#coarseweave

[sw5w]

I Do Not Believe the Sith Could Have Returned Without Us Knowing

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:24:36

[saturninemysticthreads]

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[sameheart-sameblood]

Live While We’re Alive

(gif by @rex-is-best)

pairing: commander wolffe x f!reader

summary: you thought being a newly recruited civilian doctor to the GAR was hard enough until you developed a hopeless crush on Commander Wolffe

words: 2.8 k

warnings: mature, some suggestive talk, mutual pining, medical exams, co-workers to lovers, a doctor having inappropriate thoughts about their patient 

a/n: I started writing this awhile ago and then lost all creative motivation but I've been in a Wolffe mood the past few days and sad we didn't get to see him in The Bad Batch so here we are. I'd like to apologize to my doctor dad and all medical professionals everywhere lol. Also, I had intended for this to end in smut but then got lost in feelings so there mayyyy be a chapter 2. We'll see ;)

read on ao3!

You want to fuck him. It’s been decided. This realization couldn’t have come at a worse time, though. You’re surrounded by Jedi and Clone Officers in a very important meeting detailing your next mission. But you only have eyes for one of the men and he’s currently standing at the head of the room giving a briefing to the holo of Master Yoda. It’s a testament to Commander Wolffe’s presence that you barely notice the little green Jedi Master he’s conversing with. Well, his presence and his extreme handsomeness.

When you’d first met him, you’d been truly intimidated. The other women you worked with nodded in understanding, whispering they had been thrown off by his cybernetic eye and prominent scar. But that wasn’t it. You’d noticed those things, but that wasn’t what made you uneasy.

It was the fact that he took one look at you and seemed to see right into your soul. You couldn’t explain it but you felt like with just a glance, he could tell your deepest insecurities. And stars, did you have a lot of those.

You had worked your way up through the medical field and had started your residency at the biggest hospital in Coruscant. After your training ended, you had secured a permanent job there. It had been difficult, to say the least. Though you knew you were qualified, even more so than most of your male co-workers, you still doubted yourself often.

Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi had come to visit you one nondescript Thursday afternoon, telling you of the need for doctors in the GAR. He said you came most highly recommended when he was searching for recruits but still, you thought a mistake had been made and that someone soon would realize and send you back to your normal life. It was a recurring nightmare you’d developed in the past few weeks that shook you from your sleep.

You had agreed to join the GAR, sympathetic to the cause and wanting to do your part. The next few weeks had consisted of you getting your bearings and meeting the rest of the staff at the base . Kix, the clone medic in charge, had helped you learn the ropes and had introduced you to all his brothers. At first, you had been overwhelmed by the sea of identical faces. As the weeks had gone on, you’d learned everyone’s names and they’d made you feel welcome, like one of their own.

The Commander and you had crossed paths several times. He was polite but distant. Not like you blamed him. He had more important things to do than exchange drawn out pleasantries. With each run-in, though, he seemed to be making more of an effort to be personable. Unfortunately, each conversation left you looking more and more like an idiot. Or a di’kut. The boys had been teaching you some Mando’a.

You were a medical professional, a well-respected doctor and yet Wolffe made you feel unsure of yourself. It had been so long since you’d had a crush that you didn’t realize this was what the beginning of one felt like.

*******

As you sit around the war room table, you feel even more like a school girl. Instead of paying attention to whatever Master Yoda is saying, you’re transfixed by Wolffe’s face. The hazy blue light from the holo reflects off his features, making him look ethereal. His scar looks even more prominent and you blush, remembering how often you’ve wondered what it would feel like to let your fingers trace it.   And his lips. They’re moving, responding to whatever the Jedi has said. They’re mesmerizing and now you’re thinking of what it would be like to kiss him. Or even better yet, to have those lips pressed against the plushier parts of your body.

You continue to stare until you realize his face has turned to you. It probably only takes you a second to come back to reality but it feels like an eternity. Somehow you’re able to respond to the question.

“Yes, Commander. All medical personnel are prepared for an 0800 liftoff. Kix will take his team with the 501st and I’ll have my staff along with the 104th. We’ll reconnoiter once we’ve landed on Hisseen.” The rest of the table nods, moving the conversation along. Wolffe stares at you for a moment, a hint of a smirk on his lips. You avert your gaze, finding the table a much safer object of your attention.

The discussion wraps up and Wolffe stands at attention, puffing his chest out, before Master Yoda disappears. Once again, your eyes are drawn to him. You’re not sure how but he makes something so mundane look indescribably attractive. Wolffe’s head turns in your direction but you’ve already bolted from your seat, hoping to cool down in the hallway.

Kix pushes through the crowd to get to you. “Hey, Doc. How’d the meeting go?” You shrug. “Nothing new to report. Just making sure we’re all set for our campaign.” He’s shifting back and forth, a sort of glazed look in his eyes. You realize he’s not paying particularly close attention. It’s the look of someone asking you something just so they can request a favor in return.

“Hmm oh yeah, that’s nice. Say, Doc, do you think you could cover for me for a few hours? I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Since when is playing Sabacc with Fives and the boys urgent?”

“Since I remembered how terrible they are at it. I can make a real killing playing against them.”

You laugh. It’s true. You’ve come to love those men but a lot of them are really horrible at the game. You’ll need to give them a remedial course if you have any downtime on Hisseen. “Of course. What do you need me to do?” He rewards you with a huge grin. “Nothing hard! A few higher ups coming in for their physicals. Just the usual. Make sure they’re in tip top shape to get shot at by some tinnies.”

He gives you the list. It’s only a handful of men but the last one on it makes your blood go cold. “Commander Wolffe needs a physical?” Kix is oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Oh yeah, but he knows the drill. Honestly everyone can do it themselves at this point. We’re basically there to oversee it as a formality.”

You swallow down your apprehension and nod. “Sounds easy enough. Go have fun. And take it easy on them, will ya? Let them keep a little of their dignity intact” Kix just grins and shoots you a wave as he runs off.

*******

Your first few appointments go just fine. The officers are professionals and Kix was right, they could do these routine physicals with their eyes closed. You give them all your seal of approval and settle in to do your paperwork before your last, most anticipated patient arrives. The forms in front of you hold no interest and you find yourself checking the chrono every few seconds.

It’s not easy but you manage to finish your work. You set it aside and take steadying breath. Five more minutes and he’ll be here. You scold yourself. The Commander has never been anything but professional. You’re the one thinking these very unprofessional thoughts.

And you’re a doctor, for kriff’s sake. Your patients should be able to come to you without worrying you may be fantasizing about what they look like naked. But these are uncharted waters. It’s your first time having to deal with a patient you’re this attracted to. They really should take your medical license away.

Just as you’re thinking of packing it all up and handing in your resignation to the Jedi Council, a knock at the door snaps you to attention. Well, here goes nothing. You scold yourself once again for checking your reflection in the mirror before answering the door.

You had tried to adopt a passive, professional look to your face before greeting Wolffe but it must not have worked. “Everything alright, Doc? I’m not early, am I?” You shake your head.“Not at all. Punctual as always, Commander.” You beckon for him to come in and take a seat. You close the door, then sit across from him at your desk.

Your datapad hums to life and you busy yourself opening the appropriate forms you need to fill out. The weight of his eyes is heavy on you and your cheeks heat up in spite of yourself. You push on through as best you can.

“Well, Commander, how are you feeling today?” There’s that ghost of a smirk again but it vanishes so quickly you're not sure if you imagined it. “I feel like a million credits.” You giggle despite it not even being that funny. You’ve got it bad. “Glad to hear it. This should be quick then.” You gather your equipment and get to work.

First, you take his weight. Then, you listen to his heart. You press the stethoscope to his sternum, thankful you can do this over his blacks. He observes you the whole time. “And what about you? How are you today, Doc?” You risk a glance and meet his eyes. That was a mistake.

“Me? Oh-um just fine. Maybe not like a million credits but a few hundred at least.” You trail off dumbly but he humors you with a chuckle. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard that sound from him before. It’s like music to your ears. “Anything I can do to help? You do look a little flushed. Are you sure you don’t have a fever?” You avert your eyes again.

“No. I’m alright. It’s just, uh, hot in these uniforms. The coarseweave doesn’t breathe.”

“You sure? Maybe I should be the one giving you a check-up.”

You realize he’s toying with you now.

“That won’t be necessary, Commander.”

You move on to check his lungs. “Breathe in for me.” You move the stethoscope to his chest, then move it around a few different spots on his back. “You can call me, Wolffe. If you’d like.” He breathes in every time, not even needing prompting, ever the dutiful soldier, even when he’s teasing you.

“I would like that. Thank you, Wolffe.”

Next, you measure his blood pressure. You’re shocked that it’s so low. He sees the look of surprise on your face. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all. The opposite, in fact. Your pressures are great. I just thought with your lifestyle they might, understandably, be a bit higher.”

“What kind of lifestyle do you think I have?”

You’re backtracking as quickly as you can. “I just meant, your life as a soldier, it must be extremely stressful.”

There’s that smirk again. “It is. But you don’t get to be a Commander by not being able to handle the pressure.”

“Of course. But even so, if you’d like some stress relief techniques I can suggest some.” He hums as if really thinking it over. Thankfully there’s only one part of your exam left. Which is good because you’re not sure how much resolve you have remaining.

“Everything looks great. I’ll just do a head and neck exam and then I can send you on your way.”

You need to touch him for this part but you stop yourself, hands hovering but not quite meeting their destination. You feel like once you touch him, really feel his skin under your fingers, there may be no going back.

Wolffe sees your hesitation, then slowly reaches out to take your hands. You watch with wide eyes as he guides them to his neck. He looks up at you innocently enough but you can tell he’s laughing internally. You try to reign in control of the situation.

“Sorry, I just got distracted.” The Commander studies you but this time it’s in earnest. “Are you nervous? This’ll be your first time in an active war zone, right?” You had been anxious but not about that. But now that he mentions it, yeah, you honestly don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Yes, I’m not sure what to expect. I guess you could say I’m a little scared.” Wolffe gently holds your chin, directing you to look back at him. “I won’t lie. It’ll be overwhelming and frightening. Battles can seem never-ending. But I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You’re staring into each other’s eyes and you don’t want to stop. But then he’s clearing his throat and gently removing his hand from your skin. You realize you’ve been resting your own hands on his shoulders this whole time. “Thank you, Wolffe. I do feel much better knowing you’ll be there.” You offer him a smile, hoping it conveys just how much you appreciate him looking out for you.

You begin your exam, gently kneading where his neck meets his shoulders, checking for any anomalies. Then you move to his throat. The throat you’ve so often been distracted by. It’s featured prominently in your daydreams. You move your hands along it, under his jawline. Having a man this powerful baring one of the most vulnerable parts of his body to you is intoxicating. Focus, di’kut.

Everything feels normal except for some knots you find resting right below the surface of his smooth skin. “Lymph nodes feel good. You’re a little tense, though. But I bet it’s from that bucket you have to wear most of the day.” He hums in thought. “True. But even so. Maybe you could give me some of those ideas for stress management?” He looks up at you with big eyes. There’s mischief in them but something else. Vulnerability?

You gulp audibly. “Of course. There are a few that work particularly well, um, like deep breathing techniques, going on walks, talking with friends, meditation, journaling, physical activity…” You’re rambling, fighting a losing game against your resolve. Wolffe thinks on it. “Physical activity seems like a good place to start.” His hands come up to gently cover yours that are still resting on his neck.

The sensation of his calloused fingers on your skin sends shivers down your body. You close your eyes, feeling the last of your self-control topple over. “Wolffe,” you whine “We shouldn’t…” He immediately drops his hands, worry etched on his face. “I’m so sorry. It’s just- I thought you wanted-.” He cuts himself off, snapping up to his feet and to attention. “Doctor, you should report me to General Plo Koon for immediate disciplinary action.”

Dank Farrik, you’ve just ruined everything.“Wolffe! No, I’m not reporting you to anyone. If anything you should report me for being so unprofessional.” His shoulders relax a bit but he still eyes you as if you’re a live grenade that might explode at any second. “What do you mean?” You sigh in frustration. This isn’t how you wanted to confess your feelings to him.

“I…want you, Wolffe. The second I realized that I should have asked to be re-assigned to a different battalion. Instead I thought I could push those feelings down and continue to do my job. Looks like that was a mistake.” You hang your head, avoiding his piercing gaze. He’s silent for just a moment but it feels like an eternity.

“So, you want me and I want you?” You nod your head, ashamed, as he continues. “Then what’s the problem, Doc?” Your eyes snap to his, not believing what you’re hearing.

“Isn’t it wrong of us?”

Wolffe sits down on the exam table again, genuinely thinking on it. “I don’t see why. We’re both consenting adults. We don’t work directly with each other- I report to General Koon, you report to General Kenobi- so there’s no real conflict of interest. The worst we’ll face is a little ribbing from the boys if they find out.”

You raise your head to look him in the eyes, needing to make sure he’s serious and that this isn’t some twisted joke. What you find staring back at you is hope and promise. He senses your trepidation and gently takes your hands in his. “I’m sorry if I came on strong. But the thing about this life is that there are no guarantees. Tomorrow isn’t promised and so I figured I’d rather go for something, someone, that I want and have my heart broken rather than regretting my inaction.”

Your eyes roam the scars on his face, evidence of just how true his words are. You’re heading into active battle tomorrow. One or both of you could be injured, or worse. You step towards him. He spreads his legs so you have room to get closer. You rest your forehead on his, breathing him in.

His hands come up to caress your sides. You take a shaky breath. He questions you softly. “Cyar’ika?” Ah, now that’s one of the new words you definitely remember. His vulnerability makes you ache and the decision to hand your heart over is an easy one. “You’re right, Wolffe. Might as well do some living while we can.”

*******

[prokaryotics]

the sacredness of shared meals

chapter 1 | masterlist

pairing: Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

words: 4.0k

warnings: No (Y/N) slow-burn + not a whole lot happening in this chapter. some mild descriptions of blood and injury. maybe a few bad jokes. some tension and yearning. possibly a spoiler for season two of The Mandalorian. 

a/n: y’all know the drill by now

You find him face down in the sand not far from your farm.

Almost immediately outside its periphery actually, about four or five yards from the outermost vaporator. The tallest and most valuable out of the three that you own, and unfortunately the one most prone to breaking. The previous night’s dust storm has given you plenty of reason to go check on it now - the small holopad like device you use to monitor the functionality of each collector strobing in warning, a bright orange exclamation point flashing across the screen. Painfully annoying to deal with most of the time, and hopefully nothing more than sand, but you won’t know until you look, and as you walk across your property with your patch-in droid, you’ve got your fingers crossed that whatever damage it’s suffered isn’t anything that requires more than having to brush away a few rocks.

Stepping out of your house, you sink slightly with each step you take afterward. The high morning daylight reflects blindingly against newly formed dunes of sand, residues of last night’s wind blowing unsettled granules into your face, making it difficult to find your balance and to see properly even in layers of protective coarseweave and the scarf you’re wearing covering most of your face. Bringing your hand to your forehead, you do your best to soldier through it, ignoring the gritty salt taste in your mouth and the way your eyes begin to water. Your droid does his best to keep up, too, his wheels whirring as he works hard to maintain his traction, sand flying out from beneath his weight, his discomfort and protest voiced with an occasional beep.

“You could have stayed home, you know. You didn’t have to come with me.” You turn to your right and squint down at the sky blue robot. His binocular-like head turns in your direction and squints back.

Another beep, far more annoyed and less dejected than the previous ones.

“I know it’s your job, honey. It’s just a little bit further. I can’t help that you have wheels. I’m not the one who created you. Trust me, if I was I would have made you a lot nicer.” You grumble the last bit, trying not to trip over your ankles as the sand gets deeper and harder to step through.

A series of upset chirps, his poor little tank-like feet fighting a losing battle against a terrain that seems as if it’s always trying to kill something - robots and non-robots alike. Taking pity on him, you sigh and stop walking, feeling guilty, bending down to his height to brush debris off his head and the piece of metal that protects his wheels.

“You’re right. I’m just stressed about the vaporator. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m sorry.”

