#dark!mando

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 :)

When that day came there would be no implant stopping him. Din knew he would fill you over and over until his seed took and then keep fucking you through your pregnancy as your body swelled. Just the thought of breeding you would unleash dark thoughts in his head. It wasn't just the act that got him excited, it ran deeper than that. Though you had only been intimate for a little while, Din knew you were his soulmate. He felt a primal and romantic desire to cement his devotion inside you.

Din had given you an old holopad with the scripture of the Mandalore so you could learn more about his culture. You were fascinated by the section relating to fertility and breeding. It was quite detailed as copulation was central to the survival of the culture and continuation of ones clan. You actually learned a lot about your own anatomy as you were fairly inexperienced before meeting Din. You couldn’t help but shift in your seat as you read some of the descriptions of positions and toys used. You thought it was odd Din never mentioned this part of his culture when it was so important. He had shown you his face. Wasn’t breeding the next step mandated by the creed? You couldn’t help but feel a little rejection, assuming that his silence meant he didn’t want that next step with you.

Of course, you didn't know that after you went to sleep Din would check your reading statistics relishing how you spent the most time reading the breeding section. You didn't know he saw you in the fresher weighing your breasts and caressing your stomach in front of the mirror like you were already carrying his baby. It took everything in his power that day not to rip out that implant and breed you then and there. He was determined to make the first breeding special, but every day his restraint grew weaker. He nearly lost it at the last fuel stop when he saw you kindly braiding a little girl's hair. In his dark thoughts, he knew he had ran out of ways to tell you he loved you. He needed to show it by marking you permanently.

Oblivious to his inner thoughts, you continued to be worried by Din's continued silence. You were too shy to outright ask him why he hadn't fucked a baby in you yet. Instead, you asked him if you should get your implant replaced as it was nearing time. He said yes, which only worsened your insecurities. You left in a huff, going to the nearest healer at the next fuel stop.

"Where were you, ad’ika?” Din demanded as soon as you came back to the Razor Crest. You were an hour late from when he said to meet back.

“I was getting my implant replaced, like you told me to do.” You couldn't help but let some of your annoyance color your tone.

“Your implant..?” It clicked when you held up your bandaged arm. “Oh.”

“Problem is…” You walked past him into the crest. “They didn’t have any replacements so in the mean time you’re going to have to pull out or something…” You said nervously.


“That’s not going to happen.” Din growled lowly. He closed the hatch door stalking over to you. “I only cum inside your little pussy. You think I’m going to stop just because you took out the implant?” He tilted his helmet at you. The hour spent worrying about where you were made him sound angrier than he really was.

“But-" Your eyes widened. “I’ll get pregnant, Din.”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” Din purred feeling blood rush between his legs.

“I’m confused.” You looked up into the black void of his visor. “You told me to get the implant and so I thought you didn’t want to-with me-” You felt your voice climb higher in your distress.

“Silly girl…” Din tugged you into his chest. “I was trying to wait until we found a place to settle down.” He smiled at your look of surprise. He pulled off his helmet, his eyes finding yours.

"Really?" You felt yourself relax a little now that you could see his face. You thought it was sweet that he planned on waiting for the right time.

"Really." He caressed your face gently with his leather covered fingers. "I choose you in all things. I want you to bear my children. But do you want that, mesh'la?"

"I do." You replied in a soft voice.

“Then I guess I’m going to have to breed you a little earlier than I planned…”

You gulped feeling a heavy tug in your lower stomach.

“On the bed, cyar’ika.” He ordered, his voice growing huskier.

“Now?” You asked incredulously.

“Right now.” Din nodded his eyes lit up with excitement and determination. Now that he knew you were vulnerable and wanting, he wasn’t going to waste any time.

“But the implant will be in my system for another few days.”

“You sure about that?” Din smirked.

You shivered slightly feeling yourself grow wet. From either his excitement or your own, you were not sure. You walked to his small bunk and sat on the thin mattress. Your heart was starting to race. You tried to remember the various pieces of advice from the scripture but it was hard when Din was staring at you like he was going to consume you.

“There’s no need to be nervous, my love.” He kneeled before you, tilting your face towards his. “You were made for this.” His smooth voice calmed your nerves.

“I just- I want it to work.” You admitted.

“Kriff.” Din groaned. You were riling him up and you didn’t even know. “It will work. I’ll make it work. You just be your perfect self.” He leaned forward and kissed you softly, loving how you melted against him.

You had always given him your full trust but now it was so much more than that. He had your body entirely. Soon his claim on you would not be purely sentimental. It would be physical. While he knew you loved him, he still felt his cock ache at the thought of further tying you to him forever. Keeping you bred constantly so you'd never leave his side.

“Take my armor off, ad’ika.” Din murmured. You swallowed hard, reaching up with shaking hands and slowly removed his chest plate, his paldrons, piece by piece exposing him to you. It was sacred to touch his armor and even more special to remove it. You handled each piece gently, setting them on the ground in an orderly fashion. As you reached his flight suit you saw he was throbbing under his pants. You could feel the warmth emanating from his cock. You looked up at him through your lashes, waiting for your next instruction. “Take off my clothes now.” You nodded, stripping down his flight suit to his under layers. You pulled his gloves off one by one. Then you pulled his shirt off, smiling as his bare chest was revealed covered in scars you had memorized. Din looked perfectly content. Patient. When you reached his waistband, some of that patience slipped. He stepped out of his pants kicking them to the side. You honed in on his cock bobbing between you two. He had never given you such power before: to be fully clothed while he is bare.

“Now me, please.” You held your arms out for him to remove your shirt.

“You have to do it yourself, ad’ika." Din shook his head. "You have to show me that you give me permission.” You felt your cheeks heat up and some fight rise up in you. You were so used to him taking care of everything. “This is the way.” Din added with a stroke of your cheek.

You were much less coordinated with your own disrobing, pulling off your shirt and pants off almost at the same time, leaving them tangled up on the floor. You unclipped your chest band and shimmied off your panties. The cold air of the ship barely affected you as you were so worked up already. You were already so wet, like your body knew this time was different.

“Eager girl. So eager.” Din whispered to himself finally putting his hands on your naked thighs.

You laid back on the mattress, spreading your legs but Din doesn't touch you yet.

“I need you to ask for it.” He asked, voice tight. Restraint slipping.

“Please fuck me.” You answered automatically.

“No, ad’ika… ask for it.” He repeated.

Your mouth went dry finally understanding what he was implying. “Please breed me.”

At that request, he was on you in a second. He kissed you hard and passionately, his scruff burning your soft skin. His rough tongue filling your mouth. His fingers entering your wet opening without warning. No layers lay between as his body covered yours. You grabbed his cock as it lay near your hip feeling the precum slide through your fist. His appreciable length meant more now than just increased pleasure.

“Were they really out of replacements, ad'ika?” He taunted as he thrust his finger into you “Or were you just so greedy to be bred that you forced my hand.”

“They-“ you gasped into his mouth. “They were.”

“I’ll believe you but your pussy is saying something different.” Din chuckled rubbing your clit now with his other hand. “She doesn’t care if we’re on a nice planet or if the timing is right. She just wants to be bred now.” He pulled your nipple between his lips.

“Din!” You cried feeling your orgasm creep up on you.

“Cum on my fingers, ad'ika. I need this cunt to get nice a wet for me.”

“I’m-Oh Maker!” The wave of your pleasure peaked and then crashed over you, making you twitch below him. You could feel your pussy spasming around his fingers. You heard his grunt of approval. He pulled his fingers back and licked the cum from them. He could swear it tasted sweeter this time. Your vision cleared as he lined himself up with your still fluttering entrance and pressed in. He hissed as your hot walls squeezed his length all the way to the base. The sensation was all the more intoxicating to him because he knew you were unprotected.

“Stars this pussy...“ Din sighed pulling your legs around his waist thrusting harder now. "You were made for this, cyar'ika."

He had spent many nights after you had fallen asleep thinking about how he would breed you but none of those thoughts compared to the real thing. Your pussy was always better than anything he could ever dream of and he was about to make it even better.

“Din.” You moaned breathily beneath him not every sure what you were moaning about. Just how perfect he felt. He laced his hands with yours above your head as he fell into his usual hard rhythm. His determined eyes were trained on where your bodies were joined. The sound of his grunting and growling rolled over you in delicious waves. All you could do was answer them with your own cries. You felt your eyes start to roll back as he found that perfect spot. His noises the only thing keeping you from drowning in the pleasure.

