#jango x reader

You’re sprawled out on a hovering creeper with grease and dirt up to your elbows. The influx of clients from the latest pod racing event has tripled your workload, and while you feel the need to complain, the steady flow of credits coming in certainly makes it worth your while. Though, you’ve been hard at this since the races ended, that was nearly a week ago and people are becoming impatient to get their vehicles back.

The glimmering flash of polished steel catches your eye. You scan around the room to see where it’s coming from, noticing its source walking right up the floor of your bay. You recognize the pristinely forged beskar at first glance, knowing for a fact this guy is quite literally made of money. You turn up your nonchalance, imparting to your new client that whatever he may need, he’ll have to answer to your schedule.

“Ahem.” The new client audibly clears his throat, but the sound is slightly distorted by a modulator. You push yourself out from under the repulsorlift engine, adjusting your eyes on the T-visor above you. His arms are crossed over his chest plate as he peers down at you, and it is in this moment that you realize you should have gone the extra mile to greet him at the door.

“Oh!” You jump up so fast you end up a little light headed after recognizing who he is. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

You try to offer your hand for a shake, but immediately retract it when you realize it’s slathered in grease, opting to wipe it on the back of your pants.

“I know you’re busy, but I was hoping you could take a look at something. My starship is making some… odd noises.” He attempts to coax you to his ship, but you’re rather keen on testing out a theory.

“You’re right on the first part, I’m not so sure about the second.” You respond flatly, hoping to haggle a little.

“Don’t make me beg.” Those words coming from him make you weak, but you stay strong.

“C’mon, the begging is the best part of my line of work.” You explain with a dry chuckle.

“Please.” He steps closer, altering the mood with his assertion. “My usual guy got arrested.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” You say, wondering how desperate for services he really is.

“It’s not like I was the one who turned him in.” Jango says, but you know better than that, giving him a look. “Alright fine, but it’s not my fault he is wanted in four systems.”

“Then I’m sure the return on your investment provided you with more than enough money to find a new mechanic.” You attempt to dismiss him, making for a crate with some spare parts to peruse through when something remarkable happens.

“It did.” Jango drops a hefty coin pouch just brimming with credits into the piled up crate you’re poring over.

“Now, why should I push you to the front of my queue?” You ask, turning your back on the substantial sum. “You’d have to pay me more than double my going rate, all of which these kind people have already coughed up in advance.”

“Trust me.” His helmet tilts towards you, making you feel small but in a good way before another pouch is set beside the first one in the crate at your back. “Money is no object.”

“I don’t suppose you have a time manipulator that will magically make all the hours I spend working  just disappear so that I don’t get behind on my other projects?”

“Sorry, the only way I’ve been known to lose time is with a fifth of Merenzene Gold and a pretty woman on my arm.” His attempt at charming you works, but you can’t let him know that.

“Nice try, pal.” You push him playfully away from you, walking ahead of him to find a damp rag to wipe your hands “I can’t fit you in.”

A third pouch is dropped on the pile and you realize he’s not going to take no for an answer. Thank goodness you’ve been playing hard to get. You could probably milk him for every credit he’s worth if you kept this act up.

You accept the payment, tossing the pouches into your personal lock box tucked beneath the counter, slamming it shut and resuming your focus on him. “So, what exactly did you want me to look at?”

“Right this way.” You follow him to where his starship is parked. Your stomach drops at the severity of its damage. 

Hull panels are shot clean off, carbon scoring stains it from top to bottom, and there are some components that you’re certain will put you on a planet-wide scavenger hunt to look for replacements. “Aw jeeze. I’m starting to think the weird sounds are the least of your worries.”

“It’s… not as bad as it looks.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You start inspecting, running your diagnostic scanner over every inch. Contrary to Jango’s claims, it’s far worse than it looks, in fact. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was part of the races too. “Uhm… about when did you need this to be fixed up?”

“I was hoping within the next few days.” He meekly suggests, knowing the timeframe is tight “I got a gig in the Telos system that I can’t be late for.”

“Even if I happened to have four extra arms, I don’t think that would be possible.” You coldly declare while putting your scanner away

“Well, it’s a good thing I brought six.” He presses a button on his decorated gauntlet and his boarding steps creak to an open. The comedically slow revelation of your new guests causes you to chuckle, and if not for his helmet, you’re certain he’s smiling under there too.

A flock of rusty, chipper little pit droids file out of his ship and you feel the workload quite literally be lifted off your shoulders. What you said before was obviously a figure of speech, but now that you’re calculating it, you have been brought more help than you would have ever predicted.

“Does this change things?” Jango asks, knowing the answer.

“Erm, y-yeah I think I can probably make this work.” You pretend not to be impressed when in reality this is one of the kindest gestures you could ever receive.

“Good.” He immediately makes a break for the exit.

“Where are you going?” You investigate, desperate to know where he’s off to in such a hurry.

“I have another engagement.” Jango tells you steadily before placing a cylindrical comm device in your hands. “This will connect you to my personal channel. Let me know when it’s ready.”

“Sure thing!” And just as fast as he arrived, he was gone and you’re left alone with all his pit droids.

Due to all the newfound assistance, you make incredible time on his ship. You are able to be in two places at once by setting out a couple of the droids on a hunt for parts while you keep things moving in your shop. You work well into twin suns falling and all through the night. It is nearly daybreak, but you’re finished at last and way faster than you thought. 

You reward the pit droids with an oil bath while you wash the day away before heading out to the nearest bar. Your hair is still dripping as you slam a few drinks while standing in your bathrobe. The exhaustion of the day melts away like the grease in the shower. You consider calling Jango, but you leave it for later in the morning, surmising it to be too early right now.

You get dressed, tie your hair out of your face with a clean bandana and head out to your favorite hole in the wall. The walk there was fine. You get a few rounds in and make your way to the counter for another drink when a drunken squad of Nikto bikers mistake you for being a waitress.

“Hey, sexy thing!” One of them hollers but you ignore him. “Bring us another round on your way back, will ya, sweet cheeks?”

As you pass, the one causing a commotion claps your ass, causing you to drop your steel cup. When it clatters on the floor, you pretend to grab for it but reach for a tray off a nearby table instead, weaponizing it across his face. You strike him so hard, you could have sworn you saw his teeth being sent across the room. He doesn’t like this display and forcibly grabs your wrist. He rips the tray out of your hand and is about to use it on you when a whipcord stops him short. “What the-

“Goro Vesh.” A voice addresses him from across the room.

“Who’s askin’?” Goro drops the tray with a tightening of his fist as he fights against the hold Jango has on him from afar, streams of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“Tyber Zann.” He answers as his other hand hovers by the blaster on his hip. “Wants to know why you walked out on his contract.”

“That’s none of your business!” Goro’s eyes advertise his fear. Cowardice sets in and he spins and does a swift turn on his heels, taking you hostage and bound by the whipcord. 

“I’m paid to make it my business.” Jango’s fingers twitch, ready to draw his blaster. “Now let her go and maybe I’ll let you keep your arm.”

“Nice try, dirtbag!” Just as Goro’s grip on you tightens, he makes the mistake of going for his own sidearm when Jango triggers the whipcord to retract in an instant. 

You’re spun out of his grasp, stumbling a few steps away when the squelching of rupturing flesh and snapping bones calls your attention back to Goro. His arm is hanging by a thread as he screams at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking and going hoarse as he draws out every shred of breath in his lungs. Before the shock of his missing arm could even set in, Jango puts a bolt between his eyes and he falls in a pile on the floor.

The club goes silent. The band stops playing. An awkwardness only hangs in the air for a moment or so before everyone resumes their own merriment; an event that happens often enough no one bats an eye. The only people still in shock are the vestiges of his gang, vulnerable and directionless without their leader.

“Get out now, or join him.” Jango dismisses them and they scatter. He walks over to corpse and throws it over his shoulder without ceremony.

His pauldron brushes against yours and despite being a mere extension, it’s as if you grazed his bare skin. A gruff breath sounds deeper through his modulator. He tilts his head as if to pop his neck and release the tension, pausing as if waiting for you to address or recognize him.

“I suppose I should thank you.” You mutter under the cacophony of the club’s noise.

“Are you alright?” You can feel him staring down the impressions his whipcord left on your skin, feeling at fault for any modicum of discomfort.

“Oh, it didn’t even hurt.” You attempt to rub the irritation away but it lingers, giving him a torturous distraction. “I’m fine.”

“I’d love it if you allowed me to repay you.” Jango insists, adjusting his hold on the corpse over his shoulder.

“Oh please.” You scoff. “It’s not like you intended to interrupt my time off.”

“Does that mean you’re through with my ship?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“How would you like to come work for me?” Jango poses the question and you truly weren’t predicting such a turn. “Personally.”

“Do I get to keep the pit droids?” You answer his question with one of your own. “I was already starting to think up names.”

“You can name them whatever you want.” Jango brushes his curled index finger just beneath your chin and you can almost hear a smile come through that helmet.

“What about my other clients?” You can’t possibly leave them high and dry.

“I never said you had to give them up.” Jango’s reassurance tells you this really is the job offer of a lifetime.

“Well, why don’t we head down to the bay and you can inspect my work, then you can see if I’m fit to work for you.”

“Good idea.” Jango glances at the body he’s holding with a demeanor of disgust. “He’s starting to smell.”

Once you both stroll your way to the shop, Jango’s boarding steps open so that he may load the corpse into his ship where it will be placed under karbonite suspension and filed away with a stack of other stone subjects in the preserver.

“Not bad.” Jango examines his ship and notices that you even matched the paint to its original shade despite certain replacements. You really went the extra mile. The intricate detailing makes it seem fresh and good as new. “I’ve never seen it look this good.”

“It wasn’t easy.” One of the pit droids rolls out from around the corner, its head compressed down the rest of its body. “They helped a lot.”

The little guy pops out to full size and takes a few steps to join the others.

“I guess you’ll be heading out to your next gig in the Telos system, right?” You declare, sad to see him go.

“I could think of a few reasons to stay.” His helmet cranes over you, an unbreakable steel barrier between and yet it’s so intimate. His breathing grows heavier. As does yours.

His hand raises slowly, pushing the strap of your top off your shoulder, his leather glove stroking your skin. When you lie your hands across his chest plates the cool steel disrupts the broiling heat growing between you. His thumb strokes the impressions still marking your skin from the incident at the club. “You know, you looked really beautiful fending off my bounty with that tray back there.”

“You should see what I can do with a spanner wrench.” You wink at him with a grin and he chuckles lowly, pulling you closer into him.

“I’m serious.” Jango’s voice turns slightly as you trace shapes into his armor, admiring each other.

“I am too.” You venture out of your comfort zone, hands trembling as they reach for his helmet. The weight of its unmoving frame shifts and a depressurizing hiss emits from the base when the seal is broken. He gasps and you flinch thinking you’ve overstepped, but he doesn’t object to your advances.

“Can I… kiss you?” You ask, feeling it necessary before you proceed.

He nods, allowing that to suffice for an answer.

You lift the helmet only halfway, stopping at his nose. There lies stubble on his chin in a chiseled shadow of facial hair. Scars paint his features. He’s incredibly handsome and you haven’t even seen his eyes yet. So strong and sturdy. His bottom lip trembles with the need so badly to kiss you. Sensing his desperation, you reach up, meeting him halfway with a perch on your tip toes.

His warm lips are soft as they mold to your mouth. It’s as if he’s not felt this close to someone before. While trying so hard to hold himself back, you can tell he wants more. An inner battle ensues with that urge to remain emotionless. Distant. Cordial.

