#togruta reader

“Not getting involved,” Crosshair muttered, already lining up the next shot.

The blaster cracked again and the fruit vanished in a puff of pulp. He stared at his empty hand, then sighed. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

“At what?” Crosshair asked dryly.

“Sayin’ things. Feelings.” Wrecker swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “This time it’s… different.”

Crosshair finally looked at him with a long, assessing expression. “I know.”

Wrecker blinked. “You do?”

“I’m not stupid.”

Across the dock, you moved between the stalls, a woven basket tucked against your hip. 

Barefoot as always, the warmth grounded you to the island the way shoes never could. You looked peacefu, mauve tone catching the sunlight in soft, shifting gleams. White markings curved across your cheeks and brow like elegant strokes; your montrals rose tall and striped, lekku swaying gently with each step, one draping over the curve of your teal crop top, the patterned hip sash brushing your thigh. 

You were done shopping for the day, ready to head back home when your foot caught a slick patch of spilled water.

Before you could lose your balance, a huge hand steadied you instantly. “You need any help?”

Your heart gave a quick thump at the familiar voice. “Wrecker—!” The basket tipped, weight shifting.

“I’ll take that as a maybe,” he teased, already lifting it from your hands with that big, easy grin.

Heat bloomed under your skin. “Thanks, muscles.” If he’d been any less strong, the basket might’ve slipped. Instead, he swallowed hard and smiled like you’d just handed him a medal.

Curious, he peeked inside the basket. “You cookin’ a feast?”

“Trying to,” you said. “Used to do it a lot back home. Figured I’d pick it back up.”

“Smells good already.” His gaze dropped to your bare feet, then flicked back up. “Hey, don’t your feet hurt? Walkin’ around like that all day?”

You smiled softly. “The ground and I are friends. Shoes just get in the way.”

Wrecker stared for a second, then nodded like that made perfect sense in his world.

An impulse bubbled up before you could second-guess it. “Actually… maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight?”

He froze. “Like…me and the guys?”

You stepped a little closer, hands folding behind your back as the sun warmed your skin. “I was thinking just us. If that’s okay?”

Wrecker’s knees nearly gave out. “Yeah,” he quickly.. “Yeah, absolutely.”

You paced your small kitchen, flustered heat prickling your skin as you stirred the pot. “Okay, think, Grandmother always said a pinch of that spice first, then the herbs… or was it the other way around?” You muttered to yourself, tasting a spoonful and grimacing, “No, that’s not right.”  

Your stomach twitched with nerves, as you rummaged for ingredients. 

“Get it together. It’s just dinner. With him.” A soft trill escaped your throat as you wiped your brow, hoping it would all turn out okay.

Once the food was simmering safely, you slipped away to change. The outfit decision had been circling in your mind all afternoon as each option felt too much or not enough.

Eventually, you settled on something that felt like home and something that honored Shili without being overly formal. You stared at yourself in the mirror, fingers smoothing out your robe, wondering if Wrecker would like something more or something less. 

The knock came sooner than expected, jolting you from your thoughts.

Wrecker filled the doorway, clutching a small bundle of wildflowers. He’d cleaned up nicely; a smart button-up shirt tucked into his trousers, top button undone for a relaxed look (his expression said otherwise), sleeves rolled to his elbows showing his muscular forearms.

“For you,” he spoke, suddenly shy.

Your smile bloomed immediately. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He couldn’t look away. The lantern light of your apartment caught your eyes. Soft, opalescent, swirling lavender into pale pink and cool blue. It stopped him cold. “You look… really pretty,” he breathed quietly.

You ducked your head, pleased. “Thank you. Uh, come in, watch the step, it’s a bit uneven.”

He ducked under the frame carefully, then stood there like he was afraid to move shoulders hunched a little, hands clasped in front. His size made the cozy space feel even smaller, but he was trying so hard not to loom.

You noticed right away. “Hey, relax. You’re not going to break anything. Make yourself at home. Sit, or help me stir if you want.”

Wrecker rubbed his neck, chuckling nervously. “Yeah? I don’t wanna mess up your place. I’m kinda… big.”

You laughed softly. “So? I like that about you. Besides, my home’s meant for company. No point in a pack mentality if everything’s too fragile, right?”

He eased a bit at that, shoulders dropping as he followed you in.

Once seated for food, dinner passed in easy warmth with conversation flowing like the ocean outside. You raised your cup first. “To good company?”

“And good cookin’,” Wrecker added, clinking his cup to yours.

He asked about Pabu first, but soon circled back to you. “So, Shili, right? Tell me more. What was it like growin’ up there? All those stories about packs and feasts sound kinda nice.”

You leaned in, eyes lighting up that he seemed interested. “It was everything. Warm all the time, like Pabu. Endless fields, hunts at dawn. My family was close; we cooked together for the whole pack. These recipes?” You gestured to the plates. “From my grandmother. She’d gather us kids around the fire, teaching us to season by feel. I fumbled through it earlier, talking to myself like a fool, trying to remember stuff.”

Wrecker grinned, taking another bite. “Well, you nailed it. Bet you miss that, the family thing. Being alone here must feel… off.”

You nodded. “It does, sometimes. Togruta aren’t made for isolation; we thrive on closeness, sharing space. Pabu’s welcoming and everything, but it’s not the same.” you shrugged, taking another forkful of food. “I’ve adapted, though. What about you? Clones, squads… that sounds like a pack too.”

He chuckled, setting his fork down. “Yeah, kinda. Me and the boys have been through everything. Missions, explosions, you name it. But it’s different now, settlin’ down. I like it, but… I dunno, sometimes I feel like the big guy who sticks out.”

“You don’t stick out,” you say gently. “You fit. Right here, at least.”

When you served dessert, there was a shift. Knees brushed beneath the table, fingers lingered when passing plates. He fed you a bite of fruit, watching your reaction like it was the most important thing in the galaxy.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes,” he blurted out softly. “Hard not to get lost in ’em.” You hid your smile behind your hand, bashful and giddy.

“Would you like a drink on the balcony?” you asked, voice a little lighter than you felt. “The sunset view is to die for.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

He stood to help clear the plates whilst you poured two glasses of rum and carried them out together. The balcony chairs were low and wide, cushioned with woven mats that smelled faintly of salt and sun. You settled side by side, close enough that your bare arm brushed his sleeve.

You were right, the view was beautiful. The sky had gone molten gold at the edges, bleeding into deep rose and violet over the water. Waves rolled in slow, steady breaths below, and the air carried the warm scent of blooming night flowers. 

For a while neither of you spoke and Wrecker kept glancing over at you.

The first time you pretended not to notice, sipping your drink and letting the rum warm your throat.

The second time you felt the shift of his gaze like a brush of heat along your cheek, but you kept your eyes on the horizon, lips curving just a fraction.

