#force sensitive

The details of the scene.

Cassian has a blaster burn that is not healing, and one evening Bix tricks him into visiting a woman who works in the kitchens but who provides what we’d probably call faith-healing or alternative medicine clinics after hours (this seems to be a free service). Most of the time she makes no difference to her patients’ ailments, but “sometimes it even works”. The Force healer senses Cassian from a distance and he is immediately spooked by this, and even more so when she correctly identifies exactly where his wound is. She then attempts to heal it… and thanks him “For the clarity”, saying that “It’s been a very long time” and that she had thought her Force sensitivity had gone for good. She then asks if Cassian has felt it, his “strength of spirit… all that you’ve been gathering. Surely you must feel it? ”. Really unnerved by now, Cassian expresses deep cynicism, genuine irritation at Bix for subjecting him to this woo-woo stuff and snarks “I’ll work on that, I’ll let you know,” and exits in a very dark mood. 

Bix knows him well and correctly identifies the source of his anger: he’s frightened. “You scared him… that’s not easy to do,” Bix observes. Alone now the two women discuss what happened. The healer then asks who he is and is told that he’s a pilot and soldier - so, no-one particularly special. 

Then comes the key part of the scene. Bix says “Tell me what you saw”.

Force healer: “I sense the weight of things. Things I cannot see. Pain, fear, need.”

She explains that most beings are shaped by the past but that “some, very few, your pilot” are “gathering as they go”.

She concludes with: “He’s a Messenger. There’s some place he needs to be. Maybe you’re the place he needs to be.”

Analysis

1. The Force healer’s powers

I think the key here is that she identifies her abilities according to being able to sense three key feelings: “Pain, fear, need”. I think she demonstrates her ability with every one of these in this scene. 

Pain. Quite literally, she can tell where Cassian is feeling pain: his right shoulder. I think she can ‘see’ it there, sense a flux in the Force. Perhaps the healing gesture with her hand is to try to rebalance the Force in that precise location. The fact that Cassian was in pain was shown by his being unable to rotate his arm. Bix chastised him for trying to “pretend nothing’s wrong”, adding that if she were in pain she would try anything that might help. Either way, the crucial thing for the viewer is that whatever exactly happens, it works. Cassian is seen rotating his arm fully in the next scene and staring at the burn in a mirror where it looks visibly less red than in the opening scene of the episode. 

Fear. As Bix says, it isn’t easy to frighten Cassian. But we’ve seen before exactly what he does fear: loss He fears being someone who leaves people behind. And at this stage of the story the thing he fears losing the most is Bix, and that chance of happiness together. What is frightening to him about this encounter is that he very much resists the idea that he still has some part to play that might necessitate giving up their relationship, especially just when she has finally left the worst of her trauma behind, and they have very  likely been tempted to contemplate longer term plans for the future. 

Need This is the interesting one: “There’s some place he needs to be” says the healer, so she senses need in that sense. But I think she might sense need in Cassian too. So what does Cassian himself need here? The Force healer doesn’t seem to know. She says hesitantly to Bix “Maybe you’re the place he needs to be,” but it seems that Bix isn’t convinced by that - quite the opposite. I’ll come back to this one. 

2. What does the Force healer mean by calling Cassian a ‘Messenger’?

Messengers in the healer’s description are apparently rare but not unique. Obviously, we know that Cassian has been taking literal messages across the experiences of his life: Nemik’s manifesto, the truth about Narkina 5, in all the missions for Luthen etc etc. Each one of these is spreading the word of rebellion (often through his ability simply to survive and therefore spread word of atrocities) and leading up to the stealing of the Death Star plans, eventually to be transmitted to the Rebel fleet and Leia.

But I don’t think the Force healer sees these details. I don’t think she knows that he has or will be carrying literal messages. 

In short, I think it’s more about who Cassian is rather than what exactly he will do.

A ‘Messenger’ in the healer’s sense seems to be more about a person who ‘gathers’ as they move through life, ie. profoundly changes, and ultimately improves in some way, every time they have a key experience. “All that you’ve been gathering” is after all linked to her observation about his character - “the strength of spirit” she says immediately afterwards - rather than something more literal. But the ‘message’ is crucial because the person he has become through these experiences will enable him to have a profound effect on people he meets, from Vel on Aldhani, Melshi in Narkina 5, Niya the young Sienar engineer at the start of s2… and likewise for others to have a profound effect on him. For example, he listens to Nemik’s manifesto in the wake of Narkina 5; he wasn’t really ready before but now he has indeed become Nemik’s “ideal reader”. And those who know him best see him slowly become the man he could always have been had circumstances in his early life been kinder and he had not turned away from fighting back simply because it hurt so much. This role was dominated by Maarva in season 1, and in season 2 it’s taken on by Bix. 

The Force healer was inspired by Whoopi Goldberg’s character in Ghost - a fake clairvoyant whose genuine powers are awakened by the presence of a real ghost. So in that sense there’s definitely *something* about Cassian. Perhaps she can feel that the Force is with him, not to make him a Force user or even Force sensitive. But if it’s all about restoring balance, perhaps there’s a reason why she feels something so strongly here. Even if he’s more Force-used than Force-user.

