needed relief but not close enough. 

“Six,” You sigh, shaking your head, and mentally scolding yourself for getting turned on by this. 

But then his hand lowers to soothe you once more, fingers tracing dangerously close to where you’re sure your body is gaping for him. And suddenly, for an entirely different reason, you are unbelievably grateful that he kept your underwear on. 

He makes a soothing noise, singing praises for you as he pets your bottom, and you can’t withhold the small groan that escapes you as your arms give and you slump completely into his cage. 

“There we go, you’re okay.” He soothes, “I knew my good girl could take it.”

Oh, Maker, he’s going to kill me. 

You bite your lip, desperate for some privacy now as he teases the area between your cheeks and your thighs. Tracing what he thinks are soothing patterns over the abused skin. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. It’s fine. But you can feeling your body gushing more and more at his movements, the slick starting to moisten your thighs-

Your eyes snap open. 

Oh no. 

It’s starting to dampen my thighs.  

“M-Mandalorian,” You stutter out, trying to move from his hold again, desperate to free yourself before he catches you. 

His hand slows to a stop in its massage, and your heart stops when he leans down toward you, giving you his undivided attention. But the movement causes his hand to slide slightly towards the deeper part of your inner thigh, where you could swear he must feel the slick of your folds.

“Am I done with my punishment now!” You rush out, trying to escape before he can realize the pleasure he spanked into you. 

Thankfully, his hand slides away from your thighs, and you pull your body as quickly as you can to a stand before him, gushing with embarrassment all over again when you remember your pants are around your knees and now he’s staring straight at the front of your panties. 

You’re quick to reach for your leggings, but he’s already reaching and pulling them over you, hands resting on your hips. You’re about to excuse yourself with another apology and hurry into your bunk when his fingers hook around your chin again. 

You stand between his spread legs, silent and wide eyed as he surveys you. You compose yourself, trying not to squirm under his gaze, or between his thighs, as his helmet tilts silently at you. Nervousness is about to start bleeding through, and you’re about to speak when he does. 

“Did you learn your lesson?”

Dear lord, he really does want to kill me. 

“Y-yes, I did.” You murmur, trying not to cross your legs and stop the gushing between your folds. 

“Good.” He nods, and before you can excuse yourself, he’s twisting your body and pulling you into his lap. 

You gasp as he seats you right over his thigh. The ridges of his beskar digging right into your wet folds, parting them perfectly and making your surge with need and desire on the inside. It takes everything you have to stay still and silent. 

“Shhh, I know, babygirl,” The Mandalorian hums, adjusting you further over his thigh. You can’t hold back the whimper at the way he jostles you, sliding you against his armor in the most tantalizing maneuver, and you squirm helplessly in his hold. “Shhh, shh, shh, you’re okay, I know it hurts.”

No you fucking don’t.

You want to snarl at him. Or slap him. Or grind against him.

“It’s just a part of the punishment,” He hums, but there’s something all too pleased laced in his tone that you would pick up on if you weren’t so tortured atop his thigh right now.  

And what’s worse. You can’t ignore the awful fact that after what he just did to you, it feels so damn good to sit cradled in his arms

And even worse.

How unbelievably soaked your folds are beneath your leggings, and how badly you want to rub yourself against his armor.

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

Warnings: Noncon/ dubcon elements, spanking, holy smokes where do I start uhh dark!din, delusional!din, forced marriage, abduction, drugging, Stockholm syndrome, noncon/dubcon elements, abusive relationship, manipulation (certain things listed are just potential warnings for future chapters. I don’t know where this will go but I don’t want anyone getting invested in something that takes an unexpected turn) Please let me know if there are any warnings I should add to this list.

I print these at the bottom so people don't have to run into spoilers :)

In hindsight, you were pretty proud of yourself. In the time between him grabbing you and getting thrown into the ship, you fought tooth and nail. You’re pretty sure the soles of your boots were completely useless now from how hard you dug your heels into the dirt as you were being dragged. Your feet were probably bleeding, you sense there’s a small gash in your head from running into him in the alley, and the gloves he wore left irritated marks all over your exposed skin. You could definitely use a med kit to at least disinfect yourself, but not from him.

He kept muttering to you while you fought him. Easy, sweet girl. Stop that, now. You’re gonna hurt yourself. 

