#Bacta Basics

[foxprints]

Transport Crate

[roninreverie]

Everyone's out here making "Empire Strikes Back" comparisons, so how about a "Return of the Jedi" one?

Side-Note! While I was looking up the Leia Saves Han scene, I was reminded of Han's hibernation sickness from being stuck in Carbonite. According to Wookieepedia, a cure for this sickness is a spice called "Andris"... And Andris was mentioned in a book from 1998 called "Young Jedi Knights: Return to Ord Mantell".

ORD MANTELL!!!???

[bisamwilson]

kinda wanna write a “thank-god-you’re-not-dead-sex” fic with tech and phee but 1) i’ve never written E rated mf fic before 2) i haven’t been able to write anything at all in like a month 3) like everyone only follows my ao3 for s*mb*cky content lmao

but also it’s all i can think about rn

[skywalkerxanakin]

Broken {Anakin||Obi-Wan}

 @redemptivexheroics based in v: redemption ​

Anakin had been in a bacta tank for a while since the fight. He’d been able to last a day on the ship, to see his children be born before he’d had to go into the medical bay himself. It was all a blur. Obi-Wan had given him a good fight even though he’d been holding back. Anakin wasn’t sure how many days he’d really lost he was still groggy when he walked down the cold halls of the ship. When he saw Obi-Wan he froze in his tracks, he wasn’t even sure what to say. After a long painful silence Anakin finally asked, “How long was I out?”

[rooksunday]

thinking about fox getting his first poll card after the vode get citizenship. the guard scattered after sithsplosion day, but he and a score or so that were functionally useless without each other, like nervous space greyhounds with military training, all ended up bundled together on some planet in the mid rim.

he’s been working on a book about his years at the senate. no one knows about it aside from thorn, who has been checking his basic, and advising him where he needs to wind the reveals back a little because libel. the rest of the time he does payroll for a number of small businesses, picking and choosing his hours, and delighting in sending invoices for his business: the shiny security fund, he’s called it, to continue the tradition in a more official manner.

(when they’d been on triple zero, the fund had been for rations. blankets. bacta. they’d conned credits from tourists and stolen them from senators and turned those credits into hope for the poor bastards shipped to the city that ate shinies before they could ever earn paint. these days, the fund was for whatever his guard wanted. aside from a pony. fox couldn’t figure out where hound would keep the pony.)

the book had been born from two lists. one was the blackmail and gossip the guard had collected during their stint on coruscant; that was where thorn needed to check for dangers, but since most of those senators had died in sith-related incidents, or had been jailed when the media got hold of their dealings, all fox was doing was providing context.

the other part of the book was fox’s List. thire sometimes called it a manifesto, because he had been studying for his degree and liked to show off occasionally. the list was a suggestion of changes to the republic, some small, some large. it was a silly fancy of fox’s, as the whole book was, but if he couldn’t indulge himself in his own karkin’ book then they might as well have punted him off the high levels back on coruscant.

yet for all that he’d settled—and paid taxes, even—fox hadn’t felt part of the citizenship of the planet. then the poll card had arrived. and suddenly he mattered in a tangible way. just like the bothan baker next door did. just like the twi’lek downstairs, the one with the noisy kriffin’ speeder, did.

thorn found fox in the kitchen, still staring at the scrap of card. he rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

“you okay there, chief?” he asked. he’d been trying out alternatives to ‘sir’. “noise complaint again?”

fox shook his head. he didn’t look up. “voting thing. there’s an election.”

“oh! yeah, we got ours yesterday. are you— what’s that face you’re making. i don’t think i like it.”

fox raised his head and gleamed his smile at thorn, who backed away slightly, one hand drifting to where a blaster once hung. fox’s eyes felt very wide. he jabbed the poll card like a vibroknife.

“do you know what this means?”

“democracy comes in two postal batches?”

“no! well, yes, apparently, and that’s inefficient, but— no!” fox jabbed the card again. “this means i am a citizen and i am about to make that a senator’s problem. where’s my manifes— list, thorn? it’s time for an update.”

[noisynaia]

Hey! I really love your Mando fics. Can I request something where the reader is traveling with Din and Grogu on the crest (could be Grogu's babysitter or something) and Din has a huge crush on her and seeing how much she loves grogu makes him want to confess his feelings. Just some nice Mando fluff, can be sfw or nsfw, whatever you feel like. 💕

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐲

Thank you for the request! I had so much fun writing this ♡

word count: 5.7k 

pairing: Din Djarin x afab!reader 

note: Explicit (18+). Smut and fluff. Thigh riding, unprotected P in V (with use of contraception), creampie. Love confessions. The helmet comes off. The Razor Crest lives. No use of (y/n). This has not been beta nor proof read and English is not my native language.

Din’s heart skips a beat at the sight of you. He has tried to fight the feelings he has developed for you, convinced himself that his feelings aren’t truly as deep cutting as they feel. Tried to be content with the time you would spend with him and Grogu before you eventually would move on and he’d be left with the memories and the fantasies of how it would have been if you had really been his. The sight of you and Grogu is almost too much for him, and it makes it very hard for him to not just give up everything and tell you how you make him feel. Your features are highlighted by the silvery moon light that is shining down from the night sky.

You are beautiful.

Din had thought so from the moment he first saw you. But now, after you have travelled with him and Grogu for almost a year and he has gotten to know you, really know you, ‘beautiful’ simply doesn’t cut it anymore. The word in basic is feeling too banal, too trivial, to describe the true beauty of your being. You are the most beautiful person Din has ever known and he is confirmed in this by you every day. 

The way you smile up at him when you walk side by side in a crowded market when you’re on supply runs, always insisting on finding a treat or a new toy for Grogu. The way you always greet Din so happily when he comes back from a hunt, like you truly are happy to see him again, like you have actually missed him… How you will always make sure he is okay and hasn’t been hurt, and how you will insist on helping patch him up on the occasions he is. The feeling of your soft hands delicately placing a bacta patch on his bare shoulder a few weeks ago is still burnt into his skin… The way you take such good care of his son, you look at Grogu like he is the one who hung every moon and every star in the galaxy. The kindness and beauty of your soul is truly bewitching. Maybe that is why he started calling you mesh’la. 

The first time it had just slipped out. It was a couple of months ago. He had come back from a hunt late at night, tired and muddy. For a short moment, Din had felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs by the sight he had found. There you were, so lovely, so beautiful, fast asleep on his bunk with a sleeping Grogu curled up beside you, his little green fist closed around one of your fingers.  

Din’s heart had yearned by the sight. The feelings you and Grogu are bringing to him are new territory for Din. He has never wanted anything like this before, or at least never let himself admit that he does. But you and Grogu make it impossible for Din to keep lying to himself. The kid is under his care, under his protection, and from the moment he chose the armour instead of the sabre and came back to Din, his ad'ika. Din and Grogu are a clan. A clan of two. A clan that Din  wishes was a clan of three. 

He had been quiet when he started  to walk off to the cockpit, something he usually was good at, but you had stirred awake anyway, like your sleeping subconscious had felt his presence. You lifted your head from the pillow, sleepily blinked until your eyes had found him.

“You’re back.” You had said, your voice had been a little hoarse from sleep, but still as sweet as usual, a tired smile had painted your face as your eyes had found the dark T of his visor. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He had said, but you had just shaked your head and hugged Grogu close against you. Oh, how Din had wished he could have crawled into the bunk and joined the two of you.   

“Are you okay?” You had asked, just like you always do after he comes back from a hunt. 

“Yes, I’m okay.” He had reassured you before continuing. “Go back to sleep, mesh’la.”

He has never told you what it means and a part of him feels guilty about that. Maybe you wouldn’t like to be called that by him. You are technically his employee, even though the lines between you feel pretty blurry by now. An undefinable bond has been built between you, Grogu and Din. Maybe it is the small proximity there is forced upon the three of you, due to the size of the Razor Crest. Or maybe it is due to the undeniable connection there has been between you and Grogu from the beginning, but your presence on the Crest feels too domestic, too loving, for you to simply be Grogu’s nanny. 

Din has felt feelings this past year that he has not been acquainted with before. Desire, jealousy, a desperate yearning, all fairly foreign to him until you had entered his life. It is an emotional disruption he hasn’t felt since Grogu had come into his life.

When Grogu had come crashing into his life it had been an upheaval beyond anything Din could ever have imagined. He was so used to not having anyone around, let alone a small child that was so dependent on him. It had been confusing and foreign, but Grogu had climbed into his heart and carved out a space there. A space that Din never wants to become empty again. 

Din had never been aware of how lonely he actually had been before Grogu. It had been a hard realisation, but he couldn’t deny it any longer, especially when he thought that he had lost him. Forget hunting bounties and fighting ferocious creatures, handing his foundling over to the Jedi was the hardest thing Din has ever had to do. Din had ended up caring more for Grogu than he had ever thought possible, he had removed his helmet for his foundling, the little green child had given din a whole new purpose in life.    

And now Din is a changed man. Grogu has changed him, down to the very atoms of his DNA. Din had never thought he would have what he now has. He had been settled with the way his life had been- lonesome and brutal, in order to support his covert and give back to the Mandalorians that had taken him in, or he had at least used to think so…   

But seeing you now, there is really no way of running from his feelings any longer. You are gently bouncing Grogu on your hip as you point out a constellation for him, but the youngling seems to be more interested in playing with the hem of your tunic than looking at the stars over your heads. The silver light from the planet’s moons illuminates you and bathes you in the shine. 

Din had landed the Crest on the little planet not even twenty minutes ago and even though it was past Grogu’s bedtime you had insisted on letting him have a couple of minutes in the fresh air before putting him down for the night. Din had not objected, the three of you had been in space for almost a week straight so a little moonlit night stroll before bed had sounded tempting.   

A light breeze sweeps over you and Grogu lets go of your tunic to instead nuzzle himself close against your chest as  he lets out a cute little yawn. You let out a low chuckle before looking up at Din and his heart skips a beat for the second time this night. The stars are reflecting in your eyes and you have a sleepy smile on your lips.

“I think it is time to get our little one here back to his bed.” You chuckle while you hitch Grogu up a little higher on your hip.  

‘Our little one…’ 

Our!

 Dear Maker how Din wished that you had meant it in the way he secretly yearns for. 

“Yeah, let’s head back to the ship, mesh’la.”      

—

Grogu is sleepily blinking his big eyes up at you as he slowly snoozes off in your arms. You let out a content sigh as you plant a kiss on top of his little green head before carefully placing him down into his little hammock. The sound of his small soft snores echoes through the little sleeping chamber. You are never gonna get tired of this. You smile down at the little sleeping figure as you back away, turning the switch for the door to give the youngling peace to sleep. 

You look around the hull for Din, but you don’t find him so you climb up the ladder to the cockpit where you find him sitting in the pilot chair. He looks like he is lost deep in his thoughts, looking out through the window at the night dark meadow where he had docked the ship. 

“Hey.” You say as you approach him, sitting yourself down in the passenger seat next to him. 

“Hi.” He says without looking at you. 

A silence falls over the cockpit, not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but it does feel loaded with something you can’t really put your finger on. Din had been silent for the entire walk back to the Crest and you wonder if something is bothering him. Maybe he is just tired. You had told him to take the bunk tonight when you made it back to the ship, but he had refused. You were supposed to be taking turns sleeping in the bunk under Grogu’s hammock, but it has been weeks since Din has slept in it and wasn't like he did it often before that. You feel bad about it, his back must be killing him after all these nights on the hard mat on the floor.  

“Din is-” You lean forward in the passenger chair, leaning slightly towards him to try and catch his attention. “Is something wrong?”    

He finally looks away from the window and turns his helmet towards you, and despite only being met by the dark visor of his helmet you just know that his eyes under it are locking with yours. The thought of that always sends a little shiver through you. You know that you shouldn't think about it. Maybe it is wrong, an insult to his creed, but you can’t help but fantasise about the man he must be underneath all the beskar. He is handsome, that is for sure. It doesn’t even matter in what way, it is deeper than that. He is a handsome person no matter what he actually looks like under the helmet and armour. You have seen some of him in glimpse. A bare hand as he removes a glove to get a better grip on as he fixes a clasp on a crate, or the time he had gotten hit in the spot between two pieces of armour and you had helped him getting it bandaged. His face is still a mystery to you. It is a little weird not to know what he looks like, especially considering that you have fallen in love with him. 

You had not meant to fall in love with the Mandalorian. You had tried to fight it, but it was a fight you had no chance of winning. You know that you are being silly, but you sometimes get the idea that he might feel something for you too. It also doesn’t help that you have ended up loving Grogu as much as you do. You don’t think you could love him more if he had been your own. It is kind of scary, the thought of the day din decides he doesn’t need you anymore. That your feelings for Din never will be reciprocated hurts, but you will be able to get over it with time, but the day you will have to get separated from Grogu… Oh, that day is going to kill you. 