“I can’t wait to see you pregnant with our child“ Din moaned, looking down at you. "You'll look so kriffing beautiful."

You agreed. You felt a surge of affection for the man fucking you. From the beginning all you wanted was to ease his scars, bring him happiness, and now you wanted to give him a family. It was your purpose. You placed a hand on his chest feeling his heart beat through his sweat coated skin. “Please." you whimpered. "I want to give you everything you want.” You kissed him as deeply as you could from this angle.

“Kriffing hell...” Din pinned you down to the bed using one hand to hold your neck down and the other to grab your hip and pull you up against him. Your hands gripped the thin sheet for leverage to help meet his every thrust. You felt weightless under his man handling. Your moans sounded tighter and more high pitched with his hand around your throat.

He had fucked you in this position many times before but it felt different today. He was harsher. Like he was after his own pleasure. Like the love was gone but you knew it was really stronger than ever. It was the deep root of the passion, the fire behind the purpose. You fucking loved it. You loved the sight of him, powerful above you, executing your shared purpose so beautifully.

He was nearly pulling all the way out and slamming back in with every thrust now. His balls slapped against you. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the air. His chest broke out into a light sweat, his thick neck strained as he clenched his jaw. His grunting became louder and lewder. He was trying to mold you to his cock and only his cock. Kissing your cervix every time. You gushed around him knowing he was using you to get himself off. Knowing he was breeding you.

“Good girl cyar'ika, taking your breeding. You like it when I put you in your place?” He panted, squeezing your neck to get your attention. He was looking down at you, his eyes molten.

“Yes!” You cried breathlessly.

“Because you're my little breeding slut?”

“Yes!" You nodded frantically. You didn't even care about the degrading term because you were his breeding slut right now and that was exactly what you wanted. Din shifted his weight forward, his gruff voice right against your ear now.


“No one else will have you, ner cyar’ika. As long as I live. I would kill a hundred men for this pussy. A thousand.” He snarled into your ear. “My” thrust “perfect” thrust “pussy” and then in a choked gasp he growled, “Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.” He squeezed your neck again.

“You- Din! This” you squealed. “I b-belong to you.” You could feel your body react to your admission. Opening up more somehow. Din grazed a spot deep that made you gasp. “Din, I’m gonna-“ he hit it again this time dragging his cock head hard into it. You hadn’t realized you were that close but you were cumming again. Mouth open in a silent scream. Toes curling. Ass clenching as your hips jerked up. It was too much. Din's hands flew to your hips to keep himself inside you. You felt your body melt and reform then melt again. Your pussy was squeezing him like a vice, milking his length.

"Beg me." Din said urgently, holding your face, making you look him in the eye while he kept pounding you. His purposeful rhythm starting to break down in desperation. "Beg for my seed.”

"Please...I want it." You whispered, tightening your legs around his back and digging your nails into his back.

“I’m going to fill you up.” Din promised with his whole soul. “Right against your womb. Where it belongs.”

"Please..." You needed it. You needed it. You were his breeding slut at this moment, cock dumb and willing beneath him. You loved him so much you let him reduce you to your base instinct, your base purpose. Your body was fertile and you were powerless to stop what was about to happen. Fuck, you wouldn’t dream of stopping it.

At your final plea, Din felt his cock twitch and then suddenly his vision went white as his orgasm shot down his spine. His hips snapped forward instinctively causing him to shoot cum deep into you. His mouth fell open in pleasure. “F-fuck…” His back tightened and stance widened making his whole body coordinate to serve only one purpose: to push his cum as deep as possible. You whined, clenching weakly and watching the pleasure you gave him consume him. Watched as everything his body had to offer, his purpose, flowed into you. Spurt after spurt.

Din pulled back, his wet flesh dragging against your hot walls. “Take it all.” He prayed, slamming into you again to the hilt. He was still cumming inside you. His balls, dripping with your combined slick, pressed right against your ass. He ground himself into you trying to deliver every last drop from his aching spent cock. You imagined what his seed must look like right now, pooling at your cervix and spilling into your womb. Taking hold. Joining with you. It was a new level of intimacy that you knew you wouldn't be able to go without ever again.

The white noise in Din's ears faded as he drifted back to reality. He placed his hands on your stomach as if he could feel his cum inside you. He pulled out. Too soon, you thought.

“I don’t want to see a drop spill out, ad’ika.” Din kissed you sweetly, though his tone was far more commanding.

You clenched your sore muscles and tilted your ass up further to keep any of his cum from sliding out, still you felt some leaking out of your pussy.

“It's falling out!” You warned, your voice hoarse.

“We can’t have that.” Din growled using his finger to collect it and shove it back in your still fluttering hole. He kept his finger in like a plug. He fell down next to you keeping a hand on your stomach as if he was already protecting the child that would grow there.

“Thank you for choosing me.” He kissed you slowly. He wanted the first time to be special and it was. You didn’t need a fancy bed or pretty clothes. You just needed him.

“Mmm I think it worked, Din.” You sighed, joining his hand over your stomach.

“Oh my sweet ad’ika” Din smiled at your innocence. “This is just the beginning."

He started moving his finger in and out of you. Just wait until you see the breeding plug and collar he got made just for you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slave I is quiet as it takes off from Gideon’s light cruiser. No one speaks to the Mandalorian - what could they say?

We’re sorry you lost your son, but it's for the best.

We’re sorry you lost your creed, but it’s for the best.

We’re sorry you have nothing but an unwanted prize, an unwanted duty, but it’s for the best.

No, they couldn’t say that. So they say nothing and Mando says nothing back - brooding in suffocating silence - broken.

Mando just tells Boba to drop him off in Sorgan, he’ll find his own transportation after that - he’ll figure out how to get off the backwater planet himself, if he ever does.

Boba doesn’t object, he thinks to himself: Sorgan, what could possibly be there for a bounty hunter, for the new Mandalore?

But Boba doesn’t know about you.

They reach the planet in the late afternoon, on the cusp of evening as the sun goes golden. It reminds Mando of you, how you stood in the sun and glowed with your own radiance, giving the burning ball of gas and stardust a run for its money.

Everything reminds him of you, though.

Mando doesn’t say a word as he exits the ship, no final words to any of them. He lets the ship take off behind him, he wonders where they’re headed for a brief moment before the small krill village comes into view.

His eyes dart from one thing to the next - the calm, reflective blue of the lakes, the villagers harvesting, the children playing, you, you, you.

Where are you?

A woman looks up from her work in the water, Mando recognizes her face but she’s not you. It’s almost painful how much she isn’t, her face isn’t yours and Mando feels like he can’t breathe.

Omera.

“Hello.” She seems surprised but cheerful nonetheless. Mando nods at her.

“W-What are you doing here- I mean, welcome, but-” Mando would chuckle at how caught off guard she is but he knows he’s intimidating.

Bigger armour, beskar spear, jetpack, Darksaber. He knows he’s terrifying, he knows how broken he looks, like the helmet doesn’t fit right on his head anymore, like she and everyone else can see right through him.

Mando speaks your name and he sees the brief moment that Omera furrows her brows - confusion consuming her - before she straightens out her face again, concealing whatever it was she was just thinking. Fuck, he already knows.

He already knows you’re not here, she doesn’t even have to tell him.

Mando’s shoulders visibly sag, helmet looking around the village helplessly, like a lost loth cat.

You fucking- you fucking hunter, unstoppable force, you. Of course you didn’t listen to him.

Of course you didn’t fucking stay here like he pleaded you to, didn’t let your arm heal properly and now Mando’s suddenly picturing you dead in a ditch on some backwater planet due to infection with the life drained out of you, no color to your skin, dead where no one knows your name, your warmth. Dead.

“When?”

Omera stammers, maybe feigning confusion.

“When did she leave?” He demands.

“N-Not long after you. Maybe a week.”

Mando boils hot and putrid. He can feel his body vibrating, shaking with it. He clenches his fists aimlessly.

He could barely keep the kid in one place, could barely get him to sit still, to listen to him. How could he have expected you to listen to him - he didn’t really know you.

Despite- despite what he may have thought in private.

Voices unfamiliar echo in the helmet, pathetic, pathetic, die, failure, reverberate and bounce around like someone’s punched him in the head. Maybe he has a concussion from those Dark Troopers, when they tried to bash in his skull.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking, coming back here. He’s embarrassed. He knows it’s pathetic, he knows.

Why would you have stayed here? He knew you wouldn’t, deep down he knew, he must have.

//

You couldn’t stay in Sorgan.