But you didn’t. You’d be damned if this Mandalorian would take you against your will. So you kicked, punched, pulled, and grabbed onto anything you could to keep him from taking you. And it worked, for a while.

But then you realized that really, really, he was just humoring you. Because the second he’d decided that he’d had enough, that you’d had enough, he wrapped an arm around your knees and threw you over his shoulder. Then, it didn’t matter how much you kicked and writhed and pounded into his back, you weren’t going anywhere.

The bastard didn’t even say anything. Just held you tightly as you threw your fit, occasionally shushing you when you got too worked up. 

Evidently it didn’t even matter. You screamed and cried and pleaded for help the whole way to his ship, but nobody on that selfish cesspool of a planet even gave you a second glance. All caught up in their own dirty biddings in the late hours of the night. You swear you even heard a foulsome creature chuckle from the shadows as you passed by, the sound made you tremble, and turned your violent fighting into helpless sobs of surrender, as you succumbed to the idea that maybe, you were actually fucked. 

You’re sure that, eventually, he realized that too. That nobody even cared to interfere in his intentions with you, not there. He was just going to let you tire yourself out, cry as loudly as you wanted until your arms went limp with exhaustion and there was no more fight in you left to handle.

Of course that didn’t happen. You wouldn’t let yourself give up that easily. 

The second his ship was in sight, the ramp lowering as you approached it, you were frantically fighting in his grasp again. Shouting and growling at him as your fight mode really kicked in. Then you found the trick, a good elbow into the space between his helmet and shoulder padding. 

He did not like that. And gone was his patience.

Unlucky for you, you could only get a few good jabs in the few short strides it took him to walk you up the ramp, hissing at you to quit it with every low grunt you pulled out of him. 

“Hey!” He finally snapped, yanking you down and off his shoulder and crowding you back into a crate. “I said. Quit it.” 

The sound of his patience lost made you jump, his voice much louder and angrier sounding than you thought it would be after your silent journey. His bark and firm hold on your jaw stunned you to stillness for a moment, and he took advantage of your temporary docility to push a button on his vambrace, bringing the ramp up from the ground.

That’s when fight mode part two kicked in.

“No!” You cried out, shoving him back with as much force as you could muster. Your window was in sight and, quite literally, closing fast. But you couldn't even make it more than a step past him, having only shifted his balance for a moment and losing a bit of your own in the process.

You felt two strong arms wrap around you from behind, one around your waist and the other around your shoulders, keeping you firm and snug into his chest. 

He shushed you as you screamed out, telling you to “relax” and ‘breathe” as you desperately fought the suffocating hold of his arms. You were relentless, but unfortunately, so was he. His fight was stronger than your own, and he only had to hold out long enough for the ramp to close. 

Which it did. 

“N-no!” You screamed, your body crumbling instantly “P-please!” You sobbed, grabbing onto the arm wrapped across your chest and letting your weight fall into the body behind you. Your eyes were wide, glued to the space where the last sliver of the night sky peeked through before it was sealed out, before you were sealed in.

“You can’t do this!” You shrieked, “Let me go!”

You let out a frustrated scream, kicking your legs out and ramming them against any firm surface you could find until he pulled his own forward to trap your flailing legs beneath.

“Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

You tried to keep kicking, frantically stomping your feet in the little, trapped space under his legs as you succumbed to heavy sobs, your body falling completely limp into his own. 

You could feel him sigh behind you, “Sweetheart, please-” 

But you couldn’t focus on the fight anymore, surrendering your fate to begging once more, begging for your life like when you’d run into him in the alley. Begging for him to spare you from the horrible demise of death.

The begging that bound you to him forever. 

You are my riduur now. 

My wife.

“P-please,” You cried out, “You- ca-an’t, no- you don’t- I - you can’t pl-ease I- n-no, d-don’t do thi-is-,” You choked out a wet cough, your tears and mucus and emotions swelling up in the space of your throat.

“I can’t b-be- your, no -can’t, no I- I- can- can’t- br-,” Your pleas were broken up continuously with the violent sobs wracking your body. The most heavy and shallow breaths you’ve ever felt in your life cutting into you, stabbing into your ribs and draining you of oxygen. “C-can’t- I c-can’t br-brea-breathe” You sobbed, choking loudly on the words, trying to escape his hold to lean over and cough out whatever was stuck in your chest.