“No, mesh’la nothings wrong.” Din shakes his head, he isn’t looking at you anymore, back to looking out at the night. “I was just lost in my own thoughts.” 

“Oh, okay...”

You sit in silence for a little while, you don’t know if you should go and let him be alone with his thoughts or if you should break the silence. You are just about to open your mouth to say something, what you don’t even know, but the silence feels too much. Din beats you to it though. 

“The kid, he uhm…” His voice is much softer than usual, almost close to a whisper. “He really likes you.”

“Well, I really like him too.” You say, you can’t help the soft smile spreading on your lips. 

“I’m glad  you do, mesh’la…” 

“You know… You keep calling me that, but you have never told me what it means.”

“I guess I haven’t…” His voice is low and a little shaky through the modulator.

You don’t know what it is with him tonight, but something feels different.  

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your fluttering heart. “Are you gonna tell me?” 

He freezes in the chair, sitting more still than usual, if that is even possible. He is almost reminiscent of a statue. The silence builds, and you begin to regret that you asked. The air between you feels charged, but you can’t figure out with what. It feels like whatever his answer is gonna be it is gonna fundamentally change something between you. You are starting to think that he is going to ignore your question when he finally breaks the silence.

“Beautiful.” His voice sounds a little weak, almost like he regrets telling you, but he continues in a more confident tone. “It means beautiful.”  

Beautiful… He’s been calling you beautiful all this time? The word always falling so naturally from his lips, soft and earnestly.

The rapid beats of your heart against the restraints of your ribcage thumbs loudly in your ears. You can’t believe what he just said. He is finally looking back at you again, but any signs of what he is feeling are hidden behind the dark reflection of the visor.  

“You call me beautiful?”  

“Yeah, I do… Trust me, if anything or anyone has ever deserved to be called that, it is you.”  

You can not believe that this is really happening, is there really a chance that he might feel the same as you?

“I don’t know what to say.” You say, the hope that has bloomed in your chest is scaring you.    

“You don’t have to say anything. I actually would prefer it if you don’t… I’m sorry if I have made you uncomfortable.” He stands up from the chair, turning his back to you.  

“Din please don’t go…” You grab his wrist before he can get to the ladder and disappear down the hull. “Din, I need you to tell me how you feel, please… I need to know.” 

“Dank farrik.” He curses under his breath and turns around to face you again. “I don’t know how to do this…” He shuffles anxiously from one foot to another. 

It is always so surprising to see Din like this, the usual confident and stoic bounty hunter all anxious and nervous, but you have seen it a few times before. He might be a tough and hardy bounty hunter, but put the man in a social setting and he can get nervous. But this is a whole new level. 

“Grogu he…” He pauses, the sound of his breath sounds shaky through the  modulator of his helmet. “He means the world to me. I love him, he… he is mine. I never thought that I would have that, my life was never set on that path, I didn’t think I was ever meant to be anyone’s buir, but… now I can’t imagine my life without him in it. It was hard for me to accept that I wanted someone around, but I couldn’t deny it any longer.” 

His words come out with so much emotion, you have never heard him like this before. You know that he loves his son, he shows that every day, but hearing him say it like this… The rawness, the emotions. Your vision starts to turn blurry as the tears start to build in the corner of your eyes. You want to be a part of that love so bad.  

“What I’m trying to say is…” He takes a shaky breath through the modulator, his shoulders are tense under the shoulder plates of his armour and his gloved hands are curled into tight anxious fists. “Now I can’t imagine my life without you in it either.”  

“Oh…” Your lips part, you are founding yourself dumbfounded. Is this really happening?

“I want you to be a part of my life, both our lives…” He is actually shaking as he tells you this. “I don’t want to just be a clan of two anymore… I want you mesh’la.” 

You suddenly understand. The way you will sometimes worry that he is avoiding you, or how you sometimes feel like your presence is making him uncomfortable. It makes sense now, you rise from the chair and close the distance between the two of you. You search for the eyes under the helmet, even though you can’t see them you want him to know that you are looking at him - the man and not the Mandalorian. You realise how hard this must be for him, he has been hidden away for all of his adult life, physically, but emotionally too. You reach out for him, placing your palms on the sides of his helmet.  

“Din…” You start out, it is probably just something you imagine, but it is like you can feel the heat of his skin through the beskar on your hands. “You already got me. I’m already yours.”

“Really?” It is Din’s turn to sound like he doesn’t believe what he is hearing. 

“Yes, Din.” You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks now, and you can’t keep the grin off your face as you nod up at him. “I’m yours, okay. Yours and Grogu’s.”

“And we are yours... Kriff, mesh’la I’m all yours.” He gasps through the modulator. He rests his forehead against yours, the coolness of the beskar is feeling nice against your warm skin. You stand like this for a moment, simply enjoying the intimacy of the closeness, your hands cradling his helmet and his resting on your hips. The silence stretches until Din finally breaks it. 

“I want to kiss you so badly.” He confesses. 

“I know.” You say, but you know that he can’t and that is okay. You have accepted that things with him are going to be different than it would have been with others, so the shock you’re feeling when a loud hiss is echoing off the durasteel walls is big. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut without even thinking about it. Your hands land over your closed eyes, like an extra protection to make sure you don’t see him. 

“What are you doing?!” You shriek as you hear the loud thud of beskar landing on the metal floor. Din has removed his helmet! He didn’t even give you a warning so you could close your eyes before, you had been quick so you haven't really seen him just gotten a quick blurry peek.  

“Open your eyes, mesh’la.” His voice is so low and soft, it is so close to a whisper, you almost miss it. His fingers brush against your hands to make you remove them from your eyes. His bare hands, you notice, and the skin on skin contact makes a hot shiver run down your spine. “Please.” He adds.

You can’t believe this. First you learn that he has been calling you beautiful for months, then he tells you that he wants you to stay with him and Grogu and now… Now Din is helmetless in front of you and he wants you to see him?  

“Are you sure?” You stutter. 

“Yes, mesh’la.” This time he speaks with his whole chest, like he has never been more sure about anything in his life. The sound of his voice without the modulator of his helmet hits your ears and you feel like you might cry. It’s deep and rich, reminding you of the sonorous melodies played on a f'nonc horn. 

You inhale a shaky breath before removing your hands from your eyes and slowly blinking them open. And there he is. Din Djarin, your Din Djarin, staring back at you. You let out a little gasp as you take in the sight of him. You can’t believe that this is what he has been hiding all this time. You knew you would like the way he looked, because it would be him, but the reality is still exceeding all expectations you had. Din Djarin is gorgeous. The brown hair, that curls up at the ends, matches the colour of the irises of the prettiest most soulful eyes you have ever seen. His strong jaw is covered with a short, slightly patchy, beard that frames his face nicely. A moustache is framing his mouth. A mouth with the most kissable lips you have ever seen.

Another long silence breaks out between you, both of you are shocked by the situation. 

“Hi…” He finally says and it is all that you need to break out of your haze. 

“Hi.” You smile at him, maybe the brightest smile of your life.

You reach out for him, you need him closer.

“Do I disappoint?” He asks, but he is smiling too now.

“Hell no.” You shake your head with a laugh, the thought of this face disappointing anyone is an absurd idea. 

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, your hands find his hair, wrapping your fingers in his soft locks. He leans his forehead down to rest against yours again. It had felt good before, but this - his skin against yours, oh that is heaven. The two of you stay like this for a while, enjoying the affinity between you. 

“What about that kiss?” You finally say and it is all he needs to hear. His lips crash onto yours. It is like a switch has been turned, the softness from before replaced with an intense hunger. The kiss is heated and needy, like he is desperate to taste you, wanting to map out every corner of your mouth. His hands are on your hips, a tight grip as he pushes you closer against him. 

You gasp into his mouth as you feel the solid curve of his bulge press against your pelvis. It is sending a warm shiver through you that settles in your lower stomach. You press yourself into him, slightly grinding your hips against his clothed cock which pulls a low groan out of him. His broad hands squeezes your hips, guiding your rhythm as you rock against him.

“Do you really want this?” You ask him 

“More than anything.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “Do you?”

“Yes!” You nod wildly. “I’ve never wanted anything or anyone as badly as I want you.”

Your confession makes him let out a deep groan from deep within his throat, it makes a new shiver run through you. His fingers find the hem of your pants which he starts to slide down your legs. You take over, kicking the garment of your legs as you push him towards the pilot’s chair. 

“Sit.” You command. You don’t know what it is, you are usually not the commanding type, but you are feeling wild tonight, drunk off of Din’s lips.

Something flickers in Din’s eyes at your sudden bossy tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He mutters as he sits back in the seat, his strong thighs spread out and a cocky smile on his lips. Fuck, he is going to be the death of you aren’t he? 

You take a second to enjoy the view, before walking over to him, stepping between his thighs. Your hand lands in his hair as you look down at him through hooded eyes. 

“Come here, mesh’la.” He whispers as he reach out for you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer. You lift your leg over him, straddling his broad lap.

He groans at the pressure, as you start to rock your clothed cunt against his muscular thigh. You suspect that he can feel the warmth of your dampness through the fabric. Din adjusts his hold on your waist, helping you set a rhythm as he begins to move your hips. He is moving you slowly at first, but the eager sounds you’re letting out is quickly making him pick up the pace. You purr out his name as you feel his thigh flex under you. 

“Kriff… Doing so good for me, mesh’la.” Din curses under his breath. “Looking so pretty.”

“Mmm..” You hum out, burying your face into the crook of his neck as you keep grinding against him until you can’t take it anymore. 

“Fuck, Din, I...” You whine, feeling the fabric of your panties getting gradually more and more damp against him.

“I need you, Din” You remove your head from his neck so you can look deeply into his eyes. His brown eyes are burning you, his hands coming to a still.  

“Okay, yeah…” He nods at you, his pupils are blown wide and a flush is covering his cheeks. “Ne-need you too, mesh’la.”

His eyes are still locked with yours as he moves you, making you lift yourself up from him so he can start on removing some of his armour plates. You use the time to get rid of your tunic, leaving you in only your bra and panties. He ends up removing most of his armour, leaving him warm and soft for you.   

He pulls you down on him again, connecting your lips once more as his hand dives down to your panties, sliding his fingers under the hem and finding your clit which he begins to stroke with slow, firm circles after coating his digits with your wetness, making you moan into the kiss.  

“Fuck, mesh’la, you’re so wet. All soaked, just for me. My sweet, sweet girl.” He whisper against your mouth.

He keeps circling your clit with one hand, setting a faster pace as his other hand finds your breast, squeezing it gently through your bra, making you let out another desperate moan. Your hands find the clasp at your back, fingers fumbling slightly from eagerness as you open the latch before zealously removing the item from your body. Din lets out a pleased groan as your exposed breasts appear. His free hand, that isn’t occupying your clit, eagerly kneads the soft plumpness of one of your tits before taking its nipple between his fingers and gently twisting it. 

“Oh, fuck… Fuck, Din, I…” You whine out, feeling your orgasm approach. You don’t think you have ever felt it come this early before, but he has you so riled up.

“I know baby, I know.” He encourages. “You can mesh’la, you can come for me.”  

It is all you need to hear, the last string that holds you together gets cut and the warm euphoric waves of pleasure wash over you. His name is falling from your lips over and over again as you ride out your orgasm. 

“Did that feel good?” He asks you with a kiss to the top of your head when you’ve finally come back down from your high and now has relaxed into him.

“So good.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He says and you can hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him. 

“Wanna make you feel good too.” You say letting your fingers find his cheek and gently stroke his cheekbone. “Want you inside me.” You feel how his cock twitches underneath you from your confession.

“You sure mesh’la?” He asks, placing his hand under your chin to gently holding your head up as he look deeply you in the eyes for your answer.

“Very.” 

“Okay.” He hums, pressing a gentle kiss onto your lips, but it very quickly turns heated. 

Your hands reach down between you, finding the buttons of his pants which you quickly begin to unbutton. The angle is slightly awkward, but you manage to get the last button undone without breaking the kiss. 

Din taps your thigh to make you step back for a second so he can pull down his pants and free his cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. You had gotten the idea that he was big from what you had felt when you grinded against his bulge, but nothing could prepare you for the view that met you. He is big. His cock is throbbing and thick, laying heavy against his stomach, the tip is already dripping with precum and you feel your mouth water by the sight.         

You slide your panties to the side as you readjust yourself, and start to slowly sink down on him. You’re really taking your time, both so you can adjust to the imposing size of him, and so you can enjoy the sounds he’s making for you as you slowly take more and more of him, until you finally are taken the entirety of him. 

“You are so perfect…” He sights. “Cyar'ika you have no idea…” He adds before he starts on leaving hot kisses up and down your neck. 