The third time you turned your head slowly, catching him mid-stare. You raised one brow, playful. “Like what you see?”

Without missing a beat, he answered, voice low and sure. “Absolutely.”

Your cheeks heated instantly, skin deepening to a richer shade under the sunset glow. You ducked your head with a soft giggle, lifting your hand to cover your mouth again out of habit.

Wrecker moved before you could hide completely. His large hand caught your wrist gently, “Don’t,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t hide your smile. It’s pretty.”

The words landed soft but heavy, stealing your breath for a second. You lowered your hand, letting him see the full curve of your lips, the way your delciate sharp canines peeked just a little when you smiled for real.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. Then, because it felt only fair, “Yours too. Your smile, I mean. It lights up everything.”

He looked almost surprised, like no one had ever said it back to him. His thumb kept tracing lazy circles on your wrist.

Next thing you knew, his fingers slid down, threading through yours. His hand dwarfed yours completely - calloused, scarred, strong—but the way he held you was careful, like he was afraid of holding too tight. You squeezed back, and for a long stretch of minutes you just sat like that: hands linked, watching the sky bleed into dusk.

Eventually Wrecker spoke, “Why’d you ask just me tonight?”

You shifted slightly, fingers curling over one of your lekku and holding it closer to your shoulder as if for comfort. You took a slow breath before answering, “I… thought it was obvious,” you admitted, staring at where your fingers laced with his. “That I like you. A lot.” 

You risked a glance up at him; his eyes were fixed on you, soft and wide. “I thought maybe I read the situation right. That you… liked me too.”

The words hung there, vulnerable in the quiet.

Wrecker didn’t look away. His thumb resumed its slow stroke along the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” he said after a second, rough around the edges but honest. “You read it right. Been tryin’ to figure out how to say it for weeks. Didn’t wanna mess it up.”

It was like music to your ears.

“You’re different. Special. Not just pretty—though kriff, you are—but the way you are with people, with the island, with everything. Makes me feel like I could just…be me.”

Your heart gave a hard thump and you leaned a fraction closer.

“I feel the same,” you whispered. “With you, I… I just want to be near you. I don’t want to be alone tonight, Wrecker. Maybe not ever, if that’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “More than okay.”

The sunset had faded to deep indigo now, stars beginning to prick through. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze fully, your eyes swirling with soft colour in the dim light. “So,” you begin, voice barely audible, “what happens next?”

Wrecker’s free hand lifted slowly, hesitating before he cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed the white marking along your jaw with reverence.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Wrecker’s thumb traced one last slow circle over the back of your hand before he let go lift his other palm to your cheek again, cradling it like something priceless. “Can Ikiss you?”

You didn’t trust your voice right then. You only nodded, eyes locked on his as you leaned across the small space between the chairs.

The first press of his lips was tentative. Just a soft peck, warm and brief, like he was testing if this was real. You felt the faint tremor in his breath against your mouth.

Then another. Longer this time, lingering.

And another.

Until the pecks melted together into something deeper. Your lips moved in gentle rhythm, tasting the faint sweetness of rum and fruit still on his mouth. His left hand slid from your cheek to cup your jaw fully.

Your own hand found his knee, steadying yourself as much as him.

His free hand drifted higher, fingertips grazing the striped length of your lekku where it draped over your shoulder.

You shuddered with a sharp, involuntary breath. Wrecker pulled back instantly, eyes wide with worry. “You okay? Did I—?”

You shook your head quickly, cheeks hot. “I’m okay,” you whispered, voice a little breathless. “They’re… sensitive. In a good way.”

He searched your face for a long second, then exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. His fingers stroked the base of your lekku now in deliberate yet feather-light touches. “Like that?” he murmured.

You nodded, biting your lip around a small, pleased sound.

For another minute you stayed like that. Kissing slow and unhurried, hands exploring in gentle arcs. His fingers learned the texture of your lekku, stroking from base to tip in long, soothing passes that sent warm sparks down your spine. Your palm slid a little higher on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under your touch.

Eventually you drew back just enough to speak, lips brushing his as you did.

“Wrecker…Do you want to take this inside?”

His breath hitched. He tried to play it cool, but the ache was already there, straining against his pants and impossible to hide completely.

“Yeah,” he rasped, nodding once, then again like he needed to convince himself. “Yeah. Please.”

You rose first, fingers still tangled with his, and guided him back through the open doorway into the warmth of your home. The lighting had dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the room. You paused near the sturdy dining table and leaned back against its edge.

Your fingers drifted to the ties of your flowing robes, brushing the fabric in a slow, deliberate slide. Not pulling exactly, just tracing the neckline, letting it slip a fraction lower to reveal more lavender skin and the delicate curve where your collarbone met shoulder. A silent invitation. Just for him.

Wrecker crossed the room in two strides, towering over you. His chest rose and fell faster than before; you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the clean salt-and-sun scent that clung to his skin. He stopped close enough that his breath fanned across your face.

His hand came up slowly, knuckles grazing the soft fabric at your shoulder you just touched. He hooked two fingers under the edge and tugged ever so gently, easing it down one arm, then the other. The robe loosened, pooling at your elbows, baring the smooth expanse of your torso to the lamplight. Your skin glowing warm, white markings curving elegantly over your ribs and hips.

You looked up at him through your lashes, voice a husky murmur. “I’ve been feeling so hot all evening…”

Wrecker’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. A low rumble vibrated in his chest—half laugh, half groan. “Then I should help you out of these,” he answers, voice thick. “Can’t have you uncomfortable, mesh’la.”

His lips found your neck as his hands worked. 

He kissed the sensitive spot just below your jaw first, open-mouthed and warm, then trailed lower along the column of your throat. Each press of his mouth sent little jolts through you and your head tipped back on instinct. 

He sucked lightly, just enough to make you gasp, and his fingers slipped beneath the remaining ties of your robe, loosening them until the fabric whispered to the floor in a soft heap.

Cool air kissed your bare skin, but his body heat chased it away instantly. His palms slid up your sides. His huge, tough hands spanning almost your entire waist. His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts in a slow, almost worshipful sweep. He groaned against your neck when he felt how hard your nipples had already peaked.

“Kriff… you’re beautiful,” he breathed, “So soft. So perfect.”

One hand stayed at your waist while the other cupped the back of your head, fingers placed gently into the base of your montrals. The touchdrew a needy whimper from you. Your hips rocked forward without thought, pressing against the hard ridge of him through his pants.

He hissed softly, hips jerking once before he reined himself in. “Easy,” he murmured, though his own voice shook. “Wanna take my time with you.”

But his mouth was already moving again; kissing down the slope of your shoulder, then lower, lips brushing the swell of your breast. He paused there, breath hot against your skin, waiting for permission.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

Soft pen-mouthed presses along the curve, tasting the warmth of your lavender skin like he was memorising every inch. Then, his mouth closed over one nipple, slow and careful, tongue circling once, twice, before he sucked softly. So softly you felt the pull all the way down your spine. A sound escaped you, high and trembling, something between a gasp and a sob. It was tender, almost too tender. 