“Hey, hey listen to me.” The voice behind you soothed. “You can breathe. Listen to me, okay? Can you hear my voice?”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond with the choked sobs and broken breaths fighting your body. The arm around your chest tightened and you were helpless in its hold as the pressure increased, trying to ground you.

“You can breathe, sweet girl. Just in and out, okay. In…and out. Do it with me now.” He said, his fingers squeezing your arm at his request.

“N-no!” You cried, thrashing in his hold. “G-get aw-a-way fro-m m-me-”

You couldn’t see anymore. Your vision wasn’t just cloudy but dizzying, gray. Your chest was heavy, your breaths incapable of filling your lungs with air no matter how much you breathed in. You lost sight of your senses. 

There was a pressure squeezing and tapping and shaking your face.You heard fuzzy, background noise, humming, and vaguely felt your captor’s arms leave you. Your body was suddenly swaying, unsupported. You found purchase on a wall, leaning against it, or on top of it? Maybe it wasn’t the wall, maybe it was the ground. You curled up into it as you coughed, gasping for air. 

A moment later there was pressure on your arms and neck, turning you face-up again. Two cold, gloved hands holding your cheeks still as a voice hummed out to you from in front of your face. You could almost feel the timbre of the words, but were thrown off by the blurry helmet that didn’t move with the sounds of a voice.

You could only make out a few words: “...Sorry….so sorry… okay…small pinch…okay? Now …-on’t move…One…two-…There we go…good girl…there it is…such…good girl…now? Breathe, sweet girl…that’s better…”

A heavy wave of calm started pulsing through your body, and the Mandalorian above you shooshed you gently, praising you with a gentle hand running through your hair.

“There you go,” He cooed, “That’s it, sweet girl. I’ve got you, just breathe.”  

You wanted to keep shouting at him. Call him sick and vile and twisted now that your heart was calm enough to let your brain think. But all you could muster was a pathetic whimper, your eyes closing decisively and head lulling lazily to the side.  

“Shh, I know baby,” He soothed, letting you tilt your head into his palm. The features in your face relaxed, and you let out a defeated whine, letting all the tension leave your body.

“I know.”

You don’t remember much after that, waking up in the very space you’re confined to now. You assume the Mandalorian carried you here, and no doubt locked the door from the outside after tucking you under the sheets and removing any sharp or weaponable object in here. So basically you were stuck in a fucking cupboard with blankets. 

You tried to escape again, of course. After waking up and experiencing panic all over again, furious at being drugged and made unconscious, you pounded and kicked and did everything you possibly could to bust the stupid sliding door open, or knock it through, either outcome would suffice. 

You knew he could hear you. Hear you shouting and kicking and screaming out any and every curse word stored in your memory. You were too angry to cry. So angry that ultimately you decided to start cursing him out by name. Daring him to come to you, face you, calling him a coward. Challenging him, taunting him. You really thought he would bite. 

Nothing. 

He just let you go on for hours and hours and hours. So many that the exhaustion started to set in again, the hunger became distracting, and all you could really feel was…surrender.

Not to him though. Never to him. But…to the moment.

So here you sat for the past who knows how long, silently, slowly recovering from your frenzy. You heave in a slow deep breath as you rub your closed eyes again. You can’t decide what’s worse. The pounding in your head, the rawness of the skin around your eyes, the intrusive hunger, the exhaustion, the bruises littering your body from throwing yourself around.. the list goes on. 

A sudden swish followed by slow, consistent clanking startles you, the sound echoing in the lower level of the ship. You were beginning to wonder if anything was even still alive out there, or if you’d landed somewhere and the Mandalorian had left you here. It’s been a while since you’ve felt movement, but you have the feeling that you’re still flying. Every once in a while you feel a sense of imbalance and motion sickness, the movements affecting you so intensely from never having flown in space.

The unmistakable sound of boots thudding closer has you tensing up in your spot. Your mind sobers up, albeit only slightly, when you hear steps slowly approaching. They tread slowly, more gently the closer to you they get, before stopping just outside the door. 

If you felt like you could help it, you’d hold your breath. Anything to make it seem like you were sleeping and not fighting whatever drug was still working its way through your system. But you were tired. More than tired. And hurting, and hungry, and too corpse-like to care about the fact that you’d called out for this man furiously just a short time ago, demanding his presence. But now that he was here, standing right there, all you wanted was for him to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. 