No matter how nice it was to spend your days by the water, surrounded by children and new friends, you didn’t belong there, you had more work to do and you couldn’t afford a vacation.

You don’t know if Mando actually expected you to listen to him, expected you to stay in one place for who knows how long, just waiting. But you couldn’t.

You have too much to do.

So you left when the week was up, just like you promised yourself.

You hopped on a transport near the cantina and found yourself on an unfamiliar planet with a familiar task - find the suppliers, then their supply, and reroute it to more deserving communities.

The first load you intercepted when you got back into the job, a heap of credits from some corrupt senator, was sent straight back to where you came from - Sorgan. You hope they don’t realize it was from you, you don’t see why they would but you just hope they don’t think you’re taking pity on them or anything. You just know they deserve the credits, as simple as that.

Maybe they could buy more droids to help with the harvesting, or nanny droids, or med droids, anything to help out.

You still smile when you think of Winta, Omera, all those kids. Even as you walk through disgusting cities, filled with vile men, you miss them. The memory of them keeps you warm.

Hopping from planet to planet is something you’re used to, something you’re familiar with. There was something unsettling about taking it easy in Sorgan. Maybe it would have been more durable had Mando and the kid stuck around but…

But they didn’t. So you can’t dwell on that too much.

You think about him. Not nearly as much as the first time you parted ways, no. You thought about him more.

You thought of the child as well. You thought of the both of them, you missed them more than you missed Sorgan, you missed them more than you missed swimming in Coruscant, more than you missed your parents, more than you missed anything.

Somehow, Mando had become the most familiar thing in your life, the only thing you felt like you knew and knew you right back. He fucked you over. You aren’t used to this, you can’t function like this.

You can’t stand up straight when your core has gone soft, you can’t fight and shoot when your arms are weak with the memory of him holding you.

Trying to forget about him was futile. It only made it worse - made the dreams, the nightmares, worse. Your body refused to let go of him, refused to forget the imprint he made on you, in you, like fucking memory foam.

People say time heals, maybe it does. As the months pass, as you find other people to take to bed, other senators, imperials, bounty hunters to kill, you grow apart from Mando. And you’re okay with that.

He was an accident, a bump in the road. You were never meant to meet him, to cross paths with a feared warrior like him.

He’s the type of person you run away from, and you did try to run. But he runs faster.

//

“Mando!” Karga greets as the feared bounty hunter, Mandalore, walks into the lonely cantina.

No one looks at him, they avert their eyes as he stalks towards the Guild leader.

The Mandalorian had become ruthless.

Warm or cold, he used to ask. Now there are no questions, he just takes.

Karga didn’t know how to react, what to say when Mando started bringing in all the bounties cold, taking the credits and demanding more work. It’s been going on for months now.

Karga knows he lost the child, knows he gave him up and became the unwilling ruler of his planet, knows he broke his creed. Karga knows the Mandalorian has nothing.

So Karga doesn’t say anything, no one says anything to Mando anymore, he’s too powerful. Ruthless.

Dead or alive, the pucks would read with unimaginable amounts of credits listed underneath. Mando always chose death, never even thinking about keeping them alive. It was a waste of breath, a waste of precious air on his ship. So he always chose death, it was more convenient.

He thinks you would have chosen death for these lowlife fucks as well. So he kills them and thinks of you.

Mando has been feeling… different. To say the least.

Wrong. He feels wrong.

Like something’s not right in his head anymore. Maybe he did get a concussion, maybe it didn’t heal properly. Maybe his skull cracked open when those Dark Troopers tried to kill him and something leaked onto his consciousness because the voices never stop.

They never stop, they’re never quiet and they’re mean, abusive. They make him ruthless, they make him kill. That’s what Mando tells himself.

Hunt. Hunt until you’re buried underground, Din. Hunt until you fucking die, until the soles of your feet are burning and your arms break in two. Kill them all, Din.

It never stops. The only thing that calms them is the killings. Their words turn sweet and kiss at his skin, kiss at his bruises and cuts and gashes and wounds.

Sometimes the voices sound like you even though he’s not sure what you even sound like anymore. It’s been months since he’s heard your real voice and he knows you never sounded so malicious, so evil.

But the voices purr like you did. They purr and they crawl up his spine like tentacles and pull him under until he’s drowning in you, remembering the sweet clutch of your perfect little pussy. They mimic you, a dizzying, inhuman copy of you that he barely recognizes. But it’s enough.

You’re s-so good, Mando - they’ll make you say, late at night when he needs you, needs something, anything to lose himself in. You’re so big, so strong- fuck you’re gonna make me cum.

He thinks about what it would be like to hear you say his name, the voices comply almost immediately.

So good, Din, you’re so- you’re so good at killing.

It’s so easy, with your voice. He’d do anything you want, and they know that. They use you, twist you, manipulate your voice till it's distorted and broken and fucked up and he cums all over himself before they’re yelling at him again. Yelling to kill.

Killing is the only thing that calms them.

So Mando keeps killing, and Karga keeps paying. Keeps giving him more pucks with nothing but nervous laughter, weary glances and little small talk. He used to indulge the bounty hunter in small talk, tried to make him comfortable, make him feel welcome. But the Mandalore will never be welcome. Not anywhere, not anymore.

//

You’ve been hearing whispers in the streets.

Whispers amongst the vendors, the junkies, the bounty and con men. Everyone was talking about it, it seemed; the whispers followed you from planet to planet. Talk of a new leader.

Whispers of a new Mandalore.

You don’t quite know what it means, what a Mandalore even is. But it makes you think of him.

You wonder if it’s him, if the Mando you once knew is now the ruler of the haunted planet.

It couldn’t be. That doesn’t sound like him, besides, he’s taking care of the child. So you push it to the back of your mind; an easy task here in Taris.

The air is smoggy, tainted yellow from years of pollution, destruction and decay. It’s hard to breathe here, and that makes it harder to think about him. You’re thankful for that.

You work on your speeder. Covered in grease and grime as you screw in another bolt, making sure it’s in place this time. You had gotten a new one after your last one was abandoned on Sriluur.

Stars, that must be over a year ago now. A year.

A year since you met- Nevermind. A year since nothing. A year since no one.

It doesn’t matter.

You wipe the sweat that threatens to bead down your forehead, no doubt smearing more oil on your face. Maybe you should clean up before you head to the cantina to find this week's Imps.

A hair tickles at the back of your neck and it makes you flinch. A distant clattering sound rings out through the alleyway, like someone’s watching you. Or was; there’s no one there when you turn around.

Yeah, you’ll just go clean up before you head out.

The whispers follow you on the street. They're making you paranoid, like they’re not the only thing following you. You’re jumpy, on edge. You’re never like this and you fucking hate it. Your hand hovers too close to your blaster and you’re making yourself nervous.

The catina is quiet, like you expected. The four men you had been tracking all over the city for the past week conglomerate together, just like you knew they would. There’s another lone patron at the counter, speaking with the bartender and that seems to be everyone. No one notices you as you creep through the shadows.

You take a seat further away from them, planning out your next move.

It’s always the same with you. You sit farther away, take your aim underneath the table, shooting one of them through the stomach, groin, chest - wherever you happen to hit.

Then the rest of them get up, heading for you, or running for the door.

You shoot first, always. Red flesh glows underneath the table as the man topples over, shot through the belly. He’ll bleed out, you’re familiar with this by now. You move on to the other men who are standing up to fight you. No runners today it seems.

You stand as well, approaching them and fighting quick. It’s always quick, they never last long, these men are easy.

You bash one of their heads against the bar counter, watching him crumble to the floor before you’re moving on to the next guy. Twirling around him, you twist his arm painfully behind his back before shooting him through the shoulder, through his heart and out the other side. Easy.

The last man runs. But you’re too fast. You reach for a dagger in your boot, launching it quickly at the getaway, nailing him perfectly in the back of the skull. He falls to the ground with a heavy deadweight.

Looking around the bar, the patron at the counter’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head but the bartender shakes his head, cleaning a glass. The cantina is eerily quiet again as you retrieve your dagger from the man’s skull, dark liquid spurting out of the new slit.

You bend down to your knees, fiddling through the deadman’s jacket looking for- got it.

Coordinates. A new shipment of medical drugs, just outside of town, the piece of paper reads. You should be able to reach it by nightfall if you make it to your speeder quick enough.

You hear footsteps behind you, you assume it's the bartender asking you to leave after that little show you just put on. You tuck the crumpled paper into the pocket of your own jacket and stand, coming to face-

It couldn’t be him. No.