‘Cyar'ika.’ Another word you don’t know the meaning of, but you are too far gone in your shared pleasure to stop up and ask him the meaning. 

The two of you sit like this for a little while, letting you adjust to him, but you soon can’t take it anymore, you need some movement. 

You lift yourself a little from the chair before sinking back down on him, making Din choke on a throaty moan. His hands stay on your hips, as you begin to bounce on him in a slow, but steady rhythm, but he occasionally slips them down to your ass, squeezing the soft plum skin with his broad hands. It makes you go wild. You pick up your pace.

“Dear, Maker…” You gasp “Din, you’re feeling so good.” 

“You too, mesh’la. So fucking tight.” Din praises, lifting you up with his strong arms and pulls all the way out of you before slamming back into you, filling you up again. “So warm, so perfect.” 

His hips now meet yours with every bounce as he thrust up into you, burying himself so deep inside you it has you bite down hard on your lower lip to not scream loudly and wake up Grogu. The sound of Din’s heavy balls slapping up against your wet cunt, as well as the loud creaks of the chair, is echoing from the walls and it is honestly the hottest thing you have ever heard. Your arms have begun to shake as your grip on the armrest of the chair is getting tighter and tighter. You keep bouncing up and down on him as you feel your second climax getting nearer and nearer. 

“Oh, kriff… Mesh’la you’re so tight.” He groans through gritted teeth. 

“I… I won’t last much longer.” He warns. His thrust falters a little as he gets closer and closer to his release. 

“It’s okay, you can come, baby…” You pant out. “Please come for me, Din” 

He let out a throaty groan at your encouragement. 

“I have an implant.” You add. “Please, I want to feel you inside of me.” 

You pull his face up to you, kissing him hard. Your lips connected passionately as you both get pushed over the edge. His fingers dig into your hips as he comes, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer.

You moan out his name, as your walls clench down around his cock. You feel how his dick twitches inside you as he comes undone. The warmth of his release coats your inside, and you dote on the feeling of being filled by him, milking every drop of his release as he keeps pumping into you, fucking his cum deep into you. You feel like the two of you have melted together as you both ride out your climaxes. Tears of pleasure are wetting your eyes. You have wanted him for so long, never thought that you would have him, never thought that he would feel the same as you. 

You find his lips again, kissing him as you both ride out your climaxes. He hums content into your mouth and you can feel the smile on his lips. His hands are leaving your waist and he is instead cupping your cheeks, gently holding your face and the rough and heated atmosphere is soon turning soft.   

“Are you okay?” He asks while caressing your cheek with light strokes of his finger pads.

“Yes.” You assure him with a small smile. “More than okay.” 

He smiles back at you. He has the prettiest smile in the galaxy you decide. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, mesh’la.”

You don’t know the meaning of his words, but they fall from his lips with such warmth and care that you it has your heart flutter with warmth in your chest. 

“What does that mean?” Your voice is nothing but a whisper. 

“I will know you forever.” 

“That is beautiful.” 

“It’s…” He looks into your eyes, the deep mahogany of his irises make your heart clench. You can’t believe that these are the eyes that has been looking at you from under the helmet all this time. “It’s how we tell people we love them.” 

“It is…?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I love you, mesh’la.” 

He loves you… Din Djarin loves you. 

“I love you too, Din.” You say before connecting your lips again in a long passionate kiss. “You and Grogu.” You add when you eventually have to pull away for air.

He smiles at you as his eyes are filling with grateful tears. You, Din and Grogu – a little clan of three.

[vodika-vibes]

Just One Date

Summary: You're a Military Doctor attached to the 212, and you've come to consider Commander Cody as a friend. Turns out, that he sees you a little bit more.

Pairing: Commander Cody x F!Reader

Word Count: 1333

Warnings: Cody makes suggestive jokes, and gets whacked with pillows and has a hand slapped over his mouth for it.

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: HAPPY 2224 Day! I came up with this idea at 5:30 this morning when I originally woke up and when I remembered what today was. There might, possibly, be a sequel where the date actually happens. It depends on people's reactions to this one.

You’ve been a civilian employee to the GAR since you were old enough to enlist. The military wasn’t exactly your “dream” career, but it got you away from your incredibly toxic family, and it paid you to go to medical school.

And, really, at the time the odds of there actually being a war was slim to non-existent.

Jokes on you, the war started 6 months after you graduated and you found yourself bouncing from military base to military base, before finally getting assigned to The Negotiator, under General Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody.

The Commander is everything you’ve ever wanted in a Senior Officer, respectful and professional when the situation calls for it, but more than happy to share jokes with you when you’re not working.

The General, however, is a walking migraine.

At this point, you’re beginning to think that your job would be easier if you were assigned to literally any other battalion.

“General Kenobi,” You say as you pinch the bridge of your nose, “Did you, perhaps, skip your basic first aid lessons as a child?”

Helix, working on Commander Cody at the bed behind you, doesn’t bother to muffle his laughter, but you tune him out with the ease of long practice, instead pinning your General with an accusing glare.

“Well,” General Kenobi rubs his chin thoughtfully, “I was a very busy padawan-”

“So, perhaps, you skipped the basic first aid classes that say when you get stabbed, do not remove the stabbing implement?” You interrupt.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I skipped the lessons-” He demures.

“And your reasoning for ignoring Commander Cody’s very reasonable order to not remove the knife from your thigh?” You ask.

“...uh…I was in shock?”

You smile. It’s a nice smile, and you’re pleased to see General Kenobi slump on the hospital bed, “Well, since you ignored your Commander’s very reasonable, and correct, order. You’re going to spend the next three days in a bacta tank.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to use bacta tanks as a punishment.” General Kenobi says thoughtfully.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me.” You counter with a roll of your eyes. “Relax, General. It’s not a punishment. You’re more injured than you look. And maybe you can get some sleep if I drug you enough.”

General Kenobi sputters, “Commander! Are you hearing this?”

“Hm? What? I’m not listening.” Cody says with a sly smirk.

“Well, there you have it. The Commander’s on my side.” You say brightly, as you spin to grab a syringe of the sedative that was especially formulated for Jedi. “Good night, General.”

“This is mutiny,” General Kenobi says with a frown.

“Yes, yes. I know.” You inject the liquid into his IV, “We’ll see you in a couple of days.” The older man slowly drifts off to sleep, and you pass the General over to the men who can get him into a bacta tank easier than you.

And then you spin on your heel and move over to Commander Cody, who’s laying on his hospital bed very peacefully, a small grin playing on his lips. “What’s wrong with you?” You ask, as you grab his file and scan it.

“Well, I was blown up, mesh’la.” Commander Cody says blandly.

“Well, that was silly of you. Why would you do something like that?”

“I woke up this morning and thought, ‘how can I make my medics pull their hair out today?’ and decided that getting blown up was the best way to go about it.”

You smother your laugh and glance at him, “One of these days Helix is actually going to kill you.”

“But you’ll protect me won’t you?”

“Of course.” You wink at him, “Everyone knows I’m the scary one.” You scan his record for a moment, and then favor him with a smile, “Aside from some bumps and bruises, you look totally fine.”

He grins at you, “So you like how I look, do you?”

You sigh, “Commander, that joke got old within a week of working with any of you.”

Cody just laughs and sits up, “Come on, Doc. I won’t tell. We both know that I’m the most handsome.”

“One of these days,” You counter as you set your hands on your hips, “I’m going to buy a box of chocolates and address it to ‘the most handsome man in the 212’ just to see who wins.”

“Aww, mesh’la, you don’t have to buy me chocolates.”

“Ooh, someone’s cocky.”

“You have no idea.” He flashes a boyish grin, “I could show you, if you like.”

You squint at him, “What?”

“Just how cocky I am.” Cody clarifies with a sly grin.

Your jaw drops and your face burns, before you grab the thin pillow and smack him with it, “Behave!”

Cody laughs, as he fends off the pillow, “What? I just repeated what you said. It’s not my fault that your brain lives in the gutter.”

“Rude. Rude!” You huff, “I changed my mind, I’m not going to protect you from Helix. RIP Commander Cody. I knew you well.”

“C’mon mesh’la,” He teases, “Having a dirty mind is a boon. Well, I think. Especially if it’s dirty about me.” Cody reaches out and lightly grips your hips, tugging you closer.

You scowl at him, though it’s really more of a pout, “You know, there are almost 2 million men identical to you-”

“Yeah, yeah. But you don’t have dirty thoughts about them.” Cody replies confidently.

“You’re so sure of that?”

“Yup.”

You shake your head, “Come on, Commander. You’re hardly a mind-reader.”

“I don’t have to be. I see how you look at me.” He says with a smirk.

“And how do I look at you?” You ask sarcastically.

Cody’s smirk grows into an amused grin, “Like you wanna drag me into a supply closet and ri-” You slam your hands over his mouth.

“Okay! Thank you!” You yelp, your face burning. “Why do people think you’re the mature one?” You bemoan.

“Because I play the part well,” He says smugly, his voice muffled by your hand. 

“Can I remove my hand or are you still going to try and embarrass me?” You ask.

“I like it when you get all embarrassed, it’s cute.” Cody replies before he pulls your hands away from his mouth, and then presses them to the bed next to him without releasing them.

“Hm, you seem to have forgotten to release my hands.” You say dryly.

“I didn’t forget. I did it on purpose.” He says, his dark eyes scanning your face.

“And why would you do that?”

“Go on a date with me.” Cody says.

You blink at him, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“One date,” He clarifies, “That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Commander-”

“Cody.” He interrupts, his gaze serious, “One night. Let me show you how good we could be together.”

You avert your gaze for a second, and you know that he can feel your heart racing with how he’s holding your hands still. “Commander, we’re not going to be returning to Coruscant for several months-”

“Cody, and I don’t care. I can woo you even on the Negotiator. Give me a chance.”

“And if we don’t go well together at the end of the night? What then?”

“We’re going to be great,” Cody counters, “But, if,” He rolls his eyes, “For some reason, we don’t work out, then nothing will change.”

“Com-”

He tugs your wrists so that you topple against him, “Cody. My name isn’t that hard, is it?”

“...Cody.” You finally say with a sigh, though there’s a small smile playing on your lips, “I suppose, since you’re so eager, I can agree to a single night.”

“There's going to be more than one.” Cody says confidently. 

You hum thoughtfully, “Prove it.”

He grins at you boyishly, “I can do that. I already have the whole thing planned.”

“...How?” You ask, exasperated.

“I’m very good at what I do.” He replies smugly.

[dilf-din]

Come to Bed (Din Djarin x reader)

WC: 1450

Rating: T

Warnings: kinda graphic descriptions of injuries?? wound care and mention of a needle, language, idiots in love who don’t know it, THERE’S ONLY ONE BED bc this takes place on the beloved Razor Crest (may she rest in peace) tons of fluff, enjoy besties!!

The sound of the ramp lowering jostled you out of your near sleep. You had curled up in the pilot’s seat wrapped in a blanket waiting for Din to return. The sun had sank long ago, meaning Grogu had been out like a light in his hammock for hours now. You lost track of time watching the stars creep across the sky wondering what pictures and stories this planet’s inhabitants had found in them, the myths they told to their children about the beings who made their home in the night sky.

You stretched your stiff legs and made your way down the ladder with the blanket over your shoulders to see if Din needed any help with his bounty. You turned to see him struggling up the ramp, blood trailing from both him and the body he had tied up. You dropped the blanket and ran to him.

“Get inside, I’ll take care of this,” you instructed.

“I can—“

“Get. In. Side.” you repeated with a glare.

Din limped into the cargo hold and let his weight drop onto a crate near the entrance. You grabbed the quarry and lifted it into the carbonite chamber with ease, shoving it in with your shoulder and turning the controls to freeze him. The body was much bigger than you, but adrenaline had taken over, you wanted to get to Din.

You rushed past him to grab the med kit and cauterizer, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before returning to his side.

“What happened?” you asked looking him over to find the source of the blood.

“Knives were his choice of weapon,” he said through gritted teeth.

His flight suit was in tatters on his abdomen revealing a series of smaller cuts and a lengthy one along his ribs. His right thigh was gushing blood from what appeared to be a deeper wound.

“Maker,” you almost whispered. Your hands went to his boots. “May I?”

He nodded and you made quick work of unbuckling his boots and shin guards and pulling them off his feet. You reached for what remained of his pants giving him the same look as before, asking his permission. He nodded, knowing he had no other choice. He lifted himself up for you to carefully shimmy them down his thighs and get a better look.

“How long ago did this happen?” you grimaced as you tried to clean the perimeter of the wound of any dirt and loose threads. You weren’t thinking about the fact that he was basically sitting in front of you in his underclothes, but he certainly was.

He swallowed thickly, “A couple hours at least.”

You stopped to look up at him, “You’ve been walking around like this for hours? You’ve probably lost so much blood,” you said with a fresh urgency.