A shy tril signals your forgiveness. You stand to your full height and start walking again, this time with more purpose, the vaporator in question appearing on the horizon. “Alright, twenty credits says that it’s the condensers this time.”

It didn’t take as long as you liked to admit for this to stop feeling weird, having conversations with a companion that isn’t even human. When you had inherited your farm, you had been used to living on your own and your uncle had long since passed. An awful man that hadn’t even been living on Tatooine for the last few years of his life, having escaped this bantha-fodder hell hole for a planet much more nice and shiny, not that you were particularly close with him anyway, so it had come as a surprise to find out that you were included in anything that had to do with him at all, let alone something a serious and invariable as his will. But as it turned out, it wasn’t much of a gracious offering. The property and everything on it was maintained by a hired hand who travelled the distance between your farm and Mos Eisley for a sum he was paid monthly, a portion of the earnings the farm’s previous owner won in high stakes bets placed on fathier races. With no measure or incentive to make sure things were actually being properly taken care of, the newly rich attendant let almost everything fall to ruin, and your droid, the frustratingly perceptive and surprisingly snarky assistant trailing behind you with all his might, was nothing more than a cowering piece of metal forgotten in the corner.

He had needed a friend just as much as you did.

“Woah, high roller. Where’re you getting that kind of money? And besides, we don’t mention the people that shall not be named, remember? Jeez, it’s like you’re trying to summon them.”

You glance down at the holopad still blinking, tapping twice to zoom in on the equipment in question now that you’re closer to it, trying to get a better look. The droid’s response is a beep you’re not quite paying attention to, your focus now on figuring out what has gone wrong and how to fix it. “As much as I want to boost your self esteem, you and I both know you can’t fight them. How would you even do that? You’re basically a neck attached to a moving platform, all they’d have to do is knock you over.”

A second noise, far more concerned than the last.

“Not saying I’d fair any better, Patch, but ya know…I have arms.”

Upon rotating the 3D model of the spire, you grin wickedly as you zoom in a second time on the refrigerated condensers highlighted in red, any irritation at this unfortunate find temporarily annulled by your sweet, sweet victory over your poor, helpless robot. “Ha! Told you. See? Right there. Second condenser. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but this is the fourth time I’ve been right which I think qualifies this as a winning streak, so if you want to cheer for me, I would not be opposed.”

You set the device down on the base of the harvester and move on to grab a few tools from the satchel situated around your waist, noticing for the first time that he’s uncharacteristically silent.

You turn to face him, worried. “What’s the matter?”

Staring off at something in the distance, you follow his line of sight. “Oh.”

He chirps again, quiet and on-guard, and this time you realize he’s been trying to get your attention. A tiny sparkle had caught his photoreceptor, a small glint of refracted sunslight angling out from beneath bleached, atomized earth.

“Stay here.”

Armed with only a screwdriver, you aren’t really sure what you’re doing as you slowly and carefully approach the slight deviation in the otherwise smooth surface of the dunes. Your palm sweats around the handle of it the closer you get, nervous but too committed now to turn back. You can’t tell what it is, just that pieces of it are catching, dark green fabric and a broken antenna of some sort sticking out of the sand. You wouldn’t call yourself brave, not really, not at all actually because you’re a hermit moisture farmer who lives off soup and portion bread and spends most of her days talking to a sentient droid that may or may not - some of the time - be plotting her murder, so it isn’t like you to be doing something like this - to be taking such a risk. Each step makes your common sense scream, your experience with things like this able to be counted on one hand (more like a fist) and you nearly turn around more than once, the practical part of you counteracted by your maybe, probably, crazed mumblings that -Okay, you can do this. It’s fine. Gotta protect Patch and defend my land like a good farmer lest I risk being haunted by my nerf-herder uncle. Who needs a spear when you’ve got a screwdriver, right? I’ll be fine. This is totally fine. Totally don’t have to pee right now either. Maker, what the hell am I doing?

It isn’t until you’re close enough to reach out and touch them that you realize what had been half-way buried in the storm last night happened to be a person and not, for instance, something much easier and less traumatizing to deal with.

Immediately you begin to dig, with an agenda at first, but soon your movements devolve into something akin to panicked as whatever progress you make is undone by the wind and gravity. The man, you figure this out next, is big - heavy and unconscious and obviously injured, which doesn’t make any of this easy - it certainly doesn’t ease the burden of the fact that you could be mistaken and you might be trying to uncover a dead body, or the increasing possibility that if he isn’t you have the ethical duty to not just leave him in the middle of the desert and that you now somehow have to get him back to your house.

But in the typical let me just ignore this until I can’t sort of fashion, you pointedly tuck all that away for later and manage, pushing up on his shoulder and using his own weight to flip him over onto his back.

Exhaling and embarrassingly out of breath, you sit down and you close your eyes before you can get a good look at his face, relieved - at least for the moment - that if this man is going to go, at least it isn’t ass in the air, suffocating in sand.

“If you end up being weird I’m gonna be so mad.” You grumble as you stand, brushing fruitlessly at your pants, ready to grab ahold of his cape and drag him by the shoulders back to your house.

When you open your eyes again, you get your first real look at him.

Hurt would be an understatement. Injured isn’t any better.

His skin and his clothes and his hair are stained with a tacky, dark brown and tar-black mixture of sand and blood and salt. The granules stick particularly well to the lacerations on his face and hands still oozing, getting lighter and more like the sand around you the further away they are from the cut like some awful form of bacta - built up from hours spent wandering, at first managing to stay up right, taking stumbling and exhausted steps forward, then, by the looks of his shirt, crawling on his stomach when his legs had finally collapsed.

Somewhere along the way he lost his armor. His jetpack and blaster.

Entirely defenseless, he managed to get as far as this, your measly little farm, before he could force himself to go any further.

Recovering, you swallow the urge to recoil, forcing the fear and empathy and initial disgust away somewhere that isn’t the forefront of your mind to be picked apart and dissected later too, along with a whole bunch of other things, hyper-aware that right now you need to figure out a way to get him inside and treated before you no longer have that option.

Grabbing his arms by the elbows, you start your seemingly endless trip back. “Maker, I’m sorry if I make this worse, just please don’t die.”

-

The hour and a half that follows is surreal, like some strange out of body experience that consisted mostly of you whispering assurances to an unconscious man and to an empty room, but mostly just to yourself, almost as if the affirmations had somehow made it easier to wash his hair and strip him of his clothes, trying to preserve them enough to sew and clean them later, to ignore the way he floated in and out of consciousness, groaning, causing you to look sharply away from his face when it twists full of anguish. Unsure or maybe just unwilling to figure out if he knows what you’re doing, if he knows that he’s safe and that all you want to do is make him better because speaking directly to him makes him - this and its consequences - real.

You had filled a wooden bowl with water and added oils to it. A recipe learned and passed down to you by watching your mother, staring up at her in the refresher, then following her to the kitchen as she carefully stirred until the water was opaque and dotted with bubbles, the concoction used on sunburns and split knees whenever you fell and your father’s callused hands, a sort of soothing home-remedy that worked miracles on cracked skin and blisters, perhaps nothing more than snake oil now and with only enough bacta to take care of a small portion of his injuries, you were sensible with how you rationed it, hoping that gently cleaning the dirt and blood off his face and neck and hands was enough, and that his immune system would do the rest.

He calmed by the time you were finished. You watched his chest rise and fall for a few minutes, somewhere between frozen in shock and ensuring he was still breathing, snapping out of it eventually when Patch came rolling slowly into the room, leaving you with nothing more than to work on mending his clothes.

-

Boba wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize that is warm and dimly lit.

It is night now, but he cannot tell how much time has passed. Outside, moonlight shimmers softly against the glass of the window high above his head directly across the room, as if the stars hidden away in the daytime had decided to fall and make their new home in the sand. Beautiful. Calming. If he had the energy, he’d be surprised by how safe he feels, how unbothered he is by his vulnerability, but he doesn’t so he moves on - letting recognition of his surroundings skim the surface of his awareness. Around him, everything is bathed in the low orange glow of bloggin-oil lamps, and in his semi-conscious state he’s cognizant that something is cooking, a sort of broth that fills the entire room with the scent of lyseed seasoning and something medicinal.

Hushed beeping and answering whispers catch his full attention. Boba turns his head. The room develops in his vision like the gradual development of a hologram.

“He’s not!” A sharp whine in dissent. “No, I am not about to get close enough to find out. What if he ends up being violent or something? Then who’s going to fix your wiring and make sure you don’t get squeaky? It’s not going to be me because I’ll be dead!”

A table. The leg of a chair. 5 wheels. A boot. His gaze travels upwards.

You.

Sitting a few feet away from his bed with a steaming mug of something cradled in your right hand - the same something that must be boiling near the nanowave right now - your knees tucked towards your chest, making wild gestures with your free hand as you speak to the scrawny droid to your left.

“You go check on him if you’re that worried about it. I did my part.”

Boba swallows and licks his lips, noticing abruptly how dry his mouth is. He hasn’t had anything to drink since falling into the sarlacc pit almost three days ago, leaving him dangerously dehydrated but unable to speak - helpless to interrupt this annoying conversation to ask for something to drink. He tries anyway, though, his chest heaving with the impulse to cough, the movement aborted with every inhale, his lungs pressing against his ribcage like they had been made from shards of glass until finally -

“Stop. Talking.”

Surprised into silence, you set your cup down and lean forward, standing up. “You’re awake.”

“You’re loud.”

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly, quieter now, approaching the bed - your bed - tentatively. “How are you feeling? You’ve been asleep a few hours.”

Boba blinks slowly. “Like I was eaten alive.”

You don’t know what that means, can’t even begin to imagine if he’s being serious or not, but it doesn’t matter because he keeps talking, struggling to sit up as he braces himself on his forearms, pushing himself upright and backwards towards your headboard.

“Careful. You’re too weak to move yet.” You warn, placing a hand gingerly to his shoulder, the other reaching for a glass similar to yours left on the bedside table without any forethought, without noticing the way he looks at you - briefly, fleetingly - or realizing the weight and implications of the tense eye-contact you make upon touching him.

“Drink this. I know you must be thirsty.”

He goes to reach for it, but his hands are too shaky to be of any use, so you have to help him, guiding the cup to his lips and tilting it, careful not to let it pour too fast or too slow. From the looks of it, he’s never been in this position before, has never relied on someone like this, let alone a stranger, and can’t figure out what to do with himself or how to feel about it, his frustration palpable in his attempt to hold the cup anyway.

When he’s finished you get up to refill it, suddenly glad for the space now separating you.

“Where am I?”

“My house.” You answer softly, pouring.

“No, kid. I mean, where-”

Interrupting him gently, you do your best to remain patient. “I know what you mean. I wasn’t finished.”

You set the teapot down quietly, using a spoon to steep the leaves in his drink.

“I’m assuming you know you’re still on Tatooine, but if not…surprise.” You smile a little and make a little wave with the utensil. “We’re a few standard-hours from Mos Eisley. I found you by one of my moisture vaporators. You’d still be there if Patch hadn’t seen you first.”

Boba looks fully at the nervous little robot for the first time. “Your droid.”

“Patch,” you correct. “And yes. We had gone out to repair a condenser damaged in the storm last night. You’re lucky it had stopped before it could bury you completely. We wouldn’t have spotted you at all, then.”

He watches you fill his mug again, tempted to reach out and touch your wrist - stuck with more questions than answers, filled with an urgency to have them explained before his body collapses into another fitful bout of dream-less sleep. He doesn’t, though, not sure he’d be able to even if he tried, and waits for you to finish.

“Why?”

“Why what? Why wouldn’t we have seen you?” A silly thing to say, but you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s been through a lot.

“No. Why help me.”

His question catches you off guard and you avoid looking at him for a few seconds that pass like cold syrup, acutely aware now that you don’t really have an answer to give him - nothing solid enough to pass as an excuse, certainly not anything definitive enough to be an actual answer, either. You truly don’t know why you’re doing anything right now, just that you’re filled with the compulsion to do it.

“I don’t know…it’s the right thing to do, I guess. Maybe I just hope that if I were in your situation, someone would do the same for me.”

You don’t look at him, but you think that maybe he’s nodding.

He must accept this though because he doesn’t say anything, so you take his silence as an opportunity to sit down at the edge of the bed and help him take another sip. He doesn’t meet your gaze or try to hold the cup this time, taking long drinks until he can’t anymore, pushing weakly at your wrist to signal that he’s finished.

Boba catches his breath, then clears his throat. “What’s your name?”

You smile slightly as you get up and place the dishes into the sink next to your cooling chamber. Looking over your shoulder at him, you’re relieved to see that some of his color has returned. “I should be asking you that.”

You give it to him anyway and he repeats it. The unexpected flush it brings about something else to ignore.

“Should I guess what your name is or…”

“Boba.”

The familiarity of his name touches the base of your skull, travels through your jaw and sets your teeth slightly on edge, but doesn’t establish itself as anything concrete, a fleeting, airy feeling of deja vu and nothing else. Slowly, delicately, you force your mind to switch back into focus, away from dissecting this strange feeling and the fear you know creeps beneath it. It wouldn’t make sense to be afraid now, to second guess yourself. You’re doing the right thing by helping him, and he very clearly needs it. To change your mind, to kick him out, wouldn’t be right, especially since you cannot pinpoint why exactly you suddenly want to, or if that doing so could be explained with any valid reason at all.

You find your seat across the room again, wrapping your arms around your legs, your chin resting on your knee. “Do you remember what happened, Boba?”

“Only that the sarlacc found me somewhat indigestible.”

Sarlacc?

This man was eaten by a kriffing monstrosity worm animal plant hybrid and lived?

Boba reads the surprise in your face and grins in amusement. None of this is funny, but the genuine concern and bewilderment you’re staring at him with now is sort of entertaining in a you have no idea, kid kind of way. He remembers only bits and pieces. He remembers Solo accidentally slamming a pole into his jetpack, igniting it and sending him hurtling into the sky above the pit, only for him to fall in. He remembers falling, tumbling downwards in the sand and towards enormous rows of teeth. Things become more complicated after that. His armor had protected him from what surely would have killed him, but he can’t recall how he got out - can only summon fading images of a being dragged, some sort of chatter like an argument was happening above his head as he was picked apart, robbed of his weapons and beskar. Then a gasp, like whomever or whatever it was that that had been salvaging him for parts was surprised to discover that he was human.

The rest is entirely blank until he was woken by similar bickering.

“How did you? What were you? I mean-”

“I can’t remember much after falling in. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Maker.” You whisper in wonder, looking at him differently now - the sympathy and disquietude still there just given another layer. A coat of something else like maybe you’re on some level impressed with him or amazed that he had survived and without any of the defensive humor clouding your features, you look young enough for him to wonder what the hell you were thinking bringing a man like him inside your home, achingly pretty and incredibly naïve.

This planet should have taught you better.

The ensuing silence is thick - not uncomfortable, almost solid in the room like heavy fog.

“I should let you get your rest.” You finally say, rising to your feet. He has more things to ask more pressing than his desire to sleep, but he’s fighting a losing battle against the weight of his eyelids. They’ll have to wait for the next time he wakes up, whenever that is.

His eyes follow you as you move about the room, gently putting out the lamps, casting you in a soft, golden glow. As each one dwindles, you become more and more of a shadow dancing in his vision and if he had the energy, he’d be off-put by how safe he feels, how natural it seems to be near you, the quiet beeps of your droid and the soothing pitch of your voice.

You’re saying something as you get closer to the bed. The last lamp. But he doesn’t catch it. Only your face, sweet and smiling.

“Goodnight, Boba.”

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter One

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 5k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) While helping the Mandalorian find the Child’s home planet you find yourselves in a difficult situation

Rating: canon typical threats of violence (no actual violence in this chapter folks), angst-ish, extreme tension

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity, a peppering of angst 

A/N: Look guys, I won’t lie, it’s a body swap au. This started as absolute crack and somehow I’m 25k words in. It was meant to be funny but now it’s a lot of tension and angst (and fluff, I promise just, like, not yet?) I can’t pretend to make any explanations of this, I just wanted a body swap au and so here we are. s/o to @btillys​ who is really the ideas man of this fic and holds my single brain cell at all times.

