#dark!din

He came-to curled in the fetal position on the hard metal floor of his tiny compartment on the humming public transport. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he knew his body felt wrong. Uncomfortable and unwieldy, heavy and strange.

When he did open his eyes to the harsh, artificial light, the first thing he noticed was the sharp clarity of his vision. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it felt like he was looking through one of the strongest filters of his visor. He blinked hard. No change.

He unfolded his arms and studied his hands, splaying too-long fingers, and his thoughts tangled and snagged as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

The glint of cruel silver claws. 

In his periphery, he caught the movement of a dark shape over his shoulder.

He tried to scramble away from it. It followed, a shadow.

Wings.

The word felt absurd. But it was…right. Silver that matched the half-moons of those claws, a structure of bone sprouted from both of his shoulder blades, a hooked joint forming the apex of each inky black, bat-like wing. Colossal and dark.

Piece by piece, in a haze of disbelief, he discovered new parts of himself.

The sheer size of this body, the power coiled in his changed muscles. 

He ran a finger along the edge of his teeth, catching the pad on an elongated canine. Blood welled.

The wound on his thigh, where he'd burned himself with the saber the night before, was largely healed. There was only a trace of it, a fading pink scar.

Din stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror, to see himself like this. He wasn’t ready for it to be real, to know if his face was still his own.

Instead, he picked up his chest plate to start collecting his armor, and his claws bit gently into the perfectly smooth surface. He was stunned.

What scratches beskar?

Beskar.

Of course.

The silver of his claws, of his wing joints was beskar. Virtually indestructible.

Din sank back to the floor and closed his eyes. He sat against the cold metal wall with his clenched fists pressed against his eyelids, the tips of those talons cutting into his palms. He wanted to escape the prison of this body, of this new reality; to wake from this nightmare; to blink himself out of existence altogether. 

He forced himself to slow his breathing, holding it at the top of each inhale, until some of the tension in his chest eased. He let his thoughts go, focused on the cadence of his breath. Preparing himself as he did before a fight.

A slow, creeping sense of relief spread through him gradually, growing so palpable it turned physical. Like a cool wash of water over his aching muscles, a full-body shiver racked him. The tremble and quake of his broad frame was fleeting but intense. A release. His bones shifted in a pinch of discomfort. His mind drifted.

And then, stillness.

He’d opened his eyes minutes later, and his vision was blessedly, beautifully blurred—just barely. As it always was. As it was supposed to be.

Sitting there, staring at his hands and his blunt, human nails, Din might have been able to convince himself he’d imagined all of it. A fever dream. A delusion. An exhaustion-fueled moment of insanity, his mind addled by the fight and the pain and the life-altering dismissal from his covert. 

Except, etched into his chest plate…those damning marks.

A mechanical voice announced the imminent arrival of the transport, interrupting his moment of existential crisis. Tatooine. The local time and weather blared through the speaker.

Tatooine. He couldn’t go back there. Not like this.

He made a choice. He dressed and readied himself, deboarded and found his way to the baggage claim. A droid unlocked his case, and Din methodically reattached each of his weapons. He reached for the dark saber last. The metal hilt felt hot, even through the thick leather of his glove. Nothing else had—not his blaster or his charges. Just the saber, warm under his touch. Warm like something alive. Like something warm-blooded, something with a thrumming pulse. Like something pleased to be back in his grip.

Like it knew.

He clipped it to his belt and let it drop, relieved to not have it in his hand.

Din turned, looking for the closest screen of departures, and scanned the list for the least populated destination.

*** Now, months later, he wakes to a fantasy.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He didn’t want to risk it, even in the armor—not after he felt his body start to shift under his beskar last night. He didn’t think that was possible. Then he’d sucked your taste off his fingers, and his head had snapped to the side, his spine straightening. He’d felt the pop of vertebra and the sudden tightness of the skin across his back, the warm tension in his muscles straining for the change, but he’d managed to stave it off. 

Just barely.

No, he hadn’t meant to sleep last night, but he had. And he wakes now, well rested, to the feeling of your warm body curled into his side, your head nuzzled into his neck, your breathing slow and deep. Watery morning light, as light as this dark forest ever gets, is visible through the trees outside the window.

He’d tried to move away from you during the night, to give you space, sure that you’d be more comfortable without the hard edges of beskar digging into your soft body, but every time he’d started to extract himself gently, you’d grumbled and tightened your fingers wherever they happened to be—caught in the folds of his duraweave, gripped around armor, tangled with his own. The leg you had hooked over his thigh had tensed too, your foot tucking itself under his other knee. You twined yourself around him, like a tenacious little climbing vine, and refused to let go.  

He likes it. You’re possessive too.

The realization hurts a soft spot under his ribs—you want what he wants. To belong to someone. To claim and be claimed. To know that closeness. Skin-to-skin, joined and sweaty, without all these fucking layers between you. That hopeless, dangerous thing he can never give you.

That thought is unbearable when you’re asleep on his chest, your hand still curled over the top of his chest plate, fingers clinging to the sharp cut of metal. When he can smell the faint tang of your blood as it pumps idly through your veins, detectable even under the layer of your delicate floral scent, even from beneath his helmet.

His mouth waters.

It’s the catalyst that finally gets him moving. He carefully but forcefully unfastens your hand, inches your leg off his, and slips out of bed. You readjust but don’t wake.

As soon as he’s standing, looking down at you, he regrets it. The space between your bodies is intolerable, and he has nothing to do but wait for you to wake. So he waits. He waits, and he seethes.

He thinks about the mistakes he’s made.

*** He’d spent yesterday angry at himself, fuming at his own idiocy. He’d ruminated on how to proceed, how to scare you off again after he’d all but courted you the previous night when he’d given you a com link. Had invited you to use it. Fucking encouraged it. He’d been drunk on you—on your presence, on your forgiveness, on your smile. On the headiness of your scent as you’d stood so close to him outside your house. And it had messed with his fucking head, made him do stupid things. Dangerous things.

He’d worked through the steps of his drills while he thought, slashing the saber through the air as he’d tried to decide what to do. How to retract his offer of the com. He didn’t think he could bring himself to be cruel to you, to reject you outright. He’d imagined your face, imagined the hurt there, and he’d just…known he couldn’t do it. He’d have to leave. He wouldn’t let himself see you again. He'd jam the frequency of the com link. A clean break.

It was the only option.

He’d decided he’d let himself change early then, before the sun had dipped below the green horizon. One last hunt before he found a way off this planet. 

He’d been minutes away from letting himself shift, minutes away from heading out completely uninhibited, when he’d caught your scent. You were close. The timing of it had made him want to break something. That was exactly the problem with all of this: one misstep, one instance of bad timing…and you could end up dead.

Why hadn’t he thought about you finding the bodies? How had that not occurred to him? 

He’d left a perfect trail from your house to his. His animal brain had thought protect and nothing else. He’d gotten sloppy, comfortable. Maybe some part of him had wanted you to find it, to follow.

This was how it would end, then, he’d thought as he waited for you. Not in the easy way he’d planned, not a quiet exit—a coward’s exit. He’d have to face you, to turn you away and tell you he was leaving. 

Then you were in front of him, and all of that was gone—the struggle and the resolve, the determination and decency. He’d fought to get it back for a few minutes, scrabbled against his own desire. Had tried to deny himself—to deny you. It was futile.

You’d asked him if he thought you were weak, if all of this was somehow your fault. And that was it.

He’d refused to punish you for his sins. 

*** And now you’re in his bed. Warm and soft under his comforter, your head pressed into his pillow. A dream. Something he could wake up to tomorrow and the next day, if he wanted. A string of perfect, untouchable days stretching before him like a beckoning temptress.

He can’t let himself think like that.