This man, this Mandalorian is bigger, wider. He’s fucking menacing, standing only five feet away from you as your heart thumps wild with adrenaline, fresh kills and him.

He’s huge, terrifying like a silent monolith standing straighter than you’ve ever seen him stand. The beskar somehow fits him better now, or he fits it better, filled it out with rippling muscle and flesh

He looks like a proper mercenary with his beskar spear, jetpack and… and some sort of sword, saber maybe. It lays holstered by his side, long and dark. It’s scary. It’s been months since you’ve seen him, but-

It can’t be him.

It can’t be him but the way the helmet is trained on you is familiar, warm on the outside but cool in the center like a poorly thawed piece of meat.

You’re reminded of how you once knew him- or, once knew a Mandalorian like him. There’s something uncanny about the bounty hunter standing in front of you. It can’t be-

“Mando?”

The Mandalorian remains still and says nothing, reaching for something in his pocket. You flinch too easily, your hand so ready to fire on your blaster. It can’t be him, it can’t be him.

He holds out a puck to you, both watching as it illuminates blue with your new mugshot and your name written in red. You scoff.

“What? Is that supposed to be me?” You laugh, honestly finding it funny but nonetheless, you’re nervous.

Nervous because it’s been a while since a bounty hunter’s caught up to you, it’s been a while since you’ve had to take one down. Nervous because you can’t seem to grasp if it’s him or not.

Would he have really kept your puck this entire time? Even after it went dead all those months ago? Even after he found you in Nevarro? And spending two weeks in Sorgan together? When he left you and you left Sorgan? Fuck, is he mad?

Is he mad that you left and that’s why he’s come after you?

You can picture him, back in Sorgan, fuming - dead set on finding you after so sternly telling you to stay.

Whatever, you don’t care if he’s mad at you, why should you? He left first.

The Mandalorian pockets the puck back into his pants but when he looks back up - you’re gone.

You fucking run. You bolt out of the cantina, down the densely populated streets of Taris and towards your speeder. How is this happening? This is the exact same scenario you were in when you first met him on Sriluur. You can’t believe you’re running from the Mandalorian, again.

Is this a game to him? Is he pranking you or something? Does he think it’s funny to taunt you like this? A bounty who’s already on the run for her life?

You slow down your pace before you come to a stroll, looking around you, searching the crowd you’ve just ran through but you see nothing. No distantly familiar glimmering beskar, nothing.

Did you already lose him? No, he definitely has eyes on you somewhere, if it really is Mando, he never loses a bounty.

Calmly, you go back the way you came from, even if it’s the opposite direction of your speeder. You look for him now.

The streets are busy, the city is loud but it's quiet to you. You try to listen for the clank of his armour, the heavy weight to his steps, his quiet yet quick feet. But you hear nothing.

Nothing except those whispers again.

Mandalore. He’s here, he’s here. The Mandalore is here, he’s here, girl.

You spin around, trying to pin point who exactly is whispering so fucking loudly but its no one. No one’s there, no one is whispering to each other, no one is even speaking. Everyone whizzes past you, shoving you out of the way and you feel like you could drown all of a sudden.

He is here.

A hand wraps tightly around your wrist, hauling you out of the crowd and slamming you face first into a concrete wall. It scrapes at your cheek as both of your hands are pinned behind your back, large body pressing up against your backside.

You kick and squirm and try to buck the person off of you but it’s no use, they’re strong and already have you contorted painfully, both wrists secured in only one of their hands.

“Hey, fuck off-”

“Don’t make me break you again.” That voice. You’d know that voice anywhere.

That voice which reminds you of when he broke you - when Mando dislocated your arm a year ago now.

Mando.

You go soft in his hold, trying to turn around but he’s got you pinned between him and the wall, your cheek probably scraped up and bleeding at this point.

Cold metal secures around your wrists and you gasp as he closes the binders on you.

“Mando-”

He pulls you by the cuffs, hauling you off of the wall before he’s pushing you in front of him and down the alleyway.

“Walk.” He orders.

You look over your shoulder at him and you nearly lose your breath. It’s really him. You’d smile at him if you weren’t so fucking confused as to why he’s got you cuffed right now.

Mando shoves at you again and you stumble forward, so you decide to just go with it. Maybe he’ll talk eventually.

He manhandles you around the city, letting you walk aimlessly in a straight line, all sense of direction lost to you until he’s grabbing you by the elbow and steering you in another direction, shoving you forwards again.

Mando doesn’t speak to you. He doesn’t say anything, just shoves you forward and sideways until you get where you’re going. His ship.

But it’s not the Razor Crest. You don’t even realize it’s his ship until the ramp is lowering for both of you to enter.

This ship is… sleeker, smaller than the Crest was. But this one’s wider, more dangerous looking, sharp edges and all. Just like him.

It’s dark, pitch black, chrome and shiny obsidian, invisible in the dark of space, reflecting the lights from millions of stars. This ship is scary in it’s own way - it’s unfamiliar.

As you approach it, you realize it’s an Imperial ship - a gauntlet fighter - and your breath catches in your throat. Mando was always paranoid that the Empire hadn’t quite disappeared, that they still lurked in the shadows. Maybe he was right.

Either way, he seems to have accepted it - along with their money.

You walk up the ramp with him right behind you, still directing your movements. It makes sweat prickle at the back of your neck. You look for the little green baby, wondering where he’s hiding in the new ship.

“Where’s the kid?” You ask, trying not to sound as scared as you feel when you see no trace of a child.

No toys, no floating pod, nothing.

“Grogu.” What did he just call you?

“What-”

“His name, is Grogu.” He says slowly, like he’s trying to breathe in between each word.

Fuck, of course he had a name. You feel stupid as Mando rummages around with things in the small hull of the ship.

“R-Right, of course. Where is-”

“With his kind.” He speaks shortly, voice and words clipped, like each one is a knife in his back, twisting deeper and deeper the more he speaks about the Child.

You had only known the child for a few weeks but Mando’s confession makes your stomach drop. The kid- Grogu, is gone. You couldn’t have imagined Mando parting with the little rascal, even after a few weeks, he was so protective over him.

“Mando, I’m so sorry.” You turn to face him awkwardly, your arms still bound together painfully behind your back.

Mando neither looks at you or acknowledges what you said, as if you hadn’t said anything at all. You feel awkward around him now, you don’t know how to act when he’s being so cold.  Minutes pass before he says anything.

“Where’s Winta?” He asks, almost mockingly.

You roll your eyes, you’d never thought you’d see the day when a Mandalorian was being petty.

“In Sorgan?” You’re not sure what sort of answer he was looking for but Mando hums something, as if considering your words.

“You gave up on her.” He states like it's the truth.

Mando still hasn’t looked at you. You’re fuming, blood rushing through your ears with adrenaline you can barely hear him. How dare he speak to you this way, after he left you there on that backwater skughole.

“She didn’t need me, Mando. She has a mother, a peaceful life in that village.” You spit at him, your words cutting through the air.

“So you abandon her? The community?”

“Hey, I didn’t abandon anyone-”

His hand finds your throat and he throws you against the wall of the ship, dangerously close to the carbon freezer. Your stomach drops.

Your hands dig painfully into the hard material of the ship, cuffs digging uncomfortably into your flesh and you cry out as he pushes against you harder, digging into you with his body made of steel.

Mando’s fingers find your pressure points and skim the flesh there, daring you to speak, daring to press in harder so darkness eclipses your vision. He’s dangerous like this, quietly seething, barely contained. What happened to him?

“You don’t know the things I’ve had to do,” He says, voice quivering with restraint, hand squeezing your windpipe and you gasp for air against his grip.

“Okayokay! I-I’m sorry.” You croak, voice gone hoarse already.

Mando scoffs, maybe he laughs at you, you can’t tell. You can barely hear anything but the pounding of your heart high in your throat and in your ears like you’ll pop.

“Stupid girl,” He grits, pressing you harder into the wall and you try to push him off but its no use, he’s gotten too strong.

He could break you like this, you think he might.

Something clicks in the back of your mind, something like instincts or anxiety or training but you knee him in the crotch, kicking his legs down and curving away from his helmet which crashes into the wall, where your head just was.

Mando crumbles and you back away from him, unsure of what you’re even doing - instigating a fight with a fucking Mandalorian.

Mandalore, the whispers are back and they tickle at your neck, the hairs near your ear. You shiver as Mando rises and turns to face you.

Mandalore.

He whips the saber from his holster and it glows black like a nightmare in the palm of his hand. You realize now that it’s his. He owns it. It looks important, you wonder why, or how, he got it.