“We should be there soon.”

The Mandalorian is standing at the bottom of the ladder. You hadn’t heard him come down. You lift yourself off the cot with your elbows. The hull is mostly dark, but the flashing of the lights reflects off his Beskar. You shut off the holopad in your hands and throw it down. He nods at it.

“Anything?” 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Get ready, Gotabor.” You feel the familiar weight of his gaze along the back of your shoulders. “We’ll come out of hyperspace soon.”

You push yourself up properly. Mando turns to leave in a soft kiss of Beskar against Beskar. His cape hits against the guard, the echo of his boots against the rungs of the ladder ring through the quiet hull. And then he’s gone. There is only the quiet hum of the engine, the control lights blinking in the darkness. You pass the empty carbonite chamber. Follow the Mandalorian up the ladder. Even from the outside of the cockpit you can hear the cooing of the child, the soft voice of the Mandalorian speaking to him in Mando’a. You slide quietly into the space, let the door close behind you.

The child coos from him cot happily and you offer him your hand without thinking. He offers you a brief wave of emotion, bright and happy, and you smile down at him. Rub the top of his head affectionately. Hyperspace is a blur of white all around you. It slips over the Mandalorian’s Beskar like ripples over water. 

You settle yourself into the co-pilot chair. “Any idea what we’re looking at here?” 

“Not really.” Mando switches one of the radar controls. “Uninhabited. Green.”

“Green?” You run a hand down your face. “Maker.” 

The Mandalorian grunts. It’s his agreement grunt, you’ve grown to understand. You stare at the side of his helmet and he stares straight ahead, out into the tunnel of light all around you. Like he can see through it all, like he’s waiting. Maybe he can, you think. His hand flexes around the controls, tense, ready. 

The feeling is like a shot to the chest. Mean, dark. Dread curls up under your ribcage, coiled and tight like a spring. Settles into your stomach so you feel it drop into the chair beneath you. You try not to think about it, try not to run through every hard-won inch in the search which has led you here, cruising through hyperspace in the Unknown Regions, but the paranoia is so sudden and so complete you can’t help it. It stops the air from getting to your lungs. You hadn’t even found it – the child’s planet. But it was a lead, a solid one, finally. And your every nerve ending felt like it was short circuiting.

The child lets out a cry from the crib behind you. You reach back for him blindly, unable to look away from Mando. The warrior tenses at the sound, tilts his helmet slightly, doesn’t look away from hyperspace.

“What’s wrong with him?” He asks.

“I-I’m not sure.” You turn and look at the kid. He grabs for your hand and you feel it. The alarm is so much worse buzzing through your connection, his emotions so much simpler, all encompassing. Only a child. “He’s scared.” 

Another grunt. A different one this time. Determination. He turns back to the task of pulling out of hyperspace. You scoop the kid out of the crib and set him in your lap. Buckle the belt around you both and push your back hard against the chair. Brace for – something. You don’t know. You trust the Mandalorian, but something was wrong. You could feel it, the kid could feel it. You try to calm yourself, if only for the kid, knowing somehow, he could feel it. He hasn’t stopped his panicked cries. Mando’s hand grips the control, his arm tenses. You can feel buzzing in the tips of your fingers. There’s a jolt and –

You come out of hyperspace. It’s as smooth and even as ever, Mando easing you all into empty space with a control finely honed. You can see the planet some distance ahead. It was small. Green. Blurred slightly in the distance. You lean forward, strain against the belt to try and get a better look. Your hands are shaking. You sit back down and hold the child closer. 

“You okay?” Mando asks softly. 

Your sigh shakes, too. “Yeah.”

“The kid?” He turns and looks at you both. 

“He’s just scared. I think.” 

Mando twists his chair, and you feel him assessing you both. He turns back to the front. He flicks the controls, turns the ship over to manual, sets coordinates. He flips the radar to surface scanning and keeps the ship at a slow and steady cruise. The radar finally tunes, and a slow, paced beeping fills the silence.

You orbit until your legs are numb and your back and neck are sore with tension. The kid stops crying, but you can feel his restless squirming in your lap. The Mandalorian keeps you hovered right off surface, until finally he seems satisfied with something. The atmosphere of the planet is thick and murky, and the further the ship drops the harder it becomes to see. The Mandalorian flips a switch on his helmet, adjusts the radar again, blipping and slipping with urgency as you approach the surface. Eventually the fog is so thick all you can see is the shape of giant shadows towering just out of sight. The descent only makes the churning of your stomach grow worse. You have to close your eyes, count the stars behind your lids to distract yourself from the humming, crawling under your skin.

It feels an eternity later when you feel the ship touch down.

The air is wet outside the ship. Condensation slips down the walls of the hull, coat the ramp, makes the ship look as if it weathered a storm. It’s cold where you stand just shy of the ramp, the child back in his crib, and the Mandalorian. He’s found something of a clearing between the trees, bigger than the petrified ancient forest on Batuu, towering into nothing. Disappearing into mist. The trunks are so thick you can barely make out their curve. You’d pulled on your jacket, thick and lined with Synfleece. You can feel where the moisture is gathering on your cheeks and clinging in your hair. Mando’s armour is pebbled all over with beads of moisture, just like the ship. You can see his coarseweave getting heavy with it.

“Mando.”

He’s found something on his pauldron and is fiddling with it. Adjusting something. You can’t find enough room in your head to try and figure out what he’s fixing. He’s got one foot on the extended ramp. Extra rations in his pack. You feel sick. 

“Mando, I don’t like this.”

He finally clicks whatever was bothering him into place. Gives his arm an experimental push back and forth. “It’s the only option we’ve got.” 

“Something doesn’t feel right about this place.” You say. You know your protests are falling on deaf ears. “The kid doesn’t like it either.” 

Mando heaves a heavy sigh. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Gotabor.” He says it like a statement. The name doesn’t make you feel better. Gotabor. Engineer. You feel useless when the Mandalorian has to go out. On the ship you were good, you were helpful. But an engineer couldn’t fire a blaster like a Mandalorian could. Couldn’t fight. Hopefully this trip wouldn’t come to that. “Stay with the ship. Watch the kid.”

He turns to leave. Always the same, like this. The tight feeling in your chest sets your teeth on edge. One day you think he is going to walk down that ramp and you will never see him again. A friend, finally, after all the months with him, and you can’t imagine anything worse than never knowing. That you will be waiting on the Crest for him to come back and he’ll be dead somewhere. Alone. The panic already in you makes the feeling so much worse. You reach before he can step out, grab his pauldron without thinking, firm enough to stop him in his tracks. He turns back, slow.

“Mando.”

He’s staring at you and the hair along the back of your neck stands on end. You keep your hand on his shoulder, unsure what you’re asking of him. He sighs quietly and twists back further, lifts his other arm up and cups his gloved hand over yours where it rests against the Beskar. The armour is freezing in the cold air, and the leather of his glove is damp. You can feel the weight of his hand underneath it. Feel the warmth bleed through the glove until it reaches your skin. You stay like that, his steady presence so constant it becomes hard to imagine life without him. You stare up into the visor, hope you’ve found his eyes behind it, and realise you are hoping he understands. He squeezes you hand, once, twice. Releases it. And you know you have to let go.

“Watch the kid.”

 He’s gone for two days. You shut off the engine after he leaves and keep the radar running on backup power so you can track his progress. You keep yourself busy, let the kid out of his crib, bounce him against your chest until he finally drifts into a restless sleep. You suspect the stress of the landing had gotten to him. You carry him with you to your own cot and lie down with the sleeping child against your heartbeat. Close your eyes. But you can feel whatever was causing the kid so much panic, feel it creeping up your arms and pinching at the back of your neck. Sleep doesn’t come. You lay there until you hear the blipping of the radar stop at what should have been early afternoon. The mist outside leaves everything shrouded in one shade of murky green-grey which makes the planet feel like a perpetual twilight. You tuck the kid in, check the fuel reserves and switch the engine power back on so you can change the radar over to long range. You watch his tiny dot blink and reappear. A single lifeform on an uninhabited planet.

You climb below deck while the kid sleeps. Busy yourself with rewiring the components around the hyperdrive which had been showing wear since before you stepped on the ship. The heat was starting to eat through the coverings, a job you never seemed to have time for. But now – you peel the coverings back, recoat them. Even bundle and tag groupings of wires. The feeling of unease doesn’t abate. You spend the night down there, listening to the blipping of the radar and working through the jobs you’d never had a chance to get to until you find you can’t force your hands to come into focus in front of your eyes. So you let yourself slide down further into the compartment beneath the flooring and hug your knees to your chest. You blankly inspect some relic of hardware plugged in at the ship’s engine and try to categorise the serial code on the edge of the product. Eventually you give in, vision blurring from nerves and exhaustion, and close your eyes.

You dream, colourful, terrifying dreams. The kid disappearing in front of your eyes. The Mandalorian dying somewhere. Alone. The stormtroopers which had boarded your ship from Coruscant finding you. Hundreds of ships like shooting stars plummeting across the skies. You wake shaking and covered in sweat.

The kid is crying weakly in his crib. You haul yourself back out from below deck, ignoring the twinging in your neck and find him. He’s still in your cot, swathed in blanket, hiccupping slightly between his snuffling. You lift him to your chest again and hold him up near your head like you’ve seen Mando do hundreds of times since coming aboard the Crest, hoping the familiar action might soothe him. But the child doesn’t lift his tiny hand to cradle your jaw, or touch your cheek, like you know he does with the Mandalorian, slipping his three fingers beneath the weight of his helmet for the little contact he can get beneath the Beskar. You try another tactic and lower your forehead to the child’s. But he twists his head sideways and dodges, lets out a louder and more petulant cry. It still hurts somewhere petty in your chest, but you shush him as best you can and let the child squeeze his tiny fingers around yours and rock him back and forth. Murmur empty comforts to him until he falls asleep, clutched tightly to your chest. 

The second night passes. You don’t sleep at all.

When morning comes there is still no light from above, but you switch on the ship lights again from the cockpit. The blind you, at first, bouncing through the mist to create a wall of pale grey. You stare out, unsure how long you stay there trying to make out shapes in the dark, until suddenly you’ve had enough. The unease which had buried a dark home against your breast only grows. And Mando as stopped moving. He stopped sometime in the early evening the day before. His dot blipped stationary. He’d been making slow progress even before, moving slower and slower through the giant forest around you. You check his coordinates, switch the radar through a few different modes to try and get some idea of the lay of the land, and then you climb back into the hull.

The child is awake in his crib again. He watches you with wide eyes as you pull your rucksack from beneath your cot, pull out some of your personal items and replace them with the spare remote for the ship and the crib, and one of the Mandalorian’s blasters. You hesitate in front of the kid. You give his ear a gentle tweak, climb back up into the cockpit, twist his favourite toy off the lever for him. He’s quiet when you get back to the hull, wordlessly holds his hand out. You hand him the little durasteel ball. You kneel in front of him. 

“We’re gonna’ go look for your dad now, little guy,” you tell him. “We’re gonna’ go bring him back.” 

The child coos at you.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

You seal the kid’s crib and lower the ramp. Switch on the hand torch you’d dug out from a compartment in the cockpit, shoved beneath the cleaning rags you knew the Mandalrian used to care for his Beskar every night. You’d turned the ship off, the headlights no longer lit the forest floor. The mist crawls down the back of your throat and joins panic already there, strangling you. Check the portable radar, orient yourself. You touch the child’s crib gently before setting off down the ramp.

 It takes you until late in the afternoon to get close to him. The trees grow closer together the further from the ship you walk, the forest floor is even but for the tops of the giant roots of the ancient forest erupting from the mud. You move quickly, following the radar through the darkness and the silence. The hand torch splices through the mist ahead. You get used to picking a path through the trees quick enough, but it only makes you worry more. The Mandalorian is fast enough on his feet. It shouldn’t have taken him so long. You watch his little dot on the radar, but he doesn’t move.

You wonder how the Mandalorian even found it, when you finally see it. Almost walk right past it in the thickness of the fog and the trees and the oppressive darkness. But you realise the looming shape isn’t trees when it’s almost too late and stop dead. You check the radar and you know Mando is inside. He’s close. You stare up at the gaping mouth in front of you, some kind of rock formation instead of wood. The blipping of your radar is grating in the unnatural silence of the atmosphere, skipping up to an urgent pace the closer you get. Your heart matches it for speed. You swing the hand torch around, but it does nothing to penetrate the darkness in front of you. Your own ragged breathing blends with the beeping of the radar.

You stop with the tips of your boots are right at the threshold. The light of the torch shows nothing. There’s something ugly about the darkness of the cave, something twisted. You feel your throat tighten, the urge to throw up nudging in the back of your mouth. But Mando was somewhere in the cave. And his child has started letting out muffled cried from inside the crib. You reach a hand for the kid, touch against the damp surface of the sealed crib. The two of you wait there, willing your heart to slow, willing the crippling tightness in your chest to abate. The quiet of the cave is bleeding into your ears, muffling the world so it feels far away. Your heart doesn’t slow, and the fear doesn’t leave. The child keeps crying.

Stepping into the cave is like falling. Maybe you are actually falling. There’s just darkness and a screeching noise, like metal grinding against metal. The ringing in your ears won’t stop. You lose track of the kid, of yourself. Then your knee hits the ground hard and you yell and your hands catch you just in time. You can feel buzzing behind your eyes. The mechanical screeching stops. 

Pieces of the world around you slot into place. The ringing in your ears is so intense it makes you nauseous, hasn’t helped with the feeling of adrenaline coursing through your system. Your eyes are closed. The ground is oddly warm beneath your hands. Something about this place was wrong.

When you’re finally sure you won’t fall you slowly blink your eyes open. Check behind you for the child. You go slack with relief when the hovering crib is still there, and when you strain your ears beyond the ringing you can hear his babble of noise. The ground is closer than you think it’s going to be, tiled with some pattern which swirls and twists along the ground over and over, on and on, and it makes your head hurt. For a brief moment you can’t remember why you are there. It’s light in the cave, lighter than outside, and the air dances past you clouds of murky grey dust. The room isn’t large, the walls are close, but the ceilings are so high they disappear into nothing. There is something lingering in the air, something musty and old. Undisturbed. You can hear dripping and it echoes all around you, louder and louder as every moment passes and the buzzing fades. But unlike the outside the air is dry and warm. You have dropped your torch. Your radar.

You clamber up slowly. You knee aches where it hit the ground. You turn, expecting to see out into darkness and forest, but there is only empty space stretching out behind you, more corridor of mosaic floor and endless ceiling. You stop for some time and stare blankly around. The walls are shelved, and the shelves are stacked with paper. Scrolls. Flat, long documents laid over every available inch. Spines of books. You turn, inch by inch, taking everything in. You wonder if they are written in any language you could understand. The thoughts float in and out again, but they’re distant and disconnected, like maybe they don’t actually belong to you. The dripping is clearer now, almost crystalline, musical. It sets your teeth on edge, but you aren’t sure why. It’s such a pretty sound. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The kid cries and you jump. You had forgotten he was with you. Drip. You reach out for the domed lid of his crib and the coolness of the surface connecting with your hand. It brings you back. You blink, and the swirls of dust through the air seem to drop slightly, the patterns they make as they twist through the light disappear and they are just dust again. The smell places in your mind, damp and mouldy. You remember your lost torch and radar. Drip. Why did you need the radar? You can’t think. Everything is scrambled. You flatten your hand against the kid’s crib and try to remember. You hear footsteps suddenly, so close they are right behind you. You swing around, heart in your mouth. Drip.

It’s like wadding through water. You stare blankly at the blur of your reflection in the gleaming Beskar. Thoughts slip and fall one by one, down through cracks you can’t feel into nothing. The helmet tilts slightly and catches the light. So familiar. Drip. Drip.

The Mandalorian.