Your life, he reminds himself. Your life is what matters most. Keeping you here wouldn’t just be selfish, wouldn’t just be a temporary balm, it would be a gamble. Your life pitted against his own self-restraint. Your life pitted against the self-restraint of a monster he doesn’t trust.

If he can just get you out—out of his bed, out of his house, out of his head—he’ll be able to think straight, and then he can go.

He watches you stir, aware suddenly that a fully armored Mandalorian looming over you might not be the most comforting sight for you to wake to. But you crack open sleepy eyes before he can move, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. His heartbeat stumbles.

“Morning,” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“Morning,” he replies, clipped as he tries to expedite this process.

“It’s early,” you muse, your gaze trailing to the window. “I think you should come back to bed.”

Din’s thoughts stall immediately. You look so cozy, so comfortable snuggled in his bed. In his bed.

“Please?”

Din’s helmet follows the path of your hand as it begins to wander: as it slides languidly down the column of your neck, molds over the swell of your breast, lingers along your waist. You know you’ve snared him right away. You always know.

He just stands there, silent and yielding, as you kick the blankets away and shimmy out of your clothes. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth isn’t responding to his brain, his jaw dropped open slightly behind the helmet as he surveys the bare lines of your body. He didn’t get to enjoy this yesterday, didn’t get to luxuriate in the view, to drink in every detail. To commit it to memory.

His visor catches where your fingers stroke the curve of your hip.

“I can’t—” he starts.

You slip your hand between your legs, run your fingers through the soft hair there.

He was going to get you out. To regroup. That was his intention.

One of your fingers slips lower, dips into the seam of your sex. His cock responds.

He barely knows his own name, let alone any sense of reason when you’re looking at him like that—touching yourself like that. Begging him to touch you. His nervous system jolts from freeze directly into overdrive, and immediately he can feel himself brushing up against some physical limit, teetering on the edge of his control.

He watches you drop your knees open, and a low, pained sound passes through the modulator when you use two fingers to part yourself, putting yourself on display for him. You roll the pad of one finger over your clit, and your head drops back onto the pillow, your eyes closing in pleasure. Need claws at the inside of him. 

“Stop,” he commands, but there’s no bite in it, his mouth watering at the sight of your stroking fingers.

You smile and widen the spread of your thighs, moving your hand lower.

He tries to sound firm, but his words come out like a plea: “Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t have to touch myself if you’d do it for me.”

You keep your eyes on his visor as you press two fingers inside yourself, frictionless as they sink inside the warm clutch of your body. He’s fixated on the flex of your wrist as you fuck yourself gently—his rapt attention suddenly a shivering, living thing throbbing under his skin. When you ease them out, he can see the shine of your arousal coating your skin up to the knuckle, a clear thread strung between your fingers for a brief moment when you slowly separate them.

“Your fingers feel so much better,” you breathe.

His blood pulses loudly in his ears, a too-slow beat. He knows what you feel like, clenched around his thick fingers—how slick, how hot. He knows what you taste like, licked off his own skin. Din would like to say that some greater primal force takes over, hijacks his body, that the monster in him doesn’t give him a choice, but that would be a lie.

He decides to let go.

Without changing forms, Din silences the part of his mind that’s protesting. He lets the animal of his hindbrain take control, a predator submitting to the call of its prey drive. It feels good to give in—a rush of blissful quiet overtakes him. He looks at you, and it’s simple. He wants you.

Time slows, but his hands move quickly—going to his belt buckle. The weapon-heavy leather thuds when it hits the ground at his feet.

You watch him disarm himself, poised like a willing sacrifice on his bed with your hand caught between your open legs, a naked eagerness on your face that pleases the possessive, hungry thing in his chest. His vision is tinged red, the severed thread of his control a distant memory as he thinks of all the things he wants to do with you.

To you.

He condemned himself to this the moment he let himself touch you. There’s no going back. He’s going to taste your nectar from the source. He’s going to fuck you with his tongue and gently suckle your clit between his lips until you sob. He’s going to eat you out until you come on his face, your hands tangled in his hair.

And then he’s going to do it again.

He tries not to think about how much easier that would be with his other tongue, his tongue when he’s transformed—long and dextrous as it is. He could get so deep inside you like that. Taste you from the inside out.

Later. He appeases himself with the promise of later. The promise of tomorrow and more more more.

His gaze settles on your mouth. There’s something else he wants now.

He approaches the bed and stands at its side, waiting patiently. That desperate sense of urgency drops away, and his shoulders relax. He can decide to have all the time in the world with you if he only lets himself. 

When he hunts, when Din really truly hunts these days, he finds that he likes to draw out the indulgence of it. The tease and the chase. The kick of adrenaline before the slaughter. He understands why a predator plays with its prey before it makes the kill. 

Because it can.

Because it feels good.

You’re expecting him to join you on the bed. He can see it in your expectant gaze.

“You want it so bad?” he asks, dipping his helmet down. “Come here.”

A wicked look flashes across your face at the change in his voice, at the invitation. There’s a beat of anticipation as you decide to play along, and then you crawl to the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. He watches, an imperious tilt to his helmet.

You perch on the edge, looking up. Waiting.

“Go ahead,” he nods. “Take it out.”

Your hands move to the button on his pants, but you don’t pop it open right away. You let your hand mold to the hard bulge there, feeling the heft of him.

He tilts his helmet the other direction, impatient, and you go for the zipper. 

Before you’ve even pulled his cock out, before you’ve even touched him, Din thinks the sensation of your hot breath on the expanse of skin exposed by his open fly might be the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

He rips his gloves off and locks a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He thinks for a fleeting moment how obvious it must be—his obsession with your mouth. The edge of mania he’s shoved toward when you let your tongue drag up his hip bone. That he’d slit his wrists at the altar of your perfect lips if you asked.

Your eyes drag upward slowly as you lick across his skin, gaze catching on the armored lines of his body before it meets his visor. You peer up at him as you inch the fabric of his pants down just far enough. And then your eyes flick down to watch a pearly bead of precum slip down the length of his shaft at your closeness.

“You want it?” he rasps. “Open your mouth.”

He grunts in satisfaction when your lips part immediately. Again when your hand curls around the base of him and your tongue darts out to circle his head, a touch so infuriatingly delicate that it makes him want to hold you down and fuck your throat raw.

He doesn’t, of course. He lets you set the pace even though your teasing lick across the underside of his cock and another over his slit feel as much like torture as they do like pleasure. 

Finally, finally, you take him fully into the heat of your mouth. You start up a steady rhythm, and he’s more than satisfied to let you take the reins. 

You’re less satisfied with that though—you settle a hand over his on your neck and press down, your eyes skirting upward as you nod subtly, your other hand urging his hips forward, urging him to fuck your mouth. 

Use me. 

He wishes you could see his face in this moment, what you do to him. Din’s eyelashes flutter shut at the perfection of your request. But immediately, he snaps them open again, needing to see.

He thrusts forward, and you whine in approval, your fingers tightening on his hip—taking him deep again and again, until he watches a line of saliva slide down your chin. Until your lashes grow wet, eyes watering at the effort of taking him over and over. 

It’s too much. It’s too good. 

The tight, hot constriction of your throat as you swallow around the head of him, the hard suck of your cheeks hollowing out around his shaft. His helmet rocks back, and a growl reverberates through his chest. But he’s not about to let himself come without knowing what it feels like to fuck you.

His hand drops away from the back of your neck; he forces his hips to still. “Enough,” he grits.

When you surge forward again, taking him deep, he closes a hand gently around your throat and eases you backward, off him.

“I said stop.” He thinks the words would be menacing if the fractured restraint in his voice weren’t so apparent. If you couldn’t see the steady leak of precum from his cock, the drizzle of opaque liquid on his dark pants. He’s teetering right on the painful edge of orgasm, and you know it. 

“Need to fuck you,” he says, his hand still settled over your throat.