“You know, you don’t have to pay me to do this part…” You joke, acknowledging his rigidness.

Your remark breaks the ice and he laughs. His lips crack into a smile, a set of bright and perfect teeth making a glorious appearance. “So she’s gorgeous, and funny.”

“That’s not all I am.” You push him into the nearest wall, cornering him but he’s exactly where he wants to be and immensely appreciative of your candor. “Can I see you?” 

The cinder blocks he’s stacked in his mind are giving him a cold sweat when prompted by this additional inquiry, claustrophobic amidst the unshaken restrictions he’s fortified for himself. He sits high atop his tower, estranged from others while secluded in the foothills of regret.

Though he’s convinced himself he wants for nothing, the one thing he feared the most is beckoning at his gates. His avoidance has made this harder than it has to be. His heart beats with a rhythm of its own, testing him when he thought the instinct to survive was all there was to live for. It is only now, seeing you in front of him, that he realizes there is something more. 

As his deep brown eyes peer right into your soul from beneath his beskar veil, you want to just rip this helmet off the rest of the way, but you’ll abide by your patience and wait for his admission.

He nods again, tucking his chin slightly so that he could escape the shroud before you even make another move. You are finally greeted by each other’s gaze, true and passionate. As the helmet descends, you feel Jango take it from your hands, to set it down on a slightly cluttered workbench while his unoccupied hand crawls up the length of your back. 

His hand meets the nape of your neck. His powerful grip upturns your head so that his lips could fall over your mouth. His tongue ventures past your teeth, intertwining with yours until your flavors are indistinguishable from one another. 

His leather gloves creak in your ears when he takes fistfuls of your hair. You wish to climb atop of him, pushing him harder into the wall when he thinks up an even better idea.

He reels back his kiss so that he could speak to you, struggling to enunciate through your peck placing all over his jawline and down his neck. “I hope you won’t mind my making a mess, darling.”

“You can do whatever you want...” You whisper against his lips, misconstruing the meaning of ‘mess’, thinking he meant something completely different. 

“In that case…” He starts before momentarily directing his attention to the sturdy-looking counter space within arm’s reach. He uses his plated arm to clear a space large enough to accommodate the both of you, sending all your tools, parts and components over the edge.

Everything clatters to the floor in a loud crash. His ability to take control is invigorating and your stomach is all aflutter when he deposits you directly atop the workbench surface with a frenzied slam. You’re breathless from being manhandled so aggressively, gasping for air when he starts to peel off your clothes. Thank goodness you showered. He’s wasting no time in putting his head right between your thighs. 

The cold plates of his armor sting against your bare flesh, but you’re soon acclimated when the radiating heat from your core spreads all through your body. You cannot believe this is happening. It’s all going so fast, and yet you don’t want things to slow down. He keeps your legs caged by his arms, both palms digging into your hips. He flashes a wickedly sinful look your way, before his hot mouth familiarizes itself with your other lips. His tongue spreads your petals, lapping up your nectar as it slickens its source. 

It’s a fight to hold your head up. You want to keep watching him, but every touch of his tongue on your entrance has you crying out and gripping the workbench for dear life. 

“You’re delicious…” He tells you through his southern make out before diving back in for another taste. You’re nearing the stratosphere, so high on this elation that you begin to see stars while he remains anchored to your clit.

His fervent devouring takes a thrilling turn when you notice one of his hands moving. His fingers trace the contours of your curves as they make their way to your plump cheeks. Without removing his mouth from your steaming sex, he circles your soaked entrance with his gloved middle finger, tempting the unthinkable while you lie there vulnerable at his mercy.

Your hips begin to gyrate at the notion of his invasion. You wish for him to breach your walls and claim you as his from the inside out. His stare is locked on you, that furrowed and darkened brow just burgeoning with concentration in getting you there.

Enough of his teasing. He plucks his mouth off of you, using his teeth to remove the glove from his hand. He bites down on the very same middle finger he used on you, letting not even a smear of your flavor go to waste. He sucks it clean, clenching his glistening jaw around the digit so that he can pull the glove off. All through this, he doesn’t stop looking at you for even a second.

His tongue finds your clit again. Jango shoves his articulate muscle against that little bud like there’s no tomorrow, only this time, he’s slowly sinking that salaciously used middle finger into you.

Your eyes cross at the displacement you feel within, mouth hanging wide open as he inches in a little deeper. Your hips move more erratically, and Jango takes that as your blessing to turn things up a notch.

In and out. In and out. Your walls clench and dilate around his finger while he steadily feasts on your pussy. You’re being simultaneously filled and played with so thoroughly, it’s in no time at all that those stars you see turn into fully formed galaxies as you yourself go supernova.

Your thighs clench around his head, suffocating him relentlessly as you come hard on his mouth. The curl of his finger inside presses your button at the right moment and you’re left quivering on the workbench. It’s like static ripples pass in waves over your entire being. And just when you start to catch your breath, he rescinds his contact with you.

You’ll not mourn the departure for long, watching in real time as he scrambles to rid himself of his utility belt and holsters. The chiming metal of his blasters falling on the floor advertises the weight of his ordinance and he hasn’t even dropped his codpiece yet.

As you wait for the inevitable, you beam at him with your lower half exposed. As if things weren’t hot enough, you think this is a good time to lift your shirt over your head.

“Oooh… Now that’s a sight to behold.” Jango licks his lips at your appetizing display, ripping his codpiece off once and for all and tossing it aside with a loud clang.

You prop your heels at the edge of the workbench while reaching out for the other sides, your arms apart to showcase your chest. He steps closer, hooking your leg over one of his arms to yank you closer. The creak of the workbench shifting startles you with the way it causes your heart to jump, but you feed on the spike of adrenaline and the thrill of this encounter. As he holds you in place, he undoes a clasped opening in his undersuit, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothes.

He needs not stroke himself as he’s already hard as a rock. Holding it at the base like a wand, he guides himself to your entrance, collecting some of your wetness on his plump and girthy tip. You cannot handle his constant teasing, softly begging him to spit you in half. “Fuck me… Please…”

“As you wish.” Jango ceases his intermission, knocking himself up against you so that he may immerse himself within your walls. The stretch puts his fingers to shame as he goes all the way in on the first thrust. You feel him punch the base of your stomach, igniting a burn that is impossibly scorching. Jango surrenders to his lustful desires and slams one of his hands beside your head on the flat surface for support. He’s hovering above you now, eclipsing the light that surrounds you to cast his shadow along your form. His hips roll into yours, sliding himself in and out just like his fingers, but with far more gratification. 

As he thrusts into you, his head descends farther until he’s suckling on your breasts. He’s hunched and panting and all you can do is lie there and take everything he has to give you. His suckling on your breasts morph into kisses and love bites climbing up your collar bones until he finds a home at your lips. You kiss him back while wrapping your arms around his neck. He plunges as far as he could possibly go, bracing himself against the workbench with every push and lunge. The mechanical creaking’s pace quickens and you can tell Jango is about to experience the same euphoric experience with you following suit again and again.

It happens before he knows it. Things elevate much too quickly when he realizes he’s deprived himself of this level of bliss. The power behind his thrusts grows as he buries himself into your neck, but the hot air of his breath proves to be suffocating. He pushes off of you, peering at your whole body as he makes it jiggle and shake at his will.

This is what sends him over the edge faster than your tools on the floor. Your expressions, your half-lidded eyes love-drunk on him and no one else, the way you lie there repetitively getting impaled on his cock. 

With one of his gloves missing, he uses booth hands to hold onto your stomach and concentrate on its distention as he pushes himself inside. As an added benefit to his view, you straighten your knees so that your feet are pointed to the ceiling. He’s fucking you so hard, the workbench can hardly keep up with the shifting back and forth, that is until Jango’s ballooning warmth starts to drip over the counter’s surface.

The friction inside ceases as his spend coats your inner walls. It’s sweltering as it combats with your own body temperature. Jango lets out his own shuddered moans and grunts at this climax. The cadence of your breathing matches his as you both ride the surge of ecstasy. 

Even though this is the most fun you’ve had in years, you can’t help but think that an arrangement like this with any one of your clients would harbor the possibility of making things difficult. You leapt for desire and didn’t consider the consequences. 

“Still want me to work for you?” You ask, thinking this engagement couldn’t possibly be fit for business, but you can’t deny wanting to spend the rest of your days by his side. Regardless, you’re eager to clear the air lest your heart be broken.

While still inside you, micro-thrusts keep the fire alight as if he’s ready to go another round, he asks, “When can you start?”

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

You rolled around in bed, using the mass of pillows and blankets to try and block out the sound of Coruscant, hiking the thick blanket up to your eyes. It was always so damn noisy, inside and outside the apartment. Though it wasn’t exactly picked for its good qualities.

The apartment was bought in secret, with the intention to conceal secrets rather than be fancy. And it hid more than just one secret inside.

You and Jango.

Not that Jango was exactly here all the time, so really it was more bought to conceal you, keep you hidden from other people, other bounty hunters. Jango couldn’t live peacefully knowing you were just out there, with other people… it was a possession problem. He practically kidnapped you from your homeworld, not that you were leaving behind anything important. The planet had fallen into chaos, with two crime syndicates fighting it out rather than the Republic stepping in to help.

That’s how you met Jango, on one of his missions to your homeworld. The place where you lived, which was just a shabby shack on top of a restaurant, turned into an absolute battlefield, with the two sides deciding that they wanted to argue over who had the right to the land. You didn’t know who ended up winning; all you could remember was that shiny armor and charming face. After that, life had changed.

For the better? For the worst? You didn't know, all you knew now was that someone loved you— and you never had to work again. Ever.

The only sad part was that Jango was gone as often as he said he would be. You can’t blame him, but you did get lonely a lot. Almost every day.

The door had to stay locked, and no windows were allowed. The apartment was on a low level of Coruscant, which one exactly? You couldn’t answer that. Sometimes you felt like everything was crowding in on you, like the levels were falling and slowly making the room smaller in the process. It was claustrophobic, not just lonely.

But— you found ways to combat the loneliness. Sleep was one of them, which took away almost hours of your day without you even having to go through them. Reading was another; Jango came back with gifts each time, and most of them were books from all the different places he went to. So you had a large collection, from many different authors. Another way to distract yourself was cleaning, which you felt that no matter how many times you cleaned the place, it was still forever grimy. Just the downside of living here, you guessed.

You liked to keep up with shows on the holo-net. That was the one real-life interaction you felt like you were allowed to have, without being allowed outside of this room and all.

It was okay, you told yourself, the loneliness goes away when you forget that Jango is even supposed to be coming home. And then when he did come back, it was like a shot of adrenaline, and he stayed for as long as he was there.

Which— he should be coming home today. You couldn’t help the feeling spread throughout your entire body, the tingles, the blush that spread from your face to your neck. That was what made you decide to get out of bed, kicking back the blankets and greeting the cold air with a hiss. All you slept in was a large t-shirt from some band you didn’t know, your feet met the even colder floor and brought you to the bureau faster, quickly pulling out the top drawer to grab a pair of fluffy socks.

Once you pulled on some comfortable and warm clothes to protect yourself from the morning freeze, you felt comfortable enough leaving the safety of your room and venturing out into the other parts of the apartment.

You took in one chilly breath and let the door slide open, walking into the living room and making a dive for the couch, using the blanket that was draped over the back to roll up in. It was that cold, and there was no heat in the apartment whatsoever. It was just a step above the shack you lived in on your homeworld.