He stands there for a moment, silent. You know he's listening intently, waiting for the rustle of sheets, a slumberful sigh in your breathing, or maybe the muffled sounds of tears. He’s patient, but whatever it is he’s waiting for, you won’t give to him. Whether that’s fear or defiance, you can’t tell.

You can almost hear the breathing through his modulator, see the slow rising and falling of his shoulders and his contemplative stare through the door. 

Please think I’m asleep, please think I’m asleep, please… please…

The silence is thick between the two of you. You almost wonder if you’re being too quiet, suddenly hearing your heart pounding loudly through your chest and wondering if he can hear it too.

But then he takes a slow and hesitant step away from the door. 

Oh, thank the Maker. 

All you have to do is let him walk away. Let him walk away and then you can delay whatever plan of attack you have. Maybe catch your breath a little bit, maybe even…succumb to a few more hours of rest.   

The tenseness in your shoulders is already lowering with his retreat. You allow yourself to take a silent, ever-so-slight, deep breath. 

He’s almost there.

He’s almost gone.

You’re almost in the clear. 

And then…you fuck it up. You don’t know what compels you. What mouthy, daring, creature inside of you urges you to do it, possesses you to risk it, but you open your mouth.

“Coward.” You mutter.

The feet stop. 

Your own jaw has dropped to the floor. 

What the fuck?

What the actual kriffing fuck?

They slowly walk back to you.

Oh no. 

Oh no no no no no.

You hold your breath again. Maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe he just thought he heard something. Just don’t. Make. Another. Sound. 

You’re convinced he might not open the door, that he might really just chock up the noise to rattling in the ship and go back up into the cockpit. 

But the low baritone of his taunting voice startles you, telling you otherwise.

“And here I thought we were done throwing our tantrum.”

The door slides open. You’re met with the frightening frame of his armor. The Mandalorian is still for a moment, his helmet tilted slightly to one side and a hand still resting on the control panel outside the room, He leans up against the doorway, resting his weight against one side and somehow still encompassing the entire frame.  

He’s staring at you, waiting for you to speak. 

Well, you’ve gone and put yourself in this situation, so you’d better make it worth something. 

Bring back the fire.

You clear your throat, voice escaping much more airy than you would have liked. “S-so you could hear me.”

He pauses, offering you a deliberately slow and silent nod.

“I could hear you, sweet girl."

“Don’t call me that,” you growl, trying to put more bite in your words. But you sound pathetic, voice hoarse from screaming and crying, your body sore and weak.

He chuckles, leaning off the wall and raising both his elbows up to support his weight inside the doorway, giving off the illusion that you’re surrounded by him, “I suppose I shouldn’t, you weren’t very sweet.” 

You huff out a breath, shaking your head. 

Why me? The words are floating around in your dazed head. How could this have happened to you? You just want to go home, to be rid of this nightmare and wake up in your small bed on your crappy home planet again.

You want him to take you back, you want to go home.

Tears swim reluctantly into your eyes. You look up at him. He’s solid. His body is still, arms sturdy, feet firmly planted - he eludes power and strength. You’re looking for cracks. Shreds of humanity that might be bleeding through this facade. Something to appeal to. He’s staring you down, waiting for you to voice your thoughts, watching your eyes water and burn and resist staying open.

You don’t want to give him the benefit of seeing you cry. But suddenly it’s all just too much. You bury your face into your knees and tug your feet closer to you.

“C-can you please just, go?” You whimper, thick tears burning your already irritated eyes.  

It’s silent for a moment. Then, you hear the Mandalorian sigh, and feel motion in front of you. You risk a glance up, baffled that he’s actually respected your wishes and decided to leave you to cry in peace. 

But no. He’s kneeling in front of you now, much closer to your face. Your eyes remain trained on him as your head tilts down and further back, inching away from him as he raises a hand to your cheek. You don’t fight it as much as you’d like to, but he’s already leaning forward and looking closely into your face before you can help it. 

Once he has you in his palm though you jerk your face to the side, or at least, jerk as much as you can. You have the feeling it was more of a drunken sway, and it’s far too easy for him to bring you back to face him. 

“Stay still, beautiful.” He orders. 

This only encourages you to tug out of his grasp again, harsher and more exaggerated than before. 

“Hey-…Hey,” He says, his tone more stern and unyielding. “Stay still, I need to look at you.”