Worshipped rather than claimed.

Your head arched back, montrals brushing the wood as your neck stretched long. One of your legs lifted on instinct, hooking around his lower back, heel pressing in to draw him impossibly closer. The movement made your sex grind lightly against the hard line of him through his pants, and he groaned low into your skin, the vibration traveling straight through you.

Wrecker eased you down fully onto the table, the wood was cool beneath your back. He straightened just long enough to look at you as you spread out beneath him, lekku fanned across the surface, lavender skin flushed deeper at your cheeks and chest, opalescent eyes half-lidded and glowing softly. Hunger flickered in his gaze 

But as promised, he didn’t rush.

His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. One by one they came undone, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his chest. The fabric slid off his shoulders and then he was back over you, caging you gently with his arms braced on either side of your head.

His mouth returned to your breasts like he couldn’t stay away. This time he wasn’t quite so careful. His tongue hungrily flicked over one peaked nipple and then sucked harder, drawing it deep into the wet heat of his mouth. 

He rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle pinch that made your hips jerk. You whimpered, hand flying to his shoulder to anchor yourself. Your nails dug lightly into the muscle there—not to hurt, just to hold on as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly.

You moaned his name and he answered with a rough exhale against your skin.

“Mesh’la…” His voice cracked on the word. He kissed a slow path back up your chest, your throat, until his forehead rested against yours. “You feel so good. Too good. Tell me if it’s too much.”

Your leg tightened around him, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

“Not too much,” you whispered, voice trembling with want. “More. Please.”

His hips rolled against you deliberately, grinding hard enough that you both gasped. One of his hands slid down your side, palm flattening over your hip. The other stayed at your breast, kneading softly while his mouth found yours again. The kiss was deeper now, tongues sliding together in lazy, heated strokes.

Wrecker broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips, “Gonna take care of you. Promise. Just… let me feel you like this a little longer.”

Wrecker’s mouth crashed back to yours with a new edge but still gentle in its care. You met him eagerly, tongues tangling in wet, languid strokes, tasting each other like you’d both been starving for it. His hand cradled the back of your head again, fingers splayed wide through the base of your montrals. You couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss.

He broke away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked. “Need you closer.”

Before you could answer, his arms hooked under your thighs and back, lifting you like you were made of air.

He cradled you against his broad chest as he carried you through the open doorway to your bedroom. Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist, lekku draping over his shoulders like warm silk. You buried your face in the crook of his neck for a moment, inhaling the scent of him, heart hammering.

He eased you down to sit on the edge of the low bed, mattress dipping under your weight meanwhile Wrecker stood between your knees.

Your hands moved on instinct, flying to the waistband of his pants, fingers fumbling with the clasp. You looked up at him through your lashes, opalescent eyes swirling with heat. The look you gave him was pure want and adoration.

He watched you, throat working on a swallow.  You tugged the fabric down, freeing him in one careful pull. His cock sprang free. Heavy, thick, already flushed dark and throbbing hard in your palm. The size of him made your breath catch; no surprise, really, but seeing it and feeling the velvet heat sent a fresh pang of arousal straight to your core.

You gasped softly, thumb brushing over the slick tip. “Wrecker… you’re huge.”

He let out a shaky laugh, hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Yeah… sorry if–"

“Don’t apologise,” you whispered, stroking him slowly from base to head, feeling every ridge, every vein. “ You’re wondeful. And I want it. I want all of you.”

His hips jerked once into your grip. “Kriff… you’re gonna kill me sayin’ things like that.”

You smiled sharp canines glinting and then gave his cock a playful little slap against  your breast. The smack made you both groan. You did it again, lighter this time, watching his eyes darken as the head left a faint glistening trail across your lavender skin.

“Like that?” you teased, voice husky.

“‘Like everything you do,” he rasped. “But if you keep that up, I’m not gonna last long enough to make you feel good.”

You tilted your head, pressing your breasts together around his length. “Then use them. Fuck my tits, Wrecker. I want to feel you.”

He exhaled roughly, hands coming to cup the sides of your breasts gently at first, then firmer as he guided himself between them. The heat of him as well as the drag of his cock sliding through the soft valley made you whimper. He rocked forward with slow controlled thrusts, watching himself disappear between your breasts, the head bumping your chin on every upstroke.

“Maker, look at you,” he murmured, voice thick. “So soft around me.”

You leaned forward just enough to flick your tongue over the tip when it crested, tasting salt and heat. He shuddered, hips stuttering.

“Careful,” he warned, half-laughing and half-pleading. “You’re too good at this.”

After a few more slow slides he pulled back, breathing hard. His hands slid to your hips, urging you to lie back. You did, scooting up the bed until your head rested on the pillows, legs parting instinctively.

Wrecker crawled over you, clearly being careful not to crush you with his weight which made you smile lovingly at him. He chuckles softly, relaxing before bracing on his forearms so he hovered just above. His cock dragged a hot, wet line up your body as he moved: over your stomach, leaving a slick trail. 

he settled between your thighs, thick length resting heavy against your folds, not pushing in yet—just grinding slow and deliberate, coating himself in your wetness.

His lips began to move lower, mapping the white markings along your ribs, the dip of your waist, the sensitive curve of your hip. When he reached the apex of your thighs he paused, looking up at you with dark, reverent eyes.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice rough. “I just wanna make you feel so good.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded quick and eager as your legs fell open wider. “Please.”

Wrecker settled between your thighs like he belonged there. His big hands slid under your hips, lifting you gently so he could drape your legs over his broad shoulders. The first brush of his tongue was slow, flat and warm, lapping slowly along your slit from bottom to top. You gasped, hips twitching up toward his mouth.

He groaned at the taste, low and hungry. “So sweet… been thinkin’ about this for so long.”

“Wrecker…”

Then he dove in properly. His tongue circled your clit in slow, firm strokes, sucking lightly, then harder when your fingers tightened in the sheets beneath you. He alternated from long licks to quick flicks, then sealing his lips around the sensitive bud and sucking with gentle pulses that made your back arch off the bed.

Soft trills and whimpers spilled from your throat as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. “Wrecker! Oh stars, right there-.”

He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core. One thick finger pressed at your entrance before sliding in to the first knuckle, then deeper when you rocked down to meet it. He curled it just right, stroking that spot inside while his tongue worked relentless circles on your clit.

Your thighs trembled around his head. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, pumping in time with his mouth until your whole body tensed, breath coming in short, desperate pants.

You came with a broken cry. Back bowing, core pulsing hard around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Wrecker worked you through it, slowing his tongue but not stopping, lapping softly until you were trembling, oversensitive and practically boneless beneath him.