Your hand searched around for the clicker, digging between the cushions until your fingers found it. You pulled it out, instantly flipping through the channels until you found the news.

It was always good to keep up with the news, even if it was only bad stuff; it’s important to know what’s going on, even if it’s not happening to you. That was a rule that you lived by.

Jango never saw the point; he made sure to tell you that, but he also said that about the silly shows that you watched— and you always found him listening in on those.

After listening in on the morning news and catching up on what happened overnight on Coruscant, you flipped through the channels again, landing on a rerun of a show you watched a while back, and decided to stay on that while you fixed yourself something to eat.

With further inspection of the kitchen, you noticed that you were starting to run low on the necessities, once again, another indicator that Jango would be coming back soon. Another shot of adrenaline ran through you, making your heart race. You had to remind yourself to calm down.

Cereal was enough for now, you decided, filling the bowl with some flaked oats and regular old blue milk. You sat at the mini table and ate your breakfast, watching the TV with lazy eyes, barely paying attention to what was going on. You’ve seen this episode too many times to count, so nothing new was happening. You were just about to pick up the bowl and begin its cleaning process when you heard the locks being picked at. The front door jiggled, and your ears shot up, practically throwing the bowl into the sink, muscles tensing up in a fight or flight response.

When Jango walked through the door, every fear that some intruder was coming in disappeared completely, being replaced by excitement. Tingles ran up your body again as you made eye contact with the shiny t-visor, body frozen next to the sink until he took off the helmet— only then did you run past the table and into his waiting arms.

The hug was suffocating, and you didn’t care that his armor was jabbing you in the chest because of how tight he was holding on. He was practically lifting you off the ground, face smashed into the side of your head as he inhaled the scent of your hair, arms wrapping around your waist in a death-grip.

“Jango..” You gasped, trying to get a breath of air. His hands roamed your body, tugging at the clothes you just put on, a new scorching heat traveling through your skin. Suddenly, there was no need for such thick clothes.

“I missed you so much,” He rasped, placing you back down on the ground— eyes roaming your body like a predator.

It had been so long since you two last touched, and each time Jango came back a starving man, pawing at you like he’s never had you before. The time that always seemed to come between you two was too long, making his welcome home turn into more than a simple hug. Jango practically started to tear the clothes off of you, much more keen to see you naked than himself, backing you up into the couch before getting onto his knees and working on your pants.

Once your baggy sleep pants were around your legs, Jango began to kiss up your thigh, holding your ankle in his hand gently, urging you to lift it and put it around his shoulder. Your entire body seemed to blush, not that you weren’t used to it, but he had a different way of doing this each time he came home. Usually, he was quick to get you into the bed and screaming, making the neighbors slam on the walls— but this time, he was taking it slow, treating you like a porcelain doll rather than something he could just manhandle.

“Ner Kar'taylir darasuum.” He kissed your thigh, trailing upwards, begging for permission.

The heat spread out from your face to your stomach, traveling between your legs, the more he kissed and whimpered for you. He looked so pathetic, down on his knees, giving you all the power to say no, which you wanted to. You wanted to see him beg some more, maybe even crawl for you, but the sensation within the pit of your abdomen was becoming too much. Something inside you was craving him, and waiting any longer seemed like agony.

His dark brown eyes stared up at you from in between your legs, waiting patiently, hands gripping at your chubby thighs. You gave him a little nod, slowly shifting your body until you were sitting on the arm of the chair, legs spreading wider, allowing him to fill up the space between them with his head.

Even the slightest bit of friction between his mouth and your body sent your head back between your shoulders, hand clasping over your mouth quickly before the neighbors could complain. He was just too good.

The moment you felt your toes begin to curl, you pushed him off you, almost laughing at the look of betrayal on his hungry face.

“Now”, you said demandingly, falling back onto the couch with your legs spread, “Put the helmet back on.”

Jango looked at you with a funny expression, eyebrow raising in suspicion, and as bent down to pick up his helmet from the floor. He put it back on, getting ready to strip himself of the rest of his armor, before you interrupted again,

“No”, you said almost too cutly, “keep the armor on, too.”

You knew by now he was excited, always loving how you praised the way he looked in his armor.

Every time he put it on around you, you got excited, and when he left, it made it all the harder to watch him go. His eyes set ablaze as he ripped the belt off, working at the piece of armor that covered his lap, leaving the rest of it on. His hands fumbled on the zipper, but once it was down, his attention was back onto you, grabbing your hands and tugging you back, throwing you over his shoulder.

“Haav,” He said curtly, taking you to the bedroom instead.

Jango sighs heavily as he pushes his hand through his curls. For a moment, his gaze remains on the paperwork spread on the desk in front of him, but then, without his permission, his gaze flickers out the window to focus on the guest house across the garden.

The house where his wife lives.

All of the curtains are still closed, and the speeder in front of the building is clearly marked as belonging to the local hospital.

Another heavy sigh falls from Jango’s lips.

Sure, he had no fondness for the arrogant and vicious daughter of Clan Kryze. And sure, in the privacy of his own mind, he wished that she would vanish so their marriage could end before a child blessed their union.

But he never wanted her injured.

He grimaces at the memory of the day after their wedding.

After the wedding here, the plan had been to travel to Sundari to have the second marriage ceremony with her people. She was going first with a few handmaidens, so she could get a dress and everything that she needed, and Jango was set to follow a few days later.

She never made it to Sundari.

The transport was attacked by Death Watch Mercenaries, and everyone was killed. It’s only through sheer luck that his riddur didn’t succumb to her injuries over the two days it took for word to arrive to Keldabe that the caravan never arrived in Sundari and for them to start looking for her.

She had been on the verge of death when his father’s Commandos found her. She had been shot several times, and was covered in burns from the transport exploding.

And yet, she still lived.

Alive, but comatose.

Her doctor says that it’s for the best. It means that she can’t feel her injuries.

But Jango is no fool. He knows that the longer she remains comatose the less likely it is for her to heal.

And she’s been in a coma for a month.

He ripped out of his thought at the sound of the comm ringing on his desk. He shakes his head with a sigh and hits the button to answer the call, “This is Jango—”

Jango isn’t able to say anything else as he’s cut off by the woman calling, “This is Latia, the Head Maid of the Steel House,” The Steel House is the official name of the guest house, “Her Ladyship has woken up. The Doctor is summoning you.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

The comm disconnects as soon as he says that, though Jango isn’t all that surprised. Latia had taken the loss of the young woman who had been under her wing hard, and had taken the near-death state of his riddur personally.

A wry smile crosses his face. He feels for the woman. His riddur likely won’t care that Latia has been worried sick about her. In fact, she’s the type of woman to use her month long incapacitation to get all of the maids who had been tending to her fired.

She really is an awful person.

But, she’s still his riddur, so he makes the short trek across the garden to the guest house.

As soon as he steps into the foyer, Jango has to pause. The maids and butlers who had been assigned to the Steel House, seem to be filled with a frantic energy. Frantic enough, in fact, that they don’t even notice him as they zoom around.

He feels a twinge of concern. Even his riddur isn’t this particular about cleanliness. Sure, she’s a neat freak, but this is...extreme.

Jango takes the stairs two at a time, and traverses the long hallway at a slow jog, slowing to a walk as he approaches his riduur’s room. The doctor, head maid, and head butler are all standing outside the room, and the butler seems to be bleeding.

“What happened?”

The three older adults jump, and turn to look at him. “Oh, Jango,” The doctor adjusts her glasses, “You’re here. Good.”

“Is that a bite mark?”

“Her ladyship bit me,” The butler admits with a bowed head, though he’s quick to reassure Jango, “It’s my own fault, I frightened her something awful.”

“You...frightened her? What did you pop out from behind the curtain?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.” He says quickly, before he glances at the Doctor, “Perhaps you should explain?”

“She has amnesia.” The doctor says bluntly, “And I’m not talking about the cutesy type of amnesia shown in movies and the like.” The woman frowns and rubs her lower lip, “She doesn’t even seem to remember Mando’a, and her understanding of Basic was rough.”

“How rough?”

“Mm...she has the language comprehension skills of, say, the average 6 year old?” The Doctor offers, “Though, as I understand it, Basic was her first language, so that will probably come back faster than Mando’a.”

Jango sighs and rubs his forehead, “Okay, so how is she other than that?”

“Understandably terrified.” Latia says as she dabs a tear off her cheek, “Poor thing doesn’t know who she is, where she is, or who we are. And she’s not fully recovered yet, so she’s also in pain. Ka’ra knows what she must be thinking right now.”

“She probably thinks that we’re here to hurt her,” The butler says tiredly, “Which is why you shouldn’t be too cross about the bite, sir. Her actions are completely understandable.”

“I wasn’t going to yell at her,” Jango replies, dryly, “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“Oh, right. Of course, sir.”

“This isn’t important.” The Doctor interrupts with a scowl, “How is your Basic, Jango?”

“I’m fluent.”

“Good, then you need to go talk to her and explain what’s going on.” She continues, “I can’t because I’m not fluent in Basic. And because she already thinks we’re here to hurt her.”

“Super.”

“She’s your wife, you’re supposed to support her.” Latia says chidingly.

“Just be gentle with her, she’s still fragile.” The Doctor adds, “Good luck.”

The three older adults back away, and Jango sighs again, before he knocks on the door. There’s no answer, but then she might not be able to answer, “I’m coming in.” He warns through the door, and then he pushes the door open.

His riddur is sitting in bed, her eyes are wide and she seems to have scrunched herself into the corner of the bed farthest from the door. Not to mention, she’s holding a pillow in front of her like a shield.

Terrified might very well be an understatement.

He stops at the doorway, no need to frighten her anymore than she already is after all, and takes a moment to just look at her.

Before the attack, his Riddur had been called the Flower of Mandalore by other people in high society, solely for her looks. Men and women alike had flocked to her, wanting just a moment of her attention, even if she treated them like they were nothing.

Looking at her now, Jango can’t help but feel a surge of pity. The Flower of Mandalore seems to have wilted away. Her hair, which had once been a point of pride for her, has been cropped so short that it’s shaved in some places, and her skin is still raw in places where the burns haven’t fully healed.

She must be in so much pain.

Poor thing.

“My name is Jango Fett,” He speaks slowly, and taps his chest when he says his name, “Do you remember me?”

Slowly she shakes her head, though the movement makes her hiss and wince.

“That’s alright.” Jango takes a step towards her, though pauses when she curls up a little more on the bed, “It’s okay. You are safe here.”

“...safe…” Her voice sounds hoarse, and he wonders if she inhaled fire or something. Though there’s no way she’ll be able to answer that.

“That’s right. Safe. I promise.”

He watches her think on his words, though the anxiety on her face doesn’t fade. Well, he doesn’t blame her. In her shoes, he’d be just as afraid.

“Why don’t you move back to the center of the bed, so you don’t fall off.” Jango offers, his voice as light as he can make it.

She doesn’t move for a moment, and then, slowly, she slides towards the center of the bed. Jango releases a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he wants is for her to get more hurt.

Jango watches as she slowly sets the pillow on the bed next to her, carefully adjusting it so she can lay on it if she wants to, and then she focuses back on him.

Her nightgown is little more than a low-cut slip, and Jango finds his gaze flickering to the starburst scar he can see just below her collarbone. A muscle works in his jaw as he swallows his rage.