You almost cry in relief. Finally things solidify. The forest. The ship. The child. Drip. It’s almost painful when logic returns. Frantic. Drip. You step forward to reach for him but he moves faster than you, before you can piece together what’s happening, and he has his blaster out. You freeze. You stare down the barrel of the gun, back at the Mandalorian. Drip. His armour catches the light, like a moving mirage, he blends in with the shape of the walls. His visor is black, glinting. You had never wished so badly to see his face. You raise your hands slowly. Drip. Drip.

“Mando…” You whisper.

He jerks. And then steps forward, suddenly feels impossibly bigger than he had only moments ago. Drip. Silence. Drip. You try to figure out how long he’s been in the caves alone but staring at the end of his blaster manages to makes it impossible. You didn’t recognise him, didn’t know him. You step back and he matches you forward. You move sideways, painfully slow. His helmet tilts again, the mirage of light glides with it, almost hypnotic. He’s never felt terrifying before. Your hands are shaking again. You step sideways, he steps forward and you wait for his head to follow the movement but instead –

Drip. He stops. Drip. Stares. Drip. His own reflection a blur on the durasteel surface. You feel the change in the air. Something shifts and slots between you both and you become unimportant. He turns his shoulders away from you and with it the blaster. Trains it on the sealed crib. Drip.

“Mando!” He steps forward again, and you see his finger tighten around the trigger. The leather of his glove creak as he grips the butt of the blaster. Drip. You don’t think, push yourself forward, duck under his shooting arm. “Mando, no! Stop!”

He shoves against you, doesn’t bother trying to fight you. You push back, and finally you have his attention again. The helmet snaps down and you hear a grunt as he is forced to readjust. You push your shoulder up against his shooting arm, desperate to keep it away from you. His other hand comes up and wraps around your arm, tight, so tight it hurts. You try shoving back against him, but it does nothing. Drip. Drip. Drip. The clang your fist makes against the Beskar bounces off the walls around you. You scrabble at his arm, trying to get a grip on him, find purchase. You feel the Mandalorian’s annoyance begin to seep through the air around you and he pushes his forearm across your chest to shove you back, to try and get you far enough away to shoot. Your fingers still scratch blindly, finally catch on something, and there’s a click and a hiss from behind you and –

The Mandalorian pushes you with his arm and you stumble back and he swing his blaster over to the source of the noise. The crib has opened. You go blank, unable to think, to comprehend. The child let’s out a wail, high and piercing in the quiet.

You lunge forward, shove against the Mandalorian’s shooting arm. But he doesn’t shoot. Instead he drops his blaster and you nearly buckle as he keels. You nearly go down too. The blaster clatters as it hits the floor. Somehow you get your arms under his, stop him from hitting the ground. The exhaustion and fear feel like laser fire running through your veins. You think he’s passed out but then he mumbles, something unintelligible. You push him back, up onto his feet, try to get him to balance. He slumps backwards this time and its harder to catch him like this. You get an arm around his back and your other grabs a handful of his damp cape. You feel the soles of your shoes slipping against the smooth ground. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Mando.” You shake him. “Mando, you have to help me. I can’t hold you up. I can’t move you.” You shake him again. Feel your voice crack. “Please, Mando. Help. Me.”

There’s a groan and he stumbles, catches his footing. The lift of his weight off of you is a relief. You keep an arm around him until he’s upright, and even as you unwind your arm from his chest you keep the other hand wrapped tight in his cape. He’s shaking.

“Gotabor’ika,” He croaks.

You nearly sob. “We have to get out of here, Mando. Something is… is… it’s in the air or something Mando. Something’s wrong with this place.”

“The kid…” His voice grates through the modulator. Unused for days. “I wouldn’t, I would never – “

“I know. I know, Mando. Come on, we’re gonna’ get him home safe, remember? We have to go. We have to move.”

And, finally, he does. He ducks for his blaster and then he’s running. Closing the kid’s crib as he goes. You feel your pulse throbbing inside your skull and in your legs as you run with him, one hand still wrapped in his cape. The mechanical screeching starts again, so loud this time you feel the floor vibrate with it. Your teeth click together. You don’t remember coming so far into the cave, but it feels like forever once you start moving. The crib is with you both, hovering at Mando’s side as he moves. Somehow the sound of the water dripping is louder than everything else, and getting faster. Urgent. Drip. Drip. Dripdripdrip. The buzzing is so loud you want to scream. Sweat is dripping into your eyes, down your back, soaking through your shirt. You think that you will never get out, that you will be stuck in the cave forever, an unmoving dot on a radar until you fade out of existence. Breathing hurts. Your legs hurt. The buzzing was impossibly loud. Dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip. 

And then the mouth of the cave is suddenly there. And you are falling through it, tripping over the Mandalorian as you fall out into the mist and the cold and the wet. Land on the wet forest floor. Let out a ragged gasp, torn with tears, roll over and retch up nothing onto the ground.

There’s a hand on your back, heavy and warm. Mando. He’s murmuring something, asking you something maybe. You hear the name he calls you mixed in with the words. You aren’t sure if it’s Basic or Mando’a. Then he pulls you up, puts you on your feet. He inspects your face, your chest, your arms. Looking for wounds. You can’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. He grabs your arm and turns and then you’re both trekking through the forest. The Mandalorian pulls you ahead through the mist and the darkness. You stumble blindly behind him. 

You walk for hours. The sweat cools on your skin in the damp, cold air, until you’re shivering even in your thick jacket. You wait for the ringing in your ears to stop but it never does. You don’t hear the sound of the Mandalorian’s boots crunching through the undergrowth, or the cries of the kid, although you’re sure you should hear both. It’s like the world is slipping further and further away and trying to hold onto it is like watching sand slip between your fingers. The exhaustion presses against you, until you realise it’s not just exhaustion. Your skin feels too tight, itchy. It must be morning again, you think, but the darkness doesn’t lift. You don’t know how Mando sees but you let him lead you through the forest, hoping whatever he is using to navigate through the trees is taking you both back to the Crest. It’s all you can do to keep your eyes open and your feet moving. You can feel yourself dropping in and out of darkness.

“Come on,” he grunts in your ear. Close, you think. So close. The modulator hisses. “Almost there, Gotabor, come on. Stay with me.”

You feel your head loll. Things start coming in flashes. The ship, gleaming in the mist. The churning sound of the ramp lowering. The kid whimpering.

“I can’t lift you,” he says.

And you don’t know how you do it, but you manage to walk, one arm looped over his shoulders, up the ramp. The crib is still behind you. Blackness hovers at the edge of your vision. The Mandalorian gets you inside, only just far enough that he can close the ramp. He leans like he’s going to lower you, but you slip out of his grasp and hit the floor. Hard. You don’t feel anything, slump into the wall. He is standing above you, your vision is swaying. No. He is swaying.

“Sick,” you manage to get out. 

The Mandalorian hits something and the ramp is lifting. He turns, gets to the ladder. He puts a hand out to grab the ladder and misses completely. Stumbles forward and just catches himself on the wall. You think he might fall. He doesn’t. You let yourself roll until you’re lying on the ground, let your forehead roll until it presses into the cool, hard floor of the ship. You wonder if you might die here, but this time the thought doesn’t bother you. You’re conscious long enough to feel the ship hum to life beneath you, and something clang and echo in the cockpit, before everything fades.

  Gotabor: Engineer

Gotabor’ika: lit: little engineer. ‘ika suffix creates affectionate nickname when added to the end of noun.

Tag list: @btillys​ @vercopaanir​ 

[motleymoose]

Homecoming Pt. 3: Bits & Pieces Ch. 1

Chapter 1 Ashes in a Vacuum

Fandom: The Mandalorian, Star Wars Characters: The Mandalorain (Din Djarin), Gender Neutral Reader, The Child Words: 2.5k+ Warnings: Injury, Angst, A whole lotta attitude

Summary:

I AM ALL SORTS OF ANGRY AT THAT FRAGGING BUCKETHEAD!!! He's leaving me with more questions than I have the ability to ask, and I don't like it one bit.

But dang, that little greenie is cute!

Notes:

Heya! Thank y'all for reading!!! I'm not sure how many chapters this part is gonna have, so??? We're coming up on the halfway point of the story. Maybe my editing skills will improve by then (ha).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Homecoming Masterlist

The way everything hurt, I was sure I was dying.

Squinting at the dim, fuzzy gray light of my bunk, I ran an internal diagnostics check. With every little wiggle and flex of an appendage, I gradually realized that I was not, in fact, dying, but I wasn’t in prime fighting shape either. Slowly, gingerly, I scrubbed sleep from my burning eyes with the heels of my palms, my vision spotty and fuzzy in places. It felt good to let them linger, pressing heavily into the closed eyelids and relieving the pressure built up behind my eyeballs. As killer headaches went, the one I was experiencing in that moment wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like doshing kung.

Now that I was sorta awake, I took physical stock of my body. My eyes still wouldn’t clear, the large flecks of gray shadow swimming lazily in my periphery, so I used touch to see what was going on. Letting my hands do the work, I started with my head, running my fingers lightly down my neck to my shoulders and chest. Something felt off about the shape of my body as I continued to scan downwards to my hips. Foggy memories swirled inside my head, screaming and pain and choking smoke. A jumbled mess of noise and smells overpowered everything else, and the bits and pieces of the fight and flight from Bosph scattered nervously into the darker recesses of my brain.

Frustrated, I sat up, ignoring the sharp tug at the pit of my elbow and the violent, painful thumping rattling my brain. “Fragging buckethead,” I hissed through clenched teeth. He had got me in this mess. Sure, it was my fault for getting a bounty put on me, but if only he’d listened to me in the first place, we coulda avoided Bosph entirely. The anger, bitter and sparkling and pulsing red, numbed the headache and the bruises slightly. And as the ire rose, so too did the functionality of my brain.

I could focus now on what my hands had been trying to tell me: all of my possessions, from my boots to my jumpsuit and everything in between or tucked into pockets, was gone. A worn coarseweave tunic hung from my curved shoulders, the sleeves neatly rolled up around my biceps, and a newer looking pair of long johns, the baggy legs bunched around my knees, had replaced my utilitarian and well-loved apparel.

Oh Mother of Kwath! Had the Mandalorian undressed me?! I mean, I was an adult. He was an adult. And apparently I had been injured enough to warrant such an invasion of privacy. Still, I couldn’t fight the blush burning brightly across my chest and face.

So doshing uncomfortable.

Nope, nope, nope. Didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Pushing down all of the humiliation and trauma and apprehension until the feelings were little more than an annoying itch under my skin, I allowed the rage to take over a little more. It was easier to be angry than to feel anything else, the outrage a warming presence in my chilly body. It also gave me the little boost of courage for what I had to do next.

Screwing my eyes shut, incredibly unprepared for the worst possible outcome, I touched the place under my collarbone where my silver skull pendant rested, a solid, reassuring weight...

Nothing.

Instead of skin-warmed metal, I was met with warm, padded resistance. Peering into the neck of the tunic, I found a thick, dull-colored wrap encasing my midsection from under my armpits to my hip bones. It smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day, and I wrinkled my nose automatically. Bacta. Whatever injury I had sustained must’ve been bad enough to call for the precious, oftentimes expensive goo. The wrap wasn’t so tight as to constrict breathing or some movements, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

The physical uncomfortableness brought me back to the question of why the bounty hunter was keeping me alive, but just like all the other feelings, I ignored it. I needed to find my clothes, my necklace. Get dressed. Leave this beautiful ship and her tyrant pilot behind and become a krill farmer out on the Outer Rim.

Well, probably not a farmer. A droid mech, perhaps.

The soft skin on the inside of my elbow twinged again, pulling me out of my daydreams as I reached for the blanket covering the lower half of my body. A thin, clear tube snaked from a needle inserted into a vein to a nearly-empty pouch hanging from a hook in the bunk wall. Fumbling, my fingernails worked their way underneath the sticky medical tape, peeling up an edge wide enough to pinch. I ripped the tape from my arm, gritting as it pulled hair and skin with it. Once the tape was gone, I slid the needle out of my arm with a hiss, tossing it aside to leak between the cot and the bunk wall. Whatever cocktail of drugs the bounty hunter had mixed into the IV, he’d probably added a good dose of sedative to keep me down for the count. That would’ve explained the fogginess.

And it made me so mad.

I let the full-blown, all-consuming fury in, jerking the coarseweave blanket off of me and freeing my legs. Exhaling forcefully, I tested my injured knee, poking at the matching bacta bandage. The original searing-white agony I had experienced on Bosph was muted now, less of a screaming torment and more of a dull throbbing. Healed enough to put weight on. Hopefully

Groaning and cursing at stiff muscles and bucketheaded hunters respectively, I wriggled on the bed until my bare feet skimmed the floor. The cold steel of the hull platform sent shivers through my flesh, feeding the annoyance and anger and frustration. I inhaled, steadying myself for the shooting pain sure to follow standing on both legs. Pleasantly astonished as I was that it didn’t hurt too horribly, I wasn’t prepared for the lightheadedness. The blood rushed from my face, my vision blackening around the edges.

“Oh frag,” I managed to croak before slumping to the floor in an unconscious heap. --------------- I awoke, some time later, inside my bunk. The coarseweave blanket was tucked firmly beneath my chin, the IV reinserted into my arm, and my red-hot rage completely dissipated. An imposing, blurry figure stood at the foot of the bunk, and I took my time adjusting myself from lying flat to reclining, eyes tightly shut to avoid the spinning shadows. Once I was comfortable, I cracked an eyelid. The Mandalorian’s blurred steely stare greeted me, a clear bag of liquid over one arm and a sling supporting the other.

“You’re awake,” he stated matter of factly.

“D-Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of travelling in silence,” I replied dryly, voice husky with disuse. “By the way, where’s my jumpsuit?” I opened my eyes all the way, blinking rapidly to dispel the fog coating them. It didn’t work.

The bounty hunter harrumphed softly. “Incinerated. You had a fractured knee, two broken ribs and a blaster wound to the stomach. Plus severe retinal damage and dehydration. You’re lucky you even made it off-planet.” He angled his visor away from me to tap out something on his vembrace.

“Wait, what?”

He tilted his visor towards me and put it simply. “You almost died.”

I feebly waved the non-IVed hand in front of my face. “No, not that. Did you say you incinerated all of my stuff?!”

Ignoring me, per his style, he continued to tap on his vembrace’s control panel.

Devastated, depressed and not a little bit murderous, I glowered squintily at him. I was reeling inwardly, but on the outside I was colder than carbonite.

As he ignored me, I studied him as closely as my recovering vision would allow. I could tell there was something different in his appearance, but it took a moment for me to recognize what it was . A softer quality to his edges that I couldn’t quite understand, his body looking less defined, less bulky than normal. I blinked several times to refocus, and was rewarded with infinitesimally better vision.

“Where’s your armor, shabuir?” I sniped. I may have been more than a little miffed that all of my worldly possessions were now ash and lumps of twisted metal, and biting at a Mandalorian was a temporarily soothing balm to my aching heart.

The hunter reached over me and unhooked the empty bacta IV bag from a rod above my head, replacing it with the one he’d brought. Adjusting the solution valve, he tapped the drip chamber twice before turning his attention back to me. “There’s a spare jumpsuit in the ‘fresher. Keep the bacta wrap on for another hour, at least.” As an afterthought, he added, “We’ll be on Nevarro in a few days.” A frown tainted his voice. “Stay out of my way ‘til then.” Spinning on his heel, he marched to the ladder and disappeared onto the upper deck.

………

It took about twelve hours for me to feel well enough to rid myself of the IV and bacta wraps and get out of the bunk without having the ship buck underneath me like a wild bluurg. I took that time to cry myself to sleep, wake up and cry some more. The loss of my tools and kit was a huge blow to my self-worth, but the loss of the pendant, well. It was the only piece I had left of a life full of fear and hunger and love; it connected me to home. If I didn’t have that, where did I belong?

It took another three hours for me to get up the nerve to get cleaned and dressed. I prowled around the cargo hold, poking and prodding at the carbonite storage, the control panels and the refresher. There hadn’t been much of a chance on my earlier voyages to explore, so with the Mandalorian occupied guiding the ship through hyperspace, I felt emboldened to figure out more about him. Not that there was much to glean from my investigation; the hold contained only the basics of survival for deep space travel, and weapons. Lots of weapons.