“Then fuck me,” you reply, your voice hoarse as you shift backward on the bed. 

“You want my fingers first?” he asks, his hand drifting down the inside of your thigh. “You want to cum on my hand again?”

“No,” you say, catching his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, over you. 

“No?” he says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Yes.”

His fingers tighten on your thigh. Too hard. “Turn around.”

You flip over and settle on your knees in front of him, and Din can see how much you enjoyed sucking his cock in the glossy spread of your cunt. 

He catches a drop of your arousal with two caressing fingers. “You want to be fucked hard? Is that what you want, you greedy little thing?”

You press your hips back, rubbing yourself into the cup of his hand. And for a moment, his mind buzzes with blankness—with the thought that he could be tasting you instead of just touching you. He satisfies himself for now by lining up his cock with the soft heat of your pussy, by pressing his sensitive head against your arousal-slick flesh. 

But when you whine and start to shift backward into him, he waits. Savors. “You need my cock that bad, huh?”

“Please, I need it. I want it—”

It’s that thing he fantasizes about—the daydream he strokes himself to in the shower after he hunts, when he’s sticky with blood and the leash on his desire has long been snapped. Your whined plea for him, your need so stark and bright that he couldn’t ever possibly deny you. Your need for him so heightened it threatens to match his for you.

“Take it then,” he pants. “Take what you asked for.”

He sinks his cock into the welcoming heat of your body, pressing slowly against the tight resistance of little preparation—hears the soft, drawn-out oh of your pleasure—and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

*** So he doesn’t fight it. He keeps you.

Days turn into a week. Into two. You bring life and sound to this desolate place—the creak of your steps on the hardwood floor, the sound of your humming, the quiet clanks of your movements around the kitchen in the early morning light. The quiet, steady tick of your heartbeat. All those pretty little noises you make when he has you in his bed—the moans and the whimpers and the pleas. His pillow smells like mellow spring flowers, and there are rose colored skirts and silky blue pajamas in his dresser.

He likes it.

He likes the noise and the tightness of the space and the company.

When he heads outside to chop wood for the fireplace, you follow to watch him roll up the duraweave sleeves of his flight suit and swing the ax—again and again until a thick log splits down the middle with a crack—and the attention pleases him. 

The weeks stack up, and there is a bar of soap speckled with lavender flowers in his shower. There are sweet strawberry preserves lined up in his cupboard, a colorful wool throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch that you insist is a necessity. For sitting in front of the fire, of course. You poke fun at his ascetic choices, at the lack of coziness in his house, but you don’t seem mad at all to be the one to provide it. 

He thinks you know instinctively that home isn’t a place or a concept he’s familiar with. He thinks you love being the one to show him what it could mean. 

He can tell you don’t mind that you have to face opposite directions when you eat. He thinks you like the sound of his voice even more when it’s not passed through the modulator. You draw out every meal with questions. He draws them out with his answers.

He tells you about the little green bounty that changed his life, the soup his mother made for him when he was sick, being adopted by the Mandalorians, the fact that he used to love swimming as a child. That sometimes he thinks about how good it would feel to strip off his armor and swim now. You tell him about your dreams, your childhood, your plans, everything.

When he slips his helmet on again and you turn to face him, he can see that the gulf between what he does tell you and the whole truth is obvious, though.

There is a question—are many questions—swimming in your eyes. The intention to get answers too. He’s not sure which exactly questions they are: Why the armor? The helmet? The Creed? Why this place? Where is he going next? When? What happened to him? What is he? Why the isolation and the fear and the hesitation and mile-high walls and why why why?

What the fuck happened to the wall of the shower?

Valid questions, every one. Many are things he asks himself regularly. All are questions he doesn’t know how to answer without shattering this perfect moment, without ruining the lovely domesticity you’re cultivating together. So when he sees that look and your lips part, Din speaks before you can. He’s not ready, yet, to go there. He reaches for your hand or strokes a gloved finger over your cheek and deflects. 

Just a little longer, he thinks, please. And you’re not fooled—he knows that. You understand the request and allow it for now, and he’ll take what he can.

“You want to learn how to shoot?” he asks instead. 

Your eyes light up.

He helps you pick a blaster from his collection—“How many blasters does one man need, Mando?”—that’s well suited to you, that fits your grip. He sets up targets outside, scattered on trees at varying distances, and stands close behind you, a solid wall against your back. He adjusts your stance and the placement of your hands, letting his touch linger on your waist in a way that makes your heart rate readout on his helmet spike. 

“Are you going to let me focus or not?” you quip, peering at him over your shoulder. “I thought you were trying to teach me something here.”

He raises innocent hands and steps back. “I didn’t realize I was distracting you.”

You smile slyly at him. “Sure.”

He lets himself enjoy it, the ease between you, the way you can read him even through the armor. Standing a short distance behind you, he talks you through the process: how to aim and shoot, how to breathe.

Hand-to-hand, next, he thinks to himself as he watches you practice. Then blades. Tracking.

He’ll teach you anything and everything that will protect you.

For when he’s no longer here to do it for you, he doesn’t let himself think. 

He watches you practice each day, watches you focus on the target, your lip caught between your teeth in concentration, until you nail the bullseye. You run to the tree where the target is hanging—a hole singed through the middle—letting out a triumphant cry, and he follows.

“Look,” you grin, so proud it makes his heart trip. You point at the perfectly placed burn mark. 

“Good,” he praises. “Do it again.” 

You roll your eyes, but you do. You return dutifully to the line he’d drawn in the pine needle strewn ground and shoot until you get the hang of it, until a miss is rare. And then he fucks you up against that tree, your dress bunched up around your hips, the blaster abandoned somewhere by your feet. 

You leave for a day, maybe two, here and there to check on things at home, that little fawn you love. As soon as you’re gone, he spends a couple hours getting as far in the opposite direction as he can, changing, hunting whatever he can find in the shortest time, and then after he’s washed every trace of blood away and donned his armor, he waits for you to come back. He tells himself it’s a perfectly workable arrangement.

It’s fine. It’s safe. Safe enough.

With his attention elsewhere, it takes him a few weeks to notice that those prints, the ones he’d been tracking so obsessively, have started to show up closer to his house, to yours. They mark a quiet, slow encroachment into his territory—inching just barely past that boundary he’d been so careful to hold until recently. Their bravery is returning, their local numbers rebounding, because he hasn’t been pushing them back by culling their pack with regularity.

He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on things, reassured by the fact that there are miles of buffer between their progress and you. And, more importantly, that more often than not, he’s by your side these days—like the times you ask him to come with you when you leave. He’s not going to say no to you.

Every night, he gets to undress you and pull you into his bed. To touch you and fuck you and make you come. He gets to learn what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you beg.

All in the armor, still. In the beskar prison that keeps you safe from him. That line he manages, somehow, to maintain. The monster in him hasn’t wrested it from him yet, and he clings to that last safety net, that final border between risky and reckless. 

He wonders every day when you’ll hit your threshold. When it’ll all become too much—the secrets and the questions and the armor. Every day you don’t ask or push or leave, he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well it just means the next day is more likely. That worry is so dwarfed by the pleasure of having you that he barely notices it, though.

It helps, too, that he’s well rested for the first time in a long time.

Din doesn’t dream when you’re in his bed, isn’t haunted by the nightmares. He slips into sleep, and it doesn’t fight him like it usually does. He sleeps soundly with your warm, soft form tucked against his side, your face pressed into his cowl. Your presence, your touch, your scent—they soothe him.

He’s always known—even before he admitted it to himself—that there would be no halfway with this. No measured approach to having you. And he was right, of course. Here you are, living with him… and happy, he thinks. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if that changed, if you left. What he'd do. What he'd have to stop himself from doing.