Jango quickly smooths his face when she shifts nervously, “I’m going to get the doctor and your maid, alright? They’re here to help you.”

“...maid?” She mumbles, seemingly bewildered.

Jango ignores her comment and opens the door to let the two older women into the room, “My Lady!” Latia nearly rushes to the side of the bed, though she refrains from touching the injured woman, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake, you have no idea!”

Jango smothers at laugh as his riddur leans away from Latia, before turning her wide, bewildered eyes on him. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“Thank you, Jango,” The Doctor says, “Now I should be able to get her what she needs for today. Though, I think you should spend more time with her later today.”

Jango’s eyes flicker over to his riddur, who is now watching Latia with increasing bewilderment, as the older woman takes both of her hands and nearly weeps over them. And a tiny smile lifts his lips, “Yeah. I’ll be back later.”

“Ooh,”

“I didn’t know she could do cute,” Jango admits.

The doctor grins at him, “Have a nice day, Jango.”

And Jango, knowing a dismissal when he hears one, just huffs out a laugh and backs out of the room. He steals one last look at his riddur, sitting in the middle of her bed, highlighted by the golden sun behind her, and he thinks, for the first time since meeting her, that maybe she deserves to be called the Flower of Mandalore after all.

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╰┈➤ MASTERLISTS

headcanons masterlist fics masterlist

╰┈➤ ABOUT ME

name: grotesque age: 9teen pronouns: he/him identity: trans man sexuality: pansexual + demi-aroace

╰┈➤ GUIDELINES

i will write fluff, angst, sensitive, suggestive, mature and explicit content—so viewer discretion is advised.

i will not write clonecest/cloneshipping, abuse romanticism, sexual content regarding minors and rape/non-con.

i do not use/write with ai or any content containing ai. warnings are always at the beginning, if I have missed something, don’t be afraid to message me!

╰┈➤ REQUESTS

character x reader or character + reader [CLOSED]

always gender neutral unless requested! and any can be requested! including those out of the binary.

gender-neutral, non-binary, men: including afab men, women: including amab women, etc etc… we love the trans and queer umbrella here ♡

you can also any request characters if i haven’t written them, and I will try my best to write it!! :3

QUEER AND TRANS CHARACTERS/READERS ARE PREFERRED !

╰┈➤ CURRENT CHARACTERES

501st: Rex, Fives, Jesse, Hardcase, Kix, Dogma, Tup 212th: Cody, Slick Wolfpack: Wolffe Corries: Fox TBB: Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, Echo Bounty hunters: Jango, Boba Misc clones: Bly, Mayday, Gregor, Howzer

╰┈➤ EXTRAS

Well funded ships keep a harpy caged at the helm, for calling or dispersing winds when necessary. Mermaids and harpies are natural enemies. But still, he feels sorry for them.

Jango occasionally found work on these ships. The captain believes him a storm summoner and in truth it’s what most of his employers believe. While he prefers to hunt for bounties across the high seas, these jobs weren’t a problem if they paid his fee. He often finds himself in the company of a caged and wing clipped harpy, but this is different.

Your eyes linger on him for long stretches of time and you look like you wish to speak with him. Usually Jango would just ignore the looks, but this did not feel like begging for help that would not come. It’s inquisitive and analytical; he wonders if you have figured out who he truly is. What he truly is.

Being the Sea Alor has many benefits, one being the siren song ability. He makes sure the crew will remain asleep before walking up to your cage. You are wide awake, waiting for him.

“Sea Alor.” You cut right to the chase and look him dead in the eyes through the t-face of his helmet. Well, that’s one question answered.

“Harpy.” Jango curtly responds as he crosses his arms. “What do you wish to say?”

You suddenly look very unsure. Your talons scratch at the metal bars and deck beneath you. “Have you taken the deal with Tyranus yet?”

“What?” He bites out in complete disbelief. There is no way you should be able to know that. You watch his whole body go absolutely still.

“I see…” Your voice trails off before taking a deep breath. “When your only recognized child is ten, you shall leave him an orphan.”

Both his hands reach in and snatch the collar of your shirt. You barely have enough time to grip the bars to stop your face from hitting them as he pulls you to him. His face is twisted in a terrifying snarl with his sharp Mer teeth coming out inches from your face. You feel choppy waves slam into the ship and see the stars vanish behind dark clouds. It’s terrifying to think this is but the tip of the iceberg of his destructive power.

“Tell me what you know, Harpy.” You summon all your anger and courage, feeling the wind fight back against him. It was first your ally, not his. You think of all you have seen of the future. How his longing for revenge against the Jedi helps almost doom the world, leads an army of Mer clones to suffer and die in vain, and one boy orphaned.

“My freedom first, Fett.” You hiss, snapping your own sharp teeth. You extend out one of your hands, knowing he has the magic to bind you two to an agreement. “Deal?”

Once the journey is done, Jango leaves the ship before swimming up in Mer form that very night. He breaks you out true to his word and you keep up your end of the bargain. You explain, like how Tarre Vizsla was both Mer and a Jedi, you are both a harpy and blessed with a wider range of magic. You get snippets of the future. You tell him how a 10 year old Boba gets to watch his father get decapitated by a Jedi.

While he believes you're being honest, he can’t have you spreading word around about Kamino island so he half drags you back with him. While that might be everything on his death, you obviously know far more about everything else than you're letting on. Especially with the amount of disdain you hold for him. Also, any more visions could give more context or details about his death in eight years.

At first, you are just the stranger next door to Jango’s apartment. The one off worlder that isn’t a trainer, but Jango is keeping here anyway. It gives you the freedom to move around the facilities, but interacting with the mer clones is far more difficult. But you are kind in little ways when the Kaminoans and the trainers aren’t looking.

Rex, Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Ponds, and Bly are the main ones. Unlike many of the others, you’ve stolen multiple hugs from Bly, Rex, and Cody and ruffled the hair of the other three. The amount of slowly grown trust in their bright brown eyes means the world to you.

You have seen them the most in your visions about the Mer clones, but you do your best with all of them. You try to keep track of the clones you’ve seen in visions, but it’s impossible to run into all of them all the time. Some you see maybe a couple of times in your entirety of time on Kamino like Delta Squad for example. Emerie and Omega are the only ones you never get to see.

While you have a few more visions of the coming war, there is nothing to help the Mer clones or how to stop Palpatine completely. Kark, just avoiding the sith’s attention was hard enough work.

However, something unexpected happens in your plans. You slowly become Boba’s other guardian. You have a soft spot for him from all the visions you’ve seen and you're more than happy to watch him for Jango. But about a year in, you find him calling you mom and Buir; it warms your heart more than you're willing to admit.

Jango, on the other hand, you continue to deeply despise. Does he have a valid reason for wanting the destruction of the Jedi? Yes, even if he is taking it too far and it needs to be stopped for everyone’s good. However, his treatment of the mer clones as cattle makes you want to scream. You tolerate him for the goal of changing the future.

When he begins to take interest in Cody, however, you panic. You had thought you had covered all your tracks. You apparently had for the Kaminoans, but not Jango.

“Is that one meant for glory?” He mutters under his breath as you walk away side by side.

“What do you care?” You hiss, too angry to look at him. “Go back to ignoring him; it’s less cruel that way.”

But the cruelest twist of fate is how behind closed apartment doors, when you can’t see the cold stare he gives the army made in his image, you grow to like his company. It takes five or so years to realize it, but you love the little family you, he, and Boba have made together. Longing stares and soft touches become nights shared and living with him and Boba in their apartment.

And you hate yourself for falling for him. This man was simultaneously filled with so much love and disdain. Who is just as capable of protecting family as he is abandoning it. Who is able to abandon his responsibilities as Sea Alor and yet still has a code of honor. He is a mess of contradictions. You want to hate him. It would be so much easier to just hate him.

Geonosis is a desert island and Boba is ten. Jango clearly recognizes all the details from your visions over the years. He goes in anyway. Knowing who he’s going to face, he thinks he can win.

He doesn’t. His fate comes for him anyway. You and Boba are left in heartbroken shock. But this… this isn’t the end. You refuse to stand there while fate takes its course. When the battle ends, you and Boba work fast to get him aboard Slave I. And you then start the ritual.

Jango doesn’t understand why he’s on Mandalore. Or how he’s on Mandalore. He’s dead; he died. His fingers trace along his neck and he finds a burn scar going all the way around. It was definitely real.

A thirteen year old Boba soon explains as best he can after a tearful reunion. While his son explains the insanity of the war, how your kindness had left channels open with multiple battalions, and with Boba’s growing magical strength as the next Sea Alor, they were able to unite the Mandalorian Sector, he conveniently circumvents how Jango was alive.

“What did she give, Boba?” His son goes deadly quiet. Boba looks so much older and it makes Jango want to be sick, thinking of all he’d missed. “You need to tell me.”

“She’s lived with it for three years already. It’s not…” Boba whispers the next part. “That bad.”

Jango has to switch into mer form to find you. You tucked yourself away in a quiet cove that’s hard to access by land. He pulls himself up to sit next to you on the sand. He watches the way the drowning sun’s light reflects off his silver scales.

“It all happened as you prophesied.” He states, unsure of how else to start. You were right about everything.

“Not completely.” You smile sadly. “I got to save a few more Mer clones and Jedi. I’ve sped up how fast they’ll be free from their mind control enchantment. And Mandalore won’t fall victim to the empire and it’s stable.”

“Besides, I have you, Boba, and so many of my other sons. I did quite a lot without magic since your death.” You look out at the setting sun. Jango analyzes you and hates to see that his son was right. The wind doesn’t react to you anymore.

“Cuyan…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I was not worth your wings.” Your back itches when he says that. You had almost gone mad trapped in a human body at first, but Boba and the mer clones had helped keep you grounded.

“You are.” Jango gives you a truly genuine smile and leans his forehead against yours.

The docking bay reeks of astringent anthracite shipping fuel, subconsciously forcing your brain to continue in a frenzied work-mode. You’re supposed to be relaxing and enjoying a little alone time between jobs with Jango, but it’s stressful to ignore the consistent ping from the wrist comm.

Perceptive, Jango wraps his arms around you from behind. “Love.”

You shush him, still tapping at the comm.

“Love,” Jango says again, hugging you tighter. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“I know.”

“It’s only one night.”

“I know.”

Pulling you closer, he puts his lips to the corner of your jaw, hot breath washing over your skin, making you shiver. He squeezes your hand, warmth shooting all the way up your arm. “Come on, sweetheart.”

And there’s something to the way his fingers graze your knuckles, a heat in his gaze that is so convincing that even after all these years he can still make you weak in the knees.

You nod and tug away from his embrace for one last response, and you’ve only just sent the transmission when he yanks the comm off your arm. “Hey—"

He lifts it overhead and out of reach with a mischievous grin reaching the corners of his eyes. Exasperated, you put your hand on his muscled chest, clawing at his arm to try to get him to relent. Instead, he reels you in with his free hand, raising a brow. “Baby.” His voice drops into a low purr that you feel where your breasts are pressed against his chest.

“But —" you begin to grumble and instead of arguing, he leans down to kiss you, and you can’t help it, melting into him. He sucks at your bottom lip with a dirty promise, his slick tongue sweeping past your teeth, pushing all thought from your mind.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless. “Just relax tonight.” Intensity colors his words. “Let’s take our time and enjoy it.” He gently massages the back of your neck in that persuasive way of his. Nervous energy prickles along your skin, but the combination of his seductive touch and liquid eyes is incredibly convincing. You manage a small smile and he wraps his arm around you, a twinkle in his eyes. His embrace is warm and excitement bubbles in your chest, reminding you how much you like him taking control.