The impact on Bix and the consequences of her faith in Cassian and the Force

The whole scene is a really moving one, especially on a rewatch as it’s possible to pinpoint it as the moment when Bix realises that she will probably have to make a choice for Cassian, that the need for him by the rebellion and the galaxy is more important than her own desire for the life with him they’d always wanted. It’s also really on-the-nose when the Force healer’s hand touches Bix’s, held over her belly. A hint at the child who Cassian will never know about because if he did the galaxy is doomed to Imperial oppression, and that child’s own future with it. 

It’s possible to read Bix’s choice as extremely cruel and prescriptive, removing Cassian’s agency and forcing him to commit to the cause that will ultimately kill him, well-intentioned though the choice might be. Two things about that. Firstly, - yes, that’s kind of the point. “We’ve all done terrible things on behalf of the Rebellion,” Cassian tells Jyn in Rogue One, and the post-Andor reading includes all our new characters who have done some pretty shitty things for the cause. And this is one of them. Moral choices that would be repugnant in normal cases become far more complex when made in a time of war. Secondly, there is a very good case for saying that Bix - like Maarva before her - knows Cassian (“I don’t remember not knowing him”, she poignantly says when asked how long she’s known him), perhaps knows him better than he knows himself. Maarva’s last words for him included the assurance that one day when his reason and emotion pull together “he will be an unstoppable force for good”. In her message, Bix echoes this with “we have to beat them, and I believe you have a purpose in making that happen”. 

Could any of these three women see the future? Maybe, but I don’t think it’s essential and you might prefer the interpretation that they don’t, or at least not the details of it. But I think the ‘need’ the Force healer speaks of could quite simply be Cassian’s need to be a rebel. His need to fight these bastards, to bring them down or die trying. “I’ve been in this fight since I was six years old!” he will tell Jyn, and there’s no lie there… his commitment levels, however, have wavered throughout, and after the hell of Ghorman he just wants out. And who can possibly blame him.

The different meanings of ‘Need’

Cassian's poignant last scene with Bix opens with her saying that he “needs to sleep” as she gives him the Space!Sleepy-time tea. (she needs him to sleep too, to be able to do this, because she knows the power of persuasion he has over her).  He tiredly teases, “Is that what I need?” But it turns out that Bix knows another thing that he needs. 

“We have what we need,” Cassian says after telling her (not giving her a choice about this, I notice!) that they are leaving for “somewhere quiet” in the morning. But she doesn’t believe him, any more than she believes his next words, that “The only special thing about me is luck”. As far as Bix is concerned, there’s no such thing as luck. She is now a believer in the Force and has faith also that there is some place Cassian needs to be, and he needs to get there before they can ever be together…

…because she knows that if he did abandon the Rebellion for her, he would not be in the place he needs to be. We know that there’s a literal meaning, because we know about Rogue One, but Bix doesn’t. But I do think that Bix believes that there is a particular purpose for which he is needed but *also* knows that at the end of the day… he would not be happy if they ran away together to that “somewhere quiet”. After all, he wasn’t happy before when he tried this, even before he was a committed rebel. On Niamos, he seems miserable and apathetic, adrift and without purpose, as he’s apparently been for years recently on Ferrix. Bix knew him when he was like that - gave up on hopes of a relationship with him because he was so deeply uncommitted to anything. Or, more accurately, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care about anything. 

But now, Cassian would be haunted with the knowledge that he could have saved people. That he could have made a difference. That he turned away from a cause greater than himself and his own needs. 

Casablanca (1942) is the big influence here, according to the Andor s2,eps 7-9 writer Dan Gilroy. Spoiler, just in case you haven’t seen this classic: … When heroine Isla thinks that she’s about to abandon her war hero husband and with him the Cause, choosing instead to stay with her lover Rick, in the famous final scene at the airfield Rick tricks her into thinking she’ll be staying behind with him. She’s distraught when she realises the betrayal, but he tells her he had done the thinking for the both of them and had decided that her place was with the Cause. And that she will eventually realise this: “If you’re not on that plane with Victor, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon - and for the rest of your life.” Like Bix with Cassian, he decides that not only does the cause require this sacrifice but that soon enough Ilsa will realise it. So he, like Bix, “chooses for the both of us” because like Bix he knows Ilsa well and loves her enough to be able to want her to do the right thing and be … in the place she needs to be. Literally and metaphorically. Casablanca ends here but in Andor we see the impact of the words: a year later and Cassian is prioritising the cause, poignantly deferring any reconnection with Bix, ostensibly because of the risk to her safety but also, most likely, because he now believes that she was right and fully respects that choice. 

Cassian’s little nod at the Force healer in the final montage can also be seen as a way of saying “You were right. There is something more to me than luck. I have a purpose - something I need to do. A place I need to be.” 

But most importantly, the place he need to be is - right here. In the Rebellion. Ready to sacrifice everything, including his life, should it comes to that. 

He’s a man with a purpose. He’s a force for good; unstoppable, except by death. 

In this sense alone, the Force is with him. 