When he finally lifted his head, lips shiny and chin wet, his eyes were dark with awe.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he whispered, crawling back up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue but his fingers still very much in your pussy.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his weight settled over you, comforting and solid.

“Need you inside me,” you breathed against his mouth. “Now.”

Wrecker kissed you through the aftershocks, swallowing the last soft whimpers that spilled from your lips. His fingers stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, curling gently until your thighs stopped trembling around his wrist. Only then did he ease them free, bringing them to his mouth to taste you one last time with a low, appreciative groan.

He shifted, rolling to lie beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped deeply under his weight as he pulled you against him with your back to his chest. One thick arm bands around your waist to hold you close and you could feel his heart against your spine, the hard length of his cock resting heavy along the curve of your arse.

He nuzzled into the crook of your neck,“You’re so beautiful and make so many pretty noises,” he murmured, voice rough with want as you purr in pleasure.

You arched back into him instinctively, “I need you inside,” you whispered again, reaching back to guide his hand down between your thighs. “Please, Wrecker… want to feel you stretch me.”

He exhaled shakily against you, the sound almost pained with how badly he wanted it. His free hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he lined himself up carefully at your entrance as you raised your leg. The broad head nudged your folds, parting them slowly, teasing the sensitive rim without pushing in yet.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, serious even through the haze of lust. “I’ll go slow.”

You nodded, breath hitching. “I trust you.”

He pressed forward. Inch by careful inch.

The stretch was immediate and intense. Your walls fluttered around him, trying to accommodate his girth as he sank deeper. A soft, broken moan tore from your throat; your head fell back against his shoulder, montrals brushing his cheek. Wrecker froze the second he felt you tense, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple in soothing strokes.

“Easy, mesh’la,” he breathed, “You’re takin’ me so good. Look at you… so tight around me. Feels like everything.”

He rocked gently once he was halfway in, letting you adjust and letting your body soften around him. Each shallow thrust pushed him a little deeper until finally, he was seated to the hilt, hips flush against your arse and cock throbbing deep inside you.

You both groaned in unison.

He started moving then. Long, languid strokes that dragged every thick inch along your walls, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in with a wet, filthy sound. The slap of skin on skin filled the quiet room. His pelvis met your arse with each measured thrust, the lewd squelch of your arousal coating him unmistakable.

“Stars, listen to that,” he rasped against your ear, voice needy. “Hear how wet you are for me? So perfect. So wet and hot and mine.”

His hand stayed at your breast, kneading softly, rolling your nipple between his fingers in time with his thrusts. The other arm kept you locked against his chest. Possessive but gentle; holding you like he never wanted to let go. 

You moaned louder, hips rocking back to meet him, chasing the deep grind of his cock against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers finding where you were joined. You felt him sliding in and out, stretching you wide on every inward stroke. The sensation was obscene and intoxicating. You traced the base of him as he pulled out, feeling how soaked he was, how your lips clung to him like they didn’t want to let go.

Then your fingertips found your swollen clit, and you started rubbing slow circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. 

Wrecker felt it immediately. The way your walls clenched harder around him when you touched yourself. “Kriff—yeah, touch yourself, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips stuttering for a second before he found the pace again. “Love feelin’ you squeeze me like that. Show me how good it feels.”

Each deep thrust punched a soft cry from your throat. His hand left your breast to join yours between your legs. He didn’t take over, just resting there and feeling you work your clit while he filled you over and over.

“Could love you like this all night,” he moans after a few minutes. He had shifted just slightly, angling himself enough to lean over and kiss your lips. “My perfect girl. So good for me. Gonna make ya come again… wanna feel ya pulse around my cock.”

Your fingers sped up, slick and frantic now, chasing the edge while he rocked into you steadily, kissing and moaning against his lips. 

“Wrecker… I’m close…”

“I’ve got ya,” he murmured, against your mouth. “Let go for me, mesh’la. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

With one more deep thrust, harder this time and grinding against that spot, you shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a wave walls clamping down hard around him in pulsing waves. You cried out his name, fingers still circling your clit through the aftershocks, milking every last tremor.

Wrecker groaned low and broken, hips stuttering as your release dragged him right to the edge with you.

“Gonna…fuck. Where do you want me?”

“Inside,” you cried, voice breaking with need. “Come inside me, please, Wrecker—I want to feel you fill me.”

He groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and desperate. “Mesh’la…” He eased out of you slowly. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but he was already moving, strong arms guiding you with tender strength.

“C’mere,” he murmured, sitting up against the headboard and pulling you into his lap. “Wanna see your face.”

You straddled him face-to-face now, knees bracketing his hips on the crumpled sheets. His hands settled at your waist as you sank down onto him, the stretch even more intimate this way. Feeling every ridge as he filled yu completely. Your arms wrapped around his neck; his came around your back, holding you flush to his chest.

“Like this,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Just like this. You’re so perfect… takin’ me so sweet.”

You rocked together slowly, the gentle rolls of your hips meeting his careful upward thrusts. The rhythm was unhurried, loving, each slide drawing soft gasps from you both. Your breasts pressed to his scarred chest, nipples brushing his skin with every movement.

“Wrecker…” You moaned his name like a plea, nails grazing his back lightly.

He kissed you then. Slow tongues sliding in lazy tandem with your bodies. “I’ve got ya,” he breathed into your mouth. “Gonna fill you… gonna give you everything.”

The words sent fresh heat pooling in your core. You clenched around him, hips circling tighter, chasing the building pressure. His hands guided you, lifting you just enough to sink back down over and over but never rough. Just always reverent. 

Your whole body melted into him, the intimacy overwhelming from the skin on skin, your hearts pounding in sync and his massive frame enveloping you like safety.

“I’m close—” he gasped, sweaty forehead pressing to yours.

“Cum for me baby,” you beg quietly.

Your soft command was all he needed as he came with a shuddering groan. Hot spurts filled you, thick and warm, spilling deep until you felt every twitch. He held you through it, arms locked around you, whispering praises into your ear: “So good… my perfect girl… love feelin’ you like this…”

You stayed wrapped together as the aftershocks faded—his cock softening slowly inside you, cum dripping lazily where you were joined. Eventually he slipped free, but he didn’t let go. He eased you down beside him, pulling you half onto his chest, one leg tangled with yours.

“That was…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice soft and soothing now. “You did so good for me.”

He pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the base of your lekku. “You okay?” he whispered, nuzzling into your body. “Need anything?”

You shook your head weakly, turning just enough to tuck your face into the crook of his neck. “Just… stay. Hold me.”

“Always,” he promised, arms tightening around you. “Never lettin’ go.”