Din loves hard, with teeth, and all of his are sunk deep in you. If he really thinks about it, though, the opposite is true. Yours, sunk deep in him. You have a bone-deep hold on him, a fatal bite that severed something vital upon first contact. If you decided to let go, he’d bleed out.

And he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe years.

It scares him so much he doesn’t want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

YOU

It’s not intentional. You don’t sit down together and make a decision, but you don’t want to leave and he doesn’t want you to go. So you just…don’t.

Slowly, with time, your most essential things migrate from your place to his. You bring a bag of clothes here and your favorite blanket another time. Your shampoo comes along with other bathroom essentials, and some kitchen supplies find their way into his drawers and cabinets.

Within a few weeks, you all but live with him.

You know instinctively that the opposite arrangement—staying together at your house—isn’t possible. Whether or not it’s actually necessary, Mando takes his self-imposed exile seriously. It’s another of the many things you don’t push him on.

Yet.

You visit home on a regular basis, of course, to keep an eye on things. Town, too, for supplies. You make the long walk alone—or sometimes together when you can convince him to put off whatever mysterious, imperative thing he has to do when you’re gone, and it feels shorter then. He’s not so hard to persuade.

You check on Luna, who is happy and well fed in the warmth of the barn, kept company by the chickens and the handful of braying goats. 

You find that she’s terrified of other people—or at least of Mando. You’ve never brought anyone else around so it’s hard to know if it’s something about him specifically. Maybe it’s the armor or his size. The first time she sees him, she goes rigid, the picture of freeze, and it takes twenty minutes to calm her down after you nudge Mando back out of the barn and close the door behind him. Even after several visits, she remains wary of him, barely willing to tolerate his presence.

A detail, like so many others, you file away for later.

It's one of many that you don't mention—anything that might prompt impossible conversations. Instead of souring the moment, instead of asking the hundreds of questions that are piling up in your head, you tacitly agree to avoid those things, skirting around any topics that elicit unanswerable questions or suggest an expiration date. Again and again. For weeks.

Then months.

It’s easy enough to rationalize. Might as well make the short time you have together pain free. Only good.

And, fuck, is it good.

You wake in his bed each morning and fall back into it each night. You wait for your lust for him to abate, for the initial need to be sated. Two months in, though, it hasn’t so much as begun to subside. If anything, it’s grown. It’s fed, you think, by the fact that you still don’t get all of him—what you do get just makes you want more. 

You get his hands, his cock, the expanse of his lower abdomen and upper thighs when he unbuckles his belt and fucks you. The sound of his unfiltered voice when you eat together. The sight of his thick, veined forearms when he chops wood. Snatches of golden skin dusted in dark hair.

Never his mouth, his eyes, his chest, the rest of him—his face. His face, that you think you might already love without having ever seen.

The why of it all—of the pace, of his nature—doesn’t feel so urgent any more, now that you’ve had the opportunity to soak him in, in more than just brief interactions. You can sense the why on him when you start to appreciate the weight of his past and his creed. There’s a layer of pain and loss calcified under his armor: you can all but feel it when your fingers work past an edge of beskar. He starts to tell you about it, too; he starts to untangle the complicated knot that is Mando. It’s usually during a meal when you’re faced away from each other and you get to hear his real voice that he starts to open up. You untease his past question by question, answer by answer.

When you do almost slip, almost ask a question that is too present, he helps you put it back. Offers a distraction that you gladly accept. An unspoken agreement of not yet.

He just needs time. You just need more time together.

You try not to think about the fact that you might not have time. No, you package that thought up with that list of forbidden questions, the ones that would threaten to crack the ice you’re standing on together, and tuck them all away. 

You take the things that he does offer, accept his baffling limits. You satisfy yourself with the reminder of progress. If you think back to a few months ago and draw a line from those cordial interactions at the Saturday market to the current reality of living with him—to watching him welcome all the ways you insinuate yourself into his space, to witnessing the way he seems to soften for you—you can’t help but feel hopeful about what the next few months will hold.

*** Winter comes early this year, sneaking in on quiet feet. It descends around you slowly—in brisk mornings and frozen dew drops strung along twigs like pearls—and then it comes all at once in a sudden blanket of white. You wake up to a thick layer of snow on the ground, the tree limbs and roof frosted and glittering.

He teaches you how to protect yourself—how to shoot and fight and track. You think there’s a part of him that’s certain if he only teaches you enough, you’ll always be safe. You can feel it in his palpable sense of relief when you master a new skill. As if he has a mental list of things to impart on you before he runs out of time.

When you’re consistently nailing the center of his targets again and again, Mando outfits you with a blaster of your own, tells you to keep it on you at all times—that it’s yours. That day, he drops to one knee in front of you. 

“Lean,” he says, patting his pauldron.

You listen without really thinking about it, bracing a hand on his shoulder.

“Up,” he says, gesturing to your foot and offering his armored thigh.

You comply, and he slips two loops of leather up your leg, the fabric of your skirt catching on his forearm as he inches them up, until the tips of his fingers brush your inner thigh. A holster. A holster he made for you.

He tightens the straps and then slips the small silver blaster into the leather sheath. 

You graduate to hand-to-hand combat next—well, not so much graduate as add it to the schedule. He’s visibly pleased when he discovers that you already have some skills with a knife, when you know how to disarm him of his vibroblade in certain holds, how to make an attacker bleed freely with one well-placed slash. How to sever a tendon or an artery. But he finds plenty of ways to stump you, ways to overpower you, and you practice those until you know how to get out of them too. 

A few weeks in, you’re more than satisfied with your skill level, ready to move on. Mando, on the other hand, is ever insistent on more. He holds you with your back against his chest, caught and pinned, a purring vibroblade at your throat. 

You’re exhausted, sweaty and sore from breaking out of his grasp again and again. You’re supposed to be doing it once more right now. But you’re limp in his hold.

“Go on,” he grunts.

“I’m actually fine with this,” you decide, letting your weight go even more leaden in his arms.

He scoffs low in his throat. “Is that right.”

“That’s right. I surrender. Do with me what you will.” You drop your head back, looking up at his impassive visor.

He considers. “Anything?”

The word slithers up your spine. “Anything,” you repeat, letting your eyes go heavy-lidded.

He closes the blade and tosses it away, releasing his hold on you. When you lurch forward at the unexpected freedom, your knees buckling slightly, he catches your waist to steady you. 

You spin to face him, pointing a finger at the diamond-like center of his chestplate, staying far enough away that he can’t encircle you in his arms again. “Technically that counts as me getting out of that hold.”

He plants a hand on his hip. “Disagree.”

“Emotional manipulation is a weapon. You’re just mad I’m better at it than you are. Maybe I should give you lessons. You know what, yeah, I think it’s only fair that we also start practicing scenarios where I’m the one in control.”

He cocks his head suggestively. “Are we still talking about training?” 

“Yes.”

He stares at you silently, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. It speaks volumes.

You scoff. “Are you implying that I could never have the upper hand in a fight? That there’s no chance in the galaxy of that ever happening?”

A damning beat of silence and then: “No.”

“You are!”

He gestures at his chest, shrugs. “Beskar.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d just need to catch you at the right moment—sleeping or showering—and take you by surprise. Or have the right weapon. Like poison. I know plenty of plants that would kill you—plenty of plants I could find out here or maybe…yeah…those.” 

You gesture at the row of detonators lined up on the side of his belt as he reattaches it around his middle. He always takes it off before you practice hand-to-hand, along with the vambrace that apparently emits flame.

“Yeah, they’d be effective,” he admits, clipping the buckle together. “The problem is you don’t have any.”

“You don’t like me enough to share your detonators with me?”

“To kill me? No.”

“How about this one?” you ask, reaching toward the mysterious hilt that’s always clipped next to them.

He steps out of reach before you can touch it.

“What is it? Can I see it?”

“I don’t use it,” he says. You know him well enough now to read the lie in his level voice.