Conclusion/TLDR

As far as the characters themselves are concerned, Cassian isn’t necessarily a special chosen one with a mystical pre-destined journey that is glimpsed in visions of the future. Instead, he’s a man whose path through life is made through choices - his own and others, and this is what can be seen as the Force guiding his journey. He’s not just where he needs to be literally at the end - he’s also the best possible version of himself: a man with a purpose, giving everything for the Cause. Burning his life to make a sunrise he’ll never see - but the next generation, including his own child, will.

….

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Second Day

You wake from your slumber slowly, the bright and early Naboo sun gently pulling you from your dreams. A crisp breeze shoots through the curtains, landing on your skin, leaving behind a wake of goosebumps. You stretch your legs and lift your arms over your face, attempting to block your eyes from the light and resume your dormancy . And then you feel it. And it almost sends you flying off the edge off the bed. You jostle in startlement, your brain catching up to the feeling of someone conked behind you, hunky arm wrapped tightly around your waist and a light snore coming from a vocal modulator. Scarcely did you wake up with someone in your bed. A Mandalorian, no less. And scarcely ever did you wake up with that ache between your legs, raging through your core and threatening to seek its depraved vengeance with the man established behind you. You were accustomed to them being gone before you even woke. He stirs in his sleep, and you settle down within the curves and divots of his beskar. You wonder; When was the last time someone spooned you? 

You feel the heat from his breath creep onto your neck, warming your exposed skin delightfully. You never really got dressed after last night’s villainously dirty antics. And Mando didn’t seem to mind much. You can’t recall when you sailed off to sleep, but it had to be in the spaces between lustfully whispered words, smitten giggles, or supplemental breaks in conversation to deliver you more of his blissful dining at the Y. He kept you on your toes throughout the night, a hot-off-the-press spirit conjuring within the stiff walls of his beskar. The awareness ran through his blood, and settled deep in his frontal lobe. He was a changed man, the channels flipping through his mind until it landed on the horniest one on the frequency. 

He was startled by the knowing fact that he knew this wouldn’t be the last time he found himself buried between your thighs, face hot and moist with your essence. He would never not think of the way you taste, the way you smell on his scruff, and the way he feels when he sinks his face into your curious hair as he plummets his way through the galaxy. He was infatuated with the likes of you, the sight of you, his man-brain just hopelessly dull-witted with the confronting factualism that he was indeed; whipped and gone mad over you. And he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Gods, what had gotten into him? 

You smile to yourself, scooting and writhing yourself into him until you feel it; Milk-warm and ready to play, you think. The dizzying heat from his bulge practically leaks from the fabric of his underwear, attributable to his pants never making it all the way back on through the night. He stirs again, subconsciously tightening his arm around your waist, rutting into your backside in a broken, irregular pursuit of your warmth. You breathe, trying to calm your own dizzying heart rate. His movements become more and more jagged, his breaths hitching and scraping against his throat. Your mouth hangs agape with a stunned smile, thinking; Is he about to splooge on my back? You don’t stay long within your thoughts, the reality setting that you shouldn't give in to his inherently unconscious fondling. Or not yet, at least. After all, you’d only just met and although his breath faintly dripped with the scent of your heat on his tongue, you were a lady. A lady who doesn’t give in to her one-night-maybe-more stand’s somnophilic desires on the first morning. 

The Mandalorian’s hand creeped upwards, his grip around your waist tightening as he tries to reach for your breast. His thumb brushes your right nipple, sending a jerk to your legs and a jolt through your heat. 

“Mando” You whisper breathlessly, words of wisdom echoing against your skull; She who inquires, soon perishes.

He doesn’t respond. And by Gods, you are ready to burst. Instead, you feel a hand catch your breast, a low, involuntary groan emanating from his throat. He begins to knead messily, his fingers squeezing and releasing in no distinguishable pattern. You cover your mouth with a shaky hand, the other gently wrapping around the Mandalorian’s, attempting to remove it without waking him. In vain, of course; the man’s grip is so calculated and unmoving, even while he’s asleep. Curious, you wonder. He continues hunching against your backside, uncontrollable whines and grunts escaping from the modulator. Gods, he is really digging himself into you now, his dreams seemingly taking a hot, degenerate turn. You selfishly debate letting him finish, pretending to be asleep, and then rightfully suffering the consequences of watching him truck around your house without being able to touch him. Sincerely, what did you think would happen if he woke up now? It would forever weigh in his conscience. So you decide. For his sake of course, and definitely not yours. 

You softly back yourself into him, lying your head against the pillow once more as you relax your limbs. You extend your chest, allowing his sentient hands and hips to roam freely against you. He mutters something under his breath, something you had to think twice if you heard correctly. Your name; it flows prettily off his tongue, unconsciously verbed as if he’d been speaking it all his life. Your chest grows warm. 

His thrusts falter ever so slightly, signaling the eventual end to his very, very wet dream. Your eyes drift closed, senses hyperfocusing on the hot breath flushing your neck. He continues pawing at your breast, expertly taking your nipple within his fingers, rolling it between them. You dig your head into the pillow, cursing the words of wisdom. 

Your neck chills with the realization that he’s stopped breathing. His body flexes and stiffens, and a flowing warmth runs against the skin of your backside. You try not to wear a shit-eating grin, preserving the appearance that you were asleep. He ruts into you a few more times, thrusts broken and pained, the muscles in his arm twitching violently.