“I wanted,” he groaned, “To get home to you. I had been away far too long as it was.”

He would choose now of all times to say something sentimental, but your hands and your mind were in autopilot as you prepared the bacta shot.

“Jare,” you cursed under your breath, no idea at the smile resting on his lips at hearing you speak his native tongue. His hand found your face and tilted your chin up to face him.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said taking advantage of him being distracted and injecting him with the bacta.

“Kriff,” he grunted as you pulled the needle out.

You reached for some gauze and clean bandages to wrap around the already healing wound. He breathed a sigh of relief as the cooling rush flowed through his body. You tightly wrapped his thigh, hands holding it gently. You rested your cheek against the inside of his knee and allowed yourself an exhale before rising to focus on his other cuts.

He wanted so badly to hold your head there, take off his gloves and run his fingers through your hair. You moved on from that moment much too quickly for his liking.

You sighed taking in the state of his shirt, “May I?”

“Have at it,” he replied with a smile still plastered to his face. This was one the rare moments he was thankful for his helmet.

You took the scissors for the guaze and cut his shirt from hem to neckline so you could open it up. He feared you would be able to see how fast his heart was beating from that close. You peeled it towards his shoulders and let it hang off his body so you could fully see the damage. You dabbed some bacta on the smaller cuts, tracing a finger over a nasty purple bruise that must have set in on his walk home. Maker, it’s like you were trying to kill him while patching him up.

You drew your attention to the last remaining gash. “I should be able to cauterize this one. It’ll be a nice scar to add to your collection.”

He huffed out a laugh and you smiled reaching for the cauterizer. “It shouldn’t hurt too much with the bacta setting in, but let me know if you need a break.”

“Go ahead, cyar’ika,” he said smoothly. You flashed your eyes to him at the nickname and flicked on the small tool. His hand found your shoulder and squeezed it at the initial touch. “Sorry,” he grunted out.”

“It’s okay Din, I know it hurts,” you said working as fast as you could. “There,” you said switching it back off and running a clean rag over the newly closed wound, “All done.”

“Shower, I’ll set some clean clothes out for you, then I want you to rest,” you said picking up scraps of bloodied fabric and gauze.

“Yes ma’am,” he said almost reverently. As much as he hated feeling weak, he loved being cared for. You tended to be fairly laid back, this commanding side of you only came out when shit hit the proverbial fan. “I like it when you’re bossy.”

You wound up what was left of his pants and whipped them at him, “Hurry up before I send you to your room,” you joked, heading to wash your hands and put the med kit back up.

Din showered quickly, scrubbing off days of blood and grime under the warm stream of water. The bacta was in full effect making his eyes and body feel heavy. He quickly dried and struggled to pull on the clean pants and shirt you had laid out for him. He tried to shake as much water from his hair as he could before putting his helmet back on and opening the ‘fresher door. He looked down to see you curled up in the same blanket as earlier, resting against the wall by the door.

You startled awake again hearing the door slide shut. He cocked his helmet to the side as if to ask what you were doing there. “I wanted to be here in case you fell or something,” you mumbled sleepily, hand over your mouth as a yawn came out.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he remarked.

“I haven’t. It’s hard to sleep when you’re gone.”

His heart ached at your confession.

“I don’t sleep well when I’m away either,” he said softly, sinking on the ground next to you. “I like knowing you’re near. But it gives me a reason to come home.”

“You have to be alive to make it home,” you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. The warmth of the blanket and the smell of his soap lulling you to sleep once again. “Foolish man,” you murmured.

He chuckled and offered you a hand, “Come to bed, cyar’ika.”

“No no, you take the bed tonight,” you protested.

“I am,” he said slowly, “And you can too, if you’d like.”

You were too tired to think of the implications, what it would mean in the morning, you were just glad to have him home. He offered his hand again and you helped each other up shuffling into the small sleeping nook. He tried to stop himself from thinking about the way you folded into him, like the curve of his body had been hewn out just for you. All the rough and jagged pieces of him smoothed down to make space for your softness. He fought it for as long as he could, trying to memorize the pattern of your breaths, the small noise you made as you were getting comfortable, but the bacta mixed with the weight of his journey soon caused his eyes to drift shut. For the first time in many years, he slept soundly, and so did you.

Mando’a translations

Jare: someone taking a foolish risk

Cyar’ika: sweetheart

[wrathkitty]

Short Debts Make Long Friends - Upcoming chapter snippet (Aladdin Easter egg included at no extra charge)

“What are your intentions in bringing her here?” the Armorer asks, directing her attention back to Mando. 

Oh, goody, you think sourly, unwrapping a fresh bacta patch. Yes, please talk about me like I’m not here. 

“Protection,” he answers. “I have — ” He sucks in a quick breath as you apply the patch to his leg, then doggedly continues on. “I have reason to believe she is being targeted by Gor Koresh’s people, to avenge his death.”

This is news to you, but you resume thinking sarcastic thoughts and start investigating the other contents in the medkit, pretending to be occupied. 

“She killed Gor Koresh?” 

The scathing commentary going through your mind does not improve. Has this woman looked at you?

Mando shakes his head. “I killed Gor Koresh.”

You recall a wisecracking blue genie and a certain red parrot, who thought he was going to have a heart attack and die from not-surprise. 

“Yet they target…her.” 

She is not making an idle observation. Far greater subtext is at play here, and Mando’s reluctance to reply instantly puts you on guard. What isn’t she saying?

“Tion’jor?” the Armorer inquires, calmly switching from Basic to Mando’a. 

Lady, if you think I’m not beyond using sex to get Mando to translate for me later, then there’s some swampland in Florida that’s got your name all over it…

Short Debts Make Long Friends - An over-educated, underpaid millennial finally gets to go on her first adventure.

(Reblog and get your own snippet from Chapter 22 because I love attention.)

Image credit is thanks to the brilliance of @djarins-cyare , whose Photoshop skills spared you from the resultant fails of my trying to make a picture of Iago and Aladdin myself using AI. You haven't lived until you've seen Mando with a giant red plume sticking out of his helmet.

YT clip of Iago, in his not-surprised era

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[the-mandawhor1an]

Just a scratch - Din Djarin x Reader drabble

Summary: Life as the assistant in a droid-operated doctor’s office isn't eventful. That is, unless a certain frequent visitor ends up in your capable hands again. This time he’s in for a bit more than just some bacta  Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI! brief description of wounds, some Mando’a (translation at the end), no face reveal (sorry!), allusion to sexytime A/N: This was fun! This little drabble is for @janaispunk’s 1500 follower celebration. The prompt was “neck kisses” and our boy Din – I decided to play around with a younger Din and the prompt basically screamed for an inner conflict about his oath (His age isn't mentioned but in my head he's in his 20s here) Fun fact, the actual fic part is exactly 1500 words. Unbeta'd, be nice 🙏

It is a slow day today, boring even.

So boring that you decide to clean the reception, dust off the high-shine furniture while listening to the low hum of all the equipment in the adjacent room. Your name badge rustles with every swipe of your arm. The light above you flickers. It is late in the evening, close to the end of your shift. 

To be quite frank, you like it like this. 

Empty. Peaceful. Tranquil.

Working in a doctor’s office, you’re regularly presented with emergencies that drain your energy quickly. Yes, the actual healing is mostly done by droids, but you occasionally have to lend a hand. Some people don’t trust droids. Or they are scared so you end up taking care of them.  

You understand to a degree. Sometimes the ‘doctor’ malfunctions and it’s your job to make sure it doesn’t harm the patients. And – because of your regular maintenance, you’d like to think – nothing has ever happened since you started your job here. Basically you are both a mechanic and the receptionist. And, well, the healer for certain patients that under no circumstance want a droid near them.

Such as the Mandalorian who has visited the office quite often now. In fact, you’re sure he deliberately stays close to the space port just to make sure he can see you when he is injured. 

He never really talks much until you start your process. He likes to tell you about where his injuries come from. He’s a bounty hunter, that much you have figured out by yourself. Most of his wounds aren’t threatening to his health, scratches, bruises, an occasional concussion. 

Today is no different. Just as you are about to take off your name tag, the door opens and he stumbles in. You’re familiar with the sound of his steps and take no time to get the med droid out of the exam room. 

He plops down on the table and starts removing his cape. 

“Well, what do we have this time?”

You don’t even need an answer. The hole ripped into the flight suit and the dark stain on his shoulder says enough. “Got bitten,” he states. With your head slightly tilted, you ask “You got bitten?”  The helmet halts for a second, staring at you. He said what he said. 

“May I?” you ask, offering a hand in taking off the metal plates that have to come off before you can tend to his wound. He nods and you carefully detach the shoulder plates. He hisses underneath the helmet. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. Placing the armor parts gently on the table next to him, you watch him take his gloves off. The gauntlets follow, as does the chest plate. His fingers feel for the closure of his vest. “Let me get some Bacta while you’re busy,” you stumble when you realize you’ve been staring at him for a while.

“I need you to take the shirt off as well…” you add as you’re already halfway in the storage to get equipment and hide your blushed cheeks. Technically there is enough Bacta in the exam room, but you know he needs privacy. 

The topic of his creed has come up before – when you’ve been treating him for the first time. He had suffered a concussion and you wanted to check his head, but ultimately he refused and explained why. You didn’t understand then, you don’t now, but you don’t have to. You’re just here to make sure he isn’t dying, right? 

When you return, he sits there in all his glory. Broad shoulders, a toned back, a slender waist and that damn helmet on his head. Tan, freckled skin and, rather pleasant to see, there’s no bruises on him this time. You’ve seen it all. The scars, bruises, new, old; scratches, cuts, blaster wounds. But a bite? That’s new. 

With a hand on his wounded shoulder, you take out a small light to see if the wound shows any signs of infection. “I know we usually have a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ agreement but I have to break that this time. How? And was that a bounty?” Again, he hisses as your fingers graze the skin, avoiding your touch by arching his back. “Yes,” he replies. What else would it have been, realistically? An animal? Not here. And certainly not with a bite wound up that high. Or this is a rather unfortunate bedroom accident. 

You take the Bacta and spray it on the bite mark. It’s not too deep luckily. Neither has it hit any larger blood vessel nor are his precious muscles at risk. It probably hurts a lot, but he is used to pain. “Not a human, of course,” he says as the spray starts closing the little marks the teeth of the quarry have left in his flesh. With a damp wipe you wash away the blood on his shoulder, far enough away from the wound that he shouldn’t wince again. But he does. “Fierce warrior, huh? Is it that painful?” You half-mock, but your concern still audible underneath. This isn’t a wound that should hurt. Judging by his behavior, it’s uncomfortable. 

“It’s not. It’s just … you” “Me?” You take a step back to look into that black visor. Sometimes you wonder how he looks like underneath it. If his face is as pretty as you’ve imagined. “I–” he stammers. “I’m not used to being touched. Not so close to the helmet.” 

“Oh,” you let out. It’s not loud by any means but he’s close, so he hears it anyway. “Do you want to wipe your blood off of yourself?” You offer the cloth with an outreached arm. He hesitates, staring at the stained fabric you’re holding towards him. The pain in his shoulder slowly dissipates and the throbbing leaves. “N-no,” he finally says. His voice is low, breathy. You can clearly see that his breathing is more labored. Is he anxious? 

The hand with the rag slowly retreats and you take a moment to process what he says. “Do you want me to–” He nods, so you continue wiping away the blood. The holes in his skin have closed up and now only a set of pink little spots remains. His blood has traveled far down his back and you gulp before slowly moving down with your hand. His skin is warm and you can’t deny that there is suddenly a weird tension between you two. He sits here, watching you touch his exposed skin. You’ve done it before but never so close to his neck. Is he sensitive? As the side of your hand brushes against his neck, he flinches. You do it again and the helmet turns to face you. For a few seconds you stare at each other. 

You’re standing in between his knees, a respectful distance between your bodies otherwise. “I would’ve never guessed that,” you take your unoccupied hand and let your fingertips wander over the other side of his neck. He shivers and exhales sharply. 

He leans into your touch. The beat of his heart is visible, a vein pulsing underneath your index. “Don’t,” he hushes. Don’t what?

You halt the movement of both of your hands. He hesitantly extends one arm and rests his hand on your waist. First you expect him to push you away, but rather than that – he pulls you closer. He straightens his back until you’re almost eye to eye. You know he’s broad, but being so close to him made that abundantly clear.

“Don’t stop,” he pleas. The softness in his voice could melt your heart. The cloth falls onto the table behind him, squelching upon impact with the cold metal surface. Both your hands rest on his skin, drawing small circles on his neck. 

“Can I take that as confirmation you’ve been staying close on purpose?” Again, he nods. “I hope you’re not getting injured on purpose though,” you say with a smirk. A single chuckle emits from underneath the helmet. “I’m not, not any more at least.” you shake your head in amusement. “Could’ve just said something. Ask me out or something.” “And what would we do? I can’t take that helmet off.” 