For as grand and wide-reaching as the Galactic Empire has become in its ten years of existence, it had relatively small beginnings. A group of radical Force-wielders banded together under the leadership of an old, beady-eyed man named Sheev Palpatine who believed it was his divine destiny to seize control of the entire galaxy, rewriting the ancient laws to match his own beliefs. His cult, the Sith Order, gained attention by attacking Jedi temples, capital cities, places with large populations until every corner of the galaxy had heard of them. Most regarded them with fear, but over time they began garnering a startling amount of followers who were discontent with the status quo and willingly drafted themselves as soldiers in Palpatine’s fight for control.

At first everyone in your village thought Palpatine and his cult of followers weren’t worth worrying about—after all, Shili was a peaceful planet that never drew much attention to itself. But within the first year of its inception, the Sith Order captured Ryloth and the similar peaceful characteristics between the Twi’lek planet and Shili were too glaring to overlook. A seed of anxiety took root in every Togruta’s mind after that, and continued to grow with every planet seized as the years progressed.

The Decimation of Alderaan didn’t start as a tragedy, believe it or not. The Mandalorians, Jedi, and Alderaanians combined their numbers in an all-out fight against the Sith Order. It was the largest battle ever fought in the history of the galaxy, thousands of souls willing to die to defeat Palpatine’s followers. For the first three days of warfare, the fight seemed to be in favor of the allies with many noteworthy Sith members reportedly killed in the fray, such as Palpatine’s second-in-command Dooku and lethal Zabrak assassin Maul. You remember there was a sense of hope felt within your village as everyone listened to the news reports blaring across the Holonet. A belief that things were finally, finally going to return to normal after so much chaos.

But on the fourth day, the Sith Order brought their own ally onto the battlefield.

At the time there wasn’t a name for the droids that slaughtered every opponent they faced. They were described as indestructible, unharmed by blasters and the intense heat of Mandalorian flamethrowers. Not even lightsabers could damage them. The allies didn’t stand a chance, brutally murdered one by one, their dying screams echoing across the Holonet, forever haunting listeners far and wide.

The Dark Troopers were unleashed upon Mandalore afterwards and out of the ashes rose the Galactic Empire, except, in a twist nobody—not even the Sith Order—saw coming: Palpatine died before taking on the title of emperor, passing away in his sleep. A mediocre ending for the monster who permanently altered the foundations of the universe. One of his loyal followers from the cult’s early beginnings took control in his place, a vile man with a penchant for spilling blood and a deceptively bland name: Gideon.

Only seven years-old then, you didn’t understand the unbalance in the Force your aunt kept referencing. You didn’t understand the meaning of the word genocide either. But you did understand the galaxy would never be the same ever again, and the lesson was only further established as truth when the Imperials seized your village. 

There is no normalcy to return to anymore.

And as long as Emperor Gideon remains in control, there is no future to hope for either.

__

Silence reigns in the aftermath of Maar’s explanation as the long list of tragedies hangs heavy over the four occupants. There is tension in the air as you await the Mandalorian’s response to the extinction of his people, whether that be an outburst of anger or tears, and each passing minute only intensifies the nervous energy thrumming through your veins. Your leg starts to bounce restlessly, a bad habit you have had since childhood.

The Mandalorian stands eerily motionless. Your eyes keep flicking from your lap to his visor though you know it is rude to stare. His helmet hides his expression, but you don’t need to see it to know he is floundering right now, mind scrambling to piece together all the details thrown at him. From personal experience, you know the loss of a loved one hits like a tidal wave, hitting you over and over again until you must decide if you are going to stand up or surrender to drowning. Grieving the loss of your parents is the hardest experience of your lifetime to date.

But this...this is vastly different. The Mandalorian didn’t just lose his loved ones. He has lost his friends, neighbors, comrades, acquaintances, everyone all at once. This loss isn’t a tidal wave. It is a kriffing avalanche, burying him ten feet under in total darkness, and there is no one he can count on to save him. 

Finally, after the longest five minutes of your life, he shifts, resting his hands upon his belt with an unexpected air of seriousness. “I need to go.”

You frown, head tilting. That is his reaction?

“Go?” Ahsoka echoes, sounding as incredulous as you feel. “Go where?”

“To look for survivors,” he answers, blunt and harsh, the words forced through clenched teeth. 

Ahsoka is struck silent, and you feel your heart break on his behalf. Your mother’s stories about the Mandalorians had always included, one way or another, their lifelong bonds with each other. You had felt those ties when you had connected with the Mandalorian, believed for a moment as strongly as he did that his fellow warriors would come search for him, that his absence would be noticed and missed amongst them. And here he is now, still desperately clutching to them, unable—or, perhaps unwilling is more apt—to believe a stranger telling him those bonds have been cruelly severed. 

“What you need is to rest,” Maar says, gentle yet firm, letting her authority as the eldest in the room seep into her tone.

He shakes his head, not backing down. “I’ve been asleep for ten years. I don’t need any more rest.”

“Your ship, it, uh,” your shoulders hike up defensively when his visor snaps in your direction, pinning you with its blank stare. Clearing your throat, you continue with a slight grimace, “It’s going to need some repairs before it can take off. I can help you fix it.”

Ahsoka looks over at you in surprise, and then in worry. You don’t blame her, especially since the offer had slipped out without you consciously meaning it to. Once again, the Force is calling the shots and you are just along for the ride, a passenger in your own body.

He considers you for a long moment, then asks, “What do you know about the mechanics of a gunship?” 

If anyone else had asked you that same exact question, you would have bristled at their condescension and retracted your offer in the next breath. But with the Mandalorian, there isn’t even the slightest hint of patronizing courtesy. It is a serious question prompted from genuine curiosity.

You sit up straighter, smiling at him now. “Enough to confidently say I’m your best shot at getting off the ground.”

__

“What’s your plan, exactly?” Ahsoka asks you, braced against the wall with one eye on you and one on the Mandalorian across the garage, patiently waiting for you to finish assembling your tool kit. 

“Huh?” You reply distractedly, trying to decide if you should bring your carbon chisel or not. 

“You don’t have one, do you?”

Not. There are bigger concerns than a bit of carbon scoring. You move to grab your favorite screwdriver with a tapered socket, only for Ahsoka to snatch it away, holding the tool hostage.

“Hey!”

“Have you thought about what you’re doing?” Ahsoka asks slowly, staring you directly in the eyes. “Once you fix his ship, he’s gone. And he’s taking our best chance at escaping Shili with him.”

A quick glance over your shoulder shows the Mandalorian studying the scattered BB unit parts on your workbench. You are missing a few vital components needed in order to bring the little droid back to life after a stormtrooper shot a plasma bolt through it for accidentally bumping into his leg, and haven’t had any luck convincing the village traders to track them down for you when they went to the capital. 

“We can’t keep him here against his will,” you manage at last, turning back to your sister. “Otherwise we’re no better than the Imps.”

When Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, you shrug a shoulder, adding, “Besides, I think I’m supposed to fix it for him. The Force seems pretty insistent about it.”