His breathing resumes, now hot, heavy and awake. 

You feel his arm gently snake off of you, his heavy frame jolting up to stand on his knees. You keep your eyes shut tight, biting back the temptation to burst into laughter. 

“Dank farrick!” You feel him rush off the bed, stomping his way to your living space. You faintly hear The Kid mumble sleepily from his crib, almost stirring awake from the commotion. He rushes back to you, cloak now secured onto his neck. You feel the coarse fabric against the ridge in your backside, wiping away the silky spunk from your skin. Gods, what it took from you to not erupt in laughter. You let out a series of artificial groans, withstanding the appearance that you were just waking up. You think to yourself; it worked, didn’t it? 

His hands leave you as you stir awake. “Mando?” You grog sleepily. 

“Yeah..I’m here” He says, his modulated voice delivering with a shaky breath. “Good morning.” He sits beside you, covering you with the soft blanket he managed to rip off of you in his innate, sexually agitated pursuit of release. You turn to face him as he covers you, breasts and pussy on complete display. You hear his breath catch, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallows the excess of saliva accumulating from his glands. 

“Are you okay?” You ask teasingly, knowing the answer was a stark no. He breathes a chuckle, and you know his face has got to be melting off from the heat spread against his cheeks and ears. “I, uh- Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” He stammers. “It’s early, go back to sleep.” He leans forward, placing a hand over the top of your head, running his bare fingers through your snaking curls. You blink slowly at him, his gaze trained on you, feeling his breath escape the bottom of his helm. 

Mando had never seen hair like yours. He didn’t consider Peli’s wild and uncivilized do close to anything he was seeing on you. Your curls sat sentiently on your shoulders, each one seemingly having a mind of its own while sustaining the uniformed magnificence of your big, soft mane (which, might he add, fits so perfectly within his calloused fists). He continues running his fingers through it, catching gentle fistfuls of your locks between his fingers. It must feel good for you, evident by the way your eyelids drift shut, a warm smile softly beaming up at him. So he continues. He keeps massaging your scalp, allowing himself to get lost in you. Your gaze, your faint scent in the air, the alluring shape of your eyes and perfect teeth glinting at him as you smile. 

“Mando?” 

He doesn’t miss a beat before softly humming back to you. You don’t continue. The silence between you carries something heavy, a low simmer building to a heavy broil. 

He hums lowly, muttering something you couldn’t understand. 

“Mesh’la” The fluid word nestles softly in your ear, invoking your smile to widen. You didn’t know what it meant, but you didn’t need to. 

The sun begins to shine brighter through the open curtains, and the Mandalorian reaches above his head, snatching them shut. I should be getting up for the day, you think. But Gods, who in their right mind would leave such a position? Before you know it, your hand is reaching to his helmet, your fingers resting on the cold beskar. His hands slow as you touch him, the blatant exhibit of trust quietly settling between you. 

“You said you didn’t have to leave today, right?” You ask purely, careless of the yearn in your voice. He didn’t have to leave today. But that didn’t stop the jab in his chest when he calls to mind, he’s going to have to leave someday. But that day wasn’t today. And Gods be damned if he was going to waste what he had in front of him. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Mando lived a fast life. Depraving himself of attachments, familiarities and all the niceties any common person would take pleasure in. He wasn’t common. Hell, most of his kind had been wiped from the galaxy, routinely seeked and destroyed by all who couldn’t understand the significance of a race who’d lasted tens of thousands of years. Bearing in mind all the millions of inter-species wars, battles, and armed conflicts his likeness has sustained. And the way of his survival was keeping a practice. Not staying on one planet for too long. Foolishly depriving himself of having a need for comfort. Often finding himself feverishly avoiding attachment to things as miniscule as food that might taste too good. Or feeling for another that wasn’t himself. 

And then came you, mysterious and vibrant all the same. If he was being ingenuous, his intentions were set from the start of his travels. He hadn’t planned to stay long. And foolishly, for a little while after meeting you, he believed it. The sight of you flustered him, threw him off his game. He couldn’t have distractions. And human women who looked like you were a distraction. You were short. He easily cleared a foot and change of your height. You were purebred, a type of mammal that didn’t originate on his side of the stars. Something he’d seldom see on other humanoid species he’s interacted with. Your eyes were a dark brown, radiating all and any light back to him. Striking, he thought. 

Your limbs and body moved fluidly, the shape of your frame something he’d only observed in fictitious..illustrations depicting what thoroughbred human females looked like. And compared to the countless alien and slightly-resembling humanoid species he’d laid with, Mando had to realize eventually that even in his almost 40 years of life, he will still be facing instances where he’s seeing a first. It wasn’t surprising, for someone who’s always on the move. The peaceful bearings of your welcoming gave you away first, the only humans on Naboo being the passive species that inordinately managed to make peace with the unruly Gungans. 

He stood at your doorstep, a gentle sheen glistening off of your top lip. You looked like you had been doing dishes, your house-gown damp at the lower stomach, sparkly soap suds melting on your wrists. Your bushy hair was fastened in a bun, curly tendrils escaping the silk ribbon unsuccessfully taming your mane, and poetically framing your face. 