Oh, and several beings in what looked to be forced-stasis, frozen in carbonite.

Shivering in sympathy for my hold companions, I turned and shuffled back to the bunk. What I really had hoped to find was the incinerator - most ships kept them below near the back for easy dispatch of trash - but I hadn’t found hide nor hair of one below deck. It could’ve been located above. Not exactly the safest or most pleasant location, yet with all the fire power and carbonite in the hold, it kinda made sense. No need to put three dangerous elements all in one place, if you had the room.

A little voice at the back of my head reminded me of something else: that fragging Mando had all but ordered me to stay put. If he thought for one second that I was going to listen to him, he had another thing coming. I held no ill-will against Mandalorians in general, but this one was getting on my bad side. First arresting me and then almost getting me killed and then destroying the only thing I had left of home reminded me that I only had myself to rely on, that everyone else was out to either disappoint me or kill me.

I’d be doshed if I was going to let that buckethead dictate what I could and couldn’t do, especially since he was the one who took me off that Maker-forsaken moon in the first place.

Especially since he handed me over to Mihcas without an apology.

And took my pendant and tools to boot.

Ascending the ladder turned out to be a formidable feat in my weakened condition, but I prevailed. It took more effort than it should have, and I collapsed onto the cool steel platform once I made it all the way up.

“What are you doing?” The modulated baritone came from my right. Swiveling my head, I watched as the bounty hunter stomped out of the captain’s quarters, a bundle of clothes clutched to his chest and fingers unsurprisingly reaching for his blaster. Whatever was in the bundle must have been precious, for he shifted it away from me to his injured arm. It obviously still hurt; he held the bundle in the crook of his elbow, awkwardly bent and trembling with effort.

Good.

Rage flared in my chest, licking its way up like flames and leaving a red mask pounding behind my eyes. Pushing the anger away, I clambered up to my feet. I was going to get answers, and I’d be fragged if I was going to show emotion in front of him.

“Where’s the incinerator?” I spat savagely. So much for not showing any emotion.

Obviously taken aback by my vehemence and bluntness, he cocked his helmet and pulled his hand from his blaster, resting it casually on his belt buckle. “Why?”

Simple enough question, simple enough answer. But I didn’t feel like answering him. Opening my mouth to respond, a cooing sound interrupted me. It sounded like it was coming from the bundle still shielded in his injured arm.

Snapping my jaw shut with a painfully audible click, I raised my eyebrows pointedly at him. “Trafficking something illegal there, chakaar?” Anxiety clenched my stomach in its viselike grip, and I had to force the bile from rising in my throat. I was still weak from Bosph, but if he was buying and selling living beings to make a living, he was no better than my ex-boss. No better than me. Which meant I was going to have to hurt him or die trying.

A sharp hiss of an inhale through the vocoder told me I’d hit on something. Something he didn’t want me knowing. A whispery stream of very impolite Mando’a floated in the space between us. The air was thick with tension, and both of us were patiently waiting for the other to make the next move.

The coo came again, slightly muffled, followed by a bubbly giggle, startling us out of our stare-down. The bundle wriggled, and the Mandalorian shifted his attention from me to it as the thing became too much to handle with one injured arm. Grunting either out of pain or frustration, the bounty hunter stepped backwards until he was in the doorway of the bunk. Squeaking and chittering indignantly, the lump in the clothes broke free with a victorious huff.

And it was the cutest fragging thing I’d ever laid my eyes on.

_____________________

Notes:

chakaar - corpse robber, thief, petty criminal - general term of abuse shabuir - extreme insult - *jerk*, but much stronger

[republicscum]

Jedi make the Worst Roommates

AN: No really, take it from the disaffected agent. He knows the struggle. 

This is my Imp. Agent x my Jedi Knight sometime after the Eternal Empire forces cooperation between the Empire and Republic. I can have two outlanders if I want.

One of Cipher’s favorite things about coming home was washing the city off his body. Coruscant’s enormity was every bit as filthy as it was gaudy. It seemed to him that people pretended not to notice sewage pouring into the corners of their beautiful plazas or the crazed eyes of someone who hadn’t eaten in months and didn’t know if they ever would again outside that gold peaked senate tower steepled into the clouds. Cipher had lived in a city wiped clean of people all of his life. It was like one of those replica sets: sharp, clean, empty. But if Kaas City was fake, or shallow, if they were all just bugs in an Imperial belljar – then Cipher was more relieved than ever to be the Empire’s golden boy.  

He ducked his head under the stream of water from his refresher and luxuriously shook his hair out backwards. Satisfied with the rinse, Cipher ran his fingers through the short locks to sluce out water and glanced into the clouds spilling from the full glass wall in front of him. The windows tinted from the outside the realtor had assured him, but from indoors it was hard not to feel like he was creating a spectacle for the steady stream of dimly glowing speeders below. The Republic might have offended a steel bar of pride that ran through his chest, but did he love to look at it. The skyscrapers' angled metal points painted the sky with reflections of sunlight gleaming off them as the lights turned on below. It was the most glorious skyline he’d ever seen.  

A rectangle glass refresher for his rectangle glass room in a rectangle glass condo. It was gluttony incarnate. Cipher had grown up fabulously rich by Imperial standards, but he hadn’t comprehended the true uselessness of money until he agreed to play pet agent for the Republic and their starboy Jedi. The Empire concentrated money in the hands of the meritous. In theory. The mechanisms were subject to exploit, like any other system, but the Republic’s network of Trade Federations reaped money from its struggling citizens the same way he’d watched splicers scoop organs from still living donors. One could be wealthy in the Empire, but in the Republic credits stacked to the stratosphere. 

This living arrangement was thankfully temporary; when the threat resolved itself, for better or worse, he’d put down rent on the first shithole one bedroom apartment in Kaas City he could find. It made him feel less nauseated by his experiments in extravagance to know he was just burning through a windfall he neither wanted nor needed. 

Cipher sucked residual menthol from his teeth and rubbed the tightness from his shoulders one last time before holding his hand over the sensor, cutting the water flow. Hygiene didn’t take long by habit. A fastidious creature, Cipher had the added incentive of his precision obsessed father and military trauma to guide him through the simple process of cutting away excess time.

Being such a creature of habit, Cipher always left his keys in the drawer, bag on the table and shoes tucked into the hallway's closet. He left the lights off, then he was off upstairs to watch the sunset bounce off of water droplets without a second thought to the spaces he haunted. He liked letting twilights wind down to their natural conclusion before throwing on artificial florescence.

When the lights winked on today, he remembered that he’d forgotten he had a roommate. He wasn’t in (he hardly was at night until he whisked in at 3 AM smelling like men and cheap beer) and hadn’t been for months. It appeared he’d come home today only to vanish by nightfall leaving what looked like the remnants of a very Jedi sized panic attack on their coffee table, couch, and in a tight trail into the kitchen. Cipher picked up a bowl crusted with dried up noodles and wondered what the general public would do if they knew the Hero of Tython was a slob with no particular skill outside of his lightsaber.

Cipher followed the charging port wires thrown over the couch arm (miraculously not half tugged from their sockets) to the sink full of a hurriedly eaten lunch. Having just plunked down the noodles on the little cutting board by the sink, Cipher just stared into it. Dishes. With stale food. In the sink. He closed his eyes and flexed his hands as though reaching for someone’s shoulders to give them a stiff shake. It was when the old familiar ache in his jaw twinged, that he realized he was grinding molars. He opened his eyes and forced a breath between his teeth only to be greeted with the top lid of an empty Holotray dinner globbed with mash and a cardboard box peel. Cipher squealed with defeat deep in the back of his throat.

Soapy water and steam scrubbed everything away including the dull ache just under his heart that a path of mess had left. It scrubbed the frustration away, but not the clacking making its way down the hall; that was impossible not to hear over the sound of the water and Cipher’s own mental steam.

“Kurt?”

The Sith glanced up under the ridge of his brows at his deadname. The Hero with his concussion staff looked like he’d gotten into a fight with his pillow and had thoroughly enjoyed every second. Elutherius was fond of airy shirts that fell to the knees and little else, nothing else if he could get away with it, which Cipher usually let him. The Navy had made him unshy about holding conversation with nude participants - frontal or otherwise. The white coarseweave Elutherius wore now billowed down over his thighs. A stray sleeve had drifted partway down one of his broad shoulders. The looseness had a softening effect on his hard physic so that what Cipher would normally class as “wiry” became “slim.”

“When’d you get home?”

“Last night.” Sleep cracked his voice.

Cipher paused a moment to let the running water fill the silence. “Don’t you have a cane?”

“Couldn’t be bothered…” Elutherius flicked his wrist as though alluding to the presently horrified clutter that was his room.

“And how many times have I told you to clean up after yourself? Not tidy, not organize, just clean up things that are gross.”

A small smile played over Elutherius’ lips. “Define ‘gross’ Kurt because you and I have very different definitions.”

“Food waste. For one. You can’t let it sit overnight.”

“And it didn’t—” Elutherius began to sigh.

“—Or for literal hours at a time.”

“Food’s just kinda one of those things that happens when you have life; it’s not gross.”

“I didn’t ask you to live with me so you could leave food out.”

Cipher turned off the sink. Dried his hands. Straightened the towel. Listened to Elutherius clack his way around the island.

He’d asked in hopes of manipulating Elutherius out of the cult of Jedi he’d joined. It was the only way an ex-Imperial officer and Intelligence Agent knew how to be a friend. In truth, Cipher didn’t know what he expected from Elly. Once, when Cipher was still very young, he had been his slave, then his father’s apprentice, and now a Jedi named Friyr Illustratum. Elutherius burned bridges in pursuit of freedom that Cipher wasn’t entirely convinced he could find. Circumstance pushed them back together. He was, in essence, Elutherius’ last bridge back to the Empire. He had no illusions that Elly’s first instinct was to take up torch, but something stayed the Jedi’s hand.

He squeezed Cipher’s bare shoulder. “Mmmn, well, messy is me.”

Cipher had heard that earning the love of a Jedi was a starcrossed fate. Sometimes there were moments of weakness but it was mostly longing for an ill-gotten lover. Romantic drivel that the Republic fattened its citizens on.

Loving a Jedi felt like a man trapped by a cult into a life of servitude as a zealotous solider with a serene smile. “Friyr Illustratum” was just a former slave manipulated by dogma. There was nothing noble, sacrificing, or romantic about loving a friend captive to sycophants and his own warped mentality. It was just sad. Irrevocably sad.

“What do you mean it’s you?” Cipher huffed as he plucked up the lid and trash and threw them into the bin.

“I mean, like. When you used to live with me I was a servant. You weren’t living with me as a person. I don’t gotta clean up after ya anymore, Hot Shot is what I’m sayin’. Get a maid.”

Cipher sighed, but his big yellow eyes softened around their hard unnatural glow. His words reflected none of that softness. “You can be yourself and have common decency for our living space without it turning into I’m Very Oppressed.”

Elutherius’ returning smile was suddenly bitter. “Not everybody lives in your world, Grimmel.”

Ah. There it was. The name: ‘Grimm little,’ shortened to ‘Grimmel’ over the years. It was his father’s Sith-given name that his mother had cooed at him when he at a very young age dedicated himself to being his father’s perfect replica. It was an ambition like that city again, perfect and precise but ultimately empty of who Cipher was. It was only Elly who saw Cipher as more than his father, and it was only Elly who could wield an old pet name with the same deadly precision as a saber.

“True maturity is knowing that actions don’t define you so long as you’re secure in your identity. Slave is all you’ll ever be if you constantly run from it.” The last thing had been unintentionally hard; these were a prelude to a fight that Cipher had felt coming the day he’d clapped eyes on the traitor.

Silence fell like a curse as Elutherius developed a case of lockjaw, but whether he’d truly lost his scathing rage the way he claimed or if a large helping of Jedi patented patience was keeping him level, Elutherius didn’t rise to the occasion. Conversation for the night was done.

Cipher turned on his heel to the hangar. He wanted Elutherius to tear into him. That he didn’t with the fervor of a mad hound rattled Cipher’s long vacant insides until he felt like he was losing his footing in a world quickly falling too far away too fast in unfamiliar skies with an unfamiliar man. It was enough to drive him to drink.

And he had been again. It wasn’t like last time when he needed alcohol to replace his guts when Elutherius had “died” on a planet that wasn’t home. It wasn’t like the days when they patronized him with an honorable discharge and knowing smiles that said “you gave having a real job a shot Rich Boy.” He just needed the edge off once in a while, and everything was okay.

The hangar was a one speeder affair. Elutherius didn’t drive and Kurt’s tiny Rendili didn’t need much pomp and circumstance. Instead, the space was filled by racks full of weapons that they said they’d use, then never had the time to take out but yet still couldn’t find a good enough excuse to get rid of. Cipher had a wall of cabinets in the far north corner overflowing with parts for his artificing hobby. The delicate handiwork had kept him up through painfully sober nights moved back into his parent’s house.

Edging around the bulk of his speeder pressed close to the sides of the already cramped space, Cipher had to pull a ladder braced on the cabinets against his chest in order to stick his arm in. He frowned. From the sliver he could see the empty bottle of Kyrf, but the 6-pack he’d been slowly depleting had left a large empty space.

“Looking for these?” Elutherius stood in the doorway, Cipher’s six-pack flagged in one hand. “You got quite the stash back there.”

Cipher stared. His chest felt strangely tight. It wasn’t until Elutherius had found him stealing in his own home that he realized how much he’d enjoyed being the one without baggage. Kurt Wax had been a young man with the world laid out at his feet. A natural leader and the anchoring point of many an operation. Cipher 9, well, he’d made a lot of hard decisions and the pay was good.

“I might be. Yes.” Kurt said. His voice echoed in the wide empty spaces.

Friyr crooked a finger and he came. He still didn’t know what he expected from the Jedi as he stood in front him, his feet shoulder width apart and hands folded behind his back. Punishment in Kurt’s world was always swift and meaningful, whether verbal or physical. He had learned young how to take his stripes.

Friyr hugged him. His strong arms pinned Kurt’s arms to their sides as the former officer’s posture stiffened rather than softened. It was an unfamiliar position for both men. Friyr had never been the type to dole out affection even as a Jedi; he handled his position with a serious kind of grace. And well, Kurt was curt.

“Uh.”

“This is awkward; isn’t it?” Friyr asked. His breath caught the edge of Kurt’s neck.

“Quite.” Friyr abruptly let go and neither looked at the other. Kurt smoothed down his tank top and faked a cough. “But it was… appreciated. Er-- Thank you.”

“Look, if you can go easy on the alcohol, I can—stop rebelling against something I was a long time ago and just be a person.”

Kurt tilted his head towards Friyr.

“Which is to say, I can clean up a little.”

Kurt was silent for a while as he watched the light behind Friyr frame him into a silhouette. “Why’re you so afraid of it?”

“Too much time on my hands makes me antsy, and I don’t want to go back to filling that being house boy again, so I do nothing. And still feel pretty awful, not gonna lie.”

“Is that why you go out all night?”

“I—uhhhh—never really thought about it like—Hold on, Wise Guy, this is about you. What’re you; some kind of drunk or somethin’?”

“Yes,” Kurt said plainly.

“Oh… Why?”

“Too much time on my hands,” Friyr snorted, and Kurt responded with a rare smile. Automatically, his hand came up to brush Friyr’s elbow since the other man couldn’t see his lips. “after you died. My story ended that day if I ever really had one to begin with.”

“What do you mean? ‘Course you got a story, Kurt.”

“No. I think I was always a part of ours. The Force has always pulled us together for better or worse. We lost people along the way--”

“—Pour one out for Draq—” Friyr muttered the ill-fated Inquisitor’s name under his breath.

“—But it’s always been you and me in the end.”

Friyr flushed pinker than the setting sun dying through their dusty hangar windows. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to kiss me?” It was an oddly vulnerable color, and although Kurt had had a few girlfriends and had never been in love, it wasn’t an objectionable idea. Not by a long shot.