She makes a face at that. “I liked you better when you ignored your Force instincts. You didn’t make me worry as much.”

A laugh escapes you, embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet space, and your cheeks immediately start burning. Ahsoka’s lip twitches like she wants to smile, but instead she schools her features into a blank expression when the Mandalorian’s head turns at the sound. Only once he diverts his attention elsewhere again does her stare lose some of its intensity, looking less like she wants to dissect him beneath a microscope. You can practically see her protective-older-sister-instincts buzzing, reacting to the warrior’s presence. 

As much as he is a chance at providing an escape, he is also first and foremost a complete and total stranger. Even worse, he is a complete and total stranger who knows how to handle weapons. 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. You’ll be so busy smoothing the Elders’ ruffled feathers you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Ahsoka finally relinquishes the tool, exhaling a quiet sigh. “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.”

__

Walking side by side with the Mandalorian in silence isn’t awkward, per se, but it definitely isn’t comfortable either. He is close enough your arm keeps accidentally grazing against his, the cold brush of metal against your skin startling you each time. You would have considered his nearness strange if you hadn’t heard Ahsoka threaten to castrate him if you wound up hurt before she sent him flying at the juni tree branch outside your window with an unnecessarily strong push of Force. 

To his credit, the warrior handled her rough treatment with the same ease he has handled everything else thrown at him. You are beginning to think Mandalorians don’t just wear beskar—they are made of it too. Other than the few glimpses of frustration earlier in Maar’s office, he keeps his cards close to his chest, impossible to read. 

He watches everything though, reacting to the slightest of movements and sounds. Constantly alert. You are certain he is watching you right now, despite the fact his helmet is facing forward, your nerves prickling in response to the sensation of eyes upon you.

To your surprise, he is the one to break the silence first. “You sneak out often.”

It is a statement, not a question. 

You suppose the dots are easy enough to connect to reach that conclusion. Still, the certainty in his voice has your heart skipping a nervous beat. He hasn’t even known you a day and yet he is privy to secrets no one outside your community is aware of. “Yeah,” you nod your head after a brief lapse of silence, “Ahsoka can’t train in the village. Not with the stormtroopers around.”

“Has your village tried to run them out? Fight back?”

It is only because you know he is just trying to understand your village’s predicament with the little bits of information he has that you don’t snap at him for being so insensitive. He has no idea what these past five years have been like for you all. No idea the amount of losses and sacrifices the community has suffered. 

Your grip on your tool kit tightens. “I was twelve when they came. The community is mostly traders and hunters, not trained fighters. The few weapons we had were nothing compared to their blaster rifles, but some of the adults tried to defend the village, including our parents. They...” You swallow, or try to, at least, your throat suddenly dry as sand. “Our aunt looked after us until last year we woke up one morning to find a note she’d left to join the rebellion. We haven’t had any contact with her since.”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hand brushes against your knuckles. This time you think it might have been on purpose.

“I lost my parents as a child, too. There was a riot and they died protecting me,” he offers his own private details with the same reluctance as one volunteering to have their teeth pulled out. “The Mandalorians took me in, raised me as one of their own.”

You say nothing about the way his breath slightly hitches when he says Mandalorians, appreciating his openness as it puts you both on somewhat equal footing with each other. 

“I owe it to them to look for survivors,” he tells you, and your montrals detect the quietest hint of a plea in his voice. 

“I understand,” you answer, keeping your tone light to preserve the fragility of this moment. This kind of situation doesn’t happen often—two strangers on the same wavelength, exposing their vulnerable underbellies, desperate to be heard and yet skittish at the same time—and it is oddly therapeutic. 

A decision is made right then and there in the span of a heartbeat. And even more significantly, it is 100% your own choice without any intervention or manipulation from the Force. 

You stop walking, causing the Mandalorian to halt as well. He scans the area for a threat, then visibly jerks when he turns back to find you have your hand held out towards him, pinky raised high, reacting as if you are pointing a weapon at him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, blunt and almost suspicious sounding. Are you just imagining it or can you actually hear him frowning? “What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you ever made a pinky promise with someone before?”

“...A what?”

You snort, ducking your head to hide your smile, and then reach for his hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest your touch.

“A pinky promise,” you repeat as you make his hand form a fist, curling his fingers towards his palm, and then adjust his pinky so you can wrap yours around it. He watches the whole process wordlessly. “It’s a sacred vow shared between two people. The Elders say once it’s sworn, the promise can never be broken.”

He cocks his head, skeptical. “Never?”

“Never,” you reaffirm with a nod. Licking your lips, you look at his visor, right where you instinctively know his eyes are staring back. “I promise I’m going to help you. No matter the odds.”

And something leaks into your voice then, something resolute and binding and otherworldly. A tremor shoots down your spine, too quick for you to make sense of it.

Your sister’s words echo in the back of your mind, ‘You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.’ 

You try to pull away, self-doubt gnawing a hole in your stomach, only for the Mandalorian to wrap his pinky tighter around yours, holding you still. A gasp escapes your lips, muffled by the bleeding sincerity in his voice as he swears:

“I promise I will be there when you need me. No matter the odds.”

And although your sister could undoubtedly provide you with a long list of reasons why you shouldn’t, you believe his promise to be true.

__

The Mandalorian heaves a heavy sigh at the sight of his crashed ship. 

“I can’t do much about the landing gear,” you inform him, believing honesty to be the best policy for cases like this. “And I brought some foam-jet for the cockpit viewport, but it’s not a permanent fix. You’re going to have to find someone offworld to replace them.”

“Right,” he agrees absently without turning his eyes away. It occurs to you then that this ship is the closest thing to a home he has now. One of the few precious relics from his past he can still physically cling to. 

“Does your ship have a name?” you ask.

He looks at you, as if coming back to self-awareness, and answers, “Razor Crest.”

A good name, you think. Strong. A bit mysterious. Just like its owner.

You nod decisively. “I like it.”

His modulator crackles faintly, a quiet noise produced from a sudden exhale of air. You blink at the unexpected sound, surprised to realize you recognize it. A laugh. The Mandalorian just laughed at something you said. What is next in store for you? Are akul going to sprout wings and start flying?

He steps around you, heading for the side entry door still open from yesterday with its ramp laying on the ground, pebbles shifting noisily beneath his boots with each step. You don’t realize you are staring, oddly entranced by the swish of his cape and his purposeful strides, until he calls out your name to ask if you are coming.

You nearly drop your tool kit in your haste to follow after him into the Crest’s interior, ignoring the flaring heat radiating from your cheeks. 

For the next few hours, you and the Mandalorian work in companionable silence, engrossed in rerouting wires and welding damaged components with your trusty hand torch. The gunship is older than you initially assumed, perhaps even as old as yourself, and you idly wonder if the Mandalorian found it in a scrapyard somewhere or maybe inherited it from another Mandalorian. You notice the way he handles each piece with an experienced and respectful touch; the same kind of care someone reserves for their most cherished possessions. Anyone with eyes can see how much he loves the Crest just by watching him.