Your face. 

He had been stranded, ship left in Mos Eisley, and Gods be damned if he had to lodge with a damn droid. So he and his child set pace for the peaceful plains of Naboo, hitching a ride with a small traveler’s congregation. Cognizant that he would find a somnolent villager who would be willing to take him in for a while. 

He had traveled for days, grudgingly following behind the adventures seeked by the traveler’s guild. The adults of the congregation asked relentless questions as they all gathered on their ship, children beaming and listening attentively whilst their eyes stayed glued on the shiny weapons and gadgets he kept on his person. 

“So you’ve never taken the helmet off?” Asks a woman, baby planted on her lap and a toddler sat on her other. 

“Not since I swore the Creed.” He replies flatly. 

“What is that?” A man points at the green booger levitating next to him. 

“I keep him around for luck.” He replies flatly, glancing at The Kid with an aggravated sigh

“Can I see your blaster?” One child glimmers, not missing a beat to squash his dreams with a firm “No.” The other kids groan in protest, but another question rings from the group that nearly sends him into a stupor. 

“Where do you live?” Asks another child, and for a moment, Mando doesn’t have an answer. Nothing sarcastic, nothing witty or a play on words. Nothing. The kids quiet themselves, as do the adults. Everyone keeps their eyes on him, anticipant on his response. His helmet dips in thought. What in the dank farrik was he supposed to say?

“Prepare for landing, folks!” The co-captian of the ship makes his way into the hull, sparing Mando’s idiotic silence to the child’s question with his chipper, animated announcement. His eyes stay stuck on the floor, lulling the weight of his answer in his head. 

You were the nonconformity, as was The Kid. He had never thought of himself as the type to settle down anywhere. He’d have to end up saying goodbye to his son, too. His entire mission was built on it. The entire reason he's here in Naboo, seeking lodging while his Crest is repaired, is so he can return The Kid back to his own likeness. But when you opened your door to him, so disheveledly sexy in your house gown and your unruly hair, a thought so damned ridiculous banged against his frontal lobe. Fuck the mission. You riveted him at first sight, your eyes curious and wide as you gave him a once over. He explained his situation, leaving out the part where he was carrying an asset so extremely sought-after, he might be bringing Imperial-level trouble to your doorstep and he didn’t even know it. He had been involved in an air collision, damaging his ship to the point of needing repairs. And he needed somewhere to go. Plain and simple. And as if he was being compensated for it, The Kid made his own case in frustrated babbles and upset bleats. At that point, he didn’t need you to tell him that you had no objections to his staying. 

And as he walked into your home, the fresh air whipping through the living space, he caved into the masculine urge to muse. He watched you as you made up the conform couch with a pep in your step. He envisioned himself, coming back here, after a long day’s work. The raw sunlight warming the areas too chilly, Naboo air cooling the areas too warm. The organic, unrefined wind blowing through the windows as you tended to the house, Kid busying himself with getting in your way. The corner of his lips twitch, threatening a smile. 

“Thank you” He choked out, threatening to lose control of the shake in his voice, not realizing he’d been holding back a breath. 

“Of course.” You look at him with a sparkle in your eyes, your soft gaze and luminous smile burning through a hole through his impenetrable chest plate. 

Possibilities ran through his mind. You seemed so jovial in accepting him, not caring to prod into his business, you didn’t bark a price at him for his lodging and he was begrudgingly burdening you with an additional two mouths to feed. Do people like this exist? He thought to himself. He could almost split his side at how unbelievably suitable this life was for him. And yet he hadn’t even sat on your couch. 

You introduced yourself to him, your name coming to rest on his ears. He repeats it. And he takes it slow so he pronounces it right. A name he could hear himself huffing into his helmet while he thinks about all the repulsive ways he can have you, and your little corner of Naboo, all to himself. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Second Day (continued)

“No, cyar'ika. I don’t have to leave today.” He coos at you, fingers now completely entangled in your hair. He gently removes them, moving his large and calloused palm to your face, cupping your cheek. He runs a thumb over it, yearning to keep his gloves off for the rest of his life if it meant he could touch you in perpetuity. 

“Tomorrow?” You ask glumly, already grieving the company of your new friend. 

“Yes, tomorrow. But I’ll be back in a few days.” He replies, his voice soothing and gentle. 

You fight the urge to make him promise aloud, aware of the blatant and foolish teen-crush you both had on each other. So you smiled sheepishly instead. 

“Okay” 

You hear soft coos coming from the living space, The Kid now stirring awake. You grin  at the sound, thinking to yourself; I could get used to waking up like this..

His helmet tilts to the side, his gaze still fixed on you. 

“Kid’s awake” He utters with a subtle sigh. You give him a tight-lipped smile, silently grieving the feeling of his warm hands on your face. 

The Mandalorian releases your cheek, inching to get up. You sit up, looking after him as he moves. You watch his body, the dim sunlight glistening brilliantly off of his armor. The bouncing shimmers were the only thing distinguishing his dark silhouette from blending into the darkness of the room. You study the way he maneuvers; so fluidly, so dexterously intentional that you begin to wonder if the beskar weighed anything at all. Something about his presence in your humble home was so assuring, sheltering, warm. He offered a stability that you couldn’t get from staying solitary. The rapidly growing attraction between you was evident of that. You craved him, and every alluring part of him more than you’d like to admit. 