You cease moving, he pinches your cheeks with enough force to have earned your compliance, not wanting to further anger him right now.

Sensing that you won’t disobey him again, he releases his hold on your face, bringing his hand to tap against the black line of his visor, “Look here, baby,” He says. 

You let out a weary exhale as your eyes resign themselves to staring through the black visor, catching the slightest reflection of yourself in the dark display. He tilts his head, leaning closer and grasping your chin to turn your gaze to the side. You can imagine he’s furrowing his eyebrows as he analyzes you. Your body goes placid, and you allow him to examine your face, angling his own to get a closer look at whatever it is he was searching for. 

“You’ve been fighting the serum,” He mutters, turning you to face him again.   

The grip on your chin doesn’t leave, but the pressure lightens up a bit.

You find it in you to snap at him. “Yeah, well, you drugged me against my will. Of course I’m fighting it.” 

He sighs, hand falling. “I didn’t wanna do that to you baby. You were panicking, and your heart was racing too fast. You weren’t responding to me when I tried to calm you down. The anesthetic was purely a relaxer. But you’ve been so restless that you’ve barely let it do its job,” He scolded with a shake of his head. “And all that kicking and screaming you did must have taken a toll on your body, it’s a miracle you haven't passed out.”

You grit your teeth, “I feel fine.”

He hums soothingly, “Really?”

You don’t say anything. The question hangs in the air, he lets it marinate in your mind knowing that every thought is moving slowly, spiraling in unbalanced directions. 

“Well then,” He continues, “Tell me, why are you crying sweetheart?” 

He tilts his head further to one side. He’s taunting you. He must be taunting you. 

He wants you to break. 

“Because I’m-I’m…” 

You’re what? What? Angry, sad, scared?

The only words that come to mind are juvenile. Little. 

He nods at your silence, as if he understands. “You’re feeling a lot of overwhelming feelings, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

“N-no, I’m just…” Another tear falls, slips from the corner of your eye before you can stop it, and you don’t even have the energy to wipe it away. 

I’m just so tired. You think. And afraid.

Your jaw begins to tremble dramatically. The Mandalorian tsks at you, lifting his gloved finger slowly to wipe the tear from your chin. You only flinch back slightly, the movement having missed your attention until he was already there. “I know baby,” He coos, “You’ve really tired yourself out, sweet girl, haven’t you?”

You shake your head no at him, but you feel dazed, absolutely out of it. You don't even think you feel all that angry anymore. The Mandalorian rises slowly, as if trying not to spook you. And for whatever Maker forsaken reason, you can’t bring yourself to stop him when he rests a hand on your shoulder and places the other on your knee, urging you to move forward. 

Tears are slipping down your cheeks, and a distressed whimper leaves you, “Y-you…you stole me.” You say, baffled as if the whole encounter were just coming to you right now. Your voice cracks at the words, and broken inhales and exhales leave tiredly from your body.

“Shhh, hush baby,” The Mandalorian ignores your words, “You’re okay, now. I'll protect you.” 

He continues making soothing sounds and whispering reassurances to you, reaching out to straighten the cot beneath you.  “What do you say,” He starts, speaking gently as he maneuvers the blankets, “You be my good, sweet girl and try to get some rest. And when you wake up we can talk, okay?”

“No…” You mutter, head swaying heavily to one side as you feel his arms reaching for you, pulling you from your corner and to the center of the sleeping mat. Your eyes have fluttered closed, black spots swimming under your already dark vision.

You whimper when he starts settling you down, pulling the blankets up and carefully wrapping them around you. You want to fight it, but they feel so warm, so comforting, “No…please don’t..”

“Please don’t what, sweet girl?” He asks, tucking in the edges of the blanket so that you stop kicking them off. 

“Don’t…don’t…please, don’t lock the door..”

“I won’t lock the door this time baby,” He reassures in a soothing voice. “I know you’ll behave.”

You feel something gentle land on your head. The same, calming presence that ran through your hair and put you to sleep the last time. “That’s it, good girl…just get some rest now.”

You try to say something, an incoherent hum and slumberful sigh escaping you instead.  

“I’ll leave the door open for you mesh’la. If you need me, I’ll be right out there, okay?” He mumbles, gloved fingers still running through your hair. 