Kurt leaned in and watched the Jedi’s eyes widen. His hands came up in protest before Kurt cut him off with a grin full of canine. “You wish.”

[theworstjedi]

Parental Issues

3636 BBY

The boy’s eyes were ringed with amber. Friyr Illustratum. A hefty name he had chosen for himself. The old Shadow recognized the solemn conventions of a Darth name too well to mistake it as a mere surname. She had spent too many years hunting after their misused and discarded artifacts. As a young woman, she had never had much consideration for the Sith she encountered. She had certainly never considered that an apprentice could be treated the same as an object. But here he was, Alema’s greatest moral objection and the last attachment binding her to the mortal plane.

“Sit down,” she said.

He did as he was told. His fingers curled around the sand of the garden beneath his knees. He drew in on himself, shivering and defeated.

Friyr had been her sister’s last padawan. She had raised many. Alema had raised none. Friyr was her first Sith but the last before her old age reconsumated her into the Force. He was the last frayed string of her life and Alema the only Jedi with the desire to resolve it.

Alema lowered herself onto the sand slowly before him, like approaching a wounded animal.

Friyr shrank back as though sensing the inate revulsion. His blue-amber eyes cast elsewhere, as though looking at the slanted light on the ground.

3630 BBY

Alema’s finger traced down the grimy plastifilm. Rows of scribbled names next to call buttons passed by until she reached a nondescript X. Far be it from Caretaker Alema’kekori to visit shady apartments on Nar Shaddaa at the smuggler moon’s slinkier hours, but she had a sweet yam casserole to deliver.

She pushed the clean white button, and it depressed without complaint. This came as little surprise. It looked almost polished from all the use it’d seen. She waited. Listening to the quiet hum of speeders over head and relaxing her shoulders into the calmness of a night illuminated by ever burning lights.

Uhhh yah?

A sleepy little blue holo of Friyr Illustratum and his favorite baggy shirt popped to life next to the X. The white coarseweave her padawan wore now billowed down over his thighs. A stray sleeve had drifted partway down one of his broad shoulders. The looseness had a softening effect on his hard physic so that what Alema would normally class as “wiry” became “slim.”

She was glad Friyr was fond of long floaty tops. He had been growing into his thirties when she met him and though what someone approaching forty did with the agency of his body didn’t make her blink, she felt fondly enough of the young Jedi that she preferred a less casual audience with him.

Dunno what this is about, but th’answer’s prahhhably no.

Alema held up the wrapped tray as though Friyr were capable of seeing it. “And if I brought food?”

The holo-Friyr stopped grinding a palm into his eyes and swallowed a yawn. “Master?”

“One of them, yes,” Alema deadpanned.

“I’ll put on pants,” Friyr said quickly, then winked out as the apartment door buzzed her up.

Alema adjusted her plain plait of lekku with a smug line to her lips and let herself in.

___

Friyr had found more than a pair of pants when she came up, she observed. A pair of iconic Corellian green jedi robes hung over the plain shirt. It looked like they’d been cut for a woman from the way they tapered at the waist. Alema didn’t ask many questions about this; she was sure she’d seen it on him some long time ago.

He fidgeted with its fit over his shoulders in the doorway. “How’d you find this place?”

“Shoney said Boris had placed you in one of his resort homes,” the older woman said mildly.

She brushed past Friyr - who grumbled but flattened himself to the wall to accommodate the gargantuan twi’lek. A sense of curoisty compelled her in. This was an emotion to conquer, perhaps, but she didn’t find the mere pursuit of knowledge out of bounds. It upheld the second line of the Code, afterall.

The apartment was open floorplan to accommodate for a Hutt’s girth. And it was splendid. Somewhere between a spa and a living quarter, Friyr had high ceilings and cavernous walls. Even for a full bodied slug, the space was roomy and bronzed. The decorations were pleasant, in style, and large.

Though the attention laid in the details. It looked like Friyr had quarreled with the light fixtures and left traces of a Jedi sized panic attack here or there. Uncleaned food cartons and wires made little paths that followed his relentless pacing between the couch and a mess of screens and keyboards. Their plugs half in and out of sockets. He had never coped too well with empty metal spaces.

In her adventures, Alema stepped on something soft. She started backward, only to find a puddle of blankets and pillows on the floor near the door. It looked luxurious, but it was an odd mess to find anywhere outside of an unmade mattress.

“Bed’s too high,” Friyr explained at Alema’s pause. A hand on the small of her back urged her forward. She pranced over Friyr’s little bed to a red overstuffed couch. She straightened her shoulders, then turned to face her bemused padawan.

“I take it you’re well.”  Alema seated herself straightbacked on the couch behind her and sunk into its fluffy maw. Underterred by this indignity, she set the small tray in the center of her lap. It was still warm in her hands, which was relieving. Nar Shaddaa was a big city to traverse from sector to sector, and she wasn’t sure she was keen to find the state of Friyr’s microwave.

“‘M ohhhkay.” Friyr shuffled to the coffee table by memory and seated himself opposite Alema. A few empty microwave meals were pushed back as he claimed the space upon which they sat. “You uh-- What’re you doin’ off Eedit?”

“The Hexagon Square Feast was today.”

Friyr snapped his fingers and pointed at the couch cushion next to Alema. “Riiiiiiiight. Right. How was that?”

“Taste for yourself.” Alema unfolded the geometry of her foil packaging. “It has marshmallows and sweet yams; I know you enjoy your sugar.”

Friyr’s lips twitched into a smile. “I dooo~” he purred.

Once the smell of carmelization spiced the air, his stomach betrayed subtlety with a wanting sound. Her padawan had a deceiving streak of flirtatiousness, but Alema knew confection and fruit purees were Friyr’s biggest vices.

Alema didn’t smile, but she did quicken her unwrapping, so she could trade the gooey homemade meal to Friyr for a sense of peace that sat around her shoulders. She had known that Friyr’s path of pursuing the war effort would bring lean times to an already lean man, but Jedi made no money. Perhaps credits here and there or a meal or two in return, but their life was spare. The Republic’s reliance on them as miricle workers, ground what Jedi were left on the front lines to their bones. Alema had come to know this as a Shadow, and so she understood the language Friyr’s simple display of hunger was speaking in a home that wasn’t exactly his own.

She watched him gnaw a fluffy clump of marshmallow off of his thumb with claspd hands. “I wanted to talk to you about-- Boris.”

Friyr sighed into his food. A wilt followed the line of his shoulders. “Talk then,” he murmured politely around his mouthful of yam.

Alema’s calloused thumbs traced the length of each other in turns as she delayed a second longer. “Couldn’t you ask the SIS for accommodation?”

Friyr’s defeated shoulders tensed. “Alema,” he said. His voice was rigid with a talk they’d gone over before. “You know s’not that simple. I gotta make some of my own way out here. It traces too easy if they give me everythin’. Boris is my alibi.”

“Boris is a Hutt,” she said patiently, but her voice had a tension to it too.

“I-- yah? Would it be better if he was Black Sun? Exchange? Any other of th’swoop gangs or pirates out here?” Friyr made a sweeping gesture with his fork in the mushy ‘tato.

Alema followed the motion. “I can’t judge the merit of an alternative keeper, Padawan. But I’ve seen girls in your situation. Effeminate boys too. The life they’re granted by their benefactors is only good on whim. As long as their benefactors are attached to them.”

She watched his lips purse.

“You are a convincing desperate damsel, but you play your role too well. We all did when we served the Republic.” Alema’s voice hitched. “I played a Shadow too well.” She had never sugar-babied for a Hutt, but the role had consumed her body, mind, and soul.

Friyr let out a clensing breath. His eyes closed. “I ‘preciate that. I really do. But no offense t’you, Master, ‘m dif’rent.”

“You aren’t. You let a gangster attach himself to you.” Alema’s voice hardened, and Friyr looked away expressionlessly. The half-eaten tray sat limply in his lap.

The passing traffic hummed between them. Headlights slatted growing columns on the floor. Alema could hear the faint sounds of a resonant argument from two aprtments down without trying. The silence was loud.

“Look,” Friyr finally said. “You knighted me. You knew I was always gonna try fer--” Friyr waved his arms to encompass the magnificently hollow room. “this.” The young knight exhaled deeply. “Boris-- is pretty terrible.” Friyr laughed uneasily. “But he’s got no ability to hurt me. Not in anyway that matters.”

Friyr held his hands out, and Alema took them if only because making him search for hers would take longer. He rubbed his thumb over the backs of his old Master’s knuckles, both pairs of palms flat from years of lightsaber work.

“It’s hard, I won’ lie.” Friyr’s voice broke as he hesitated between speaking and staying silent for a moment. “I see a lot of stuff I used to be on the other side of. Stuff I couldn’ make a dif’rence in. Keepin’ people in the gutter so a few Hutts can feed ‘em a meal at the end of the day? Like whatever, you got good at their game and then flipped it on ‘em. But ‘m a Jedi now. Shouldn’ I be doing somethin’ more than playing the game. Shouldn’t I stop this?”

“Those aren’t easy questions, but your only dedication as a Jedi is to the Force if you wish it to be,” Alema said evenly. “On the other hand, the Force is an extension of everyone. Your job could be to stop it, if they ask for your help.”

Alema brushed a pale shock of hair out of the human’s face and studied his broken alien features. He teased a smile.

A relief lived inside her ribcage. A worry that Boris was her padawan’s primary concern had spent too much time in the halls of her mind. That he had more quandry with his title, was-- relieving.

“That’s th’biggest way t’not answer a question ever.”

“The practice of being a Jedi, I find, is searching for answers yourself,” she cheeked. 

Her eyes fell to the plate of root and melted sugar. “Is that good?” a note of curosity entered her voice.

Friyr’s gaze dropped down too. “Yah, I mean. I’m preddy into it.” Friyr’s pale blue eyes flickered between his old master and the lukewarm tray. “You uh--” He held it forward with a sheepish smile.

Alema stared. A steady of mild diet vegetable and starches had made garden salad the limit of her decadence. The casserole was positively unapaltable. “Well. Hm.” She tapped Friyr’s fork ridden fingers with a nearly grave hesitance. He folded the utensil into her fingers with a single motion, but it took far longer for Alema to select the most palatable part of the remianing plate. It was a difficult decision with Friyr’s predeliction for shoveling, but she found a reletively unharmed corner. Breaking the crust, the fork scooped up a small portion.

Friyr snickered. “Don’ need good eyes t’know yer a wuss.”

“Hush,” Alema snipped marmishly before sticking the fork in her mouth. Haste would make the experience easier. Sugar exploded like little stars across her palate. It settled like a coat on her tongue. “Oh Force.” She gagged, but forced a swallow.

“That’s what the dark side tastes like~” Friyr sniggered.

Alema rapped his knee with her palm.

[hermitmoss]

oh, for the comfort of a friend

first time publishing my oc jedi historical figure, written for the sole purpose of doing something nice for my incredible friend @weary-hearted-queen.

812 words, fic below cut.  Fair warning: I have not yet proofread it, nor has it been beta’d.  I can make no promises about fic quality. 

Muna flashed the drug dealer a feral grin, spitting blood onto the ground and glancing over at the flashing, sirened speeders that bore the emblem of Coruscant Police. “Next time you decide to call someone a slave, you should really check to make sure that they can’t put you in wrist-cuffs and march you off to a nice new home.”

She reached for her lightsaber and ignited it, regally ignoring the trickle of blood sliding down her unprotected neck.

The human’s face paled, and he seemed, for a moment, glued entirely to the litter-covered, duracrete ground. “You – you’re a – a Jedi.”

“Yes, I am,” said Muna shortly, pulling out a pair of cuffs as promised, “and you, sir, are under arrest.”  And racist shithead as well, but I probably shouldn’t add on that bit out loud.

She slipped the restraints onto the unresisting man, disdaining handling his unfired blaster and blood-wet knife and instead waving them directly over to the waiting speeder.

She shoved him, not gently, in the direction of the police droids.  “Now, let’s see about that nice, cozy cell in prison, shall we?”

The wound from the criminal’s knife, poorly thrown and even less sharp, had been easy enough to deal with, she reflected that evening as she pulled on a pair of embroidered coarseweave pajamas, and a deep turquoise over-robe over that.  A bacta patch and a shot for infections – the blade had been a little rusty, and the mission hadn’t exactly been in the well-maintained Upper Levels of Coruscant – and all she was left with was a faint line just below her throat.  And even that would fade away in a day or two.

That he had called her a slave, though, and some other things she had no mind to repeat, even in her brain – just because she was Twi’lekki – that had hurt, and, like all mental wounds, would take longer to heal than any physical ones.  Is that really what the galaxy sees of my people – servile possessions and underpaid dancers?  

She wished that Yoda were here – he understood a constant battle with other species’ assumptions and prejudices – but he was away in the Inner Rim, settling some inter-system dispute. Barely even a youth, he was already becoming the Council’s darling, pegged for his own seat once Master Vaunk retired.

This was all well and good for Yoda, but didn’t mean she had to like it.

For all her attempts to stop it, her mind started replaying the human’s words.  What do you think you’re doing, you filthy slave? Go back to your Master and try that on him, why don’t you?

There was a gentle knock at the door to her rooms, and she snapped her focus back to the there and then.

“What is it?”

“Talaar Mendal.  I heard about your mission.”

Muna scowled – did word have to get around so quickly?  She liked Talaar, a gentle, soft-spoken Zabrak librarian, and considered her a friend, but she would have preferred to have told about it herself, if she had told her at all.  “Come in.”

The door slid open, and Talaar, still dressed in her tunics but her hair brushed and freely hanging about her shoulders, entered and perched herself on the edge of an organiform seat. “Thank you.”

Muna realised Talaar was waiting for her to speak, and ignored the urge to fiddle with the threads at the hem of her robe.  “I – I know you’re probably expecting me to burst out into some rant about how angry I am, or upset, or offended, but I’d really rather not.”

Talaar smiled softly.  “I was not expecting that, Muna.”

“Then why did you come here, if you didn’t think that I wanted someone to talk to?”

Again with the smile.  “I do think that you want someone to talk to actually, but I know that that’s not me.  As a librarian, however, I have the privilege of initating private Temple contact with any Jedi out in the field.”

A pause.

“I think it’s about the sixteenth hour on Balamak.  Negotiations should be over for the day.”

Muna found herself smiling, then bowed to Talaar in gratitude.  “Thank you, Talaar. Can you bring the holocomm in here?”

In response, she stood and produced it from one of her voluminous pockets.  “I take my leave, Mun’Pavakim.”

Muna noted the use of her proper name as she walked into her bedroom to make the call.  Evidently Talaar was trying to make a point not to be ashamed of who she was, or something similarly well-meaning and cliche.

Like the Hells I’m ashamed, she decided, and keyed the co-ordinates into the comm.

“Hello there, leaflet.  How are things progressing?  Boring as usual?”

Yoda’s grainy, transparent blue ears rose in feigned indignation, and for a moment – just a moment, mind, one of the millions upon millions of moments throughout her life – it felt as though the universe was at peace.

[avarkriss]

paradise; (with a nasty bite)

✭・.・✫ 

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Female Reader

Rated: E for Explicit, 18+ Only 

Word Count: 3.589k

Summary: Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Commander Cody, and one very ticked off Jedi Reader get pollened on what should be a very quick and simple mission 

Song/Title Inspo: Control by Unknown Brain ;; a huge thank you to Elisha (@beskars​) for encouraging/proofing these shenanigans

Warnings: Threesome - F/M/M; Sex Pollen and therefore automatic DubCon; Sass; Force Projection; Force Sensitivity and Mind Reading; I Know That’s Not How The Force Works Don’t At Me; Boys Kissing; Oral Sex (M/M, F/M); Masturbation and Mutual Masturbation; Kissing; Shameless Bisexuality and Smut; Vaginal Fingering; Spit as Lube; Spit Kink; Fucking on Obi’s Cloak Kink; Beach Sex; Double Penetration (Vaginal); Very Light D/S tones, Poor Ani

Image credits: unsplash  

Author’s Note: My first pollen fic!! I do apologize if I miss any grammar/spelling/formatting issues, this was primarily written on my phone in the middle of the woods lmao. I love a good threesome, I hope you to too! Plus we’re getting delivered early because I got home early :) Enjoy, share what you can, and be well ~

The heat on Borleias was oppressive.