Especially when the first place he lead you is a bar. The place isn’t much bigger than a hole in the wall, one of those trendy spots that’s started moving into the higher levels of Coruscant.

You raise a brow at Jango but don’t complain as he keeps the door open with an extended arm, and your body rubs against his. Maybe more than it needs to. Tingles light up inside, and he puts a possessive hand on your hip. Grabbing a couple of seats, the one-eyed Abyssin bartender asks for your orders.

Jango speaks before you can open your mouth. “Two of whatever’s your house special.”

“Coming right up.”

Normally, that kind of thing would irk you, but tonight, his confidence just turns you on. And worse, he knows it.

Within minutes, two elaborate cocktails land on the bar in front of you. He hands you a glass while raising the other, fingers brushing. You’ve been together for years. A simple touch shouldn’t send shivers of interest humming through all your body, but it does.

Something about tonight, about being alone together outside of the sterile interiors of Kamino, about being utterly free of responsibility…

Holding his gaze, you take a sip of the drink. It’s surprisingly complex, fruity but rich, with just enough of an after-burn on the way down to prove its potency. “That’s going to be dangerous.”

Jango smiles crookedly. “Perfect.”

So you drink and talk, inhibitions leaving your body as the place begins to fill up. When a toothy Devaronian settles onto the barstool beside yours, you lean into Jango’s space even farther. He welcomes you in, putting a broad, hot palm on your knee.

The hand slowly creeps higher and higher, and you pretend not to notice, but the rubbing motion of his thumb on your upper thigh sends heat sweeping through you. Then he closes the gap between you, beside your ear as he whispers, “I wish you were wearing a skirt.”

A firework goes off inside, sparking through your core. You grab onto his arm, both because you need to steady yourself and suddenly desperate for his touch.

You can picture it so easily, his hand on your bare skin. He could dip beneath the hem, let his fingertips trace along the edge of your microgarment. No one would be able to see. He could practically finger you right here in the middle of the bar.

How far would he push it? Would he lightly brush your lips? Or go right for it and plunge inside, stroke his thumb across that sensitive spot? Would nearby patrons hear your gasp?

A thrill of arousal shoots through, and lifting your gaze to meet his, you lick your lips. “What do you say we go find me one?”

His dark eyes smolder. Standing, he motions to the cycloptic bartender and places a generous sum of credits on the bar as he reaches for your hand. He hauls you to your feet and leans down to capture your lips in a wet, insinuating kiss. The growing hardness in his pants presses into your body in the most tantalizing tease before pulling away.

“I’d say I fucking love my girl.”

***

Fueled by the alcohol, you set back out on the streets. He wraps his arm around you tightly, a strong hand resting on your hip, and you lean into him with your whole body. It’s like you’re new lovers all over again, intoxicated by each other, unwilling to stop touching for a second.

Despite having a goal, you keep wandering. There’s no shortage of places that sell clothing in the mid-levels, but nothing in particular catches your eye until he stops, motioning across the street with a nod.

You follow his gesture, eyes flying wide, realizing he wants to go into a sex shop. There are mannequins in the window dressed in leather and lace. Some of the garments are a cross between fetish wear and lingerie, but others could pass as regular clothes.

It’s not a place you’d typically walk into, but tonight, with Jango wrapped possessively around you, your body thrumming with excitement…

You push down any doubts, sighing agreement, squirming inside as breathless arousal builds between your thighs. He guides you in, then toward the clothing section. Your gaze lingers on the far wall, taking in displays covered in large silicone dildos and brightly colored vibrators. You swallow hard at the racks of lube next to plugs and harnesses and gods only know what else.

“Later,” Jango murmurs, and a tremor ripples along your spine.

You stay tucked in tightly against his side as you peruse the racks. He pulls out a skimpy synth-leather skirt that would barely hit mid-thigh on you. A few other options in fineweave lace and shining satyn follow. He pauses for a second at the edge of the display before reaching out and grabbing a pair of black thigh-highs and a garter belt, wetness flooding over his quiet implication.

Without a word of argument, you let him lead you to the dressing rooms in the rear corner the store. The salesdroid obviously passes no judgment and opens a curtain for you. You look to Jango expectantly. Surely he’ll want to watch you try these on. Maybe he’ll even want to help.

But he waves you in. “Come back out in your favorite.” His voice is low, rough. “Don’t keep me waiting, sweetheart.” His eyes burn with undisguised lust as the droid closes the curtain between you.

Your work clothes aren’t meant to be seductive, but the top is a basic black, so you leave it on. The package for the stockings crinkles in the silent air as you sit on the bench to pull them on. A shiver hums through, the silky fabric gliding over your skin, hugging it tightly. Your legs disappear beneath it, and it’s feels like transforming into another person, another being. Your breathing is shallow as you stand, impulsively taking off the microgarmet to reveal your wet, needy flesh to the air. Getting on the garter belt, you slide the panties back on over it.

You try on each of the skirts he picked out. One is too tight and another too loose. Two fit perfectly though, and tucking your top into the leather one you glance in the mirror. It doesn’t matter that your hair is unstyled, that your makeup is stowed away on the ship. Your lust-blown eyes, flushed cheeks, and wet lips are all the makeup you need.

The skirt is obscene. The tops of the thigh-highs and the straps of the garter belt show beneath the hem. With the shirt tucked in, the curves of your breasts and waist are perfectly accentuated. Turning around you shove the curtain to the side.

And there he is. One look at you, and you swear to gods he’s going to eat you alive. Then you spot the lube along with the purple anal plug in his hands and your throat clamps down. Sense memory crashes into you, nipples stiffening, sex throbbing.

It’s been awhile since you’ve really had the time to enjoy each other, a quick fuck between jobs, enough to satiate but not completely fulfill. The last time you really had some down time he lavished you in hyperspace, slowly eating your pussy out, gently opening your ass before shoving a plug in there and fucking your cunt. And then the other way around, a huge dildo keeping you full, he’d slowly worked his thick cock into your ass, and you’d come so hard you were glad to have the privacy of space.

Gripping the wall, you gaze back at him, not wanting to wait to bury him deep inside.

“Fuck it,” he growls, and you crash through the door of the store’s ‘fresher as one. Smashing his fist on the control panel, the door slams behind you with a lock. His hot mouth descends on yours, and you open easily, even ecstatically for him. Raking your fingers through his curly hair, you groan at the heat of his hands as they palm your ass through the new skirt. The package containing the other purchase rustles and the aching need spreads through you.

Pressing you into the wall, he takes command, dominating and demanding in a way that causes desperate heat to flood your pussy while at the same time your ribs squeeze around your heart. He must sense your wary tension because he yanks his mouth from yours, growling, “Stop thinking.” His dark gaze burns into you, full of lust and need. “Just be here. With me. Now.”

“Jango—"

“Not another word,” he warns. And with that, he twirls you around. All the air is knocked out of your lungs as he marches you a handful of steps to the little sink in the corner. He grabs your hands and places them on the counter. Meeting your gaze in the mirror, he pushes firmly at the space between your shoulder blades.

Your heart thunders, but you let yourself be moved, grasping tightly to the edges of the sink, sticking your ass out as you’re bent over the permaplast. He reaches under your barely there skirt to grab your panties and tear them down to your knees. Cool air hits your ass, followed by his rough, hot palms.

Shuddering, you close your eyes and push into his touch, the threads of your anxiety untangling, one by one. He traces the edges of the garter straps then palms your ass fully, pulling your cheeks apart.

“So fucking perfect,” he swears, thumb grazing the swollen lips of your pussy. You’re so wet that they glide easily over the aching flesh. You clench down inside, clit pulsing with need, your trapped nipples twisting into tight points.

“You want my cock here?” he asks, low and gravelly. He dips a fingertip just inside your pussy, only to drag it farther back. When he brushes your other tight entrance, you light up with illicit sparks. “Or here?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Just might take you up on that, love.”

Then he’s dropping to his knees, right there on the ‘fresher floor. You grip the edges of the sink so hard you swear the plastene will crack. There’s quiet scrunching of slipsheet somewhere in the distance, but all you can concentrate on is his heat behind you, his breath in this cramped, public room. All the people outside who might be able to hear you begging for Jango’s cock.

The next thing you know, he’s pulling your cheeks apart again. His fingertip returns to your asshole, slick and cool, and fuck, he doesn’t mess around. He rubs and rubs, getting you used to the touch, and then between one breath and the next, he presses inside.

You suck in a ragged breath, the sting of being stretched open mixes with the impossible pleasure of being filled like this until everything feels good. You’re holding on tightly to the sink, but in your head, you’re letting go for the first time in what seems like months.

He fucks in shallowly with that one finger at first, opening you up for him. This man knows you so well. He feels when you’re ready for him to go deeper, when he can press another finger in.

So he does, and a jolt of something sharp forces a gasp from between your lips, but then you’re yielding inside. He makes a space inside you for himself, just like he always has. He finds new parts of you, or maybe parts you’ve simply forgotten.

And out of nowhere, stinging tears threaten the corners of your eyes, but they’re of the very, best kind. Bent over a sink in a public ‘fresher in a sex store, you’re having some kind of epiphany. Blinking your eyes open, you meet your own blurry gaze in the mirror. You both have a busy life, jobs that require long hours, stretches of time apart that interfere with being able to truly connect. You’ve both made sacrifices for achieving more, getting out of the business before the opportunity to enjoy life has passed.

But you’ve missed this. And you vow to make room for it. You can. Together you will. Because every time you forget to, every time you forget yourself… This man will remind you. Over and over and over again.

Before you can get too carried away in sentimentality, he crooks his fingers deep inside your ass, with his free hand passing you the plug he bought. You don’t need to ask for instructions, forcing your fingers to unclench and accept the curved silicone. Then turning the water on, you wash the toy and hand it back.

When he pulls his fingers out, your knees nearly buckle. The sudden emptiness screams inside you, but he doesn’t make you wait. He presses the plug in to fill that searing gap. Your pussy clenches, and you go up onto your toes as he shoves the toy in to the hilt.

Then he’s spinning you around to face him, grabbing you, holding you, lifting you, and slamming you into the wall. For a second, you’re winded, but then regain your breath. Kicking off what’s left of your underwear, you wrap your legs around his trim hips. He’s had the foresight to get unbuckled, so together, you shove his briefs down until his fat, bare cock pops free. You groan at the searing heat of him and kiss his mouth again.

Your wetness has spread so far, his cock slides slickly against your skin. Bucking, you try to get him closer to your wanting center. Sparks shoot as he finally grinds against your clit. When you flex inside, you’re met by the resistance of the plug in your ass, only it’s not enough.

“Come on,” you beg a frustrating plea. “Please, I need—"

“Believe me, sweetheart.” His gaze bores into you. “I know exactly what we need.”

Without another word, he fits himself to your opening, the blunt head of him spreading your pussy wide. Staring right into your eyes, he slams himself home. You cry out, digging your nails into the back of his neck. He’s always been well endowed, but the sudden fullness is incredible, everything magnified by the plug in your ass, the chill of the allacrete wall behind you, the clench of your legs around his hips. The people outside who can hear you fucking. The freedom. After months of tucking your passion away on a shelf, you’ve gotten one night to let it run wild, and you are.