You think you even hear yourself whisper an “Okay,” before everything in your mind shuts off, and the lights go back dark. --------------------

It’s the heavy lurch that jolts you awake, startling you into consciousness. It takes you a moment to blink your blurry surroundings into focus, absorb in your environment. It’s cold. Dark. Your head hurts and the awful pain in your stomach alerts you that if you don’t eat soon you’re gonna feel a whirlwind of more discomfort. Still, you feel a much greater sense of clarity than before, albeit a fuzzy recollection of what happened earlier. 

The Mandalorian’s ship is silent now, but you hear a distant whirring all around you that suggests you’re still in space.

Your head turns slowly, facing the opening that previously remained off limits to you until now. 

True to his word, the Mandalorian left the door open. 

The Mandalorian. 

The one who took you, who called you his riduur. 

His…wife.

You groan a bit as you push yourself up, feeling weak now mostly from hunger, hopefully having rid yourself from the serum that knocked you out.

“Kriff,” You mumble, stretching your neck from side-to-side as you swing your legs over the edge of the cot, your feet gently resting on the freed space in front of you.

You sigh, blinking and taking in your expanded surroundings without standing. The position of the room gives you a good-enough view into the main hold. It’s small.

You sit there for a moment, staring blankly at the space before shaking your head slowly.

Oh boy.

I’m really in trouble.

Your mind starts going down the list, offering different ideas and possibilities, ways out of this. You’re brainstorming a new plan, trying to come up with something, anything.  

An irritated groan emits from your stomach, warning you to prioritize it, and stabbing you with a cramp when you don’t obey fast enough. 

Okay then, food.

Where can I find food?

Reluctantly, you reach for the door frame, using the wall as a support for you to stand. You wobble a little bit on your feet, before steadying yourself.

A quick glance around the ship tells you that the Mandalorian must have gone up the ladder, where you assume the cockpit is. There are control panels everywhere, each paired with cabinets and drawers and a few closed doors. There are big, heavy looking crates and, most distressing, chains, binders, and nets hanging all along the walls. You decide not to think too hard about those to avoid provoking another panic attack. 

You take a deep breath, allowing yourself a short moment to consider what else could be hiding behind the concealed cabinets, and why he left everything down here for you to see. You tell yourself that they’re not for you, but for his profession, or his survival. He must be a hunter? A bounty hunter?

Your stomach urges you to open a crate, shuffle through a cabinet, just find anything to eat. But you’re afraid. 

What if he thinks you’re snooping? Or looking for a weapon?

No.

It’s best to…find him, first. 

Reluctantly again, you take your next step, letting your gaze and hand fall onto the ladder. You prepare yourself to face him again. He seems dangerous yet, gentle? In an obviously unhinged way. But maybe you need to cater to his own behavior. That’s the easiest way for you to survive, for you to get what you want. 

You climb the ladder. 

It leads you to a closed off second story, just an empty space with another shut door. You straighten your clothing, gather your courage, which is heavily influenced by your stomach right now, before raising a fist to gently knock on the door. Before you even make contact, it slides open. 

You gasp, jumping back a little. 

“Easy,” The Mandalorian says, ready to catch you in case you step back through the opening behind you.

You cross your arms quickly, taking a careful step back and away from the man who suddenly appeared before you. “H-how did you-?”

“I have monitors, sweet girl.” He says, turning to gesture behind him to the pilot's area of the ship, where indeed a screen with four small, pixelated images are flickering in black and white. Just as he said, one of the bottom images shows the blurry image of the Mandalorian and yourself, standing just outside the cockpit.

You’re about to flick your gaze up past the Mandalorian’s head to where you assume the camera is, but your eyes are instead pulled to the small image next to it.

Your heart sinks. Although small in size and of poor-quality, the flickering image is undoubtedly exactly what you fear it is. 

The bunk, now empty with ruffled up sheets. The empty space where you had been sleeping. He’d been watching you the whole time. 

A sickening ball forms in your stomach, fear returning, defensiveness rising, and you look away quickly from the image. “O-oh.” You mumble. 

He doesn’t move, and you keep your gaze pointedly down at his boots, noticing the weaponry and armor that decorate even his legs. 

“You look like you slept well.” He suddenly says. 

“Yeah,” You sigh, before irritably scoffing. Your finger twitching toward the display screen where he had obviously been keeping an eye on you. “Well you would know wouldn’t you.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can even consider if it was a good idea, and dread fills you instantly. 

Somehow, the Mandalorian is stiller than he already was. Silent as your words hang thick in the air between the two of you. 