I have an idea.

Leaning forward, you stroke over his shoulders and down his arms, making way for your lips to brush his shoulder. “Osik,” he curses under his breath. You’ve heard him curse in Mando’a before so your smirk just grows. Your lips travel up his shoulder, until they finally reach his neck. “I mean,” you talk in between kisses, feeling him melt against your chest. “I know something we could do that doesn’t necessarily need the helmet to come off.” On your life, you swear you hear him whimper. The battle-hardened Mandalorian whimpers. Because you offer what he probably has been waiting for for a while now. 

“Would you like that?” You tease. His hand travels down your waist. As it ends by your hip, his second hand joins. “Yeah.” 

_________________________

Osik – shit 

[awkward-tension-art]

Bacta and Bandages Chp.3 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 2. Chapter 4.

First Mission

CW: Clone mistreatment, Medical procedures, needles, Death, destruction, mentions of an epidemic, nothing graphic, Reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), reader is a doctor, if I miss a tag LMK!

Minors DNI also this is MINIMALLY PROOFREAD

You had a couple of weeks to establish yourself and settle with the 501st. It worked out well, because it allowed you to get to know the soldiers more.

Plus, no mission meant you had some free time to learn mando’a. It was basic at best, but you knew how to greet someone and find out where their pain is located, as well as other basic conversation.

It’s what you were doing at the moment. As you tidied up the medical bay, the robotic voice of a teaching droid came from the datapad on your desk. The holo was a program fit more for academy students, but you had to start somewhere.

“Ni cuy' a baar'ur,” You had managed to gear the learning towards medical language. Just to let you do your job better for the clones. Currently, the program was going over what to say when dealing with a patient.

“Very good. Where is your pain?”

“Vaii cuyir gar aaray?” You paused. The word for pain, aaray, always sounded off to you, “Vaii cuyir gar aaray?” Your words repeated.

You felt your damn soul leave your body when another voice interrupted.

“Ner kov'nyn bal ner haalas.” Rex was standing in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other held his helmet. 

You didn’t know the exact sentence, and you had to think for a moment before looking up at him, “Head and…chest?”

He smirked and nodded, “That’s correct.” the captain stepped to your desk and looked at the holo-program that was still waiting for a response from you. “You’re learning Mando’a?”

“I thought it might help the troopers feel more comfortable,” You approached, tapping the tablet and pausing the holo-program, “I hope that's alright…” 

“It's more than alright, it's…it's a wonderful thought.” Rex had a genuine smile, “The men will appreciate it.” However, he cleared his throat, “However, General Skywalker needs you on the bridge.” 

Your heart raced, did something happen? Did you do something wrong?

“It’s about our next mission.” The captain explained, most likely catching your rising anxiety, “It's a relief mission, and your expertise with medical care is needed.” 

Oh! The breath you let out was one of relief, “Yes, of course…let's go to the bridge then.” 

The walk was quick. You’ve gotten used to the halls and paths of the venator now. Though, admittedly, you’ve gotten terribly lost a couple times. Once, you ended up in the reactor section and if you hadn’t found R2-D2, you’d have to embarrass yourself by asking a soldier to help guide you.

Once on the bridge, you saluted the general and commander in greeting, “You called for me, sir?”

Anakin Skywalker nodded, “We need your expertise, doctor,” He tapped a button on the console, bringing up a holomap of a planet with 4 moons, “The planet of Cherenity had a planet-wide epidemic and a series of natural disasters that caused total societal collapse. There were riots, famine, civil war and complete chaos.”

You frowned, but let him continue. 

“The Jedi have been called to try and help rebuild and offer relief. We need your help in dealing with the wounded and establishing medical care again.” He finished, standing up. He put his hands behind his back and looked at you, “What do you say?”

Ah. set up a medical center, help with supplies and maybe teach some procedures to the locals. 

You raised a hand to your chin, mentally working out the logistics, “One hospital for an entire planet will be overwhelmed. I’d like to have Kix with me to help deal with the injured.” Your eyes met Rex’s, “If that's alright with you, Captain.”

“He’s all yours.” He nodded. 

You smirked, and turned back to face General Skywalker, “When do we arrive?”

“We have an hour to prepare.” He informed everyone, “Thank you, Doctor. Get to work everyone. Dismissed.”

First mission…

You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you were nervous. Yes, you were a capable doctor. But…

Well, in soldier terms, you were no better than a shiny. A rookie.

You were in the hangar double checking the crates of supplies when Kix approached and saluted, “Doctor, I’ve been informed I will be aiding you in this mission.”

Your tone was calm and even, “You and I are going to help establish something of a medical care center for the survivors on Cherenity,” You looked over to him, “But, this will be my first mission, and I’m a doctor before I’m a soldier…I might follow your lead if the situation calls for it.”

He gave you an understanding smile, “I remember my first mission…It can be overwhelming but you’ll get used to it,” The medic melted into a friendly, approachable attitude, “Since it’s a relief mission, it should be easy. But if there's any danger I’ll show you what to do.” 

How kind. Very polite too.

“Thank you, Kix.” 

Before you loaded up, you checked your gear. Because of your rank and position, you didn’t wear the same heavy, clunky armor as the other soldiers. You were outfitted with movement and supplies in mind. Armor was minimal, only enough to protect your chest, calves and wrists. The uniform, made of protective yet light material, was red and white, indicating your medical personnel status.

In a perfect galaxy, this would mean no one would try to kill you. But…well, war crimes weren’t unheard of. Sometimes adversaries would specifically target medics.

With a calming breath, you stepped on the gunship with Kix and a few other soldiers and prepared yourself mentally. There were certain things you were worried about. With no sterile location, infection rates would be high. Plus, even if the disease that caused the epidemic had killed all of its hosts, it may still be present on the planet. 

And you had no idea how it was spread.

“Something wrong, Doctor?” A trooper next to you noticed. He was a ‘shiny’ judging by his pure white armor. 

“I don’t know yet,” you responded, “Do your helmets have protection against contaminants in the air? Like a virus perhaps?” Your question seemed to startle the poor shiny. 

It was a trooper with a painted flower on his chest that answered, “We have temporary protection. Though it only lasts long enough for us to get out of an area, not really stay in it. Maybe a couple minutes at most.”

You nodded, “We know nothing about this virus that contributed to the planet's collapse. If you, or any trooper feels unwell, come to me.”

Another soldier to your left, Steele, you believe his name is, let out a soft laugh, “Don’t worry about us, Doc. We’re not meant to be a priority.”

“I’ll prioritize whoever I want, thank you.” You responded, just as the gunship landed and the doors opened. 

You stepped off, taking in your surroundings. 

Devastation. The capital of Cherenity, Fushi, from what you could tell, used to be an active, beautiful city. But now, it was a shadow of its former self. The ruins and rubble looked like the buildings used to be made of marble and glass. Now, it was all…destroyed. broken, painted glass was everywhere. Craters littered the formerly stone streets. Smoke billowed at multiple locations in the distance. Occasionally, blaster shots echoed around the ruins, bouncing off the once beautiful walls. 

Your heart twisted.

This was war. You signed up expecting destruction, but not…this….

Kix put a hand on your shoulder, “Doctor?”

“I’m fine.” you shook your head, getting yourself together, “Just…didn’t expect this.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Steele responded, unloading a crate of supplies.

You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or worse. 

You made it to the center of the broken, desolate city. That’s where the Cherians had tried to maintain some semblance of civilization. Innocent people were living either in haphazard tents or the surely dangerously unstable remains of the buildings around.

As you and your group made your way forward, the Cherians pause what they were doing to watch you. 

They were humanoid, with skin tones that ranged from bright red to deep purple that were dotted with scales. All of them had horns of various shapes and sizes that poked out from hair of many different colors as well. Their eyes were all solid white, pupiless and glowing. Among them were some humans, twi’lek and other races as well. 

That didn’t strike you as odd. After all, a planet capital such as Fushi would have a lot of diversity.

You pressed your com at your wrist and raised it to your lips, “General, we’ve made it to where the survivors are camping.”

After a second, Anakin’s voice came through the other end, “Good, start unloading supplies. Ahsoka and I have been…held up.” 

As soon as the Jedi finished speaking, Rex’s voice came through the com, “All units, be advised, thieves and pirates are in the area and may target the supplies and the civilians.”

Fuck…

You swallowed and shared a look with Kix, you were about to speak before getting interrupted by an approaching Cherian. Her pure white hair trailed behind her and her horns gave height over the troopers. Her skin was a soft lavender and she had an aura of peace and calm. 

“Peace,” She greeted, “I am Zenial Ill’ty the Senator of Cherenity.”

Senator? Why isn’t she on Coruscant? Did she come home to try and help the devastation?

“Ma’am,” You nodded in greeting, “General Skywalker is on his way with more supplies, in the meanwhile, I’m his battalion's doctor and am here to help reestablish medical care.” 

Zenial gave you a smile and bowed, “Thank you, healer of the 501st. What is left of our city is open to you. Most of the injured are located at the north end of our camp.”

You bowed to her and motioned for the troopers carrying medical supplies to follow. Kix was beside you as your steps lead you beyond a half shattered green building. Behind it, was the injured and sick. 

There had to have been a few hundred at least. Walking among them were Cherians wearing the same medical symbol as you. However, it was clear they were overwhelmed and unable to help without proper equipment, medicine and housing. 

You steeled yourself. You were a doctor. You worked in a hospital on Coruscant’s lower levels, and that wiped away any naivety you had even before the war. You remained silent, eyes roaming the people and bodies. 

From visual confirmation, you guessed the few doctors had set up ‘zones’ by severity of wounds and illness. 

Good. It made your job easier. 

With a steading breath, you got to work. 

You prioritized those with the most severe wounds. Internal injuries, amputations, massive amounts of blood loss…Your focus was razor sharp as you tended to those you could. The supplies in your pack dwindled to nothing quickly, much to your frustration.

Perhaps it was your expectations. Or maybe it was how you worked in the hospital, but you burned through the supplies in your pack trying to save everyone. 

A twi’lek, with royal blue skin and yellow eyes wheezed and sputtered as you tried to fix his burnt and ripped heart. According to his young daughter, he was searching for food when thieves shot him. It was sheer will that he survived this long. 

You reached for more bacta, only to be stopped by Kix, “Doctor, there isn’t anything else you can do.”

My old mentor told me those words once. You remembered. It was the first patient you had ever lost. A drunken speeder accident. You’d never forget it as their heart stopped beating under your hands.

“But…he can be saved. I know he can.” Your eyes must’ve been wide and confused, “I’ve seen worse wounds.”

The medic next to you had an understanding look, “Maybe in a proper hospital. But on the field…we don’t have the luxury.”

You looked down at the twi’lek, taking in his severe wounds. 

Kix is right. 

You made sure his daughter held his hand as you injected him with painkillers. He drifted off to sleep and was dead within minutes. 

Move on. There are others. 

At some point as you tended to the wounded, General Skywalker and Commander Tano had arrived with food, water and some ‘society rebuilding’ technology. It was hours later when you had gotten done with the most severe patients and were able to get the Cherian healers together to start planning properly. You did your best to ignore how the General watched your moves. 

He was most likely testing you. Making sure you could handle this.

“You’ll need clean water,” You explained, looking over your datapad, “The biggest worry is infection. You can save a life but lose them later to the same wound if it's not kept clean.” Your steps weaved through the wounded patients. Some were already much better than when you arrived, and others were resting peacefully, finally having their pain managed.

“You’ll need to boil the water at the very least to sterilize it,” Your words didn’t falter even after passing by the General who was with Captain Rex, “Same for metal scalpels and other tools. Put them in boiling water to clean them at the very least.”

Kix, who had been walking beside you, handed you a holomap of the immediate area. Once you activated it, you began to plan the new medical center for the Cherians, “It would be best if you had the injured in the most stable building, here.” You pointed at one of the more stable, least destroyed glass and marble building on the map, “The cover will be imperative for those with more severe injuries and illnesses. I’ve had some of the troopers make sure the supports are-”

One of those following you spoke up, “Can we trust what an artificial human says?” 

That question screeched your mind to a halt. You blinked, dumbfounded at the bluntness from the individual in front of you. Your mind had to take a minute to process what you heard.

After getting your thoughts together, you responded, “The troopers are hardworking, reliable men. I trust what they say.”

The Cherian opened their mouth, “But-”

You couldn’t hold back the venom in your words as you cut them off, “Do I need to repeat myself or are we going to have a problem?” Your eyes bore into the individual, practically daring them to argue with you. 

“...No, Doctor.” 

“Good.” Immediately, your tone became calmer, “Now, let's continue.”