Wasting no time, Jango let’s your unleashed desire consume him, and it just about devours you too. He crushes his lips to yours, holding you up with his hands beneath your thighs. You cling to him and tilt your hips, but you have no leverage. As he draws back, all you can do is grasp onto him and feel the magnitude of that retreat.

He leaves you almost empty for a fraction of a second, then he thrusts back in deep. Hot pleasure sweeps through you, crying out again. Hard and fast, he fucks you into the wall. Every slide in pummels at the most sensitive parts of you, while every withdrawal leaves you scrabbling at his shoulders, kicking at his ass with your heels, trying to get deeper, better, more.

Over and over, you crash together. The wet, messy sounds of flesh slapping flesh fill the tiny room, drowned out only by your groans of absolute pleasure. Desperate need for release builds up inside you until you swear you’ll explode, only you can’t get there.

“Please,” you gasp. “Jango—"

Grunting with effort, he shifts his grip. His muscles strain, biceps bulging beneath his tunic. Somehow, he manages to hold you up with just the force of his hips and the wall and one hand. He dips the other into the place where your bodies are joined.

His thumb finds your clit, and colors flash before your eyes. “Oh, fuck—"

“That’s it, gorgeous,” he growls. “Come for me. Come on my cock."

Orgasm swallows you up, screaming and biting his lip, cracking your head back against the wall. Darkness eclipses your vision as you pulse and pulse. Jango fucks you through it, almost savage in the way he batters you with his cock. The second and third wave are just as blinding, your pleasure seeming to go on, endless now that you’ve finally given in to it.

But the instant you start to come down, he pulls out. You sob, the emptiness too much, but of course you shouldn’t have doubted him for even a second. He sets you down on your feet, and then turns you around. You put your arms up to brace yourself against the wall. He kicks your legs apart, spreading you wide, and shoves his cock back into your pussy without a word of warning. It’s just as shocking as that first entrance, just as electric. Your climax still has you tingling everywhere, legs shaking with the force of keeping yourself up when all you want to do is collapse. Letting your cheek press into the wall, you arch your back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Baby."

You glance back over your shoulder at him. His beautiful face is tinted with exertion, his temples damp with sweat, and your heart swells at the sight. Gripping the wall, you pant out, “I love you.”

And in the middle of this filthy bathroom fuck, that’s what sends your partner, one of the galaxy’s most ruthless and dangerous bounty hunters, over the edge.

He grunts in triumph as his cock swells inside you, hot cum filling your pussy. You slip a hand down to mash at your clit until the pleasure is too much to hold, and a final orgasm rolls through you as you milk him for every drop.

Wrapping his arms around you from behind, he presses his brow into the back of your shoulder, shuddering, then goes still. For a long minute, you stay there just like that, breathing hard and holding onto each other. Your body sings with satisfaction, freedom and love swirling inside your chest.

Then he pulls back, pushing your hair to the side, kissing the nape of your neck. He laughs and says, “Love you too, baby.” And you can’t help but smile.

You part enough to clean yourselves up, his cum and your own juices streaking the inside of your new skirt, and you wrinkle up your nose.

“Go ahead and take it off,” he tells you.

“Guess it’s not really the right outfit for heading back out, huh?” Your fingers tighten on the fabric all the same. You don’t want to lose this feeling of carefree freedom, to lose this.

As if he can see your conflict, he reaches for you, grabbing your chin to tilt your face up. “Take off the skirt,” he insists. And then his eyes flash. “But leave the plug in.”

Your sore pussy and filled-ass both clench as one, heat flaring across your face. But in your chest you’re soaring. Trembling and aroused, you cover his hand with yours. “Why? What are you planning to do with it?”

“Anything I want, my love,” he murmurs, mouth meeting yours with the promise of more.

***

✨ This has been sitting in a pile with a bunch of other WIPs 😁 Thank you for your patience. I love all y'all!! 💕

The disarray on Mandalore after Jango Fett's disappearance (well, second disappearance) is almost impressive, and it's been years. For one man to hold such power, and then give it up the moment his great enemy was destroyed? It's no wonder that people still speak of him in hushed tones - only a decade ago he was doing things only heard of in legends, and he was doing them with his hands tied behind his back. You were still a small child yourself when the young Mand'alor ripped apart half a dozen or so Jedi with his bare hands, when he escaped a wretched slaver ship, when he killed the monster that was Tor Vizsla. Your mother used to tuck you in at night to stories of his triumphs, used to train you with the encouragement that, as True Mandalorians, you'd be honoring Mand'alor the Unyielding.

Now, though, your family spends more time playing politics than honing your skills.

"All due respect, Duchess," your sister is saying without a hint of respect at all, "but if you do this, you may as well surrender control of Concord Dawn to its people - they will not take kindly to your request."

"These are not requests, Ambassador, these are demands!" Prime Minister Almec cries, and the room devolves into chaos once more. The new version of chaos, anyway - you can still recall what Mandalorian chaos meant in your childhood, the sound of clanging steel and the firing of blasters a distant memory now.

"I demand he shut the fuck up," you cousin Baldin mutters to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. It's your grandparent's friendship with the Kryzes that has you and the rest of your mother's family here, representing Concord Dawn in an attempt at negotiations, rather than simply seceding or declaring war. Your father's side of the family has already threatened the latter.

"In all fairness, the Duchess doesn't look too happy with him either," you point out, nodding subtly to the young leader sitting at her throne. You're not a fan of Satine Kryze, or her raging hypocrisy, but you believe that, at the very least, she cares about the Mando'ade. Almec has strongly recommended exile multiple times, and the Duchess constantly rejects his suggestions, though she grows more and more tired as the talks wear on, that much you can tell. Already she's made a poor decision - there are rumors about the plans for Death Watch, about banishing them to Concordia. It's laughable. Leaving Death Watch to plot on their own will only mean disaster.

"My mom thinks we should hang the Duchess by her toes," your cousin hisses, and you elbow him to shut him up. Your aunt isn't the only one to think as much, and certainly there are days where you're of the same mind - but the Duchess has the necessary alliances to the Core that will help restore all of Mandalore. So you'll sit through as many peacetalks as you possibly can, if it means it'll help your people. The Prime Minister makes it difficult to reconcile your presence here, though, with his furious, ridiculous demands.

"Concord Dawn will obey, or they will-"

"Concord Dawn will do as it pleases, just as it's always done."

The room falls silent at the new voice, little by little, surprised outbursts fading to angry murmurs fading to hushed whispers, and then to nothing. The only sound is the heavy stomping of several sets of boots, and a soft, sweet cooing sound. You crane your neck to see the newcomers, to discover who possesses this cold, powerful, gravelly voice, and then armor you've only seen in old, well-watched holovids comes into view, stopping before the Duchess, accompanied by three small figures, and holding something tiny in its arms.

"Mand'alor," Baldin breathes, and you open your mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling chapped and dry, but the action almost feels too loud, as though everyone is collectively holding their breath. You have to hand it to the Duchess - though clearly nervous, she alone among her court seems to have even a lick of courage.

"Jango Fett," Satine says, clear and precise, "is that really you?"

"Suppose you wouldn't know," the man says reasonably, and the boys at his side snicker. With his free hand, the legendary Mandalorian removes his helmet, revealing himself to be the one and only, the true king, Mand'alor the Unyielding, the prodical son, Jango Fett.

It happens in slow motion, the realization. It's not so much of an exhale as it is a sharp release of air, slow, disbelieivng. Someone cries that it can't be him, someone else refutes them. And then, in what must be the stupidest move in all of sentient history, one of Satine's guards comes at Jango, beskar spear raised. Jango Fett does not so much as bat an eye, just raises the arm that cradles something closer to his chest. Before you can so much as blink, the spear is being wrenched out of the guard's hands by the tallest boy beside Jango, who watches with a minutely raised brow. The boy kicks the guard to the floor easily, and lines up to stab him through the gaps in his armor, when Jango barks out an order.

"Luubid." The boy halts immediately, throwing the spear down beside the guard with more contempt than you would've thought possible at his age, and then returns to Jango's side. Jango tilts his head at Satine, unimpressed.

"Come now," Jango says, darkly sarcastic. "Would you really kill a man holding a babe in his arms? Or are you so much like Death Watch?" The soft cooing sound from before echoes again, and it's then that you realize what Jango's been holding. The smallest of the boys beside him, the only blonde, stands on tiptoe to look curiously at the baby, and then quickly resumes his position.

"Apologies," the Duchess says, holding out a hand as more guards come forward, stopping them from advancing. "My men act out of shock, I am sure. We do not commit senseless acts of violence here." Jango laughs harshly.

"Then you're not Mandalorians," he says. The laughter that rings out at that is louder and more numerous than you would expect considering you're all here in the name of peace. It's strangely satisfying.

"That is a matter of opinion," the Duchess says haughtily. "Tell me, Lord Fett -" Jango rolls his eyes excessively "- why are you here?"

Jango nods, seamlessly handing the baby over to the third boy, and it is then you notice just how much like Jango they all look, though this one in particular seems to share his scowl. Jango reaches down at his side and pulls out a small device. There is a click, and the room becomes bathed in black light as Jango Fett wields the darksaber. Comically, someone gasps. Satine eyes him fearfully, and you don't blame her. There is terror, and then there's Jango Fett.

"That weapon," Satine says tremulously, "is nothing more than a symbol of senseless war and an era long since passed." Jango hums.

"On that," the Mand'alor says, clicking the darksaber off and tossing it down on the marble floor with a clatter, watching with vague curiosity as it rolls, "we agree." The darksaber continues to spin off wildly, until it comes to a dramatic stop directly in front of the Duchess's throne.

"Do-" The prime minister begins to speak, and then he stops, the squeak in Almec's voice clearly surprising him. He coughs awkwardly, pale as a ghost, and tries again. "Do you...yield?"

"Ne shab'rud'mhi, jag'ika," growls the oldest of the boys, taking a menacing step forward. Jango chuckles, but he lays a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Di'kutla, Maan. Kaysh or'dinii." The boy, Maan, snorts, his lip curling into a smile. The minister, for his part, appears downright terrified.

"I'm sorry, is that - we don't speak the old languages here-"

"No?" Jango says coldly, drawing his son back and walking casually towards the throne. "You don't fight, you don't speak Mando'a. Is there anything you actually do? Besides talk yourselves to death?" The prime minister splutters, but Satine raises her hand again, silencing him.

"Even if he did yield, Prime Minister, I would not take it," she says. "And we do more than talk, Lord Fett. We are planning the future of all Mando'ade, and negotiating our continued survival. If you've anything to contribute, please, do tell."

"Fine," the Mand'alor says sarcastically, toeing the darksaber, now turned off, with his boot. "Let us plan and...negotiate." Jango gestures to the four children behind him.

"These ade - that means children - are my sons. They're also my clones."

The crowd breaks out into more gasps and murmurs at this. Jango Fett glances around, and silence falls abruptly. You take his momentary pause as an opportunity to more closely examine the boys, and sure enough, they don't just look like their father, they share his face exactly. Even the smallest one, exlcuding the baby, with his shock of white-blonde hair, looks startlingly similar to the Mand'alor. It's like observing an old family holovid and being able to pick out your parents based off their expressions alone. You have to pull your gaze away when Jago begins speaking again.

"These boys are a sample, made to prove to a Sith Lord how deadly a clone army of me can be," Jango tells the crowd, and even you stiffen at that. Jango hates force users almost as much, if not more than, he hates Death Watch, and Sith Lords are rare in the extreme, to the point of being unheard of. Jango Fett, however, does not seem to care that the entire room is frozen, he just continues speaking. "There are thousands more on the way, and though they're not much bigger than my youngest son, they'll grow fast. Their instinct and training is to kill Jedi. But first they'll be used in a war that, I believe, will damn us all."