It was sticky. 

Heavy. 

And you swore to the Force you were inhaling as much water as you were drinking. 

The worst part though? The very worst part was that the beach was so close you could kriffing smell it. 

Cool relief called to you from just a few meters away, the melodic crashing of the waves lulling you into a state of serenity you didn't think was possible in this hellscape - something else to focus on besides the salt crusting on your skin from where your sweat had evaporated.

Until you heard his blasted voice crackling in your comlink, cursing that crisp Coruscanti accent for pulling you out of the only moment of peace you've known since landing in this Force-forsaken jungle. 

The sound was slightly muffled, humidity having crept into the smallest of cracks in the watertight seals on the device. 

"I need you to stay focused," Obi-Wan reprimanded. 

“Of course,” you grumbled, tugging at the neck of your tunic while inwardly groaning at the way the coarseweave stuck to your skin. “Have you placed your beacon yet?” you grumbled, the hilt of your lightsaber slipping in your palm. 

No one saw you fumble it, certainly. No one except for apparently Cody, who you heard choke on a laugh from three meters away. If looks could kill he would have been wounded but he just couldn’t contain himself - you had to be the second clumsiest Jedi in the Order with that thing, the first of course being General Kenobi. 

You waited five more standard minutes before lifting your wrist to your mouth, hissing into your comm. “Well?” 

“You’re so testy in the heat,” Obi-Wan grunted from behind. You startled and nearly dropped your lightsaber again, glowering at him as mirth dared to dance in his eyes. 

“Great. You’re back. I’m going to the beach so I can soak the sweat off,” you snarked, making a concentrated effort to push through the foliage in front of you, desperate for the ocean to cleanse your spirits. 

“Seems that the heat is getting to her, sir,” Cody remarked, watching Obi-Wan gently shake his head before trudging after you. 

When the two men emerged from the forest they found your boots, belt, lightsaber, and pants strewn about the beach in a haphazard line straight to the water where they could see you floating on your back, dimly lit by the moon. 

“Must you leave a mess everywhere you go?" Obi-Wan shouted, bending down to gather your things in a neat pile. 

You rolled your eyes heavily, knowing he couldn't see you in the water. "I'm going to shake Anakin if I don't die here first," you grumbled to yourself, begrudging the day you were assigned to this mission because he had " urgent business on Naboo ." 

Obi-Wan thumped to the ground next to the pile, neatly folding your pants as Cody sat down next to him, removing his helmet. 

"I've read about this planet sir, there's a meteor shower every year," Cody mentioned, hugging his knees to his chest as he looked at the stars along the horizon. 

"I believe you're correct Cody," Obi-Wan mused, taking in the way Cody’s curls seemed to have tightened with the planet’s humidity, basking in his calm while he looked out across the ocean. 

"I can't believe it," Cody gasped, suddenly sitting straight before scrambling to lay on his back. Obi-Wan curiously followed his gaze, tilting his chin skyward to find the shimmering tails of a cluster of shooting stars. 

"It's nice to enjoy this," Cody mumbled, speaking to no one but himself.  

"It is," Obi-Wan agreed, smiling at Cody before calling out to you, beckoning you to the beach before pointing at the stars. 

You slowly removed yourself from the water, coming to stand next to Obi-Wan. You bit back a scoff when you saw the way he had neatly folded and arranged your belongings, crossing your arms as you looked to the sky. 

"As much as I can't stand this planet, being here for the annual meteor shower is pretty amazing," you thought aloud, sand sticking to your toes and ankles. 

Obi-Wan hummed in agreement as he moved to lay down, the top of his head brushing against Cody's. You shrugged and decided to join them, toes towards that cursed jungle as you laid down, your wet hair joining theirs. 

The three of you laid there for a while, relaxing against the warm sand while the planet slowly dropped in temperature, becoming only slightly more bearable. You had no idea how much time had passed when a breeze finally picked up, carrying glittering silver grains in its wake. 

You ran your finger up your arm, examining the sparkles when you realized it was pollen from the jungle. 

"Curious," Obi-Wan said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, slowly sitting up. 

"Obi-Wan," you warned, sitting up yourself as he began to walk up the beach. Cody scrambled and lightly jogged to catch up with him. 

You watched them at the forest line, Obi-Wan carefully studying a lightly colored flower - the source of the pollen, you were sure. He plucked one and returned with it and Cody, sitting down next to you.

"I've never seen such a thing before," you marveled, reaching out your hand to hold the flower. 

It was palm sized, the petals so thin that if there was just one you could have made out the shape of your finger behind it. The edges of the petals were nearly metallic in their argent color, gently rippled and curled. At the center of the flower was a milky white stamen that seemed to glow in the moonlight, studded with the last remnants of silver pollen that hadn't been taken by the wind. 

"We didn't see any of these on our way in," you mentioned, turning the flower in your hand. 

"No," Cody confirmed, extending his hand so he could study the plant. "But there are many flowers that only bloom at night." 

"I think it may be some type of aestus flower," Obi-Wan mentioned casually, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. 

"You can't be -" you started, stopping before you realized you were being ridiculous. The family of aphrodisiac flowers was so valuable they'd be well documented on this planet, known for being exceptionally poor in natural resources. 

“An aestus flower, sir?” Cody questioned, tilting his head as he lifted the flower to eye level. 

“They’re a… a flower known to produce various aphrodisiac effects,” Obi-Wan explained, quickly continuing when he caught sight of Cody’s furrowed brows. “But they’re known to work very quickly, so this may be a distant cousin of sorts.” 

“Regardless, I’m sitting over there,” you threw your thumb to the side, gesturing to a large smooth rock in the sand, “until we’re sure it’s not what you think it is. I could use a few hours of quiet.” 

Obi-Wan nodded his head as you stood, slowly moving himself closer to the tree line. “Just for precaution,” he smiled. 

Cody nodded too and moved a few meters away himself, your close circle turning into a giant awkward triangle on the beach. 

You settled on the stone, feeling the heat of the planet push against your chest once more. 

But as time started to slow and the weight increased, you began to fear that Obi-Wan was, once again, absolutely correct. 

“Just meditate through it,” you whispered to yourself, crossing your legs underneath you while you rested your wrists on your knees, palms facing the sky. "Just breathe." 

You slowly closed your eyes and took the deepest breath you could manage, reaching out to connect with your surroundings. You were searching, looking for something cool, something calming. 

You needed to ground yourself, build an unshakable foundation to ward off the storm you could feel brewing in the pit of your stomach. 

The stone beneath you was too warm and the ocean always took extra concentration, concentration you couldn't spare as you desperately tried to block out the growing heat between your thighs and the gentle groan you heard from somewhere down the beach. 

"Breathe," you spoke to yourself, reaching for the trees. You found them hot, burning from the aestus flowers and resistant to your touch. You sensed something alluring and cold nearby, creeping towards it until you realized it was Obi-Wan, pulling away before you made the mistake of making him your home. 

"Breathe," you spat from between gritted teeth, eyes scrunching with the involuntary flutter from between your legs. You reached into the sand, desperate, aching. But it fell from your grasp slowly, mocking you. Taunting. There was no stability to be found in sand.

There was another ragged moan from down the beach and you ground your teeth down, placing the tips of your fingers against the flat stone, clinging to the steady vibrations between every molecule. 

Heat grew between your thighs as something cool lapped at your back, calling to you like gentle water. 

Relax, little one. 

You couldn't help the growl growing in the back of your throat, letting it escape briefly before swallowing it back down. His voice was honey thick; sticky and warm and pulling you in. 

The groaning from down the beach intensified, joined by stumbling footsteps that climbed away from you, drawn in by Obi-Wan's cooling aura. 

Cody, you panicked, reaching out for him until you realized Obi-Wan had brought him to the safety of harbor first. 

You felt him pull away from you, keeping a connection at the small of your back. You felt like your skin was going to burn off of your bones, thighs slicking as your arousal began to pool. 

Groans turned to whimpers, threatening to break your concentration as you dove deeper and deeper, fighting the pull that threatened to drag you to the surface. 

It was when things finally turned quiet that you straightened your spine, breathing deeply until you felt a familiar flicker somewhere in the corner of your consciousness. 

The sound was different now - wet and messy and your throat felt like it was starting to close until a strangled moan erupted, pulling you out of the shelter you had forged. 

Your protective walls were down and you were exposed, every nerve ending combusting at once until the projection of pleasure slammed into your chest. 

You felt relief for the briefest of moments until it ebbed away, fleeting glimpses of bliss strangling your heart every few seconds until tears began to fall down your cheeks. It was going to make you lose your sanity, bouncing between the burning heat of desire and the sweet relief of satisfaction being sent through you. 

You pulled yourself up and started to walk towards the tree line, vision blurred and gait unsure. You were ready to scream, ripped open and raw and hurting and alone -

"I hate -" you sobbed, falling to your knees at the sight of Obi-Wan on his, Cody’s cock buried in his mouth while he choked on his own relieved cries. 

Your words died on your tongue and your mouth parted as you studied them, beautiful in the moonlight. Cody was bare and had his head thrown back, his hands tangled in Obi-Wan’s auburn hair as he thrust into his mouth. 

You reached between your thighs as you watched - Cody stuttering in his rhythm while Obi-Wan stroked himself, hand moving under his robes. 

Your fingers danced around your aching clit, craving relief that evaded you at every turn. Obi-Wan's projection was constant now, his pleasure mounting with Cody’s. When Cody came the projection pushed you onto your ass, hitting the sand with a gentle thud. You groaned and thrust your fingers into your aching pussy, watching Cody join Obi-Wan on his knees, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Their tongues danced together and your lips tingled with ache, mouth and throat dry while you panted. 

Please , you pleaded, reaching out to tangle yourself with Obi-Wan as Cody kissed him and took his cock in his hand. When Cody began to pump him up and down Obi-Wan pushed so hard against you that you fell onto your back breathless, rapidly thrusting in and out of your heat. 

You couldn't see it when he came but you heard him moan, feeling the pleasure ripple through your tummy and up your chest. You threw your head back into the sand, screaming out in frustration as hot tears simmered on your cheeks, begging for your own release. 

Someone knelt down next to you, their hand on your forehead sending a jolt down your back. You whimpered as you arched under the gentle touch, chasing the connection as the hand pulled away. 

"General," Cody murmured, slipping it under your neck to help you sit up. You pulled your fingers from within yourself and curled into Cody, crying against his shoulder. 

"I - I -," you stammered, struggling to find your words as you continued to clench around nothing, aching to be filled. 

"We know what you need darling," Obi-Wan rumbled, spreading his cloak onto the sand. "We're here now." He was attempting to send a calming rush towards you, finding you unresponsive to it as you kissed across Cody's shoulder. 

Cody’s lips fell to your neck, mouthing at your skin as you grew impossibly hotter in his arms. 

"She needs more Cody," Obi-Wan pointed out, helping to roll you onto his cloak as Cody settled between your legs. "Taste her," he suggested, shrugging off the rest of his robes. 

As soon as Cody's tongue made contact with your soaked folds you let out a wrecked moan, twisting against the cloak until Obi-Wan settled next to you, leaning down to pull your soaked tunic off of you before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. 

You succumbed to him immediately, letting his tongue push against yours as he licked into your mouth. He still tasted of Cody and you moaned below him, fisting one hand in Cody's hair as the other searched for Obi-Wan's cock, joining his own in stroking himself to relieve the fire slowly consuming you all from the inside out. 

Obi-Wan spread a hand over your breast, slowly tweaking one of your nipples while Cody lapped at your clit. He was groaning into you as his fingers searched out your entrance, index and middle slipping in with ease. 

Your hips arched off the cloak to meet his eager mouth, moans filling the air as Obi-Wan broke away from your mouth to take your nipple between his teeth, leaving a trail of stars blooming across your skin in his wake. 

Obi-Wan, please - 

Your walls were down and he was starting to crumble. 

"Cody," Obi-Wan whispered, running his hand through his hair. When he lifted his head from between your legs his eyes were shining as much as his mouth, slowing his fingers inside of you. "Sit back a moment my darling." 

Cody sat back on his knees and dragged his fingers slowly out of you. You keened at the loss until you saw Obi-Wan lean over to Cody, taking his fingers into his mouth, groaning at the way you tasted on his salty skin. 

Obi-Wan cast his eyes down to you as he palmed at your breasts, pulling off of Cody's fingers when he was sure that they were clean. He came back to your tips, tapping them open with a gentle finger before spitting into your mouth, tasting of you and Cody and something uniquely him. 

After leaving a parting bite on your lower lip he helped you roll onto your stomach, gesturing for Cody to resume his place between your legs as he stroked himself and came around to your mouth. 

Let him fuck me, please - 

Your thoughts were loud in your head as Obi-Wan moaned, giving voice to the desires you couldn't speak. 

As Cody lined himself up to your entrance Obi-Wan found your mouth, each man pushing into you, synchronous with the other. 

Your groans were muffled around Obi-Wan, eyes fluttering closed as relief settled into you, the fire shrinking with every thrust of their cocks. 

Cody had you stretched in the most delicious of ways, moaning and cursing as he thrust into you, one hand pressed against your pussy and the other resting on Obi-Wan's. 

They both started to say your name louder, your body shaking between them, threatening to break if you didn't find release soon. But as Cody timed his thrusts to oppose the press of his finger on your clit and Obi-Wan pulled your hair while hissing from the way you traced him with your tongue, your vision went white and the world finally stopped spinning. 

Your euphoria was short lived, quickly replaced by deep heat between your legs. Cody and Obi-Wan found their release shortly after, spilling inside of you as they each moaned out your name. 

They parted from you for a moment, pausing to kiss each other before coming to your sides, each man laying next to you. 

"It's not stopping soon is it," you panted, looking to Cody and then to Obi-Wan who both shook their heads. You let out a shaking exhale as the pain grew stronger. You couldn't fight it anymore, leaving yourself wide open, thoughts so obvious that even Cody could gather what was on your mind. 

Obi-Wan shared in your sensation and grabbed at your waist, urging you to straddle him. Once you were comfortably seated Obi-Wan set a punishing pace, snapping his hips up into your while he kneaded the flesh of your ass between his fingers. 

Cody watched for a few moments before taking himself in his palm, stroking in time to Obi-Wan's thrusts. His face began to contort with pain when a thought burst through your fog. 

Self-stimulation is ineffective, isn't it? 

You were interweaving yourself with Obi-Wan, clinging to the cool of his force signature as he slowed just a touch, breathing out a shudder confirmation. 

With that you turned towards Cody, gently calling his name as Obi-Wan slowly rocked into you, expression curious. 

"I'm so wet," you moaned, looking him up and down. 

"You are," he confirmed, putting his hand where your body met Obi-Wan's, the other still wrapped tightly around his cock. He teased you both for a few moments, running his fingers across both of you at once. 

"I can take you both together." 

The words rolled off your tongue before you realized you had said them, both men moaning as Cody began to work a finger and then two into your pussy without hesitation. 

"You’re sure?" he grunted, wrapping your hand around his cock as he pushed his fingers deeper, working in tandem with the subtle roll of Obi-Wan's hips. 

"Yes," you cried, voice strained as he pushed in a third. "Can't stand to see either of you in this pain." 

Cody hummed against your skin as he kissed you, helping you adjust to the stretch before pulling away, coming behind you. 

With a firm hand to your back Cody pushed you forward until your chest was nearly flush with Obi-Wan's. You heard him spit against you, rubbing at you with his thumbs before pressing his head against your entrance, easing himself inside. 

You and Obi-Wan moaned from the pressure, stilling as he worked his way in. You swallowed your cries as Obi-Wan bit into your shoulder, hands firm on your hips as he tried to hang onto the last bit of his mental wall. 