He cranes his neck around the room, searching for something. His gloves. He’d shamelessly chucked them to the wind sometime last night, and you didn’t blame him one bit. It seemed as if he was pent up, frustrated with the fact that he’d let himself get to the point where he’d brazenly defile you the same day you’d met him. You weren’t complaining, though. A big, strong armored man was ready to pounce at the sight of you, what on Naboo were you supposed to do? And the drawback? You both hopelessly ached for more. And you didn’t know how long it would be until you were satiated with each other. You had to admit, it didn’t look promising. 

You keep your eyes on him, sitting up in bed as you watch him look for his gloves. The Kid begins to mewl, wondering where his father is. “I’m comin’, kid. Where did I put my…” He trails off, his head swiveling around the dark room. You reach up instinctively, peeling open the curtains, light spilling into the dark crevices of your bedroom. His gaze stops on the gloves laid halfway under your bed. “Here.” He bends to retrieve them whilst you stand up, stretching your arms and back from the cricks and tension from sleep. You walk towards your nightgown, haphazardly strewn about the floor a few feet from your bed. You bend to pick it up, both feet flat on the floor and stood shoulder-width apart. While bent, you sneak a peek behind your leg, your eyes landing on the Mandalorian standing still as stone, gaze stuck on you. If he hadn’t just been moving, you could fully mistaken him for an anchored statue. 

Words of wisdom echo through your mind; You’re in for it now, mesh’la. 

The Kid continues bleating and babbling impatiently, wondering what the hold up is. You unhurriedly stand up straight, lifting your arms and slowly slipping your gown over your head. The silky fabric falls around your curves, settling on your body loosely. You smile back at the Mandalorian, flashing him a sleazy wink. 

“Hungry?” You ask wittingly, swinging your hips as you brush past him into the living space. You should be handsomely rewarded for the amount of times you’ve had to suppress a colossal bout of laughter at the hardened, deadly soldier who’s currently stuck on stupid at the sight of your bare ass. The Kid ramps up when he sees you, incoherently yapping and babbling excitedly. You walk over to him, baby-voicing your good mornings and fully melting into your well developed kid-centric nature. As you approach him, his stubby arms extend towards you, beckoning you to lift him. You take the child in your arms, wrapping a hand around his fuzzy, yet bald head. You run circles over his forehead with your thumb, large, innocent eyes drooping and his beaming smile relaxing at your touch. The Mandalorian approaches a few feet behind you, arms crossed and his shoulder leaned against the doorframe to your bedroom. He observes you silently, letting you sink into your niche ability to love his child in a way that he couldn’t. 

“Good morning, little one.” You coo down at him, the affection for him gripping you completely. 

There was something about the child that besotted you. You couldn’t put your finger on it. You’ve never been so enamored by any of the littles you’ve cared for previously. You loved them all the same, of course, but your intuition was no fool. Was it because his father was the first possibility of a real companion that you’ve chanced upon since meeting the males of your village? You didn’t know, and frankly, you didn’t care to read too much into the brass tacks. All you knew was that this child was something special. And you’d do anything to make sure him and his father remained in your life, even after he no longer needed your accommodations. 

Suddenly, your eyes instinctively drift shut, and you feel an overwhelming wave of pure, instinctual energy flowing through your body. The thick of it coils through your mind, temporarily disabling you. In no time, memories and remnants of a life gone begin to swirl through your head as you look down at the child. Feeling as if a celestial force had pushed into your mind, inquisitively weaving its way through your identity and taking grasp of the most exciting parts with a child-like curiosity. 

Your parents. Bright, but unfamiliar. A twinge of sadness comes across your features at the sight of them once more, after years of training your conscience to suppress the remembrances for your own sake. Your mother’s face appears first. You didn’t remember much about her, or what she did for a living. Your subconscious only recalling bits and pieces of the entire stretch of time where your parents were alive. The flashbacks run slowly behind your eyes. For the first 7 or so years of your life, you lived on Coruscant, a planet so alive and undeviating from its heavy city culture. 

Verbatim, the planet was covered in cities. Altering species and people alike roamed the busy streets, something to learn and a new adventure to get lost within at every pivot. 

You were raised along many different types of children, alien and humanoid all the same. You forced yourself to not remember much from Coruscant, only a bit of the joyous things a child should remember. Makeshift playgrounds, busy streets and the noise. So. much. noise. A striking contrast to the calming plains of Naboo that you now claimed as your home. Eventually ending up here after you and plenty of your childhood friends were  driven out of your homes by the growing need for more major galactic trade routes. 

But naturally, shards and remnants of the unfavorable lie deep within your psyche. 

Your mother and father coming home after a long day of seeing the galaxy, muscles rigid with tension, and robes and cloaks smelling of char and a substance so stannically sweet it made your little head spin. You could almost smell it now. Your breathing speeds up, the sudden unpackaging of your deepest memories taking you by complete and utter surprise. Outside of your ethereal mental union with the child, you hear him coo sadly, his three tiny claws softly grazing your forehead as a tear rolls its way down your cheek. You feel a push into your conscience, attempting to unearth more unpleasant recollections until you feel your mind resist the pulls of the energy coming from the child. 