“What are you doing?” He asks you, angry and stalking you in the tight haul of his ship, saber all too ready to kill. Maker, when did he get so terrifying?

When he lost his son, gained an empire.

“You can’t fight me, you can’t win.” You back away from him, coming yet again to another wall. This ship is smaller than the Crest, there’s nowhere for you to hide.

“I don’t, I don’t want to fight-”

“You know I'll hurt you.” He practically purrs and you whimper pathetically as he comes to stand in front of you, nearly - but not quite - pressing you into the wall again, vibrating sword dangerously close to your leg.

You’re panting, practically begging for it and you have no idea how he does this to you. Have you always been this easy? Maybe for him, maybe just for Mando.

He’s familiar in an odd way now, where you once knew him but not this version of him, not the version of him in front of you now but your body can’t make the distinction like your mind can.

Your mind screams danger, paints him red like a target, an enemy but your body still remembers the way he touched you, how soft he was in Sorgan, how slow he fucked you. This man in front of you would not fuck you slow - he’d take what he wanted - and you wouldn’t hate that.

You know he sees the way your chest heaves with lust laden breaths, your body going lax at the mere idea of him. Mando hums, holstering the saber and chest bumping yours as he comes to the grand realization.

“Is that it, ad’ika? You want me to break you? Again?” You can’t discern whether he’s threatening or promising you and your brain misses the foreign nickname before the words are tumbling from your lips.

“Yes.”

Mando hums again, hand coming up to your neck, cradling where your jaw meets your throat - squeezing and massaging your jugular and he watches how your eyes flutter so prettily.

“You’re addicted to me, aren’t you, stupid girl?” He squeezes slightly tighter and a moan, a cry slips through your lips quietly but it’s like fucking music to Mando’s ears.

You always make the prettiest sounds.

“Yes.” You admit again.

There’s no denying it, ever since you encountered the Mandalorian, you never forgot him. How he shines, how he walks, talks, fights, protects, fucks. You could never forget that, like he carved himself into your guts like an ulcer, making a permanent home inside of you, feel him whenever you move.

He’s infected you, you think. How else could you have become so weak for him, so powerless so quickly.

“Addicted to your Mandalore.” He growls around a chuckle and fuck-

It is him.

“You’re… you’re the-”

He tilts your head upwards so you meet his gaze from somewhere behind the pitch black of his visor.

“Yes.” He answers simpy.

The whispers, all the talk in the streets, the rumours, the tales, it was all about him. He's a-

A king. Mando is a king.

You stare up at him, fleshy mouth, perfect lips agape as you try to comprehend this. A king. A fucking king. You want to ask how, how this happened but you can’t process a thing, not when he’s looking at you like this.

Like he knows you, the voices whisper.

You’re too beautiful, Mando thinks. Too beautiful to be this stupid - to disobey him and leave Sorgan when he very specifically made it a point to tell you to stay. You make him angry sometimes, with your one track mind, needing to be good for something, someone.

“Why did you leave?” He asks, silently fuming as he tries to remain calm against the voices telling him to kill. But you see the way his chest heaves, feel how his hand twitches at your throat.

“I… I don’t know.”

“I told you to stay.” He almost sounds sad, if he wasn’t being so fucking threatening, puffing himself in intimdating like the mudhorn bull of his new signet.

“I know, Mando I’m-”

“You’re what? Sorry?” He scoffs and your heart sinks, plummets. He tilts the helmet at you, as if he were looking down at a child.

“Y-Yes.” Voice small, you quietly plead with him to believe you, eyes big and shiny as you look for his somewhere in the darkness.

He huffs again, condescending, amused.

“You’re only sorry you got caught.”

Mando’s hand smooths down your neck till it reaches your shoulder - he pushes you down to your knees till you’re kneeling before him like the king he’s now become. You nearly lose your balance with your hands still cuffed, your face leaning into his crotch where his cock strains against his pants.

How could you forget how big you make him, how hard.

“Go on, then. Tell me you’re sorry.” He rasps, hands fumbling down to his holster belt, clicking it open and letting fall at your knees with a loud clatter. You wince.

“I’m sorry.” Your mouth waters as he undoes his pants.

His movements are frantic, he breathes heavy as he reaches into his pants and grasps his cock, stroking himself a few times before he lets it slip out of his pants.

Gorgeous tanned skin, dark contrasting curls at the absolute base that run upwards like a dark stream until his armour shields it from your prying, selfish eyes. He’s thick, already so hard for you and your stomach lurches with anticipation.

You’re panting, you never thought you could need someone in your mouth this bad. “I’m sorry.” You repeat. You mean it, at least, you think you do.

“Again.”

Mando strokes his fat cock in front of your face and you can’t help but lean into him, the warmth radiating from his body pulling you in like the warm tide of the ocean - powerful, all consuming, all the while threatening to drown you.

You need to taste him, you’re desperate for it.

“I’m sor-mfph,”

He shoves his cock into your mouth - the entire length until he’s prodding at the back of your throat, making you gag on him.

Your eyes close in bliss and Mando leans into you, the weight of his heavy cock resting on your tongue and it sends you back until your head hits the wall.

One hand shooting out to steady himself against the wall, his other hand finds itself on your head, in your hair, gripping tight as he sets a pace, fucking himself into your molten, fleshy, pliant fucking perfect mouth.

“Fuck-” he groans, voice gone so low and baritone and raspy that you barely make out the word, it just comes out a garbled mess as he rolls his hips towards your face.

His cock reaches the depth of your throat with each thrust and you’re moaning around his length, your own thighs squeezing together to try and satiate the rapidly burning fire in your groin. You try and wiggle your tongue around him, you try to make it better for him but his hand in your hair tightens, gripping you and trying to hold you still.

“L-Let me do what I need to do, girl.” You moan around him, trying to nod your head but he groans in unison with you.

Your jaw aches already, he’s so fucking wide, so big and you realize now you’ve never had him like this before, never took him in your mouth, never saw him this upclose.

Cock shiny with your spit, working your mouth and tongue wide open so he can go as far in as he’ll fit - even then, you think he’s making himself fit. Your mouth fits just over half way before he’s poking into your throat and you gag on him a little, lubing him up with gobs of more spit.

You can feel him pulsing against your tongue, impossibly hard like he could cum any second but he gives you no indication that he’s close. If anything, you think he’s relentless, you can’t imagine the state you’ll be in when he’s done with you.

Mando is babbling above you, you can’t make anything out, you can’t understand him - you don’t even know if he’s speaking Basic. It sounds like another language, you try to pull away from him but you have nowhere to go, pinned between his relentless thrusts and the wall with your hands tied behind your back.

You look up at him through thick lashes, coated in fresh tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. Your lips are swollen, cheeks hollowed yet they bulge with the size of him, just like your throat - perfect girl, you’ve always been a perfect girl, even when you don’t listen.

“Y-Your, your mouth is perfect, sweet girl - you’re alway so sweet to me, aren’t you?”

You whine your assent, desperately squeezing your thighs together at his praise, his sickeningly sweet praise that always manages to send you over the edge. Your mouth aches, your whole fucking face aches but you think you’d keep letting him fuck you- use you like this if it meant he’d say nice things to you. Again and again and again.

His helmet tilts at you as he leans back, watching the way his hips send his cock in and out of your throat, the slick, wet fucking messy drag of your cock-swollen lips againt the sensitive silky skin of his dick.

Mando watches himself fuck you, just like that, watches how you take him, all of him, like a champ with no complaints, completely satisfied with just keeping you like this. He wonders how long he could do this for, how long you’d let him fuck your mouth. Until you fell asleep? Until you got hungry? Until you beg him to fuck your pussy instead? Would you beg him to fuck your ass?

Until Mando notices the way your thighs squeeze and rub together - of course he notices. Poor girl. Poor little thing. She needs you.

Mando pulls himself from your mouth with a disgustingly wet squelch. You gasp for air, the desperate need for oxygen making you nearly choke on your own spit in the process. You nearly collapse against the wall behind you but Mando’s hauling you up with his hands underneath your armpits, leaning all of your weight on him as he expertly unclicks your cuffs.

As your hands go free, you collapse into him, face nearly tucked into the crook of his neck, where cowl meets helmet but you look up at him with cock-drunk, wet and shiny, big wide eyes. He can’t believe he’s fucked you dumb already. Perfect girl, he’s only just begun.

He coos at you, quiet and calm now. His demeanour has nearly done a 180 and it leaves you breathless, confused. Mando holds you so tightly, almost protectively to his body and you let yourself go limp against his iron frame, he holds you now against him and the wall.