Satine speaks out, in spite of the din that erupts after Jango's speech. "This is ridiculous. You cannot return to Mandalore and make these claims, after years of absence-"

"Absence caused by the group your own sister swears her allegiance to!" cries an outraged voice. Arguments spread throughout the crowd, masking the dissenter, but you don't bother to search for them, your eyes locked on the Mand'alor, who regards the duchess with a coldly amused expression.

"Order!" Almec cries out. "Order, I say!" But he's barely heard over the outrage. Behind you, someone trips, or perhaps is shoved, and you and Baldin get into identical fighting stances, the instinct of your youth overriding years of diplomacy.

"Finally," Baldin says smiling, "things are getting interesting." Just as you're about to scold him for immaturity, a punch is thrown across the hall, and you can tell an all-out brawl is about to begin. Before it can, however, the two eldest boys split off from their father, the shortest one holding the baby tight to his chest, and Jango stomps to the throne dais, blocking Satine from the crowd.

The boy who sprints to your seats, the one with his father's scowl, vaults over you and Baldin and lands almost gracefully on a lord's chest, simultaneously shoving the lady he'd been arguing with to the ground. The oldest boy, Maan, wrenches back the wrist of the brawler across the room, effectively putting the pacficistic Mandalorian she'd attacked out of harm's way. Jango Fett, for his part, draws his blaster, and fires twice into the air, leaving scorch marks on the ceiling.

"Uur! Silence! Anade, everyone!" Jango says, his voice ringing out clear over the noise, his contempt for the immature scene before him palpable in his tone and written all over his face. "Acting like children, Manda help us. I don't care about your petty gossip, and I don't care if you believe me. If I didn't believe the Mando'ade was at risk, I wouldn't be here. Prepare yourselves. Tell the Jedi if you want. Do nothing. I don't care. This is a courtesy."

Once again, the room falls silent. Jango Fett's son hops down from the bench behind you, squeezing between you and Baldin and returning to his brothers. Jango gestures to the four children.

"My concern is my sons' future, and the future of the clones who will be used as a weapon of the Sith. I'm not asking any of you to help me - you've shown me today you'd do more harm than good." The Mand'alor steps down from the dais, his heavy, sure steps echoing once more, and he regards the room at large. "Jate'kara. Gar linibar."

Jango Fett pauses before the darksaber, stooping down to pick it up. He holds the unlit weapon aloft.

"And I'll be taking this," he says disdainfully, "for safekeeping. Laandure." The Mand'alor's sons scoff at the insult, and then they are falling in line behind him, marching dutifully out of the throne room and to the palace beyond. You blink rapidly, as though waking from a dream. Surprisingly, the chaos does not resume, the tense silence left in Jango Fett's wake far too heavy to try and break with mindless chatter.

"That," Baldin whispers after several moments of silence, "is a king."

-

-

-

"You wanted to see me?"

Satine Kryze looks up from her datapad and gaggle of advisors and smiles politely at you, calling out your name and beckoning you to her. She says something to the group surrounding her, and then the men and women clamoring for the duchess's ear depart, scurrying past you like so many field mice. Everyone in the capital seems antsy any more.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice," Satine says to you, inclining her head. You do the same. She's a dainty thing, and you'd almost believe her made of fragile porcelain if not for the way she's weathered the worst of Mandalore's political storms over the years. She's not the fair, soft young woman whose social graces you once despised - now she is, regal, confident, weary - even though it's been less than a decade since her crowning as duchess. She's not all that much older than you, and still talking to her feels like talking to one of your elders. War takes its toll, to be sure, but Satine Kryze is living proof of the mental battle that is its aftermath.

You respect her immensely. You sure as shit don't trust her.

"It seemed urgent, Your Grace," you say. Satine inclines her head towards her office, so you fall into step beside her, trying not to appear stiff or intimidated. The stuffy atmosphere of the palace doesn't unnerve you so much as it annoys you, even if you've grown accustomed to it over the years. But Satine Kryze's impassive expressions tend to shake you - the only read you can ever get on her is a vauge air of contempt. She smiles thinly at you, and the bags around her eyes grow more prominent with the action.

"Unfortunately," Satine agrees. She glances you up and down. "I see you wore your armor." You shuffle a little under her exacting gaze, even though the statement seems...unfair. You donned your chestplate and crush gauntlets, nothing more. The new paint, in varying shades of green, might not have been necessary, but you didn't want to show up looking a mess.

Besides - it's been years since you've had a reason do don your beskar'gam. Your mother always taught you to wear it with pride.

"I felt it was necessary," you say, straining not to let defensiveness creep into your voice, "what with...everything going on." Satine nods sagely.

"I don't blame you for being fearful," she tells you, in what is probably mean to be a bracing voice, but you just take the sentiment as an insult. You're a Mandalorian; war does not frighten you. "Jango Fett's return has upended all of our hard work to unite the system. His warmongering ways do not bode well for the Mando'ade."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, finding Satine's poor attempt at Mando'a especially grating. "Jango Fett was enslaved, thanks to Death Watch," you remind her. "He tried to put a stop to their terror." Satine hums thougthfully.

"Perhaps," she says, very clearly humoring you. "I suppose it has been many years. Leadership changes. But of all the clans, House Vizla was the least violent after my coronation-"

"All due respect, Your Grace," you interrupt, your curbed anger sounding surprisingly like disdain, "but Death Watch only posed less of a threat because Jango Fett cut their numbers in half. You have no idea what it was like."

Satine, at least, acknowledges your anger now, perhaps because you've expressed it in a dialect she can understand - passive aggressiveness. She tilts her head downward, respectful, and waits a while to formulate her response. As well she should, in your opinion. You were only a girl when Death Watch finally fell at the expert hands of Jango Fett, the head of the snake uncremoniously chopped off and fed to dire-cats. But you were old enough to recall the constant mourning left in Tor Vizsla's wake. The bitter taste of injustice is one your family, and all the families on Concord Dawn and the surrounding planets, is familiar with.

"Apologies," Satine says, sincere enough that you believe her. At the very least, she is familiar with needless death. The early civil wars were heralded in by Vizsla and targeted every planet but Mandalore. The last of civil wars echoed throughout the entire system, and Satine's own father died because of them. "There is honor in opposing tyrants, though I do not find that same honor in such violent means." You bite your tongue - is there any other way to deal with tyrants? "Regardless, our philosophical differences are of no importance. You and I both care for our homes. We can work together to protect them."

"How would we do that?" Satine opens the large doors to her office, gliding over to the small meeting table and gesturing for you to sit.

"I won't pretend I'm intimately familiar with the old ways - fighting or otherwise," Satine begins, typing at her datapad. "The culture surrounding the old cities on Concord Dawn, the language - it's almost foreign to me. You, however, grew up in it. Lord Fett - " And no, you don't miss how she changes her tone, how she uses his title. " - has infinitely more reason to trust you than he does me. I believe if I were to try and negotiate with him, it would be a non-starter. You, however, could at least get the door open. I'm sure of it."

You do your best not to gape at her.

"Your Grace, I'm...flattered," you say, for lack of a better word. Blind-sided is one. Tentatively amused is another. "But I think Fett made it quite clear that he doesn't care to negotiate, and besides - I spent my childhood on Concord Dawn, but my adolescent years were on Mandalore. My sister, or my cousins, perhaps, would make far better representatives-"

"It is precisely because you grew up in both cultures that you must go," Satine insists, sliding her datapad over to you. Pulled up on the screen is an image of an old farmhouse, which you'd believe abandoned if not for the small figures in its fields. "My scouts have determined that Lord Fett and his sons have returned to his family home. Go to him there, where he'll be comfortable. Talk to him as an equal. Find out what his business is here. See if you can't form an alliance with him, or at the very least a positive connection"

You don't say the obvious - that talking to Jango Fett as "an equal" implies that Satine thinks she is above him, that Fett has already told all of Mandalore his business, that this meeting will only prove that no one believes him, that any alliance is bound to come off as insincere. Satine knows this, and she's asking you to go anyway.

He could kill you, or order his sons to. You're out of practice, and though you think you'd put up a good fight, you're not confident you'd survive. You could bring reinforcements, but something tells you that would only incense the strange family taking up residence on Concord Dawn.

"You're asking me to speak on behalf of the New Mandalorians, rather than my clan," you say, thinking fast. "How would my home benefit from this alliance?"

"Apart from peace?" Satine asks, out of diplomatic necessity rather than any belief that you care about that. "Concord Dawn has been requesting independent rule since negotiations began. A show of solidarity such as this would prove to me that you are more than capable of working alongside Mandalore in the future."

Concord Dawn's independence - that's Satine's bargaining chip. You can't help your shocked expression, and you know she saw, even if you school it away in seconds.

"That's...quite a benefit," you say at last, unable to come up with anything else. Satine nods. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to pay him a visit." The duchess smiles at you, and you wish she didn't look so unsurprised.

"Wonderful," she says in her clear, crisp accent. "It'd be best if you depart within the week - the sooner we have a feel for Lord Fett's intentions, the better."

Satine stands abruptly, and as you follow suit, you wonder just what you're getting yourself into. Success could mean freedom for your people. Failure could result in your death.

You sigh and decide to ask your sister for the family uj cake recipe. Hopefully Jango Fett is a traditionalist.

-

-

-

The walk to the Fett family homestead is a scenic one, and the thick grove of trees leading to the old wheat farm helps to settle your churning stomach. The package of uj cake, more loaf-shaped than cake-shaped for easy transport, is safe under one arm, your blaster at the ready in its holster beneath the other. You've thought through four different greetings - one for Jango, and one for each of speaking clone sons, though you somehow doubt the third youngest will be allowed to wander about on his own.

Then again, Jango Fett was raised by Mand'alor the Defender. Jaster Mereel was known for defending not only the system, but its traditions and beliefs, including the one that determined Mandalorians come of age at 13. Perhaps Fett is of the same mind.

A rustling sound comes from the long stalks of wheat, and you pause, taking great care not to automatically reach for your blaster. Even if the stranger among the crops has their weapon raised, that’s as traditional a Mandalorian greeting as any. Sure enough, when the eldest son, Maan, appears before you, his blaster’s pointed at your bare head.

"Tion'cuy." Maan says. Though the inquiry is undoubtedly meant to be a challenge, Maan spits it at you like a declaration of war. He doesn’t wear a helmet either, but his expression of disgust, you think, probably shields him almost as well. You shake off the anger radiating off of him in waves, refusing to be intimidated - he’s barely 16, after all.

"Su cuy'gar," you say, doing your best to keep your voice level, refraining from any sign of weakness or defensiveness. You’re welcoming the new neighbors. That’s all. You give Maan your name and title, and smile as placatingly as you can. "Olarom Concord Dawn." The boy snorts derisively, and keeps his blaster trained on you.

The next minute passes by without another word between you, so you try a new tactic as you present the container in your arms to him. "Ni gan'dinui."

Maan gives you a skeptical look, so you gingerly unwrap the packaging on the uj cake, letting him see the glazed top and smell the fresh cinnamon. His expression deepens into one of confusion as he sniffs the air.

"Haamyc," Maan says, shrugging and gesturing for you to follow him through the wheat. Then, in perfect basic, he adds, "It’s your funeral."