You think to yourself; What the hell has gotten into me? Why am I remembering? Gods, who is this kid? 

And as if your mind was partially occupied by an innocent spiritual visitor, one thought pushes through all the others into the front of your psyche. 

Grogu. 

Your lips twitch into a smile. Is that his name? You think to yourself. 

“Grogu?” You open your eyes to meet him, pupils growing large and ears perking to the sound of your voice. 

Grogu blabs excitedly, his arms waving happily at his successful attempt at whatever it is he had done to you. 

I knew it to be true. 

That excited internal monologue in your head was him, you observed. He was communicating with you without verbiage. Maker, this was the most extraordinary thing you’ve ever experienced. A small fraction of your soul had come alive. A minuscular inclination to follow the flow of the energy that encircled the two of you. To force yourself to ride the wave of new emotions. To let it take you with utter trust and faith. 

Without hesitance, you push your thoughts forward, forcing them to cascade within the connection you’ve established with the psychic child held in your arms. 

How are you doing this? How am…I doing this?

A few moments pass before you feel a response. 

The Force is within you. It is, has, and will unfailingly be. 

And suddenly, it all made inexplicable sense to you. Your undisputed ability to bear the brunt of the energy around you, constantly. To feel the universe for what it was, never what you were made to believe it to be. Your unwavering optimistic view on the happenings of your life, despite the harsh realities you were forced to face at a very young age. And, your innate ability to care and nurture, without ever asking or expecting something in return. You gave and gave, and never awaited to receive. 

The Force. You thought to yourself. As in, Jedi powers? 

You smile nervously at the child, unsure what to do with this new information. Truly, where did you go from here? The Jedi were almost completely obsolete. You’ve never done any extensive space travel, and seldom traveled outside your settlement. You wouldn’t even know where to start. 

“What happened?” You hear Mando’s voice float through the modulator, bringing you back to the present. You took a beat before responding, unsure of what exactly you were supposed to say. “Is Grogu his name? How did you know that?” Your smile grows at his rapid-fire questions, noticing how it was undoubtedly the most he had spoken since he arrived; despite the X-rated grunts and groans you elicited from him the night prior. You feel him approach from behind you, now aware of not just his physical presence, but a bodiless force that surrounded him. It was heavy, encapsulating and incontestably alluring. You turn to face him, Grogu still watching your features from the comfort of your arms, squealing softly but excitedly at his new-found discovery about you. 

Mando took a beat before speaking again. “You’re Force-sensitive?” He asks, and you huff at your inability to respond truthfully. 

“I…I had no idea. I mean, I’ve always been pretty intuitive, wise above my years and all that. But this…I mean this changes everything, Mando.” You walk over to the kitchen counter, resting Grogu on the flat surface. You run your fingers through your hair, brushing your curls from your face as you let out a long sigh. “How could this be true for someone so…regular? What did I do to deserve such a gift?” You laugh unbelievably, motioning your arms to yourself. “Truly, what do I do?” You shake your head, looking down at your hands whilst you weigh the options in your head. You could venture outside of the settlement, something you hadn’t done in a long while. You survived off of the land around you and short trips to the market within your zone, having mastered all homemaking abilities sufficiently enough to let you live independently. Gods, what were you thinking? You’d be the smallest fish in the pond. Anxiety gripped at your chest, your inner-placility faltering at the slightest. You looked up at Mando, your worried eyes landing directly on his. You didn’t know it, of course. 

The Mandalorian sighs nervously before replying. His tone is gentle, his voice low and warm through his helmet. “I might have a solution. But it would require you to leave your village, and I couldn’t tell you for how long.” You listen intently, resting your bottom on one of the stools beside the counter. Grogu’s ears perk up as he turns to face his father. 

“I’ve been on the hunt for a Jedi. Grogu needs to be reunited with his own kind. I’m not able to train him properly and…” He pauses, looking down at the child, his innocently curious eyes meeting the harsh glare of truth. “He’s been through so much. He needs to have a normal life.” His words settle deeply between the three of you. “He deserves a normal life.” You listen intensely, feeling the devout emotion in his words, despite the flat tone of the modulator. The uttermost love he feels for him. Your heart ached at the notion of him having to voluntarily separate from his son. It’s something you could never fathom, especially noting the life-altering experience he had gifted you in your first 24 hours of meeting. You wondered how much more the child could tug at your heart strings if you got to know him more. The universe couldn’t have been more clearer. The likes of Mando and Grogu were put on your path for a reason. You didn’t know why yet. But if you’d learned anything within the past 10 minutes, the path you lie within is the one you must swear to follow. Fully committing to your established  intuition, thoroughly trusting the Force to guide you across your journey. 

“When do we leave?” You ask, sliding off of the barstool and walking around to the kitchen. You wait for a response, busying yourself with preparing the kettle to make caf. Grogu inches himself forward, wanting off of the counter. He’d been entertained enough with the conversation. Whatever adventures awaited, he wanted in, especially if you were now involved. The Mandalorian hooks his hands beneath the child's arms, setting him on the floor gently. He patters away towards your bedroom, elated at the prospect of discovering a new part of your house. 