One hand around your shoulders, cradling you, the other comes up to your face. He cups your cheek, running the pad of his leather thumb along your swollen bottom lip, admiring the flesh that blood courses through. You’re so alive. Alive with the need for him. His cock pulses at that.

Your eyes are fixated on the T of his visor - it doesn’t look as dark as it usually does - like if you squint hard enough you could see the contours of his face emerge from nothingness. But maybe he’s just fucked you delirious already.

You kiss at his thumb, not a thought in your head as you aimlessly search for the man behind the beskar.

“Bite.” He says, voice firm again. Without thought, your lips and teeth secure themselves on the seam of his glove, you know this all too well by now.

Mando pulls his hand free of his glove while you let it fall from your mouth and onto the floor. His hand follows suit, travelling down down down your body until he’s wedging himself between your pants and skin, then underneath your underwear and finding the pool of slick you’ve been uncomfortably nursing since he pinned you against a concrete wall in the city.

You’re fucking wet, soaked. You look up at him with fluttering, lust heavy eyes as he swirls the pads of two fingers along the seam of your sex, never parting your lips, just collecting whatevers seeped past them.

“Liked getting your mouth fucked?” Mando asks stupidly, his own brain beginning to short circuit. He can hardly believe you just let him do that to you, let alone that you enjoyed it, maybe wanted him even more. Regardless, you’re about to get more.

You nod your head, helpless to form a sentence as you lose yourself in his useless ministrations, where he ignores your clit or your hole, just playing with your glossy cyprine as you squirm against him, desperately grabbing onto his cowl for purchase.

“Y-Yeah- fuck.” You say quietly, voice gone all weak.

He spreads your lips, dragging his gun calloused fingers along the more inner parts of you and swirling around your fluttering opening, no doubt feeling the wave of arousal that seeps out of you again. Mando groans, his hold on you tightening.

Fierce warrior, look at yourself, it’s taken nothing more than his cock in your mouth to break you, erase your training, your instincts and mold you to his will. Such a good girl, the voices creep in the back of his head, echoing vile words about you.

The voices blend into his own, you swear you can almost hear the echo of multiple voices as he begins to tell you what a good girl you are, always been such a good girl for me you fucking hunter, dangerous girl with a bounty on her head. You always listen to me, only to me-

Mando lets two fingers creep into your cunt and your eyes flutter closed as you cry out for him. Finally - sweet fucking bliss as he splits you on his fingers. Mando’s having none of it.

His hand retracts itself from your pants almost as quickly as they entered. Mando taps your cheek, a light slap before he’s gripping your chin. “Eyes open.”

You nod your head with such vigor you fear whiplash.

You whine when his fingers don’t immediately find themselves back inside your suffering pussy. Instead, he leads you elsewhere on the new ship but you couldn’t dare look where you’re going, couldn’t dare take your eyes off of him.

It’s like he’s glowing. As he carries you across the hull you think he’s gotten stronger, to carry the weight of you like this. You temporarily remember back in Sorgan how he would make a sparse comment about his back every now and then, but this version of him is impossibly stronger it seems. You feel like he could break you in two - you feel like he could have done that before but now, now you fear he could do it with so much as just a look in your direction, with so much as a sigh in feigned exertion.

You squeak suddenly when doors open up with a hydraulic hiss, the doors sliding open to reveal his sleeping quarters. It’s bigger than his old cot on the Razor Crest, enough to fit two people but not much bigger than that.

It’s dark too, there’s light coming from somewhere, where exactly, you couldn’t say but he glows in the darkness, like it was made for him as it kisses and highlights the high points of his beskar, his wet cock, shiny with you. The darkness lets you see enough of him, like it knows you’re desperate for it, teasing you with little glances.

He drops you down onto the mattress and you scramble to sit up on your knees, desperate to see his every move.

“Take off your clothes.” He orders, standing at the foot of the bed and taking his cock back into his palm and stroking it as he waits for you to do as you’re told.

You don’t know when you became so compliant, so weak minded, so fucking desperate to be good for him but it’s hard to question or even think about what he’s asking of you when he stands there, filling out the beskar armour better than he ever has, thick length in hand and waiting for you to undress for him.

You kick your boots off, shimmy off your pants, underwear. Throw your shirt onto the floor by his feet and unclasp your bra. You make quick time of it, it’s impressive.

Mando lets go of his cock and undoes the intricate workings of his boots, then followed by the cuirass on his thighs. He’s undressing… You have half a mind to say anything- to stop him but your tongue is tied tight. You cannot speak, you cannot stop what is already in motion.

Next goes the vembrace and the one remaining glove, both tanned and scarred hands now bare to you and you want to kiss them all over. He unhooks both shoulder pieces and they fall to the floor noisily like the rest of his armour.

Last is his large breastplate; his chest puffs out as he unhooks it, biceps bulging underneath his long sleeve under guard and your mouth waters as he moves for you. The cowl falls around him like it was silk as the breastplate collapses underneath its own weight, joining the rest of beskar.

His neck is thick, beautiful, tanned like his hands and you can see it move with each breath, with each swallow.

He’s the Mandalore. He’s so big, huge, powerful. And yet he stands before you, hands reaching upwards for his helmet and you cower away, covering your own face with your hands, trying to preserve his creed yourself. But Mando grabs one of your wrists, yanking your hands away from your face.

Your eyes are screwed shut, Mando thinks it’s cute.

“I said, eyes open.” He commands again and you recline at his tone, moving higher up on his bed to put some space between the two of you.

And you do keep your eyes open - you don't think you could close them for the life of you. You can’t believe he trusts you enough with this, enough to show his face to you. It feels wrong, taboo, it feels… underwhelming, like it’s the wrong place, the wrong time.

Why now? Why after not seeing you for months, after becoming Mandalore, losing his son, hunting you down again after months and months on end of no contact with each other? He chooses now?

Mando stands at his full height at the edge of his bed, hands returning to the helmet and pulling it off before letting it crash to the ground, loudest of all.

Is it because he trusts you?

“This isn’t about you.” He states, as if reading your mind. Oh.

“O-OKay,” You stutter, unsure of what he means by that.

His bare hand finds its way to your ankle, thumb tracing circles around the bone as you stutter stupidly, mind racing.

This isn’t about trust. Mando just doesn’t care anymore, he stopped caring a long while ago: when Mayfeld saw his face and it felt… odd. Not good, but not bad either. When his son saw it, when Grogu touched his face. When the rest of the crew said nothing as he put on the now meaningless helmet, wielding the greatest weapon that belongs to his people.

It meant nothing, it always meant nothing, right?

Nothing of his is sacred, all is lost now. He has nothing to hide anymore, especially… especially not from you, he supposes.

“But-” the word slips out of your mouth before you can help it and Mando’s growling-

“Stop fucking talking.” He spits before he’s pulling your naked form down the bed by your ankle.

You squeak pathetically as he manhandles you, coming to lean over your body, covering you with his own and then- Maker, and then his lips are on yours.

Mando’s kissing you and your eyes are wide open as his tongue glides right through your lips, parted with desperate, honest shock.

Mando’s kissing you. He’s kissing you and you think you can see him like this and fuck, you can’t close your eyes as you kiss him back.

It’s dark, so dark that you might not actually be seeing him but you sort of can. You can see his face, of this you’re sure but it’s messy, scribbled with darkness and frantic movements. It’s so dark that your brain convinces you there’s a face there, his face, but maybe it’s another love-drunk illusion.

A beautiful illusion.

You see him. Pouty lips, swollen like your own, no doubt, thick moustache tickling your upper lip, a proud, large nose, deep eyes and messy eyebrows. He’s perfect. How could a human be so perfect and contained underneath all that beskar for thirty or whatever years. He’s so beautiful you could cry- maybe you are.

Sobbing into his wet mouth, that would be so pathetic.

Your tongue dances along his own and he groans into your mouth, like he’s frustrated, like he’s trying to strangle you with the wet muscle and you wonder if he’s ever kissed anyone before. You wonder if you’re the first.

“Take my shirt off.” He grumbles against your lips and you’re quick to comply.

You pull his shirt from his body and he lets you peel it away, throwing it across the room with the rest of your clothes.

Your hands fly along the wide expanse of his rippling back and you moan as he rolls his hips into yours, you forgot you were stark naked underneath him for a moment - his cock slips through your silky folds, coating himself in your slick and you helplessly arch into him as his chest becomes bare to you.