“Then why do you always carry it?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” you press, curious.

He looks away. “I can’t.”

And you realize it isn’t just stubbornness or stoicism. It’s pain. A bruise he isn’t ready to address, and you’re prodding it.

You wonder how many secrets can simmer between you before they boil over.

“Alright, come on,” you say, grabbing his hand and turning for the house. “I’m starving.”

*** It’s deep winter when Mando starts to take you into the woods, away from his house, to teach you the basics of tracking. Each time, when the forest lightens around you and you can hear the titter of birds overhead, he tells you to pick the tracks of a deer or a fox to follow. It’s easier now that the snow is thick on the ground, a continuous blanket of white.

He instructs you, as he always does, to disregard the larger prints—the clawed ones—that you come upon occasionally. Too often for comfort.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, unconcerned. 

Each time, you think back to that bloody trail and know he’s more than capable. And then you wonder when he’s away from you long enough to actually do that. 

Never, it turns out.

You’re on the tail of a stag when he holds out an arm unexpectedly, stopping you in your tracks.

“What is it?”

He turns his head slowly, scanning the quiet forest. Listening, waiting. You can’t hear a thing—not a rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. The stag isn’t close.

“They’re coming.”

“The sta—?”

Mando drops his arm and grabs your hand, hauling you back in the direction of home. You follow on instinct when he breaks into a jog with you in tow, heavy boots crunching through the snow. He twitches as he moves; he groans and presses his shoulders back, rolling his neck, his hand too tight around yours.

He’s in pain.

“Mando—” you say, trying to slow him down, to understand.

“Run,” he interrupts, pushing you ahead of him, urging you toward the house. “I can’t stop it."

You halt in front of him, a hand raised to his chest plate. “I can’t— I won’t—”

He growls when you hesitate, the sound not entirely human. His hands are shaking.

“I can help—” you start, not even entirely sure what you’re offering.

“I won’t risk you.”

“But—”

A gloved hand settles over your mouth, the other gripped tightly around your bicep. “We don’t have time for this. I won’t let you—I can’t—just go home and lock the door. And promise me you’ll stay there until I come back.”

He drops his hand and starts stripping off his gloves and vambraces. “What are you—?” The pieces click together belatedly in your head. Those colossal prints, the clawed ones.

They’re coming.

“Promise me,” he says, forcing them into your hands. “Take this too.”

He reaches for his helmet and rips it off his head, pushing it into your arms. Your jaw drops open in surprise. You don’t even have time—or the free hands—to cover your eyes or the sense to shut them tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, responding to the fear in your eyes. “I wanted to—been wanting to.”

You only have a moment to take him in. He’s just as handsome as you imagined—maybe, impossibly, more. His dark hair is wavy and tousled, falling across his forehead. His eyes are brown and wild with fear, his sharp jaw peppered with gray-flecked stubble. His perfect lips are set in a half-smile. He looks a little bashful for a moment, a little boyish as you study him.

He holds your face between his warm hands. “Promise you won’t leave the house until I come back.”

You nod.

“Say it,” he prompts, his dark eyes serious. He knows you didn’t really mean it the first time.

“I won’t leave the house until you come back,” you repeat, a little dazed.

You’re looking into his eyes. Your brain is struggling to process it.

There's fear there that doesn't just belong to the threat to your safety. It's more: the fear of being seen. Wholly.

You’re waiting for more words to come to you—something that will express the feeling that’s blooming in your chest without relying on words it’s too early to say.

“Be careful.” It’s the best you can manage.

He presses his lips to yours in a quick kiss. It’s too fast, not enough. If your arms weren’t full of beskar, you’d grab him to keep him close, to kiss him deeper. Instead, he’s pulling back and turning you on the spot with an iron grip.

“Go.”

He urges you forward with a gentle push, and you break into a jog, glancing over your shoulder as often as possible without running face-first into a tree or slipping in the powdery snow underfoot. He’s stripping off his chest plate, his pauldrons, his thigh guards. Leaving them haphazardly on the forest floor.

The last time you look back, his back is to you, and several pairs of yellow eyes are emerging in the dark spaces between the trees.

One, two, four—too many to count.

You’re tempted to stop. To turn back. To bring him the rest of his beskar. It feels so wrong to leave him out here, alone and unarmored. He’s stripping down from metal to man, and it feels unbearably vulnerable. Maybe you could help—

But just as you’re thinking that, Mando turns his head and bellows, “Go!”

You’re far from him—too far to truly make out the details—but you swear, even across the vast distance, that the whites of his eyes look black.

*** You drop the pile of beskar onto the kitchen table, unholster your blaster, and drag a chair to the window. You study the intricate line work of ice on the frosted pane, tracing cold veins with the pad of your finger. You fidget and shift, but you don’t dare leave your spot.

You stare at the place between the trees where you emerged, straining to hear any sound, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around the edge of your seat.

It’s silent.

Minutes pass like molasses—they stretch and sprawl, leisurely and unhurried, while you wait.

You steal glances at the clock on the wall. You swear it’s been hours since you slid the dead bolt shut behind you, but the clock tells you you’ve been sitting here for eight minutes.

Ten.

Twelve.

Seventeen.

He’s out there, outnumbered and alone.

Fuck it.

You get to your feet.

You wrench open the front door, but before you can break into a run, you catch a subtle movement between the trees. The blaster slips out of your hand. He’s staggering back to you—stripped and injured. His flight suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. One hand is gripping his ribs, the other trapping pieces of his armor against his side. He’s barefoot and limping through the snow.

You run to him.

His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and there’s blood on his face—so much blood—coating his lips, smeared across one flushed cheek. Lines running down his neck. It covers his hands, forearms. It’s splattered across his muscled chest. When his lips part in a pained grimace, you can see the inside of his mouth is bloody too, red lining his white teeth. 

You don’t have time to process it, to think about what it means because he’s hurt.

He must see the terror on your face when you register the state of him because he shakes his head and says, “Not mine. Just this,” jerking his chin down to gesture at his side. 

A row of deep lacerations is seeping blood down his ribs, over his tense fingers and down his stomach, where it’s soaking into the dark fabric bunched at his hips. You shudder at the sight of it—even through his spread fingers, you can see that his flesh is torn open in a way that makes your stomach pitch.

Behind him, there’s a sporadic trail between the trees, red dripped on virgin snow.

You want to hold him, to pull him into your arms, and, most of all, to fix him and put him back together. You start by taking the pile of armor from him and slipping under the arm of his uninjured side, pulling it over your shoulders to support his weight. He accepts the help wordlessly, leaning on you as you stumble forward together.

“They’re gone,” he pants. “Dead. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you scoff. “Are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He grunts.

You limp the rest of the distance to the house together and pull open the front door, kicking it shut behind you as you help him inside. He reaches behind you to lock it, his shoulders dropping in relief when it clicks.

You drop his beskar on the floor as gently as you can while you’re half holding him up. It clatters.

“We need to get these closed up,” you say, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “You need bacta. Sit down.”

When he doesn’t move to sit, you look up at his face, and he’s staring at you with an intensity—a soft, quiet intensity of creased brows and bright brown eyes—that takes your breath away. 

“I’m fine,” he protests, gently gripping your shoulders and pushing you back in the direction of the bed instead. He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, trembling fingers slipping under the fabric to caress your skin. “I’ll heal. Just let me touch you.”

His hands are hot on your waist.

"You’re not okay,” you protest, trying and failing to redirect him. “You won’t heal if you bleed out.”

“I just need to hold you.” His words are starting to slur, running together. The blood loss is tipping him into delirium.

“After—just let me—”

He ignores you and curls himself around you, crushing you against his body, a heavy hand holding your head to his chest, the other arm locking yours to your sides.

“Mando, please—I really need to stop the bleeding—”

“Din,” he says, nestling his face against your neck sweetly. His forehead is sweaty and feverish. He brushes gentle lips over your fluttering pulse. “My name is Din.”