Once you have finished sealing the numerous cracks dissecting the cockpit’s viewport like a spiderweb with foam, you approach the Mandalorian to see his progress on returning power to the dashboard. He is on his back beneath the steering controls, rearranging a mess of wires, and barely acknowledges your presence when you squeeze yourself into the tight space next to him.

“The red wire goes before the white one,” you point out, noticing the mistake immediately. “Fire hazard.”

He pauses, looks at where you have gestured, and corrects his error without criticizing your intervention. You bite back a smile, pleased to be heard. Within your community, even though you have proven your skills time and time again, some of the villagers, usually men, don’t always adhere to your advice, thinking you are too young and too female to know about technology, until they inevitably make their problems worse for themselves and come back to you with their metaphorical tail between their legs. 

You help him reattach the cover plating once he has finished, screwing the bolts back into their corners, and then watch, fingers crossed, as he attempts the ignition sequence, flipping a series of switches.

None of them light up with even the faintest flicker of life.

“Dank farrik,” he growls under his breath, slamming a fist upon the console.

You take a tiny step forward, hesitant to direct his frustration your way. “Can I try?” 

He tilts his head, probably thinking he knows this ship better than anyone and if it doesn’t work for him then you aren’t going to have any luck either.

Eventually he steps back with a shrug, uttering a simple, “Sure.” 

Although you can’t remember the last time you were on a ship, it doesn’t take long to refamiliarize yourself with the various controls and screens once you take a seat in the pilot chair. When your hobby for fixing broken machines changed into a passion you wanted to pursue as a future career, you started memorizing any reading material you could find on the Holonet, including the flight manuals for different classes of starships. You flip through the stored information in your mind about gunships as you press a few buttons on the panel overhead, trying out different sequences for a response.

When your third attempt fails, you bite your lip, racking your brain for a solution. You think about Huno’s kitchen droid and how you had been on the verge of ripping off one of your head-tails trying to repair it after one of its fuses blew, causing it to malfunction. Your tools and knowledge hadn’t been able to fix it in the end. It had required a special remedy to bring it back to life.

You lay your palms flat on the console, just as you had held onto the droid’s square torso. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Mandalorian fidget, as if he wants to come closer but is hesitant to crowd you. You ignore him, pressing your fingertips harder against the metal, visualizing in your mind the unseen gears, cables, and components stiff and powerless. You imagine the parts working properly, a current of electricity running through each wire, life ultimately returning to the entire ship, and whisper under your breath a request to the Force.

“Please work, please work, please work…”

An invisible pulse of energy burns down the length of your arms and discharges through your fingertips, strong enough you jerk backwards against the seat. Every button and screen on the dashboard lights up all at once, beeping with alarm at being so rudely resurrected.

You sit there helplessly, stunned and breathless, hands twitching in your lap. The kitchen droid hadn’t required even half as much energy to restart, barely a pinch. Now your body feels like you have been thrown against the electric fence a dozen times. Wordlessly, the Mandalorian comes to your side to help, punching buttons and turning knobs until the alarms quit blaring. A distant part of your brain thinks the Razor Crest as a whole seems strangely soothed by his presence, not quite as cold and dark, but it is hard to follow that train of thought due to the distracting pain throbbing along your temples.

“That’s quite a spark you’ve got,” he says, not unkindly or accusingly, just a statement of the obvious. He looks down at you, not outright asking for an explanation, but giving you the opportunity to open up if you wanted to.

“Yep, that’s me,” you reply, forcing a cheerful smile, praying it doesn’t resemble a grimace. “Sparks Tano at your service.”

He chuckles again, oblivious to how your heart stutters at its raspiness. “Thank you, Sparks. I appreciate it.”

“Well, we’re not done yet.” You rub at your temples under the guise of adjusting your headband. “I need to take a closer look at the engines before we attempt flying out of here. I—”

“I’ll do it,” he cuts in, already heading for the ladder. “You stay here, see if you can update the navicomputer settings.”

You know he knows that updating the navicomputer is child’s play for you. Clearly you aren’t as great at concealing your pain as you thought you were and this is his way of giving you a break. A small part of you is irritated at being treated like a porcelain doll, but you push those negative feelings aside as quickly as they develop. Your aunt always used to remind you and Ahsoka it was okay to accept help when it was offered, that needing support didn’t in any way make you weak. 

“Hey, wait a second,” you call out as you spin around in your seat, freezing him right before he disappears from view into the hull. He holds onto the ladder, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“Back at Maar’s place you didn’t introduce yourself and it’s weird just calling you Mandalorian in my head,” you say, awkwardly drumming your fingers on top of the armrests. He doesn’t answer, eliciting a sigh from your mouth after a drawn-out beat of silence. “What’s your name? You do have one, right?”

“I do, but I can’t tell you it,” he admits at last. “By Mandalorian Creed, only other Mandalorians or my riduur—my spouse,” he corrects, seeing your confusion, “are allowed to know my name and see my face. This is the Way.”

He doesn’t linger to hear your response, dropping down into the hull with a resounding thud. You slowly turn back around, staring absently out the glass. Every culture is unique, including your own, but you think there is something especially interesting about the Mandalorians’. It sounds like a lonely existence, only able to show your face while in select company. What would have happened if he had been unconscious and you had slipped the helmet off his head? What consequence would he have faced? 

And if there truly aren’t any Mandalorians left besides him, his spouse will be the only one to ever know him completely. It almost sounds like a love story, if not a little bit heart-wrenching. 

Two high-pitched dings from the console jerk you out of your thoughts with a wince. You look for the source, finding the radar lit up and actively scanning the area, and bristle when you see a pair of red dots moving across the screen. 

Not even a minute later you are sprinting out of the cave, ignoring the Mandalorian’s alarmed shout from the roof of the Razor Crest. They’re early, you think with panic, looking towards the sky where two starships with Imperial logos are heading straight for your village. Why have they come back so soon?

You push your legs to run faster, your surroundings a blur beyond the trail in front of you, but the effort is meaningless. You won’t make it back home before they land.

And when your absence is noted, bloodshed is not a possibility. 

It is a guarantee.