Skin against skin, you feel Mando for the first time as he keeps lewdly making out with you.

Your hands are unstoppable, grabbing, groping, scratching all along his body, you feel new bumps and old lines, you feel the geography of him and you yearn to see it in the daylight, with your own eyes instead of painting a mental image of him in your head with nothing but your other senses. It’s jagged and fucked up but it’s still new and him.

Mando’s head is elsewhere. One hand going down your body, he quickly jams two thick fingers inside your pussy without warning and you scream, you fucking yell at the intrusion, hips rutting away from him. Luckily, he’s got you dripping already so it doesn’t take much for your cunt to accept the thick digits.

“Fuck-” You rasp, voice hoarse and strained as he fucks you open aggressively on his fingers, his mouth trying to swallow down every pretty sound that escapes your lips.

You’re beautiful, already spread thin underneath him, chest and belly rolling with every desperate breath your body takes. You’re hot to the touch, you’re burning and he’s nothing but gasoline to an already volatile fire.

His fingers dig into you, they squirm around inside and find all the fleshy, rigged parts of you that have you panting, have you fucking wrecked.

It’s too much, he’s digging too deep, too hard and you feel a pressure forming in your belly as he scissors his fingers against something. His fingers curl upwards, hitting something hidden and you feel your stomach clench.

“Mando- wait, I-”

Mando shushes you, he’s quieting you with soft, disgusting praise of you can take it. I know you can, you’re a big girl.

Fuck. What is he doing to you? You’ve never felt pressure like this before. It keeps growing and growing and you think you’re going to-

He doesn’t stop. A sweat breaks out on his hairline, you can taste it in his kiss, on his salty warm flesh as he engulfs you. Your thighs shake like cracking tectonic plates and he keeps pushing, keeps fucking you and something gives-

Mando feels you pushing him out of your sweet cavern, hot, wet and gushing all over his hand and thighs - you fucking soak yourself with a rough, throat shattering cry. You arch into his body like you’ve been snapped in two, your hands and nails lodged into his back to find some sense of stability amongst the whirlwind of your orgasm that he’s ripped from your body, leaving you winded and broken.

You can feel it dripping from you, wet, unlike the sort of sticky gloss you’re used to. Did he just… did he just make you fucking squirt-

His mouth latches itself onto your wet, drippy cunt and you convulse, hips grinding against his face and his nose knocks against your clit, mouth enveloping the wettest, widest parts of you and you cry before you have time to process what the fuck just happened.

You try to push him away, try to close your knees around his head like your body can’t decide if you need more of him or anything but. But Mando doesn’t stop.

His mouth is perfect. It’s too much, it’s not enough, you can’t take it. You need more. You can’t think straight, what is he doing to you? To your body?

“T-Too much, please…” You whine, unsure of what you’re even saying, your voice feels not your own, you can't feel the way your brain processes the words, the way your vocal cords are supposed to vibrate with use. You’re numb.

You look down where his head is, a dark shadow of messy curls lost between your thighs and he can feel the way you clench as you both make eye contact. Dark, glowering eyes, they pierce you and you gasp. You swear there’s a glimmer, a silvery shine that leaves something unsaid.

Mando pulls away from you with a broad stripe of his tongue up the entire length of you. Your mouth drops open, hanging agape at how lewd it is.

His mouth is shiny, dripping with you, it coats his lips, mustache, chin and the stubble that grows there. Mando smirks at you. He’s fucking evil.

“Tastes so fucking good,” He growls, voice gone so low you whine again.

He lowers his head back down to your folds, nudging your clit purposefully this time with his nose. Your hips automatically cant upwards towards his face. He chuckles, you cry.

“I knew you’d be sweet.” And he goes back in.

Mando takes his time. He eats you lazily, luxuriously like how he fucked you on Sorgan so many months ago.

You’re not sure how long he’s been at it, time blends together in a mess of orgasm, cries, sobs, body shakes and more ograsms. You don’t know how many he’s managed to pull from you but you feel strung out, drunk off your pleasure as his tongue explores your sex at his own pace.

He’s made you squirt like three times - you’ve never done that before, never gushed like that. Not for yourself, not for anyone. You feel completely spent, sated as he holds your pleasure weak thighs open wide so he can devour you.

You don’t know how he hasn’t given up, gotten bored of licking into you but he hasn’t.

He’s selfish, greedy, taking what he wants and your whines, whimpers for him to stop are useless, futile. He doesn’t stop and all you can do is lay back and take it until he decides he’s done. It’s marvelous.

Eventually he does pull away, sucking his own fingers into his mouth lewdly and moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. You can breathe again, you’re granted air for a moment and you look up at him above you with pleasure struck eyes, all shiny and wet with thousands of tears.

“Such a pretty girl, look at you.” He marvels, hand caressing the side of your face and you instinctively lean into it, kissing his palm.

His cock slips through your folds, once, twice before he’s flipping you over onto your belly and gliding into you like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world, like it’s nothing.

Your pussy squelches with it as he gives you each fat inch of his length and you whimper so quietly compared to how he had you screaming earlier.

You’re full with him and he keeps giving you more, keeps pushing in until he hits the deepest part of you, all the way in your womb - you have nothing left to keep from him anymore. He’s completely destroyed you, fucked you open on his fingers and taken what he wanted. You’ve given him everything. You wonder if he knows that.

Mando groans when he hits the walls of you, hips making contact with your ass and he watches the way your flesh jiggles, how you bounce with the velocity of him. He lowers himself until he’s parallel with you, body encapsulating your own, his chest warm on your back as his cock strokes downwards into you and you scream, burying your face into his pillow and you’re overwhelmed with him. He’s in all of your senses.

“You’re mine.” He growls against the shell of your ear, hips rolling in time with his wicked tongue, sending his cock drilling into you abusively.

Your pussy sucks him in noisily, wet and loud and juicy as he fucks you mean, hard like he’s trying to pound you into the mattress. No matter how many times he made you cum, made you gush all wet on him, you’re tight - fucking strangling his cock just like he remembers, like he needed.

“Perfect- tight little pussy,” He mumbles, babbling as he ruts into you with fervour.

You sob at his words, ass and body bouncing as you take his cock over and over again. Mando is relentless and you’re obsessed - you’re obsessed with him. Obsessed with the way he fucks you.

It was always good, the last two times, the only two times, have been more than good, it was enough to put anyone else to shame, enough to ruin you for anyone else, but this is different - this is everything. He’s everything.

“Mando- shit, y-you’re fucking big.”

He chuckles above you, hand groping your waist, feeling the way you mold to his touch, to his cock, he watches himself fuck you. The way his cock drags in and out, the way you swallow him, how your cunt parts, lets him in so desperately, how you paint him in your essence. He’s slicked up and shiny with it. How your ass sits there all pretty, tight little asshole fluttering in time with your cunt. Perfect girl.

Mando cracks his hand across the fleshiest parts of you, watching how your body responds to him, how you curl away from his touch but your pussy squeezes him so tight. You liked that. So he spanks you again, watching your hands twitch and fist at the pillows, watches you drool onto his sheets.

She’s perfect, a perfect little slut, perfect for us, the voices echo and Mando moans, dick twitching and chest curling inwards around your own back like you’re in some sort of disgusting, dirty dance together.

Mando flips you over and smothers you with his mouth. He tastes like you as he shoves his tongue deep in your mouth, desperate to own every part of you as his cock goes back to ruining your pussy. You’re his, you’re his, you’re his.

His lips travel down your body until he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking, biting hard. He bites you so fucking hard, bites you all over as his lips travel across your chest, your collarbones, your neck, bittting nibblng, marking you in him. Mando leaves marks everywhere.

Fingers on your hips, on your ribs, backside, on your ass. You’re marked everywhere with him. Your hands fly into his hair and pull at the roots - ripping, pulling at him.

“Mine.” He repeats, spits at you like it’s a threat and you don’t care anymore.

You nod your head whispering yours, yours, yours, yours over and over again until you don’t know any other words, any phrases, your own name. You don’t know anything anymore, not like how you know him.

“Say my name, mesh’la, say my name all pretty the way you do.” Mando nearly pleads, lips brushing against your own.

“Mand-”

“No. M-My name. Say my name.” He corrects, hips slowing down and you whine, arms going around his back and clinging to him, begging him to keep fucking you.

“I- I don’t know your-”

“Yes, you do.”

Voices surround you, echoing somewhere amongst the darkness and you cling to Mando tighter, ankles locking around his ass and pushing his cock deeper into you. You both moan, voices cracking in unison.