You’re speechless.

“I want you to call me that,” he says. “Please.” There’s a heartbreaking vulnerability behind his words, like he’s worried you won’t accept the offering of something so precious.

“Of course. Of course, I will.” His grip slackens, and you wrap your arms around his middle reflexively. The heat of his throbbing wound and the hot slip of blood against your forearm make you recoil.

“Shit—sorry—”

But Din doesn’t react to the pain.

“Din—hey—”

You try to pull back, to extricate yourself from his hold and get a better look at him, but the arms draped over your shoulders go leaden, and he sways on his feet, forcing you backward a couple faltering steps. The backs of your calves hit the bed.

“Din—” You try to steady him, but he’s getting heavier by the second, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he tries to keep his balance, half-conscious and fading.

Your knees threaten to buckle when he grunts and goes completely boneless, slumping against you.

“Fuck—”

You’re just barely able to angle your body so that you can gently—and awkwardly—use his momentum to guide him face-first onto the bed. It’s a miracle you both don’t end up in a crumpled pile on the floor. You hoist his legs up too. It takes all your strength to haul his dead weight over to flip him onto his back so you can access the slashes across his ribs.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you see how rapidly a crimson stain is spreading on the comforter underneath him. You run for the med kit, dumping it on the bed beside his prone form and digging out all the necessities.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean, close, and dress the wounds. Not even when you prick him with a bacta shot. You work as quickly and carefully as you can, keeping tabs on his breathing all the while. Any time you have a free hand, you rest it on his chest, soothed by the shallow but steady rise and fall. 

The whole time, you think about all those questions, those details, those secrets. You turn them over again and again in your head in a feverish loop—all those things you’ve been stacking on top of one another all this time, a teetering pile of essential pieces of him, ready to topple with a gentle nudge. Kept at bay by distractions and diversions and half-truths. All the ways you’ve both been keeping your relationship in stasis to postpone…what? Loss? Something that’s inevitable, something no one can ever truly prevent. It feels undeniable when your hands are covered in his blood. When you almost lost him anyway.

It seems obvious now. Obvious that in the end, it will be more painful to have only stayed in this place with him than to have at least tried to give yourself wholly to whatever this is.

Before you secure the final bandage over the wounds, you check your work once, twice—terrified the simple expansion of his ribcage as he breathes will force them open again. You press edges of the bandage down and watch closely, dreading the red seep of blood on clean white. It doesn’t come. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You clean him up with a moist towel, wiping the blood from his skin, his face, his rumpled hair. 

If he hadn’t chosen to take his helmet off before any of this, you’d feel like you were invading his privacy by being able to see so much of him. It still feels that way, just a little, as you admire the taut lines of his biceps, the broad spread of his shoulders, and thick muscles of his pectorals. As you gently swipe over the soft expanse of his middle, feel the hard abdominals underneath. As you study the slope of his nose and the grays threaded through his stubble, his long eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. The soft pink of his lips. 

You rinse that stained-red towel until the water runs clear, until there’s no trace of blood left on him. 

The bloodied sheets and blanket and pillow underneath him will have to wait; it doesn’t even occur to you to be bothered by them when you climb in next to him, when you sweep his damp hair back off his forehead and press your lips to his warm skin and settle against his non-injured side.

You fall asleep like that, your head on his sternum, the subtle rise and fall sweeter than a lullaby.

*** He’s healed by the morning.

He’s healed.

When you wake after a fitful sleep, you scramble out of bed to pull back his bandages and find that the wounds slashed across his ribs look like they’ve had several weeks to mend, the skin knitted back together seamlessly. You run your fingers gingerly over the tender flesh in wonder, in relief.

Another one of his secrets. Something else to ask.

He rouses at your touch, starting as he blinks open bleary eyes. He must be immediately aware of the absence of his helmet because his whole body tenses as he recoils, his eyes panicked as he tries to decide to attack or to flee, jerking away from your hand on his arm. 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands in placation. “It’s me, Din. It’s just me. You’re safe—you’re home.”

He calms somewhat as he meets your gaze, as he registers your face and his surroundings, settling his head back against the pillow. The tension in his body remains.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, resisting the urge to reach up and brush his tousled hair off his forehead. Touch, you think, is his to initiate in this moment.

“Fine,” he croaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable like this, still not used to being so unguarded around someone else. Holding eye contact for longer than a moment seems almost unbearable for him, his eyes shifting around the room so they don’t have to stay settled on yours. 

You hand him a glass of water, and he sits up against the headboard to drink it. He winces a little as he maneuvers, his jaw ticking. He’s sore.

“You’re the worst patient, you know,” you gripe, trying to lighten the mood, to give him something to focus on. 

He scoffs, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.

You give him an unimpressed glare. “I couldn’t take care of you until you fainted from blood loss.”

He has the audacity to shrug a little.

You blow out an exasperated breath, distracted, maybe, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. By every detail of his face that you can’t seem to memorize quickly enough—a privilege you’re more than willing to relinquish if it means easing the tension in his shoulders, the wrinkle of concern etched between his brows.

When he sets the glass down on the bedside table, you retrieve his helmet and offer it to him wordlessly, a show of nonjudgmental understanding, a willingness to back-pedal if that’s what he needs right now. His eyes soften when he takes it.

The urge to say something before he disappears behind beskar jumps up your throat.

“I was scared, so scared,” you admit quietly. “Din, I thought—I thought you…”

He sets his helmet beside him on the bed and jerks his chin. “Come here.”

You make to settle next to him, but he pulls you onto his lap instead, guiding you until you’re straddling his thighs. 

You try to wriggle away. “I’m going to hurt you like this—just let me—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, hands locking down on your hips. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitates for the briefest moment before he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.

His lips are soft, tentative. His first, you realize. Of course.

Your mind snags on the way he tends to be in bed—directive, commanding, sure—and holds the two up side by side. This hesitation, the halting press of his lips, has something in your chest going soft. Between your legs going molten.

You cup his jaw and lick into his mouth when his lips part—an it’s okay, I want you to take—and his breath goes ragged against yours. He leans into you, an arm slung low around your back to keep you close as he starts to tip you backward.

“Don’t move,” you say, attempting to ease him back gently.

He ignores the command, responding to your open mouth with the slip of his tongue.

“Or I’ll stop,” you threaten.

He sits back, chastened, a subtle pout to his lower lip. It disappears when you lean back in. 

He makes a low noise of protest when you don’t meet his lips, but it turns into something pleased when you move your attention to his neck. You lick over his thrumming pulse, across the faint saltiness of his flushed skin. Your hands roam the planes of his chest, over his pounding heart, and down the swells of his muscled arms—greedy for so much warm skin, for so much of him you’ve never seen or touched or tasted.

Even with the helmet set beside you, the fear that you’ll have to go back—to concede gained ground—that he’ll revert back to full armor again, rankles at the back of your mind. You dig your nails lightly into his shoulders, and he growls.

You can tell it’s taking all his restraint not to move, to keep totally still aside from his wandering hands. You know he’s hard underneath you, that he’s aching to wrest control from your hands, to put you on your back and fuck you like this, with no layers between you. And he knows you won’t let him when he’s still healing.

You try not to let it escalate, to keep things from getting out of hand. But then his mouth is on yours again, your lip caught gently between his teeth, his hand locked possessively around the nape of your neck, and you can’t help the quiet moan or the subtle grind of your hips in his lap.

Din jerks back, hands braced on your shoulders to keep distance between your bodies, his head tipped back against the headboard and eyes closed as his panted breath gradually slows.

And you know it’s not just the injury. He isn’t humoring you or in too much pain. He’s fighting it—the transformation, the change that keeps him in his beskar. What he wouldn't let you see in the forest.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you say—quiet, serious. 