"I - you speak Basic?" you ask him, not meaning to sound so surprised. Maan barks out a laugh, apparently not offended.

"Better than you speak Mando’a," he says easily. A bitter retort about Mandalore law dies on your tongue - he does not want to hear it, and it’s best not to show your vulnerabilities to this boy. Young as he is, he’s clever, clear in the way he keeps a pace or two ahead of you, but does not walk so fast he cannot watch your movements out of the corner of his eye. Maan turns sharply right, then left, and suddenly the old farmhouse is looming above you. You pause a moment too long to take it in, and the boy is trotting inside without you.

Affronted, you follow him, catching the screen door before it can slam shut, but he’s already through the first floor, towards the back of the house, speaking quietly to what you can only assume is the rest of his family.

"Ba'slana mhi," says a gruff voice, one you recognize from his dramatic display in the throne room. A pause, then "Slana, slana!" You hear the loud creak of a second screen door, the stomping of several pairs of boots, and the giggling of a baby, and decide not to wait a moment longer and march into the kitchen.

It would seem Jango Fett wants to meet with you alone.

You enter the kitchen, a speech prepared, but you do not see Jango Fett - at least, not at first.

What you see is his second son, the one who seems to have adopted his mannerisms more fiercely than the rest, glaring angrily at something. By the time you realize he’s glaring at his father, he’s turned his icy gaze on you.

"Kote," the Mand’alor rumbles warningly. The boy practically snarls at you, and then stomps off to join his brothers, leaving you alone with the man you were told stories of at bedtime.

It’s a very, very slow turn that your body does when you finally face him head-on, but you take your time because you know if you rushed you’d just appear unstable - already your legs do not feel as strong as they did when you walked the worn path to the homestead. Jango Fett cocks his head at you, curious, or bored, or maybe deciding if he’s going to hunt you for sport.

You steel yourself - you are a Mandalorian, out of practice or not. If he tries to kill you, you’re not going down without a fight. You open your mouth to speak, but your host beats you to it.

"Maan says you’ve brought us cake," he says, very casual. "Uj cake, I hope. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any." You nod wordlessly, completely thrown off, and hand him the loaf. Jango Fetts unwraps your gift and smirks, eyes sparkling for the barest of moments before placing it on the rickety kitchen table and returning to his spot at the counter.

"Not a bad bribe," he muses, crossing his arms as he leans back against the countertop. You fall silent once more, embarrassment threatening at your throat, but the strange, terrifying man just regards you patiently.

He is waiting for you to begin.

“I’m here representing the duchess,” you say as steadily as you can. You haven’t felt nervous in years - not for your verd’goten, not for a single speech in front of the houses. Jango Fett watches you with clever, tired eyes, and suddenly you’re a girl again, trying to impress your friends with your first ever target demonstration.

“I don’t believe you,” Jango says after a moment of observation, taking a swig of beer. “You don’t even like her.” You swallow hard, and feel Jango watching the action intently.

“I don’t like most of my cousins,” you argue, “or most of my uncles. And a few of my aunts. But I represent my house, just the same.” Jango grins at you over his beer.

“I don’t miss the nobility bullshit,” he says, and you think there’s laughter there, somewhere in his voice. “Anyway. I don’t think coming here and begging me not to amass an army because the woman who decides whether or not your people get to eat asked you to counts as representing her.”

“Semantics,” you say, even as you feel your confidence dwindling. “She and I are on the same side right now, so I’m willing to do this, for all Mando’ade.” Jango Fett eyes you again, searching for who knows what, and then nods to himself.

“I’m not starting another war, I’m trying to stop one from happening. You can tell the duchess that.” Jango’s tone is almost as dismissive as the way he pushes away from the table and takes food out of the cooler, washing first his hands and the then the fruits he’s laid out, glancing over to where you stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

“Are you staying for dinner?” he asks you, and you only realize your mouth has been hanging open when you snap it closed at his question. “The boys might appreciate the company. Been a while since they've had anyone new to talk to.”

“Lord F - Jango,” you say, and the bubbling buildup of frustration almost startles you - this is not a man to lose one’s temper with. “That’s not going to cut it. Vague references to a mythical war on the horizon and a few clones isn’t enough to convince anyone of anything. People think you’re mad.” Jango finishes washing the fruits, and then places them down on a dish rag, turning to face you.

“What do you think?” he says evenly, and you honest to god roll your eyes at him.

“What I think doesn’t matter-“

“All the same,” Jango interrupts, one brow raised curiously, “I want to know.” You take a deep breath, and consider your options. You could lie, of course, in a way that either flatters Jango, or flatters Satine. You could attempt manipulate this situation to be advantageous to you - or you could tell the truth and hope for the best.

You don’t think it’s smart to lie to this man.

“I don’t think you’re mad,” you sigh, caving in to his earlier hospitality and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “But I don’t have much reason to believe what you say, either. I want to believe you. Everyone on Concord Dawn wants to believe you. Your supporters will force themselves to believe anything, if it pushes Satine out. But they’re expecting a war, just like everyone in the rest of the system. You’re known for it.”

Jango does not look away from you the entire time you talk, just rests easy against the counter, listening. He closes his eyes when you finish speaking, gripping the countertops hard enough that you’re sure it has to hurt, and then releasing.

“I was born in war,” he says quietly. “My buir died before my eyes. My cabur died in my arms. My brothers and sisters in arms died around me. All I’ve known is death and violence. There is honor in battle, and glory in fighting for a just cause. There was no honor in what I did - just necessity, dictated by the actions of tyrants.”

Jango opens his eyes again and looks right at you.

“I don’t want my sons to watch me die,” he tells you, and even with how softly he speaks, there’s something furiously righteous in his voice, “so that they can go off to war, and die just as pointlessly. I’m going to raise these boys, and if a just cause presents itself, so be it. But I won’t let them be canon fodder for another man’s vengeance.”

“What about your vengeance?” you ask, the words tumbling forward against your will. Jango laughs, darkly amused.

“That what everyone’s so afraid of?” he says. “My vengeance? Ah, well. My vengeance can wait. I’m not planning on beheading the duchess, you know. Wouldn’t be right. She’s never so much as held a blaster.” You smile in spite of yourself, picturing the regal lady trying to figure out the components of a weapon.

“The rites have fallen out of fashion in the capital,” you say evenly. Jango catches your meaning, though. After all, you're not from the capital.

“What was your speciality?” he asks curiously.

“The verd’goten was made illegal sometime ago,” you tell him, though you can’t help the pride that creeps into your voice, “but if I were to have participated, I’d have specialized in munit chaaj tracy'uur’se.” Jango barks out a laugh.

“Here I would’ve thought you’d say ‘diplomacy’ or ‘music circles’-“

“I was also known for my ability with the bes’bev,” you say smugly, and Jango shuts up, arching a brow at you.

“A music lover after all,” he murmurs, and only now do you see that he’s relaxed. The previous airs of disinterest were a facade, clearly, a way to keep you on your toes. Now, as you talk like friends, something about his posture changes, loosens. He tilts his head at you. “You still play?” You look away, ashamed.

“Not for years,” you admit. Of all the the pieces of your culture you miss, the bes’bev hurts the most. You’d been a capable musician by nature, and a skilled fighter through hard work. As a teenager, not having to practice anymore felt like a blessing. Now you don’t know how you’d sound, if you picked the instrument up again. Jango hums thoughtfully.

“Didn’t realize I was holding the whole damn Mando’ade together,” he says with no small amount of bitterness, turning away from you to resume the process of making dinner. “It’s all gone to shit.”

“Me not playing the bes’bev anymore doesn’t mean the culture’s gone to shit-“

“Do you regret it?” he demands, turning around angrily, pointing the small knife at you in accusation. You try not to snarl at him, defensiveness curling in the back your throat.

“Yes,” you grit out. Jango shakes his head, frustrated..

“Like I said before, I’m not starting a war,” Jango rumbles, his eyes boring hard into yours, and for the first time, you think you truly understand why he's called Mand'alor the Unyielding. “Mandalore and the Duchess can live their lives however they'd like. But Concord Dawn is no longer under Mandalore’s jurisdiction.”

“Who’s then?” you ask more breathlessly than you mean to, especially since you’re sure you already know the answer. Jango bares his teeth at you.

“Mine.”

For one tense, impossible moment, you think he’s going to surge forward. His cruel smile and haughty demeanor reminds you of monsters your grandmother would tell you about, dark wizards who feasted on the blood of small children and foolish wanderers. Jango Fett looks for all the world like he could sink his teeth into you, and the worst part is, you think you almost want him to.

Then the moment passes, and Jango tosses you the cutting knife with ease and walks back to the cooler.

“Mind finishing this up?” he says casually, gesturing to the fruit, and you don’t let your thundering heart convince you he’s being too casual, surely this is just how he was talking before. “We’re having druyza for dinner, but the boys are hungry all the time anymore. Unless, of course, you’re not staying.”

You shake your head, taking uneasy steps to the countertop and pick up a binka fruit with shaking fingers, cutting the juicy flesh with ease but struggling to keep your eyes from wandering in Jango’s direction. The third time you look his way, he’s no longer beside the cooler, and you don’t have time to search for him when one of his broad arms sneaks around you. You bite back a gasp as his hand brushes your side, reaching to the cutting board and snagging a piece of fruit.

“My birth father always served us this,” he says, very close to your ear, and you hope your involuntary shudder isn’t noticeable. “After he died, I never gave myself time for sweet things.”

“Do you regret it?” you ask carefully, willing your hands to resume their work and failing.

“Sometimes,” he tells you. “Sometimes, the wait makes them all the sweeter.” Then he squeezes your shoulder, probably in thanks, and whistles as he cuts the drayza. You feel so dizzy you could faint, but you roll your shoulders and keep cutting. You are a Mandalorian, not the be felled by the hands of Jango Fett.

But his charms, however strange they may be, well. They may just do you in.

-

-

-

mando'a

mando'ade - mandalorians, sons and daughters of mandalore

luubid - enough

ne shab'rud'mhi, jag'ika. - don't mess with us, little man.

di'kutla...kaysh or'dinii. - it's uselss...he's a moron.

jate'kara. - good luck (means "good stars", a course to steer by).

gar linibar. - you'll need it.

laandure - pathetic (plural)

beskar'gam - armor

tion'cuy. - who's that. (often used as a challenge, similar to halt! or who goes there?)

su cuy'gar. - hello. (means "you're still alive.")

olarom - welcome

ni gan'dinui. - i have a gift.

haamyc - unusual

ba'slana mhi. - leave us.

slana - go (plural)

verd'goten - traditional mandalorian rite of passage

buir - father, parent

cabur - guardian, protector

munit chaaj tracy'uur'se - long range blaster rifles

bes'bev - a mandalorian wind instrument made for combat (a large metal flute with a sharpened, cut-off end)

a/n: first off, so sorry for the gratuitous mando'a. i really wanted to have there be a stark contrast between the fetts and the new mandalorians, and also give jango a way to privately talk with his sons, separating them even further. the reader's knowledge of mando'a sort of gives her an in, and an automatic connection (or at least i hope it does.)

i've had this fic almost completed in the drafts forever, and don't know why i tabled it. doubt and distraction, probably. i imagine the smut will come along soon enough, and there will probably be a handful of time jumps. but for now, i hope you enjoyed and will enjoy the future parts! i don't super have them planned out but i do have an idea where i want it to go, and am excited for some future players...

thank you for reading 💞