Unknown to you, Captain Rex saw your exchange, he couldn’t help the small smile on his lips as you walked away. 

Anakin elbowed his side, smirking at his captain.

[ghostofskywalker]

Bacta, Burns, and Bedside Manner

Kix/Fem!Reader

Fictober Day 7 of 31

Words: 1,656

Summary: Kix has a lot of talents, but his brothers wouldn't usually cite bedside manner as one of them. That is, until you showed up in the medbay with injuries that needed to be looked at.

Clone Troopers Masterlist

“Kriff!” you swore loudly and unapologetically as the wire you were working on sparked, startling you and burning two of your fingertips. You were currently wedged in the engine of a gunship, attempting to repair the combustion, but so far all you were doing was causing yourself more pain. There was already a nasty looking scratch on your arm from where you had accidentally caught it on a jagged edge, and your head was throbbing from where you had hit it against the top of the space you were occupying. To say the least, you were not having a good day.

“Are you alright in there?” a trooper’s voice sounded from outside the gunship.

“Yeah!” you called before pulling your body out from the engine and looking at who had stepped into your workshop (Fives). “Just crossed my wires and caught a little spark, that’s all.”

The “little spark” in question actually hurt a lot more than you were letting on, as red-hot pain seized through your fingertips and made you feel like you were holding a hot pan, but he didn’t need to know that.

But even though you were attempting to keep your injuries to yourself, Fives still wasn’t convinced. He just stared at the scrape on your arm (that had started to bleed more profusely at this point) for a few moments before looking up to meet your gaze. “Are you sure? You’re bleeding there.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just throw a patch over it.”

Fives raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s something a single bacta patch can fix,” he said. “Let me take you to the medbay.”

You were all set to say no, that you knew basic first aid and could handle everything yourself, but the pain in your fingertips was only continuing to increase, and you had to fight to keep the tears from welling in your eyes. So instead, you just nodded and stepped forward, allowing Fives to usher you out of your workshop.

When you finally stepped through the doors of the medbay, the brightness and bustle of the room immediately made your head throb even more. You just closed your eyes and stood there with Fives, trying to ignore the pain on your arm, in your fingertips, and on your head. “What’s happened here?” you heard a medic ask.

You opened your eyes to see Kix looking at you with a concerned expression, but you couldn’t find the words to speak just yet. Thankfully, Fives was there to answer his brother’s question. “I walked in to hear her swear and she said that a few crossed wires sparked. That’s not even counting the bleeding scrape on her arm, which she said she would just throw a patch on and be done with.”

After Fives spoke, Kix turned to you. “Is that all true?”

You nodded. “And my head,” you managed to croak out. Kix just nodded and motioned for you to follow him to one of the beds, quietly telling Fives that he could get back to whatever he was doing.

“Alright,” he said once you had sat down on the bed. “Tell me everything that’s wrong.”

You took a deep breath before responding. “The wires burned my fingertips and I hit my head on the gunship before. Oh, and there’s the scrape on my arm, but you can see that pretty clearly.”

“How long ago was the burn sustained?” He asked, and the look on your face told him all he needed to know. He stepped away, returning a few moments with a wet cloth. “Which hand was it?”

You help up the thumb and pointer finger on your dominant hand, and he wrapped the cloth around them, the relief instant as the cool material made contact with your burning skin. “We’ll keep this on for at least a half hour. If it gets too warm, I’ll give you a fresh one.”

You just nodded in response, still overcome by the feeling of the pain finally abated. After that, he cleaned up your scratch and wrapped it in gauze. The feelings of his fingertips gently holding your arm made you feel like you were burning up for a slightly different reason. There was always something about the 501st’s head medic that intrigued you, and you would be lying if you said that you didn’t think he was attractive. All the clones were nice looking in their own ways, but Kix had something special about him.

“You said something about your head too,” he murmured as he secured the gauze on your arm.

“I hit it against the top of the gunship by accident,” you responded.

You pointed out the area to him and he carefully checked you over. “I don’t think you have a concussion, but I’m going to get you some ice for where it hurts,” he said. “Then you can lie down for a little while, okay?”

“No, I thought-”

But the look on his face had you trailing off before you had finished your sentence. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Especially not with those burns on your fingers.”

“But-”

“No buts, you need to rest in order to heal properly, and it won’t do you any good to go back to work before you feel better,” he said gently.

You didn’t want to be a burden to him for longer than you had to be, but you did understand where he was coming from. “Alright,” you said. “I suppose I can stay around a little longer.”

After Kix got you a fresh compress for your burns and an ice pack for your head, you ended up falling asleep, hoping that when you woke up you wouldn’t be in pain anymore.

***

When you opened your eyes, you could hear voices, but the curtain around your bed obscured whoever it was from your view.

“How is she?” That sounded like Fives.

“Asleep now, but she’ll be fine,” Kix responded.

Another voice joined the conversation, and you guessed that it was Echo. “That’s good. Rex said that she should stay here as long as necessary and not to worry about the ship she was fixing, it’s not a big deal.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t scare her off,” yet another voice said, this one sounding like Jesse.

“What do you mean?” Kix asked. You couldn’t see his face, but you could guess that he looked a little bit offended.

You had to hold in a little giggle at Jesse’s words, because you knew what he meant. Bedside manner was not one of Kix’s strengths as a medic. He could patch up any blaster wound in seconds, knew exactly what to look for when there was the possibility of a concussion, and could usually tell just by looking at someone whether or not they had fractured or broken a rib, but he wasn’t exactly all sunshine and smiles while doing so. Especially when it came to his batch mates or fellow troopers of the 501st. The better Kix knew someone, the ruder he was when patching them up, especially if they had sustained the injury doing something dumb. You had escorted a few troopers to the medbay yourself (one time after a game of hide and seek got out of hand), and watched as Kix teased his brothers while he helped them with their injuries.

But he was never like that with you. The harshest he had been was when you tried to get up and go back to work, and you wondered why that was as Fives responded to Kix’s earlier question.

“Come on Kix,” he said. “We get injuries and you call us di’kuts all the time, but suddenly now your bedside manner gets a makeover?”

“It’s because he likes her,” Jesse cut in. Well, that certainly piqued your interest.

“Jesse!”

“What? It’s true, isn’t it?”

But before Kix could confirm or deny the accusations, you sneezed (at the worst kriffing time for it). Conversation stopped and the curtain was pulled away, revealing Kix, Fives, Echo, and Jesse, all staring at you. Jesse seemed to realize the situation first, wishing Kix good luck and bolting out of the medbay, and Fives and Echo were not far behind him.

Kix looked like he wanted to chase after his brothers and strange them as he turned to you. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you responded, not sure where to go from here. Do you apologize that you overheard? Do you ask him if what Jesse said was true?

But Kix spoke again before you could say anything else. “Listen, I’m sorry about them,” he said.

“It’s okay,” you said. “I know what brothers are like, I’m sorry for eavesdropping.”

A silence fell over the two of you, but eventually Kix spoke again. “I just wish they hadn’t been so obvious about it, I was going to get there eventually.”

“What?” Yeah, that definitely wasn’t your finest choice of words.

“Jesse was right, I do like you,” Kix said. “And I was going to ask you out to dinner the next time we were on Coruscant, but I suppose the tooka is out of the bag now.”

“And is that offer of dinner on Coruscant still on the table?” you asked tentatively. You really hoped that he said yes, because if this was really happening, you didn’t want to go back the way it was.

Kix smiled. “Maybe. Why, do you want to take it?”

“Maybe.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh as Kix took your hand, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your cheek. “Yeah, it’s still on the table.”

But before he could pull away, you took advantage of a fleeting moment of bravery and sat up, placing a kiss of your own on his lips. “Good,” you said as you broke apart, love struck looks on both your faces. “Because I’d really like to take you up on the offer.”  

- the end - 

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[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

[saviinika]

Just a boy standing in front of a boy

Last WIP wednesday before @codywanweek and I'm eeeeeeeeee with excitement. The clip is from a hurt/comfort fic; Cody is hurt, and Obi-Wan is leaving him voice journals so he doesn't feel like he's missed anything while in the bacta tank. Because that's what totally platonic colleagues humans do for one another.

---

“Is now a good time to tell you that as a result of my year with the Duchess during my Padawan days, Iam fluent in Mando’a? I suppose better late than never, really. I apologize for deceiving you and your brothers for so long, or making it seem like there was a necessity for private conversations around me. It was certainly never my intent; it just never seemed like a good time to tell you, especially when many of the topics of discussion were clearly not meant for my ears. I can’t say I blame you for the cold shoulder you gave both her and I during our whole escort fiasco evading Death Watch. I should have been more open about my pre-existing relationship with her. Hmm. That’s not the right phrasing. ‘Historical relationship’, perhaps. And yes, though she did say she loved me, and at one time I thought I had loved her, I would have been miserable had I stayed with her like I wanted when I was eighteen. You make my life so much brighter, my dear. I don’t think I would be a very likeable man had we never met.”

“You know, I did like Boil’s treatise on why all Jedi should have retractible cords around their wrists to better keep track of their lightsabers. I’ll be honest, for all my repeatedly reminding Anakin and Ahsoka to hold onto theirs, I think mine has decided to run away on purpose because it likes you, darling. There’s certainly no other logical reason why I lose it so often or why it always makes its way into your hands. Kyber crystal, which makes up the heart of every Jedi’s saber, is a Force-sensitive material and as such, exceedingly rare. Jedi do not choose the crystal that powers their sabers; the crystal, or crystals, choose them. And mineseems to have chosen you too. Forgive my chuckle, it’s just that every time you return it, my crystal is humming the most pleasing song. So you see, I’m afraid the evidence is strongly in your favour. Perhaps I should consider letting you train with it. You’re brilliant, and eminently capable, so basic Soresu wouldn’t be hard to pass on. If you’re going to keep finding it, you might as well be able to wield it effectively in your own defence.”

“There’s some sort of commotion happening with Rex and your Clone Force 99. You really will have to tell me the story some day of how you managed to ensure the loyalty of those four vode. They seem so far removed from your preferred method of warfare, although honestly, you did have to get your penchant for taking on BD-1s with your fists from somewhere. Anyway, Anakin is leaving with them shortly and Kix did let me go to bid them farewell under Mace’s heavy-handed supervision. To my surprise, he commented that I was looking rested and better fed. I suppose if the Master of the Order could tell that I was wearing myself too thinly, perhaps I wasn’t doing as good a job at muddling through as I thought. Oh, Helix is here now and he wants you to know that he scoffed at me for saying that. He also says that he finds these voice notes I’m making for you ador— No, I am not telling him that. Sorry for being overly familiar there, my dear. It’s hard to do this with an audience.”

[vibratingskull]

Fake dating

I took @al-astakbar​‘s idea and run with it.

Thrawnxf!reader

Resume : Alone on an strange planet with a little chiss girl you walk desesperatly trying to reach coordinates given by a beacon. Here you are saved by Grand Admiral Thrawn’s crew and he proposes you an incongruous solution to your problem...

You hold her hand, never letting her go. You advance on the precarious terrain, stepping over trunks and gullies. The tall grass is as tall as her and she can’t see far away in the forest. 

“Keep going… walking farther…” You try to communicate. She looks at you with round eyes, like you’re asking the impossible. She sighs with a tear rolling down her cheek. You sit her down and take off her shoe.

It is not pleasant to see.

And without a bacta pack you’re afraid amputation awaits that little girl. But she didn’t complain once, walking straight without slowing you down, she’s far more resistant than you were at her age, she’s impressive.

“Show me beacon, please.” you try to articulate. This little girl, Moarorou, if you understood well, doesn't speak a word of basic and you don’t speak a word of her language. So you opted for your very poor Sy Bisty, the only language that sparkled a reaction in her. She hands you her weird necklace, it’s still beeping, still giving you the same coordinates she translated for you earlier, you only know that you're approaching them.

This is your only certitude.

You don’t even know if you could reach it in time, or ever. Too many parameters out of your control.

Your gaze lowers down on her foot again. The poor thing got stabbed by a metal tube in the foot and it got infected due to the grease and rust. You tried to wash and bandage the wound as well as you could, but without proper medical equipment, a miracle is all you can hope for. Right now you wish you could give her a painkiller, an anti-inflammatory medication, anything…

She pulls on her collar on wince, gasping for air. 

Those shock collars…

You take hers in your hands and try to find some slack to break it off, but once again to no avail, you look at her and shake your head with a sorry expression. If you're once again at range of your captors you're done for. You feel yours constricting your throat. The symbol of your enslavement… 

You wipe her tears with your thumb and smile at her, trying to give her the hope and courage you’ve long lost, putting your forehead against hers you caress the back of her neck in a soothing manner.

You palp the rifle at your hips and pass your arms under her.