He pauses, understanding despite the sharp turn. The energy in the room shifts as he waits for you to continue.

“Your…you—?” you stumble over the words, struggling to find the right ones. It comes out badly. “What you…are.”

His eyes are downcast, fixed on the silver shine of his helmet.

He doesn’t ask how. Of course you know—it’s an open secret between you, has been for months.

“I want to see,” you press. An honest plea. “To know. Just let it happen.”

A tight, subtle shake of his head. No.

“Please, Din,” you say, laying a hand on his chest. “Show me.”

He looks away, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, something soft and fragile, a sharp edge that might be anger. He slips away so easily, even without the helmet.

“Please,” you beg, framing his face with your hands to guide his gaze gently back to yours.

He still won’t meet your eyes.

Suddenly, you know this was a mistake. That this is the thing that’s going to break what’s between you. He’s given you his face, his name—they should be enough. Yet, here you are, pushing him for more. There’s no coming back from it, no swallowing the words, though. You find you don’t want to anymore, even when you can feel him slipping out of your hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“How? It’s you.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I don’t understand, Din,” you say, a hint of desperation laced between your words. “And I need to. I need to understand. We can’t avoid it any more—look at what happened. I just—I can’t do this when I know I don’t have all of you. I can’t do this anymore. All these walls, all these secrets between us.”

His head snaps to you, a flicker of panic kindling in his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it, the skirting and avoidance, the game you’ve both been so willing to play. His eyes settle on your joined hands. 

“I want all of you. I need all of you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low, and the panic in his eyes is swallowed by a deep, hollow want—a yawning blackness that expands and disappears so quickly you think you must have imagined it. “I do understand that.”

“Then let me see you.”

“Knees.” He barks out at you. You roll your eyes and chuckle at him. He snaps and faster than you can process what is happening. He kicks the back of your knees and you fall, your hands catching you before your head hits the floor. From behind, your hair is bunched up in a large, aggressive hand. He pulls your head back, exposing your neck, and he growls in your ear. A dark, primal sound that melts your brain. Eyes rolling to the back of your head and relaxing, now only being held up by your hair. The instant change of your body makes him scoff.

“You know I always win, making me angry is never in your best interest. Love.” He growls the last word and you feel a cold metal object on the back of your neck. You can’t help it, you groan as he drops your head and it falls between your arms. “Knees, now.” His voice is no longer intense and quiet. Now he sounds like a drill sergeant, entirely done with your bull shit. You sit up on your knees, place your hands in your lap, and look at the floor. “See, you can be such a good girl for me.” He puts the end of his gun under your chin and lifts your head up. Your eyes are glossy and barely open, as he sees your face he smirks. “Are you my good girl, baby?” He asks and you nod frantically, your head pushing the gun further under your chin. “Show me.” He moves his gun to your temple, the barrel is warm from being against your skin. 

You lift your heavy arms to his pants and unbutton them. You will never get over how you feel when you finally pull him out. With no hesitation, your mouth is around his cock. The gun pushes further into your temple as his breathing hitches. You’ve blown him so many times that you know exactly what he likes. You run your tongue up and down his shaft before you put him completely in your mouth. He groans as you don’t move, just enjoying the heavy feeling of his cock filling your mouth. A sharp push of the gun against your head and you move, sucking, and licking everything you can. Taking a deep breath you swallow him, gagging slightly but staying where you are. 

“That’s it ba- baby.” He stutters. You almost never hear him stutter, always confident and sure of what he’s saying. Except when he’s inside you, then he can barely string words together. “Yes mm go- good job.” His breathing is ragged and desperate. You moan at the praise and he shoves the gun harder against you “Do not stop or I’ll be cleaning your blood out of my rug.” You moan loudly, sucking him off, gagging yourself, and deep throating him until you can’t breathe. You can feel him twitch in your mouth and you know he’s about to cum. You speed up continuing your pattern as he moans increasingly louder. 

He is still twisting the harsh metal into your temple when you hear a metallic click and he’s pulled the trigger. He cums down your throat and you swallow every drop, sucking it out of him until he shoves your head back. Gun pointed at the ground as he bathes in the bliss and aftershocks. 

When he comes to, you’re still on your knees wiping your chin and licking your fingers. He laughs gently and sits on the floor next to you. He kisses you and groans at the taste of him in your mouth. When he’s satisfied he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Was that too much, my love?” He whispers, all the anger and aggression has left his voice. You shake your head against his. “Words baby.” He reaches up to run his fingers through your hair. 

“Din?” You woke up in an empty bed, sheet held to your chest to hide your naked form as you looked around the bedroom chamber for your Mand’alor.

A scraping sound against the stone outside the chamber made your head whip to look at the door handle, both curious and afraid of what was on the other side. Swallowing thickly, you slid out of the sheets and threw on your satin robe—fit for a queen, or so Din said when he gifted it to you on your wedding night.

“Din?” You opened the door, looking both ways down the lonesome hall. The two guards on duty were nowhere to be found, the lack of protection suddenly causing the fear you pushed aside in the name of curiosity away to return.

Your feet were reluctant as they padded, bare against the cold and almost wet feeling stone, eyes locked on the shadow at the end of the corridor.

“Din, is that you?” You asked, voice breaking and betraying you, your fear now apparent to the figure. “Din, please…stop playing around. You’re scaring me.”

“Am I?” You nearly stumbled backward at the sound of his voice—him, but so unfamiliar at the same time.

Din walked towards you slowly, your body frozen in place as you awaited your fate. Carrying the Dark Saber, the mythic blade carving into the stone beneath his feet as he dragged it along with him.

“A-are you going to kill me, Din?” Your voice was meant to sound more confident than it came out, the shine of his helmet now visible as he stopped five feet before you, head tilting as he took in your vulnerable state.

For a moment, you thought this would be the end for you. Your friends always told you that your relationship with the bounty hunter would end violently, though you all assumed it would be at the hands of a bounty or another vigilante rather than your doting partner.

“I’m sorry,” his voice returned to normal, his head shaking as though there was some internal tug-of-war over control of his body. He looked down at the saber in his hand, retracting the blade before dropping it as though it was burning hot. “I—I don’t remember waking up.”

“It’s possessing you Din,” you walked to him, now a bit more brave knowing that the soft man you fell in love with had returned. Slipping his helmet off, you ran your hands over his sweat drenched forehead, taking in his pale skin and dark circles. “I’m losing you. Every time you use that thing, I lose you more.”

“I felt…like I was tied up in my own mind, something else taking over. I…thought I was going to have to watch it kill you,” he confessed in a sigh, leaning his forehead down to yours. Your trembling hands slid up his body, running over the unarmored expanse of his chest. “I’m so sorry, mesh’la. I’m so sorry—“

“Din, you’re here, you’re with me now,” you assured, holding his face in both palms as you stared deep into his eyes. “We’ll figure this out, just…lock it away for now. We’ll figure something more permanent out in the morning. For now…just lock it away.”

“Okay,” he agreed, a reluctance in his voice that you attributed to the other thing inside him; though it very well could have been Din. He hadn’t been without it since taking the throne.

Locking it away in a chest and ordering a guard to risk his life watching it, Din returned to bed, cold and clammy, his eyes red from the constant fight to stay in control. You rubbed his back as he laid on his stomach, keeping your kneading as soft as your voice as to not trigger anything violent inside of him that was itching to make another appearance.

“I understand if you don’t feel comfortable sleeping with me, cyar’ika.” His words broke your heart. Though you did carry some hesitance in your heart, there was no other bed you wanted to be in than in this one—possession or not. Din was home to you, and you wouldn’t abandon him even for your own safety.

“You are my husband. My King. I’m not going anywhere, Din. We’re going to figure this out together.” You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his warmth returning with every word of assurance. “That thing inside of you is no match for how scary I’ll become if it doesn’t leave you alone.”