Series taglist: @pedro4ever @cannedsoupsucks

Din Djarin Taglist: @a-skov @pedrosbisch @quica-quica-quica @stevie75 @iamskyereads @banga-sama @dincrypt @ohlawdthebirds​

I tug at my restraints yet again but they remain unloosened. “I believe she goes by the name y/n Djarin.” Gideon yawns as he says it. I feel my blood boil at his words. “I am the only child - I-I have no family left. Other than the Mandalorian’s who were also killed off by you.” I trail off on the last few words. A wicked laugh leaves Moff’s mouth. “What if I told you she’s a girl who lives on Hoth…. As a Tauntaun trainer - she craves a life on the battlefield of course she takes after you in that way” he says with a grin on his face. I scoff at him. “I don’t remember much about my life as an infant but I know I was NOT raised on Hoth.” Venom was clear in my voice. Moff nods his smile faded into his resting face and he made his way out of the cell I was kept in… leaving me to drown in a past I would have rather forgotten.  𝟜 𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣

Cara, Boba, Fennec, Bo, and the kid were in hyperspace alongside me on the Crest. They were able to bust me out of the cell I was in and set fire to the base. Bo of course was still furious that she couldn’t get her hands on the darksaber - I wasn’t able to either - we didn’t have time to search for Gideon to get the darksaber. Everyone seemed happy even through the defeat… it was one of the ups of working in a team… if you lost you could loose with your group and when you won… boy the parties would be fun and full of exciting stories… it set something warm in my heart I guess. Though it was mainly Bo who was mad - I couldn’t be happier - I was with my kid and my team… there was just one thing that was bothering me…. One thing that rang in my head ever since I was in that cell. “I believe her name is y/n Djarin” it drowned every thought I had until I went crazy over it… was he lying… or is there another Djarin out there? There was only one way to find out. I walk up to Cara who was having a laugh with Fennec. “Set course to Hoth” was the only thing I said before taking a seat in the pilot seat.  ╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Y/n POV:

The coldness nibbled at your fingertips as you pet the young Tauntaun which quivered in joy of your touch. You thought about how sick you were of living on Hoth. The constant gasps whenever you walked by…. The murmurs that spread like a wildfire - you heard what they said about you every time they would murmur due to your sensitive montrals. “What’s a Togruta doing on Hoth?!” Is what many of them whispered to each other, though some were worse like “where’s her master?” It disappointed you that people think so little of woman with lekku’s - many think they are slaves and slaves only. You scoff at the thought believing that you’re more than capable of pulling your own weight like you have been for decades. “Y/n!” The voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You twist your head to face Tiow - the bartender at the cantina next to the Tauntaun training department. “What’s up Tiow?” You ask with a welcoming smile. “The Killer Kel’s are back - their causing trouble at my cantina…. THEY BROUGHT WEAPONS THIS TIME!” He screams. You wince at the deafening shout. “I’ll sort it out Tiow - you just calm down.” You say patting his shoulder and using it to get up. 

When you enter the cantina it was empty.. the ground was littered with broken glass and spilt drinks. You turn your attention to the killer Kels. The killer Kels were a gang who just loved causing trouble… you had a few run ins with them and you beat them quite a few times which is why they always came back claiming they had gotten better at fighting but still constantly receiving defeat. “Ahem” you cough out earning their attention. one of the members was a pike - he had a gun held in his left hand and a knife hidden in his comms (you found that out the hard way last time.) another member was a pantoren male who always got so riled up when you teased him - it was hilarious. He had a crossbow which he gripped tightly in his right hand. Then there was Mavis a Rodian female, and an old friend of yours who used to work with Tauntaun’s, she had offered you a chance to join the killer Kel’s but you denied the opportunity- you were never the one to cause trouble that ended up hurting someone…. Don’t get me wrong you loved making mischief but not at the cost of someone else’s life. “What are you guys up to now?” You ask sarcastically. “We are here for a rematch” the pike screeches with his fist scrunched tightly. You shrug your shoulders carelessly and cracked your knuckles. You weren’t a master fighter - but you would always practice in your spare time… your agility was a big help at times as well. The pikes gun was triggered as you stood there waiting for the first move. Within a blink of an eye the pike blasted his first plasma bullet. The shot echoed in the cantina, bouncing off the walls. You dodged the bullet and flipped over a knocked over table. “Wow a gun …. How boring - at least the purple dude over there has a unique crossbow.” You cockily comment. “Shut up!” Mavis shouts in defence of her teammate. You can’t help but let a giggle leave your lips as you hide behind the table. “You done shooting?” You ask as silence fills the room. You earned a growl from the pike and you smirk at yourself. Without warning you jump over the table and grapple Mavis to the ground… you had a very slim figure but a friend taught you how to use someone’s strength against them no matter what size you were so you referenced back to those lessons. You hook Mavis’ hands behind her back and hold her in front of you before anyone shoots you. The Pantoren hesitates to shoot but when you see the pike is on the verge of releasing his second bullet you push Mavis out of the way and jump away yourself. You grab a small orb from your purse and chuck it at the remaining Killer Kel’s. A blue smoke arises and stuns the pike and pantoren. “That battle was heated” you chuckle - looking over at Mavis who looked down at the floor. “Hey?” Her glossy black beaded eyes met yours and she sighed. “they, they turned against me! My team!” She blurts out. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems Mave… now you can start over - do something good… it might be an opportunity for you to do something amazing!” You encourage. “You really think so?” You offer a warm smile in answer to her question. “Why did I ever leave you y/n?” She softly says. You chuckle. “That’s a question beyond me” Mavis joins in laughing. “What the hell happened to this place?” A voice says breaking the chuckles between you and your old friend. You get up so quickly it’s like you bounced up on your feet. You were met with a muscular woman with olive skin and wavy black hair. Her eyes were dark and pierced into yours. It was then you realised the question she asked was directed at you. “Uh t-there was just some trouble with a few gangsters - the fights finished now t-though.” You stutter. The woman shrugs her shoulders not caring enough to ask anymore questions. Then from behind the woman came a Mandalorian. Your eyes widen in shock… what was a Mandalorian doing on Hoth? After inspecting the many layers of beskar on the Mandalorian your eyes strayed to a small green creature. It had glossy black eyes in the shape of a large bead and it also had rather long pointed ears. I can’t help but give into the smile that formed on my face wsaw the creature. “What happened in here?” The Mandalorian asks. You go to answer but the woman beats you to it. “Some fight.”

Mando’s POV:

By the mess in the cantina it seemed like a huge civil war broke out yet the young Togruta who looked like she was 12 years of age was unscathed - neither was the Rodian who sat on the floor next to her. I let out a hmm sound and then forget about the questions circulating in my head. “I’m looking for a y/n…. D-Djarin.” I stutter on the last part…. It’s weird saying my last name with someone else’s name. The Togruta’s eyes widen she showed mixed expressions… shock and…. Fear? She was speechless… she didn’t even gasp she just stood there switching her weight on each foot. She swallows and then looks at my visor nervously. “T-that would be m-me” she says shyly raising her hand a little. My shoulders tense and it’s my turn to swallow the large lump that formed in my throat. I don’t know what possessed me to ask this next question. “Are you sure?” She blinks once, twice, and then raises a painted brow. “that uh came out wrong.” Her resting face quickly turned into a huge smile and gasp. “It’s you!” Is all she yelled before sprinting at me and wrapping her arms around me