You’re about to open your mouth, apologize to save your own ass, when he beats you to it, “I’m s-”

“You know,” He pauses, taking a step closer to you. 

No. And you don’t want to know.

You follow his movements, taking a step back to maintain the distance between you, but your shoulders reach the wall instantly.

“I promised you I wouldn’t lock you in that bunk anymore,” With another step, he has you trapped up against the wall. To your horror, the memory of your abduction, of the alleyway, flashes in your mind.

“If,” He growls, “You promised to behave.” 

Your eyes maintain their lock on his visor, fearfully wide and alert, a reaction you’re sure he notices. Desperate pleas, apologies are lost on you, caught in your throat. Instead you nod frantically under his glare. 

His helmet lowers slowly, your breath hitching as the sharp edge of his helmet brushes your ear. He whispers to you, angled so that his hot breath touches your ear, each threatening word dripping with consequence, “I have no problem dragging you back in there and sealing the door shut if you need more time alone to think, sweetheart.”

His words sober you immediately, the gravity of the situation you’re in hitting you once again, and you whimper out your apology, “I-I’m sorry.”

Your eyes are staring down at his chestplate which hangs almost up against you. It rises slowly, as he takes in a deep breath. You’ve definitely overplayed the mouthy card, and he’s reached his limit. You don’t want to know what risking another slip up will mean. 

“I’m…I’m really sorry.” You mumble, trying again, your voice gentle with conviction. His helmet is still brushing the tip of your ear, and you feel the huff of doubt he emits, laced with something a little darker in its escape. You’re getting nervous. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t forgiven you. You think there’s something more he wants to bite out at you, he’s trying to keep himself together, trying to refrain from doing something.

You’re wracking your brain for anything else to say, and you’re pretty sure that your breathing has increased slightly, probably more prominent now, you feel as though you’ve angered the beast. 

A thought does occur to you. It’s bold, but you’re desperate, literally. And observant by necessity to survive on your homeworld. So you think, maybe, you have one last card to play to avoid trouble. 

It takes you a second to gain the courage to speak, your eyes catching your own reflection in his silver armor. You take a deep breath, as steady as you can manage it, and you’re frightened to watch his shoulder move with a heavy breath too, as if ready to speak. 

This time you beat him to it. Interrupting the hum of his voice breaking the silence as you both speak at once.

“You-”

“Mandalorian?” You mumble, softly. Your warm breath gently touches the surface level of his beskar, and you watch your foggy image dissipate into an icy gray.  

He pauses, definitely tense, but allowing you the interruption. Perhaps curious to hear what else you have to say. 

Your nerves cause you to hesitate, doubting this approach and its consequences. But he doesn’t give you the chance to ruminate on it any longer. 

“What is it?” He asks, not unkindly. Slowly leaning back to tilt his helmet in your direction. 

Face to face with him again, you force yourself to swallow down your fear, tilting your face down but keeping your gaze up, making you look small and vulnerable. With a single bat of your eyelashes, you speak, “M-my stomach…it hurts,” you sniff, “I’m so hungry.”

Your delivery is intentionally feeble, a simple phrase of surrender that you’re sure he won’t think you understand. You’re pleading to the side of him that, despite how it repulses you, seems to genuinely want to care for you. And you hope that in appearing little, sounding soft and supple, he’ll respond with tenderness, like he did before. 

His dark visor remains trained on your face, pinning you in place, and your heart pounds, worry rising, when his gaze seems to shift slightly from side to side, closely analyzing your features. You bite your lip nervously, continuing, “It’s just…it’s been… such a long and difficult day.”

You sniffle again, reaching up to rub one of your eyes. Thankfully, your nerves help you deliver a good performance, encouraging real tears to appear and make your face look worn out and helpless. 

You jump when two hands suddenly come into contact with your waist, trying with all your focus not to flinch away from their hold, feeling the Mandalorian’s gentle grasp on you tighten gently.

His gloved hands slide affectionately from your waist to around your back, holding you closer. His thumbs caress you in soothing, up-and-down motions as he speaks. 

“What can I get you to eat, sweet girl?”

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

a/n II: Once again, the Din you see here is dark and messed up and delusional af. So far, he is reluctant to show his true and complete self, we'll get there. But for now, he wants the reader to trust him as much as she does fear him.. that is all I shall say.