“I don’t-”

Din. The voices whisper.

When he begins to hear them too, he keeps fucking you, picking up his pace and so do the voices. They chant in time with his thrusts, they chant his name like he’s a king.

He is a king.

“Listen.” He tells you, whispering against your face, lips ghosting the skin.

Din, Din, Din, Din, Din, Din…

You hear them. You can hear them say his name and your eyes go wide in the dark. Even Mando- Din, can see how they shine so big, like fucking moons caught in the eclipsing light of the sun.

“D-Din..” You test, weary. The name breaks around a moan and you feel tears spill from your eyes as he hoists one leg up on his shoulder and pushing the other into your breast, folding you in half.

You chant his name like it’s salvation and holy shit, he doesn't know how he did that but it breaks him and he thinks he’s crying a bit so he fucks you harder for it

“Din, fuck Din, that’s-”

His hand flies down to your throat, squeezing it tight and you choke on your words and he fucks you harder.

“That’s it, just- fuck that’s good, baby.” He tells you while choking you out.

Your face is shiny with tears, you’re wet and sticky all over. He did this to you, this is all his doing.

You’re so powerful, Din. Look how powerful you are.

He starts to speak in that language you don’t recognize again. He rambles and chokes you and his hips piston upwards and you can feel him poking around in your stomach, you can feel him in your throat. You’re done for.

“M’gonna cum-” You mumble, words barely intelligible from the hand around your throat and cock in your tummy.

“No,” He grunts, voice thick with exertion, with power. “Not yet.”

You whine, body going haywire like you’ve been electrocuted and you’re not sure you can hold it in when he fucks you like he’s possessed.

Din grows aggressive, his thrusts brutal and he pulls and yanks at your body, like he’s trying to drown you in an ocean of pleasure, sink you deep with him amongst the black sheets until you can’t breathe anymore.

His hand on your throat finally lets up and you gasp for air, pussy fluttering like your pretty lungs and Din growls, squeezing your face, your cheeks roughly with his hand before it comes down onto your cheek - slapping you.

It’s rough, violent like this and your pussy chokes him while the sweet sting in your cheek goes straight to your cunt. You manage a sort of strangled scream before your orgasm is torn from you, your fourth or fifth or sixth of the night, you can’t fucking remember anymore. It rips through you like a tree being torn from the earth - larger than life, brutal and messy.

Din breaks you down. You pulse and sob around him and you go limp on the bedsheets and he keeps fucking you as you soak his cock. Your knees are spread wide, thighs pressed against your chest and he keeps fucking you.

He’s lost control. He lost everything - he loved, got too comfortable and it made him weak and lost everything because of it. He lost control.

But he feels it again. Feels some semblance of control, familiarity when he’s drilling into your pussy like this. He feels control when you spasm and clench around him, crying his name like he’s your only salvation, your only hope. He is. He wants to be the only thing you need because you… he thinks you’re the only thing he needs. You and your sweet little pussy.

“Y-You’re never leaving, you’ll never run away again, won’t let you.”

You don’t know if you answer him, you mumble something, maybe just little noises that he continuously punches out of you but you can’t say no to him, you can’t fight him anymore.

“Fucking tie you up if I have to.”

You cry at that. He growls, something dark and possessive. “Know you’d like that- want that.”

You just wanna be used, be useless, told what to do. I know you, I know you, pretty girl.

And you go along with it, crying Yeah, yes Din- fuck. I don’t wanna be in control anymore.

You don’t care about it anymore, he’s too much, too much pain, too much pleasure and you don’t care. He has all of you.

He could have said anything, promised you anything, asked for anything and you’d agree. Din has you wrapped his finger - cock drunk and delirious on him, you’d give him anything he wants.

He knows that now.

“I know you’re tired, tired of everything.” You nod your head weakly, crying.

“Tired of running, tired of being in control.”

“Yes.” You whisper, voice caught on a moan and a hitch of your breath, his cock punching the oxygen out of you.

Din hums his assent. “Give up then.” He sneers, near evil and you moan, back arching into his chest even more, even though he’s got you all spread out underneath him, you still convulse.

“You’re just- just made for me, made for me to fuck. That’s all you are.”

You nod your head, brain going numb and blank and stupid except for yes Din, yes Din, fucking yes.

“Whenever I want, c-can do whatever I want to you and you’ll let me, won’t you, girl?”

Yes Din.

“So easy, you’re so easy, so easy for me. I know you wanna give up.”

He’s barely coherent, a babbling, mumbling mess of basic and that unknown language but you let him spew his filth, you let him fuck you into his mattress, into oblivion. You just fucking take it over and over again and all you know is him, Din, Mando, the Mandalorian, The Mandalore. He’s all you know now. He’s all you have. Maybe you’re all he has.

“Give up. Admit you need someone to take care of you.”

I do, Din. I need it.

“Admit it. Admit you need me.”

You cry. Tears spilling down your cheeks and you heave, broken from the inside out.

You claw at his back, scraping and scratching, trying to latch yourself onto him like a leech, trying to take something from him like he’s taken from you but you don’t know that you already have. You already broke him long ago.

“Din-”

“Tell me- fuck, just say it.” He moans your name, you clench around his length.

“Need- need you. Always…. Always needed you.”

“Then let go.” He moans your name, you clench around his length.

“M’cumming again-”

The Mandalore groans, burying his face in your sweat damp neck. You gush around him with a strangled cry like a dying animal. It's ugly and pained but it only fuels him, sends Din over the edge himself.

He fills you with his seed. He ruts it deep, deep inside of you, as deep as it’ll go and you can feel him plugging you full of it. You can feel it in your stomach, your throat. You taste it on your tongue.

It’s over, and you both lay there panting, regaining some form of consciousness. You’re slippery against each other and you cling to him like you’re still drowning. He clings back.

You were expecting otherwise from Mando, now Din - you welcome the change in his demeanour.

Din. You're still not used to that. You like it though, you like the way it sounds, you like how it makes sense.

It's quiet for the first time all night.

You’re not sure if you fall asleep, or if Din falls asleep, or if you even sleep at all. All you know is that it’s dark and his heart is beating into yours and his body is heavy and his curls are damp and you’re running your fingers through them.

You’ve never been so close to him. Never been allowed such a privilege. You feel calm for the first time in a long time, it's almost unsettling - especially knowing that your tracking fob is beeping somewhere in his long pocket, long forgotten.

Can't run away this time, pretty girl.

“Stay with me.” Din says so suddenly you nearly yelp, voice all quiet and raspy like he hasn’t spoken in hours. Maybe he hasn’t.

Your face, your entire body is wet with tears, sweat, cum. You don’t know what’s what anymore, you’re not sure you’re even breathing properly.

“Stay with me and we can take down the Empire together.”

He feels your heart beat harder against his at his proposition, it makes him hopeful, makes the voices swell. He hope you don't hear them.

You remain silent, not sure if he’s just giving you empty promises but it's not your fault he knows your weak spot, knows exactly how to tempt you.

So you say okay, Din.

“Stay with me and I’ll fuck you however you want- I’ll never stop fucking you just please,” his hands grip your body hard, pulling you into him.

Din buries his face in your breasts, mouth open and wet, he leaves a trail of spit and bite marks in his wake, “Please just stay this time.”

He’s desperate.

You’ve never heard his voice so small, so rough, so fucking spent like this and you wonder what happened to him after he left you. You wonder what happened to him after Sorgan.

“I will, Din. I’ll stay this time.” You say instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when fight mode part two kicked in.

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

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

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

Which it did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The begging that bound you to him forever. 

You are my riduur now. 

My wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

Nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, thank the Maker. 

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

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

He’s almost there.

He’s almost gone.

You’re almost in the clear. 

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

“Coward.” You mutter.

The feet stop. 

Your own jaw has dropped to the floor. 

What the fuck?

What the actual kriffing fuck?

They slowly walk back to you.

Oh no. 

Oh no no no no no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bring back the fire.

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

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

“I could hear you, sweet girl."

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

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

You huff out a breath, shaking your head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay still, beautiful.” He orders. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grit your teeth, “I feel fine.”

He hums soothingly, “Really?”

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

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

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

He wants you to break. 

“Because I’m-I’m…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mandalorian. 

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

His…wife.

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

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

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

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

Oh boy.

I’m really in trouble.

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

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

Okay then, food.

Where can I find food?

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

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

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

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

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

No.

It’s best to…find him, first. 

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

You climb the ladder. 

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

You gasp, jumping back a little. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. And you don’t want to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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