“I carry you.” you explain standing up “Hold on.” She encircles your neck with her emaciated arms and lays her head  on your shoulder. You walk with her in your arms for hours, in the stifling air despite the shadow provided by the enormous trees. You only stop to permit her to ease her pain in a fresh stream of water and eat some berries off a bush. The cold water seems to be efficient but as soon she takes her feet off the water the pain comes back as grave and powerful. 

“Destination… help…” You promise every time, but the walk is so long and your chances so thin.

At night you hold her as she cries in pain and fear. You’ve never seen her species before, she must be so far away from her home… So you squeeze her, chant her some old melodies your mum sang when you had a nightmare, doing your best to not get wet by the rain, your rifle never far away. When she finally sleeps it’s you who can’t, reviving the crash with such precision… The panic, the horror, the screams. You see the Hutts, your captors, you see your chains, and all those nights parked in the slave cell; pressed against the other slaves, shuddering and cold.

And now you’re lost on this forest planet, blindly following an alien antiquity to find your way.

You wake up to the hot air, even more oppressive than yesterday, but without any sun. You examine her wounds. The flesh all around started to darken and the bad odor indicates you the necrosis started. She’s sweating and is really hot, taken by a fever.

If you don’t find civilization in the next 48h you’re afraid even amputation might not be able to save her.

Once again you carry her, on your back this time and walk straight ahead, crushed by the heat. She sleeps and talks at the same time, in complete delirium, you don’t understand a word as she’s talking in her strange language but imagining with ease that she calls her mom. 

You seem to hear some sort of… humming. 

You press your steps, hope rising in your chest. Is it the ship here to save you?

When you arrive at an open clearing you stop dead on your tracks.

You understand now why there isn’t any sun : An ISD of the Empire is floating just above you, finally free of the foliage that hid them until now.

Your stomach drops, escaping the Hutts to end in the empire’s hands is not an improvement. You gulp as you see a corvette slowly going down towards you, menacingly.

You stay on your toes ready to sprint off at any sign of danger. Strangely, only one woman exits the small ship, in the green uniform of those monsters that she seems to wear with pride. You take a step back as she continues towards you with assurance. When you decide she’s close enough you draw your rifle.

“Stop right there!” You shout.

She stops and gauges you up and down in silence, like she’s measuring her chances. But to your surprise she holds her hands high and visible. You think you see some commotion behind her in the dark of the ship, but you can’t say for sure

“Why are you here?!”

“Hello madam, I am commander Karyn Faro of the ISD Chimaera, I-”

“Why are you here!?” You shout back again, the temptation to shoot her between her eyes is so tempting, but that would for sure be your sign your own death warrant.

“Calm down madam, I am here to help.” She tries.

“Help? No. Your kind doesn’t help, it never does!” You start panicking, counting your options.

“We do. Often.” She tilts her head on the side. “We are here to help the child.” You feel Moarorou’s head resting on your shoulder moving a bit. The denominated Karyn takes a step towards you “Listen, we are here because of a distress signal. Let us help you.” Your gun starts to tremble in your hand but you don’t lower your arm “We can give you food and shelter, we can heal that poor child. The Grand Admiral Thrawn asked that no harm be given to you.”

“I don’t know that Thrawn!” You warn. “What value can I give to the words of an Imperial anyway?!”

“The highest value.” She’s almost on you. “The Grand Admiral is a man of honor. You can trust him…” With the tip of her fingers she traces the canon of your weapon. You search in her eyes any trace of humanity, she doesn’t seem to lie. “Do it for the child.” 

Slowly she invites you to lower the gun, and very gently take it out of your hands. 

“O…Ok…” You mumble, at the end of yourself.

She nods and spins on herself in a swift movement. With a snap of her finger she calls two all black stormtroopers that head towards you with their gun pointed at your chest. You’re tempted to run away but you know they shot in your back, therefore Moarorou’s back to stop you. The first one comes and just grabs Moarorou off your shoulder, tearing her from you. When you hear a weak whine of pain you immediately see red and ready to jump at their jugular. You throw yourself at them but you're stopped by a prodigious smack of the second’s knee in your stomach. You fall down, panting for air, they force you on your belly and handcuff you unceremoniously. You’re dragged to the shuttle and thrown into a seat.

“Hey!” You protest.You frantically search around you to find Moarorou. You find her on a stretcher with two droids busying themself around her. You rise up to go to her but you’re shoved back down right away.

“She needs me.” You plead to the black stormtrooper. They remain silent but threaten to hit you with their rifle butt. You turn back to Moarorou in despair as you hear here faintly calling your name.

“Here, Moarorou. Am here.” You answer, praying it comforts her.

“Don’t worry, our meddroids are the most competent across the galaxy.” Karyn Faro calmly enounces. “Now remain calm and everything will go smoothly. We are going.”

As she finishes her sentences you feel the shuttle take off. You gulp. In what mess did you end up? Your stomach is turning acidic by the minute and the closer you get of that gigantic ship the worse you feel.

__________________________________________

Then everything went so quickly.

Someone grabbed your arm without any care, stripped you of your old ripped dress and throwed you in a shower where you’ve been clinically cleaned with water blasts attacking your delicate and wounded skin. Then someone scrubbed all your body and hair thoroughly with a very efficient chemical product with alcohol lingering scents. You scream and protest, in pain, but the people in combination are deaf to your cries. Once cleaned you are asked to put on those pajamas for the hospital's patients and Karyn Faro guides you through the ISD, your arm in hand. You have no idea where you are going, your questions remain unanswered. She just lets out a stern “You’ll soon see.” 

You end up before a large door guarded by two stormtroopers, they salute her and open it, you end up in some sort of short corridor with two doors, one on your left from which you hear some grunts and metal impacts, but she pushes you towards the one in front of you. She looks at you up and down, pulls on your t-shirt to flatten it and pushes any strand of hair out of your face. 

“Alright, be polite and you should avoid the cell.”

“Wha-”

She pushes you inside and the door slams back shut. You drum against the cold metal.

“Wait! Don’t leave me alone! Please” But she’s far gone. You slowly turn to see where you are. It looks like an office of some sort with art decorating its walls. Behind an impressive desk, taking center stage are two statues of a lizard of some sort, holding a world in their claws. You consider the seat in front of the desk, wondering if you had the right to sit. Surely not. You must be in a high officer’s office, a low person like you surely remains standing.

A shudder spreads across your spine as you hear the door shuffling behind your back.

You feel a presence behind you.

Something cold and merciless. Something imposing…

You dare not move nor make a sound, not even turning to greet the person. You feel them move more than you hear them walking.

“Sit.” Say a calm voice.

You obey, eyes low.

They walk around the desk to sit in front of you.

You dig your nails in the fabric of the pajamas, greeting your teeth.

They remain silent but you can feel their burning gaze on you, gauging you, judging you.

After a full minute, no words were exchanged.

You hold your breath.

“Are you going to remain like this? Are you not going to look me in the eyes?” He asks softly. Too softly for someone with such a presence, it’s hiding something…

Looking at him in the eyes? You don’t know if you would dare. The last time you looked up to someone higher than you you earned 30 whiplash. You’ve learned your lesson. Your collar is still strangling you…

“Look me in the eyes.” He says. You don’t move an inch, too terrified. “It is an order.” The tone calls for no resistance.

So you obey.

Reluctantly you raise your head, and slowly you open your eyes.

And air gets caught in your throat.

This man…

Moarorou!

They are the same.

Detached from all of this, he observes you behind folded hands.

“Is it not better? Speaking eye to eye…” You gulp, knowing better than to speak your mind. Or speaking at all… “Relax, you are not in any immediate danger.” He assures taking a datapad in his hand. “I am Grand Admiral Thrawn. I only need you to answer me some questions.”

You observe his red eyes, piercing with intelligence. You feel like they could read you like a holobook. So he’s the Grand Admiral? An alien? You observe his stature, tall with prominent muscles he’s surely a warrior. Your eyes linger at his large hand, terrified at the idea that they could go for your throat in the immediate future…

“Are you mute?”

Your gaze crosses his once again and you lightly shake your head.

“Then answer me.” he hits you sternly. “What is your name?”

You answer with a small voice.

“Louder.” He says, eyes on his datapad.

You repeat.

“Good. Where do you come from?”

“I… We come from a crashed ship.”

“Owner?”

“My master’s name is Nattai Gleula.”

“No. The ship owner.”

“Oh…” you feel embarrassed now “The Hutts.”

“How did you encounter that little girl?”

“She was brought to the Palace one day. I don’t know much, we don’t speak the same language…”

“I figured you did not. Do you know for what works they purchased her?” This time he looks at you, and you would rather he did not because his gaze is terrifying. You always find Moarorou’s eyes pretty but from an adult warrior they are just terrifying…

“Huh… For cleaning and cooking. That’s what most children of her age do.”

“Did they ever take her to a ship?”

“No?” What a strange question “I mean, I never saw them do that…”

He nods pensively.

“What were the reasons for your trip?”

“Family reunion. They always travel with their court of slaves.”

“Do you know who could have something against your master?”

Your eyes widen, who couldn’t would be easier.

“Huh… He’s a crime syndicate so..”

“Excuses. Let me reformulate : Do you know who could have attacked you that day?”

“Attacked? I thought the ship just malfunctioned?”

“I think not. I think you ended up in an ambush set by an enemy. So?”

You think, but no one comes to mind. They all want your master dead and they all failed until now. Or maybe not, you didn’t stay behind to ensure the safety of your master, you took your chance and runned.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry sir.”

“It is okay, I already have an idea. Describe me the crash in more detail.”

You gulp.

“I was performing for my master when I felt the ship tremble. It was terrifying. Then it brusquely tilted on one side and everyone fell against the wall. I think I hit my head because I lost consciousness. I woke up with flames all around me, I used them to melt my chains. I tried to find an exit and ended up in the slave quarters, that’s when i heard Moarorou’s cries : her cell comrade was already dead and she got something metallic through her foot, locking her on the ground. I had to tear it up from her foot. There was so much blood… I managed to more or less cauterize the wound and we runned to the escape pod. I knew we couldn’t join space with them from the ground but they could project us far enough to escape. So we launch them and almost killed ourself when we landed. Since then we walked through the forest following her beacon’s indications and… then you found us.”

You remember the necklace, too weird and of poor metal to be worth anything, was in fact your life saver. For now….

He nods.

“Yes. This beacon comes from our people and is distributed to the likes of her.”

“The likes of her?” You dare ask.

“Children, of course.” He smiles.

“Oh… okay…”

You're disappointed. For what need a species would give a beacon to all of its children?

“And since when were you in that forest?”

You count mentally.

“A week, sir.”

“Hmmm.” He holds his chin and contemplates you. “I find myself in a precarious situation, miss.” 

That’s when he’s gonna tell you he can’t keep you like that, that he’s gonna imprison you and sell you back on the black market, unless you prove yourself to be nice and docile and earn some moment of liberty against some favors. If only you could secure Moarorou’s place at the medbay.

He rises from his seat and turns towards the statues, hands folded behind his back.

“You see, we are very few of my race in those parts of the galaxy. And the apparition of a child is not a good auspices in my humble opinion. If I am right, we are going ahead with some serious problems.”

You look at the back of his head, mouth agape. Some problems? What is he talking about? 

“Do you care for the girl?” He turns towards you, looking down at you from his height.

Why would it count? Why should your opinion count? Why does he care? You look at his eyes, searching for malice or a trap. 

But his gaze is clear.

“I… Yes.” You nods firmly. “Yes, I do.” 

“Good. Then I will ask you for your help. We must protect the child, at all cost, and send her back home as quickly as possible. But we must protect her identity.”

You blink, you’re not sure you’re following everything. And it’s been a while since someone “asked” you anything.

“Hum… Alright. And how should we do that, Sir?”

“I ponder this question since I have been made aware of your existence. I expected to only find a child, not two people. I have a plan, but I would understand if you refused.”

Flashes of Moarorou’s calling desperately for you appear in your mind.

“I want to know!” You exclaim. “I want to protect Moarorou!”

“Moarorou is her name?”

“Yes, I think…”

“We will know soon. We will find her once her operations at the medbay are over.”

“Alright.” You nod, reassured. “So… How do we proceed, sir?”

If you ever thought you would partner up with an imperial. But to protect little Moarorou you would do anything.

“We should pretend to be family. If I pass myself as her father, nobody should question her existence and search for her past. I would need you to pass for her caring mother.”

“But… That would make me your…”

“My wife. Exactly.”

You could burst out laughing if you were not that shocked. 

You?!

Pretending to marry an Imperial?!

A God-Damn Imperial?!

A slave trader ?

No!

“Wha-? Sir, you cannot be serious!?”

“I am completely serious. It is a necessary wrong to protect her.”

“But… Why would she need protection in the first place? She’s just a child!” 

“She is more than just a child. She is a key.”

“What is she?”