“Believe me, mesh’la—I know.”

•••

sex with din just isn't the same after he loses the child to a covert group sent by gideon. he can't believe he let it happen, right under his nose, when his guard was down while buried inside your cunt and the child forgotten in another room.

sex with din just isn't the same. you know he doesn't want to blame you, he knows it isn't your fault but.. there's something... different about him. maybe he resents you. maybe he tries to fuck his anger out but you take the fall every time.

"sweet girl.." din rasps against the shell of your ear while you're leaning on the counter, counting credits to prepare for a trip out and his voice draws you out of your lamenting thoughts.

"din.." you mumble, sighing deep in your throat. it always started like this. with din giving you little to no choice; he was going to have his way with you.

he hums against the slope of your neck, his beskar clad arms cirlcing your waist to harshly pull you flushed with his chestplate and his codpiece bites into the swell of your ass.

his hands slip up and under your shirt and roughly he palms your breasts, easily finding your senstitive nipples and tweaks them between the tips of his gloves until you're squirming in his grasp. sensing your arousal he unceremoniously wedges a leg between yours, the biting cold of his armour gnawing into the soft bare skin of your thighs and you gasp, throwing your head back until it rests on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

"lift that skirt up, baby." he groans into your ear, the modulator crackling his voice as it rumbles, rolling his hips and grinding his thigh hard against your core. your knees buckle, having no choice but to drop all of your weight onto his thigh and you squirm as your hips helplessly find their own rhythm, the wetness soaking through your panties and fogging up his shiny armour.

when your mind catches up with you your hands are scrambling at the hem of your skirt, yanking it up and as you do din slams his palm against the back of your neck, draping you harshly over the curve of the counter. the breath rushes out of your lungs, winded, and you desperately grasp for the edge of the table as he rearranges himself behind you in order to free his cock.

he lays himself along your lower back, groaning as he sees how deep he'll be fucking you.

the cold sharp edge of a blade is what draws you back to the present then; and you gasp, heart racing as you feel the knife grazing down the curve of your back, goosebumps erupting down your skin and then you cry out as he rips the fabric of your panties straight down the middle in a harsh, fluid motion that has your thighs shaking in a swirling mix of arousal and fear.

he grips himself, teasing the tip between your folds agonisingly slow, and then all at once, without warning he plunges his cock until his balls are pressed tight to your clit, the most feral groan sounding in his throat and immediately he sets a brutal pace. with every thrust he knocks the wind right out of you and it’s not long before tears are welling in your eyes from the way the head of his cock slams against your cervix over and over and it hurts.

“din i- ah! it hurts!” you manage to sob between thrusts, your eyes scrunching closed in an attempt to brace yourself.

“shut the fuck up.” he growls, pinning you down by the neck, his gloved hand sipping underneath to choke you.

all you can do in response is sob and gasp for air, the persistent pounding of his cock against your cervix becoming more painful as he fucks you harder, your body desperately trying to scramble away but he holds you firm, caging you against the counter.

when your head starts to feel light you find your knees bucking, hands flailing in attempt to get him to let go, to stop. but as your body starts to feel lighter and lighter, your eyes threatening to flutter closed, he takes a hand from where it was pinned on your hips and harshly spanks you, twice, three times to bring you back to the present.

“i didn’t tell you you could pass out.” he seethes, and after what feels like an eternity he releases his iron grip around your neck, the air rushing violently into your lungs and the blood hammering through your temples as you gasp and writhe against him.

a hand slips between your thighs as he begins a brutal pace on your clit, tears spilling down your cheeks at the overstimulation as you try to ground yourself; but the way he has to you pinned means your toes barely touch the floor.

it’s all too much, he’s too much-

“din-!” you cry, interrupting the obscenely wet sounds of him fucking you, but he doesn’t stop, and the almost painful sensation of an orgasm starts to build and build in your gut.

“you’re going to cum for me.” he demands, hips snapping and fingers on your clit pressing somehow harsher.

“i can’t- i can’t keep this up! i can’t do this anymore!” you’re almost screaming now, your voice growing higher in pitch the closer you grow to the edge of your orgasm. you’re trembling all over, toes desperate to make purchase with the floor to support yourself but it’s futile.

“you want this..” he growls, as if to convince himself, edging you on until you’re on the painful precipice of an orgasm.

“please..” you whine, unsure what you’re even begging for as your body tenses before shaking violently as you cum against your will, hips uncontrollably fucking yourself on his cock as you squeeze and squeeze him ever so tight and he groans deep in his throat. he doesn’t even give you a chance to come down from your high before he’s chasing his own, hands moving to grip your hips as he sets his brutal pace once again, moaning and growling beneath his helmet.

“i’m not on birth control…”

he chuckles dryly at your comment, not slowing for a moment and you whimper, almost scared now and you give up as you accept that you no longer had a choice in the matter, just taking what he gives you.

even after your forced orgasm, the pain of the relentless slamming of his hips, of his cock hitting your cervix with every primal thrust, returns almost tenfold. it was all so, so much, your body weakened and tired and aching and maker you were sure he was skewering you in half at this point.

when his breathing grows more laboured, his thrusts growing desperate in their haste to reach his orgasm, you reach to try and push him away, your fingers slipping through the wetness of your previous orgasm as it coats the beskar on his thighs.

"let go of me!" you sob, your cheeks burning red and soaked with your tears. you hadn’t even realised that you’d started crying and in resignation you drop to rest your head on the counter, squeezing your eyes shut and waiting for the inevitable.

“fuck-!” he moans, only spurred on by your attempts to stop him, by the sight of you so exhausted that you give up all protests.

“yeah.. that’s it, take this fucking cock,” you barely recognise his voice, deeper than usual and void of any concern for you. he’d never taken it this far. it’s terrifying. you sob harder.

“gonna fill this tight little cunt of yours,” he continues, rambling like a man starved as his desperately brutal rhythm continues. “you want it, don’t you?”

“nonono please, din please!” you whisper, fingers still fruitlessly pushing back on his thighs.

“yeahhh, my sweet, sweet girl.” he moans, completely ignoring your pleas, “can feel you squeezing me - maker you’re fucking filthy, letting me fuck you full like this.”

a guttural moan rips in his throat then, hips stilling as he spills his cum as deep as he can, right against your cervix and you sob all over again at the sensation, your whole body deflating in utter defeat.

he stays seated inside you fully for a while, thrusting slowly in order to milk the rest of his release.

an unknown amount of time passes before you realise he’s left you bare and aching, shivering in the now cold room, still bent over the counter with his cum slowly dribbling down your inner thigh.

~~~

that night, din tosses and turns in his cot, unable to let sleep consume him. he runs his hands over his face, sighs, and then gets up, deciding to use the fresher to take his mind off of things.

when the door seals shut behind him, he takes a long, long look at himself in the mirror. he thinks about grogu, wonders how he really managed to let him be taken. kriff, if he hadn’t of met you, he’d still have the child. his foundling.

maker what the fuck is wrong with me

he groans, the reality of what he did to you earlier crashing down on him and he scowls at his reflection, disgusted. his thighs still ache with the effort of fucking you, forearms sore from holding himself up and from pinning you down.

though all of that was irrelevant. because his heart was shattered the day he lost grogu. and to make matters worse, the one person who stayed with him, who supported him, was the one he took all this out on. you didn’t deserve this.

his head finds its way into his hands once again, a lump sticking in his throat as tears threaten to well in his eyes.

then finally, his voice cracks, a single tear slipping down his unshaven cheek and somehow his chest constricts, heart aching all over again. and when he finds his voice, it’s barely a whisper, as if trying to will himself out of existence. but every last word is true.

“i find myself breaking more each day.”

he knows you deserve better. he knows this isn’t your fault.

but he’s too selfish to let you go.

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 :)