“My next stop is Corvus. I was told I could find a Jedi named Ashoka Tano there. I was hoping to locate her and find out if she knows someone who can train him.” He responds. You set the kettle to boil, turning to face him. Questions race through your mind, mouth opening and closing as you try and decide where to start. 

“Well, Mando. Guess you can say you’ve rocked my world in more ways than one.” You tease, combating your internal anxiety with the only way you’ve learned how; humor as dry as a Tatooine desert. You hear a huff crackle from the modulator, a noise you can almost discern as a laugh. You smiled at him, keeping your gaze locked on his. Remnants of your earlier antics begin to flow through your mind, your bottom lip instinctively wedging its way between your teeth. He stands still, his helmet tilting curiously, keeping his visor locked on you. He looks back towards the bedroom where Grogu has already found something to busy himself with, and back to you in one fluid motion. You begin to fidget, noting the rising octave of the temperature indicator on the kettle. 

He walks towards you slowly, stride slow and unwavering. Gods, he was the most attractive man you think you’d ever met, and yet you hadn’t even seen his face. You wondered what he looked like under there for a moment, his enigmatic nature fading the rest of your thoughts, replacing them with curiosities innocent and not-so innocent alike. 

He closes the gap amongst you, placing a strong hand on your lower back as he tries to maneuver his way between you and the counter. You face back toward the kettle, turning your backside to him to allow him more space. He instantly wraps his hands around your hips, the palm of his hand firmly squeezing at the flesh on your hips. 

Foolish move, mesh’la. The loud thought echoes in his head, moving through the sentience flowing between you and settling in yours. You didn’t know how you felt about having this kind of ability, but you weren’t sure you completely hated it yet. You had plenty of beginner’s advantages now, and Maker knows you were going to use them. The kettle begins to rumble beside you, pressure building within the hot walls of aluminum. You feel his warmth radiating through the fabric of your nightgown, your bottom nestling perfectly within the gaps of his abdominal armor. You press back into him, feeling his bulge stiffen against you. He keeps his hands wrapped tightly around your hips, his hips now heavily pressing against the curve of your ass. His fingers travel down the outside of your thighs, grabbing the fabric of your nightgown and lifting it so painfully slow. Goosebumps cover your arms and legs. Once he has you exposed, he raises his gloved right hand and brings it down roughly, giving one of your cheeks an authoritative slap. You stifle a moan, your knees going weak at his display of superiority. He rubs the point of impact, squeezing the soft skin reassuringly as he continues rubbing himself against you. He releases a soft groan, using both hands to knead and spread your cheeks. You feel his gaze boring into you from behind. The kettle begins to release a continuous whine, tension building as the water grows to a boil. 

He leans forward, helmet now right beside your face. He wraps an arm around your waist, resting his fingers between your thighs. You jolt as he touches your heat, desperately hunching into your behind as you bend forward, pushing back into him. 

“Dank farrik…you’re so perfect, cyar'ika.” He grumbles lowly, his voice shaky and breathy against your skin. You absorb his words with every ounce of intimacy he laced them with. And all the sudden, you’re wanting to feel his lips on yours. You craved the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his breath against your face and the arousing sensation of his tongue shoving its way into your mouth. You straighten against him, turning your body to face him. You rest your backside against the counter, feeling the cold smooth texture against your bare thighs. He instinctively bends to wrap his arms around them, hoisting you up fully onto the counter. And still, your lips only just reached his with an upward crane of your neck. You wrap your legs around his waist, his hips finding your middle as he leans into you. 

You carefully reach your hands up, your palms meeting the cold beskar of his helmet. You secure your fingers to the ridges around his visor, pausing before you proceed. 

 “Kiss me, Mando. Please.” Your words land heavily on his ears, and send a sensual jolt down his spine. And in that moment, he desired nothing but to rip the damned thing off and attach his mouth to every inch of you there was to taste. The kettle comes to a boil, the temperature indicator attached to the burner wailing a high-tone whistle. You both keep your gaze fixed to each other, his arm detachedly reaching beside you and turning it off. He brings his hands up, gently wrapping his around yours whilst he lowers them. You almost whined in protest, your appetite for the taste of him considerably disregarding all the stupid rules of his Creed.  

“Soon.” He replies, resting your hands on his chestplate. You smile, accepting his answer for what it was, not pushing any further. Instead, you lean forward, your face coming to meet his helmet with no protest from his position. You plant a soft kiss beneath his visor, and another below that one. You plant kisses against the beskar, the last one landing exactly where you felt his lips to be. 

“Soon.” You repeat, inching forward to hop off the counter. You and Grogu had more things in common than you thought. You feel a strong hand wrap around your wrist. 

“Sit. I’ll make the caf.” He states flatly. He gives you no room to gripe, already grabbing the jar of instant-caf sat within your cabinets. You walk back to your seat at the counter, watching him as he moves around your kitchen, so domestically, so fittingly. 

Grogu mumbles excitedly, the sounds of his successful play-time endeavors traveling through your home. You closed your eyes and pushed your thoughts forward, attempting to reach for him through the Force. 

Having fun? The connection was established easily.