“That I can not tell you.”

“Then I think I cannot help you...”

“Then know you are condemning her.” He shakes his head with a sorry expression.

“What do you mean?”

“Only with this comedy I can fully protect her to the full extent of my capacities. The other option is keeping her locked and hidden from the world, but that is not a life for a child. She should be able to learn, to live freely, and I do not think you might want to inflict that on her.”

“No. I don’t, I…” You lose your words.

“Then consider my proposition. Think about it for a night, and give me your answer tomorrow.” He proposes.

Your head is spinning. Too many things to think about. 

“Come.” He proposes. “Let us see her. She must yearn for your presence.”

He looks into your eyes, and you can only see intelligence and an inalterable resolution.

“Yes…” You murmur “Let’s go.”

[weixuldo]

Allow me// ch 3

Vader x Reader

a/n: ngl i don’t really have a plan for this fic, but i love writing it so imma just see where it goes!! ty for reading :)

Vader hates suiting up

warnings: depiction of injury, body insecurity, cursing, anxiety

______________________

Vader reveled in the cooling water of his bacta tank; the only place he felt any sense of relief for his aching body.

Though it had been nearly two decades since his accident on Mustafar, the pain never truly subsided, especially since his suit was intentionally never upgraded.

The suit was uncomfortable and would harshly rub against his scarred skin, there was basically no breathing room- so he would often become overheated, also the heavy weight of the boots and armor took a heavy toll on his spine (which had to be surgically reinforced).

He never really got used to his suit but over the years he learned how to deal with it better; he learned how to ignore his pain by focusing on his work, spending as minimal time in the monstrosity as he could, and taking frequent bacta soaks. 

He often used the high tech machinery of his personal ward to assist him with tasks of bathing, suiting up, and his oxygen treatments. But every once in a while he would require human assistance, that’s where Vanee (Vader’s personal assistant-of sorts) would come in. 

Vanee was once an imperial inspector stationed at Vader’s Castle on Mustafar, but spent too much time near the exposed lava and the fumes drove him to madness.

His mania manifested differently than most who succumbed to the gasses of Mustafar; in his case he became obsessively devoted to Lord Vader, he proved himself a loyal servant and trusted ally. 

Other than Palpatine, Vanee was the only other human who had seen Vader out of his suit and lived to tell the tale (not that he would dare discuss his master’s true form with unworthy onlookers). 

Back in the tank, Vader’s oxygen system dealt him a healthy dose of air before he motioned for the tank to be drained; it was time to get back to work.

The dark room was only lit by the light coming from his bacta tube and a few blinking green lights on the walls. His muscles tensed as the cool air hit his skin while the water drained. 

Soon the tube was lowered and he was left dripping over the lit platform. His harness that suspended him began to rub since it was now holding all of his weight; a feeling he had unfortunately gotten used to. 

Though he had gone through this routine for decades, he still couldn’t help but feel a little insecure of his body being on display in the middle of this large room.

If he weren’t a force user, he would be completely helpless; suspended with no limbs and a ruined respiratory system, he was scarred and burned beyond recognition… he was pathetic.

He hated to dwell on the past, but sometimes he couldn’t help the memories that came flooding back. 

How was he once a renowned Jedi?

At one point, people followed him because they respected him, not because they feared him.

His body was once healthy and he didn’t need any assistance, not even with his prosthetic arm…if anything that arm was enhanced by the technology. 

But now that same technology was his burden. He was trapped in the very suit that kept him alive.

He would die in that suit.

He left his thoughts when the machines around him began to dry him off. They worked diligently to prep him for his suit.

He may have added a few tasks that he wanted them to do that the emperor didn’t originally intend for. Before they would attach his robotic limbs, he liked them to gently apply cooling slaves to the areas around his ports; that’s where the friction hurt the most. 

Though today, the machines were pressing a little too hard which caused the Sith Lord to groan in pain. He shut his eyes and made a note that he would need to check them later, before allowing the machines to proceed with his limbs.

First, his arms were applied, the pressure of the limbs securing made him wince, though it was nothing he couldn't handle. 

Next were the legs; the platform rose and began to attach. Everything felt fine until they began to twist too tightly which caused him to release a pained shout.

He used the force to reverse the machine’s progress and loosen the legs to where they needed to be.

He had the machine lower him to the ground and he clawed at his stumps. The tightening made the metal around his ports bend slightly and they began to ache; he wasn’t going to be able to finish getting ready this way if the machines kept malfunctioning. 

Begrudgingly he called for Vanee through the force as he propped himself up using his secured arms, this was humiliating…

The large sliding doors opened and hurried the cloaked man. Vanee rushed to his master's side and knelt before him. 

“What may I help you with, my Lord?” Vanee asked, casting his gaze down out of respect for the Sith.

“I require assistance to finish getting into my suit, the mechanics are not operating correctly today.”

Vanee nodded and helped Vader to his feet; he cringed as his weight shifted onto the metallic legs. He limped towards the bench on the opposite side of the room and sat with a grunt.

Vanee hurried around collecting the Sith’s garments and soon Vader was dressed. He headed towards the door with a slight limp, but before he reached the exit an odd sensation waved over him.

The feeling was warm and comforting, a feeling he had not felt in many years; it was the feeling he used to get when she was near. 

It was probably nothing though, just a random trick of the force; surely it wasn’t because you happened to be walking past the door on the other side… that would be ridiculous-

“Shall I ask for the mechanics department to send an inspector, My Lord?” The hooded man asked as Vader snapped back into reality. 

“That will not be necessary, I have someone in mind that I want to work on it.”  Vader said before he promptly left the room. 

_____________________

In the weeks since your last encounter with Lord Vader, you had carried on in your tasks, trying to keep your delusional daydreams at ease; of course you were crazy to even have a shred of interest in the man, but something in you just couldn’t help it. 

You wouldn’t say you necessarily had a crush on him… but you got butterflies when you’d spot him, you would take the long route to your destination if you thought you may get a glimpse of him on the way, you would mention him in passing conversation with other workers just to hear his name. 

….ok

Maybe you did have a little crush on him.

But, you knew it was insane. He was a tyrant, a dictator… a murderer.

You knew some of the appeal was the danger and the risk of liking him , but it was also because he was the first human to be remotely kind to you… but you couldn’t seem to stop your infatuation.

You didn’t know much about the suited man, except for his status and power in the empire. You often tried to imagine what he looked like under the mask; was he handsome? Did he look old? 

What color were his eyes? We’re they the traditional Sith yellow? Or were they brown? Maybe Green? Or Blue? 

What color was his hair? Was it cut short or long?

You liked to imagine him as a handsome man who aged well, you knew he had to be pretty built just based on his stature alone.

You liked to imagine how his muscles looked… were they bulky? Were they more defined? 

You pondered those thoughts as you walked down the long corridor to your posted station for the day, some of the x-wings needed some work and you were the only available mechanic at the moment. 

As usual, you took the longer route that passed by the Sith Lord’s chambers; each time you walked by you got butterflies. The fact that at any moment he could be in that room, only a few feet from you, gave you goosebumps.

As you passed, you remembered back to the night that he had killed those troopers; you were scared for your life that night. His heavy footsteps and patterned breathing still echoed through your ears. 

Once you got further down the hall you heard a door behind you swish open; you wanted to look back, but something told you to keep moving.

You continued on until you heard the oh so familiar respirator. 

It was him.

You secretly smiled to yourself, you knew it was him whom you sensed. Throughout this time you had been getting better and better at detecting his presence. 

“Halt” his booming voice exclaimed. 

You stopped in your tracks, maybe you were too obvious with your feelings. Either way, it wasn’t a good idea to keep him waiting so you turned to face him. 

The dark figure came towards you with a strong gait, though he seemed to be limping slightly. 

You bowed, “My Lord”.

“Just the person I was looking for” he stated, towering over you. 

He was searching for you? Was this it? Was he going to tell you how inappropriate your thoughts had been? Was he going to dismiss you? Or was he going to kill you? 

Fuck! Even now your thoughts betrayed you. 

“How may I be of assistance?” You asked, making contact with his dark lenses. 

“I require your services on some of the machines in my ward, you shall accompany me” he said, turning on his heel back towards the room he came from. 

You knew his word overrid that of your boss, but you would be punished if you didn’t attend your post… Vader didn’t seem like one to give excused absences to management thought and it's not like you could just ask him to let your boss know where you were… he was the Sith Lord, after all ....

Either way, your priority was to fulfill the Sith's wishes.

The room was dark and once you were inside he quickly slid the massive door shut with a simple wave of his hand. Was it bad that his action excited you?

Stop.

If you were worried about him sensing your feelings earlier, how about now?! You needed to get it together

The lights in the room started to gradually light up and he led you towards a platform in the middle of the room. Surrounding the pad were maintenance and fine motor droids, these were often used to assemble intricate machinery. Maybe the Sith tinkered in his free time. 

You took a quick survey of the rest of the room; most of it looked pretty normal, except for the medical droids in the corner. What was that for? 

“These machines have been malfunctioning, I need them to be tuned back to their personalized settings.” Vader spoke before heading back towards the exit. 

Wait, how were you supposed to know what the settings were? And you were not about to be killed over a mistake you didn’t even have instructions for.

“My Lord, wait!” You exclaimed, before you could think of a more formal way of asking for his presence.

“What is the issue?” He asked with a strong tone.

You were petrified, but the demanding tone sent a shock right down to your core. 

“I am not sure I will be able to fix these machines if I do not know their purpose. If the droid is intended for mechanical repairs it will require different attention if it is for repetitive assembly.” You explained lightly. 

The Sith Lord stood for a moment, all you could hear was the whirs of his breathing and your own rapid heartbeat. 

Suddenly he addressed you, “the information we discuss does not leave this room”.

“Of course, My Lord” you confirmed.

“I use these machines to suit up” 

What exactly did he mean by that?

“They help dress you?” you asked.

He sighed annoyedly and you were afraid he was growing impatient with you. 

“I’m sorry, My Lord, I do not unders-”

“Many years ago I was injured in battle and these machines assist me when I must dawn my suit”

Oh.

“I’m sorry”

“Pay no heed to my plights” 

He sounded almost apologetic…

“May I ask the specific issues the machines were making?” 

Your heartbeat quickened with every second he took to answer back; you had already asked so many questions, surely his patience was wearing thin.

He sighed once more, bending towards you and resting a weighted glove on your shoulder. 

“Officer, I can sense your fear”

Your wide eyes blinked back nervous tears, “I-I.. My apologies”

“I do not wish to strike fear into you, my dear. I would like you to relax”

You nodded as he stood back to his normal height. Though you could not see his face, you could feel the presence of a small smile, surely gracing it.

“Yes, My Lord”

“It would also be favorable if you lessened on the formalities”

Was he being serious?

Ever since the empire was established it was drilled into everyone’s heads that they were to be cordial to any one who held office or rank in the galactic empire. Was he trying to trick you?

But if you didn't do what he said, wouldn’t you also be disobeying-

“Stop overthinking” he said, though it didn’t have a demanding tone, it sound more like a gentle ask.

He stepped closer to you and your muscle memory kicked in; you quickly bowed before him. Once you realized what you had done you began to apologize, “I’m so sorry, My L-”

A gloved hand tilted your chin to the dark figure above you and he pulled you to your feet.

Your heart raced and embarrassingly….you felt your core pulsing too. 

“What is your name?” 

“F-F/N L/N, or just y/n” you answered shyly.

“y/n, that is an exquisite name. May I call you that?” he asked, a gloved hand still brushing over your chin. 

You nodded and he caressed your cheek before withdrawing his hand. 

“y/n, I give you my word, I will not harm you.” he explained, “I have observed you officer and have taken an interest in you and your work” 

You stood there in bewilderment, all this time you thought he was after you for the thing with their troopers or that he was trying to trick you into a false sense of security, but to be here with him, especially after all of the comforting words he exchanged… you couldn't help the butterflies taking flight in your stomach. 

“Now, may we return to the task at hand?” 

“Yes, My L-”

He slightly turned his helmet and you retracted your statement remembering what he asked earlier; it was just force of habit.

_______________________________________

The maintenance took a few hours, but for another technician it would have taken a day; you may not be much, but you were talented in your craft. 

Vader left the room to you after about an hour, but not before reminding you to keep the information discussed private (most likely referring to the fact he needed assistance- how would the galaxy react if the most feared sith was disabled in a way).

The walk back to your room was completely silent, you used so much brain power that you couldn't even muster the energy to overthink the situation; all you could think about was showering and going to bed. 

Once you settled into bed, sleep washed over you and soon you were in the deep embrace of slumber; dreams filled with an all too familiar dark figure. 

***

a/n: i’m actually falling waaaay back in love with original series vader… like i never left but i’m just really fucking invested rn 😩😩… i hope you guys are enjoying the story!!

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