That, however, came crashing down as soon as Cody began to move, the force of his pleasure knocking the wind from your chest. When you opened your eyes you could see your tears mixed with his, leaning down to lick them away before he began to work in tandem with Cody - thrusting in as he pulled out. 

They worked against each other and you were seeing stars, becoming wetter and wetter with every orgasm that rushed through your body. At some point you realized that the wetness was their come leaking out of you, both men showing no signs of easing up anytime soon. 

You couldn't be certain how many times any of you came, riding out high after high, changing positions, coming in and on each other as you lost yourselves in the pleasure, desperate to keep the burning pain away. 

At some point though the effects of the pollen had worn off and the three of you collapsed together, sticky and sweet and warm. Time had returned though sense was still absent. 

You and Cody had each curled around Obi-Wan, legs tangled together and arms entwined. Eventually you each slipped into a heavy slumber, shared murmurs of thanks fading away as your eyelids drooped. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Slowly you began to rouse, feeling the heat of the sun beginning to sear your skin, quickly coming to your senses when a high pitched shriek jolted you all awake. 

You startled to find Captain Rex doubled over in laughter as Anakin threw his cloak over the pile of limbs you were wrapped in, head turned away and paler than you could ever recall seeing him. 

"Anakin, aren't you supposed to be on Naboo?" Obi-Wan questioned, slowly sitting up. He was blinking in the sun, memories slowly returning as you and Cody unwrapped yourselves from around him.

"I was until the Council told me they never heard your team check in. They sent me here and I find this," he gestured dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away. 

"Like I needed another reason to hate sand." 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Full Masterlist // Star Wars Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Tags - Tumble has a tag limit and we’ve exceeded it (which is so cool I can’t believe that many of you are interesting in reading my work!) so we’ll be switching to comment tags, this should also mean that everyone’s tags will work for once!! 

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[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Three

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 5k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) It’s been a week since you swapped bodies with the Mandalorian and things have fallen into a tense routine. But your supplies and fuel are running low and you have to prepare to move the ship. The change causes new revelations to come out. 

Rating: T (I believe?)

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity

A/N: You may as well call this the book of revelations because it’s all coming out in the open this chapter fellas. Lot’s of angsty mando but also soft mando. And lot’s a green gremlin baby. 

Mando is in the hull when you get out of the ‘fresher. He doesn’t look at you when you emerge, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him either. You’re glad for the helmet for the first time because it disguises the burning of your face and neck. Generally, you wait until the Mandalorian had gone back above deck to relieve yourself, and you had never seen him use the ‘fresher either, an unspoken agreement to avoid the inevitable, and the embarrassment it caused. But you were preparing to move, all the crates which had shifted needed to be strapped down, and there was a malfunction in one of the fuel pumps, which you suspected came from the humidity of the green planet. The whole ship had been dripping for days, and you were sure, running on as low as you were on fuel, that any additional wear wouldn’t serve you well. And it gave you something to do. A reason to avoid your silent companion.

He busied himself with digging through the near empty supply crates, piling things onto the floor next to his feet. You try not to think about how greasy his hair looks; how gritty you feel under the armour. Soon, you know, you will need to shower. The idea fills you with equal parts dread and relief; to feel clean, to take the armour off. But you dread the conversation you know will need to come first. It must be worse for the Mandalorian, the man who you knew cleaned his Beskar every night, shaved even under the helmet. Spent the extra credits on lightly scented soap.

The gloves are still laying over the edge of the opening to the engine when you clamber down below deck. You relish in the feeling of having free hands. Flex them in the open air. It’s some small reprieve from the near constant pressure of the helmet, an unrelenting weight. You have to take breaks throughout the day to brace yourself against the walls of the ship, press the helmet into your hands when it grows too much, feels like it’s getting tighter around your head.

The work on the fuel pumps is clumsy at first. Your hands are too big and fingers too broad, and the shape of the familiar tools is awkward in the Mandalorian’s hands. It doesn’t help to distract from the furious blush along the back of your neck, and the weight of the helmet, made worse in the tiny space below deck – now so much smaller in the Mandalorian’s larger body. At first you struggle to get a proper grip around the tools, and then to exert the right pressure trying to release valves. Have to put the wrench down and concentrate on breathing so you don’t break anything. But it gets easier. Slowly. The task takes you longer than it should. At least you feel helpful again.

There’s a coo from right near your head. The child’s huge eyes are nearly eye level with the visor of the helmet. He gargles and puts both hands up for you, bouncing on the edge of the opening. You shake your head at him.

“Not now, little guy. I’ve got to finish this first.” The child makes small whine and drops onto his behind. Kicks his feet towards you. “Let me finish, and then we’ll play. Yes. Yes, we will. Go on, I don’t want you to fall.”

You never know how much the kid understands. More than you think he does, no doubt. Despite his mischief you know he is capable of understanding much of the world around him. But even for him you know whatever has happened to you and the Mandalorian must be confusing. He’s not pleading with you for attention, he’s pleading with his father, staring at the helmeted face he knows as his guardian. You shush him again when he makes an impatient sound and reach up a bare hand, tickle his exposed toes, tickle his tummy. He squeals in delight, grabs at your grease covered fingers and you try to pull them back before he can shove them into his mouth, a habit which he hasn’t broken. You start to retract your hand, slowly, quietly relishing being able to touch the child without the barrier of the gloves and the armour. The kid cries out, yanks your hand back.

“Kid…”

His tiny brow furrows and then – a powerful wave of impatience, followed by something light and tickling, playfulness maybe. Happiness. The emotions are quick but strong. Your heart pounds in your chest, must feel something that the kid picks up on because the next thing you feel is warmth, pure and light. Like an embrace. Your hand is shaking in his tiny ones. His eyes are shining, grin exposing his tiny rounded teeth. The feeling fades when he coos. You’re too winded from the emotional influx to catch him before he bites down lightly around your dirty hand.

A clang from the other end of the hull distracts you before you can admonish him. You extract your hand from the child’s mouth, give him a tiny poke, and watch as the Mandalorian throws a bundle of grey coarseweave onto the floor of the ship. He grunts in frustration and kicks the crate in front of him with enough force make the floor clang with the vibration. You jump, but the child is unfazed and rolls onto his back, laughing and kicking his feet into the air. You watch the Mandalorian shove his leg against the crate, lean over and brace his good arm against it, shoving with his feet. He starts swearing softly in Mando’a. It takes some time of watching him struggle before you realise he is trying to move the crate across the hull and stack it with the others to be strapped down. It takes a few moments longer before you haul yourself out of below deck and cross the hull.

You flex your bare hands, try tensing your arms – the Mandalorian’s arms – experimentally. You’ve seen him do this before, move the crates not without effort, but what for you would have been impossible is now something achievable. You say nothing, just gently tap his arm and nod your head. You see him jump, stare up at you in confusion. And then you bend and lift the crate. It comes of the ground with more ease than you would have thought. You keep your knees bent, keep your centre firm. You walk the crate over to the stack and lower it on. It drops with only a slight clang.

For the first time since switching you feel good. Powerful. It makes you grin beneath the helmet.

“Oh wow,” you say as you turn. “That…”

Feels good. You were going to say. You stop when you see the look on the Mandalorian’s face. He looks angry, upset. His eyebrows are pinched, working his jaw side to side. Your surge of giddiness fades, and you feel suddenly selfish and insensitive for enjoying yourself at all. He looks devastated. You wonder if it’s because he’s used to the helmet that he doesn’t try to conceal it from twisting his features, and the thought hurts deep and low. The private world he lives only with himself now visible. How much does he feel, think, hurt, which you have never known? He just keeps staring up at the helmet, cheeks flushed, eyes wet.

“Mando… Mando, I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” You says softly.

He steps away from you. “I didn’t need help.”

“I just thought – “

“I’ve got it.” His voice is so even, even though his eyes are still wet. “Just fix the engine so we can get out of here.”

You sigh, think about reaching for him again, but instead turn away. He just stands there, so tense you think you can feel the strain radiating from him. You take a step, hesitate, then another. Stop again. Half turn, turn back, turn again. Face him warily. He doesn’t look at you anymore, just looks at the crate you had lifted, face screwed into a frown. You lick your lips, ignore the plunging in your gut and step back towards him. He looks over at you slowly.

“If…” You swallow. “If we talked about it. I mean, we could talk about it, if – if you wanted to.” You let out a shaky breath which sounds worse through the modulator. Crackles and skips. “It might help.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

You sag in disbelief. “Mando, come on. Nothing to say? We’re – we’re – I���m you! Nothing to say. We should – we should talk about this.”

He shrugs and leans back, lets his weight fall onto one leg and sits into his hip. You recognise the move and it only makes you mad. You try to breathe through the frustration. He puts his good hand on his hip, the purple fingers of the other hang at his side, peeking out from beneath the bandaging. He says nothing, just tilts his head. The actions are all so familiar, all so strange seeing him do them in your body. You take another breath.

“I want to talk about this.”

“What do you want me to say?”

You throw your hands up. “Anything! Something!”

“I don’t have any solutions.”

“I’m not asking for solutions, Mando!” Your voice starts to raise, and you have to stop. Breathe. The stale air inside the modulator does nothing to calm you down. The crushing of the helmet makes it harder to think. “You think this is easy for me?”

“And you think it’s easy for me?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, then.” His voice is so infuriatingly stoic. But his face betrays him. “I don’t have anything to say which will make you feel better. No solutions, no idea what happened to us.”

“It’s not about fixing it!”

“Then what?”

“You’re the only other person in the galaxy who knows how I feel, and you won’t talk to me.”

You’re panting, sweating. He flinches away from you slightly and finally looks away without turning his head, just lets his eyes slide across the hull. Watches something behind you. It’s the kid, toddling his way slowly towards you both. The baby reaches you, rests a clawed hand on your boot before he passes you and holds his hands out towards Mando. You watch him pick the kid up with a heaving chest, heart pounding against the inside of Beskar. Mando tweaks the kid’s ear lightly and tucks him against his side, hand tightening around his tiny body.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Mando says eventually, quieter, but his voice is hard and leaves no space for argument.

You shake your head. “What about me? What am I meant to do?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“So that’s it then? We just aren’t talking.”

He looks back at you, finds your eyes immediately through the visor. You stare back, hoping he can feel it in some way. Feel the weight of your staring like you had always felt his. “Is the engine done?” He asks. You huff, nod tersely. He puts the kid down and pulls the straps from the ship’s wall. Secures them around the crates. He nods at your bare hands as he passes you to the ladder. “Just… put the gloves back on.”

You wait till he leaves before you retrieve the gloves and do as he asks you. A small, ugly, petty part of you wants to leave them off, might have if it hadn’t been this. The Way. You work your fingers back to the leather. Your last bit of freedom. It’s a slow task packing away your tools and closing up the hatch, but you can’t bring yourself to go any faster. The kid waddles over while you work again and sits by you, cooing occasionally when you pick up something you know he likes, and you sometimes put them down in front of the child so he can push them along the floor. It keeps you both distracted. Your hands are sweaty now that they are back in the gloves. The helmet feels too tight again.

You have a moment before you finish where you need to sit back, count your breathing when the pressure becomes too much. You push yourself over to a wall of the ship and brace backwards, let the feel of the solidity of the ship ground you. Close your eyes so you can’t see the static through the visor. It’s a system which you’d relied on since Coruscant, since your mother died. When the storm trooper patrols outside the academy windows made your breathing quick and your heart pound so badly you couldn’t think. One you’d used after you leaked the first Empire record. The same one you needed when locked in your bunk on the ship leaving Coruscant in the wake of a crumbling Empire. Which you’d been doing every day since unwillingly donning the Beskar. One which usually worked.

But it isn’t working.

You try flattening your hands against the ship’s floor, searching for some sort of grounding sensation. Any sensation. But it’s just the gloves wrapped around you, there’s no cool metal to touch, no fresh air to breathe. You know if you open your eyes you won’t be able to stave off the panic attack. There’s nothing around you to hold you to reality. There’s only Beskar and leather and coarseweave between you and the world.

You hear the loud crying of the kid, hear the Mandalorian’s boots on the ladder again as he descends. But it’s too far away, like those sounds are happening somewhere else, on a different ship near a different person. There’s muttering, words which you try to concentrate on but can’t. Mando has picked the kid up. Thank the Maker. You can’t get enough air into your lungs. The footsteps have stopped and so has the crying. The Mandalorian is still talking. You hope he won’t notice you, curled against the wall. Couldn’t take it. You move your hands from the floor to your knees and grip them.

The hand on your shoulder jolts you back. Mando is there in front of you, crouched close enough to touch. He’s got the kid in his other arm, who is reaching out for you with both hands. The Mandalorian stares at you through the visor, eyebrows pinched.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I was rude. I shouldn’t have been rude to you.” The tight, strangle hold around your lungs stops you from being grateful he’s said it. The child makes a whine, slaps both his hands down on his father’s arm. “Not now, kid,” Mando mutters to him. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

You think you should respond. Know you’re meant to say something. Nothing comes out.

“I understand if… if you need some time.”

You’re working your jaw under the helmet, fumbling through words in your mind. Your eyes are only focusing on the static of the visor, seeing his face through the fuzziness is becoming impossible. You feel weightless and heavy all at once.

The child is slapping at the Mandalorian’s arm again. Mando ignores him, presses his lips together. “We’re ready to go. I-I-I just wanted to apologise. Before we left.”

He moves to stand. Your hand shoots out again without thought, grabs his shoulder. The last time you touched him there rises behind your lids, standing on the ramp, silently begging him not to leave. A wet gasp rips through the modulator, feels like it’s going to rip through you as well and finally tear you apart and leave the pieces of you left shattered on the floor of the Razor Crest. Just like last time the Mandalorian’s hand grips yours, warm through the glove, although this time you are on the inside of it. His eyes widen.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

Another wet breath. “H-He-Helmet.” You choke. “Can’t-t b-breathe.”

He drops to both knees in front of you. “Something’s wrong with the helmet?” He sets the kid down carefully, where he’d been tucked under his bad arm. Both hands lift towards you but you’re shaking your head. “No?”

“Something’s wrong with – with me.”

You hate it, the way the words just hang there between you. How small and pathetic they sound. How the Mandalorian is staring at you, staring at you with your own eyes and your own face. Then his brow lowers, and he sets his mouth and he’s reaching for you again. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest you can’t think about anything else. Mando reaches under your arms and then he’s tugging, trying to pull you to stand. It’s all you can do to try and help him, support some of your – his – own weight on your legs. You wobble badly, but he tucks himself beneath your armpit and begins walking you towards your cot.

“Sit,” he says.

You do. You let your knees crumple and land onto the cot hard. He turns and for a horrible moment you think he’s leaving you, climbing back up the ladder to the hull and letting you have this struggle on your own.

But then the lights go out.

It’s just his echoing footsteps in the darkness and that blinking orange light. A cooing from near your feet. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words cracking. “I’m sorry Mando, I tried, I’m trying, but it’s so heavy, it’s just so heavy. All the time. I can’t – I can’t – Breathe.”

“It’s okay.” His voice is close. You feel his weight settle on the cot near you. “Hey, hey. Gotabor. Listen to me. You need to calm down.”

You hiccup. Nod. But you’re shaking, and you feel bloodless.

“Okay.” He’s closer again. “I’m gonna touch you again, okay? I’m gonna take the helmet off.”

Then, just like when you eat, his hands are gripping the edges of the helmet. They slip beneath it and release the catch. He’s faster now, after days of removing it for you. He pulls it and the pressure begins to ease. And then it’s gone. The sound of your wet, ragged breathing fills the hull, sounds awful because it’s tearing out of the Mandalorian’s raw throat. You gulp at the fresh air, push your gloved hands through your hair to try and scrub away the feeling of the helmet pushing against your scalp. Rub over your face and pull the neck covering off from around your jaw. Sucking in breath after breath. You feel Mando’s now small hand grip your leg just above your knee. You drop back against the cot.

“Can I take the gloves off? Please Mando, I – “

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Here.”

He finds your shaking hands in the dark fairly quickly, like he does when he hands you a rations bar. Pulls one of the gloves from you, then the other. The cold ship air hits your sweaty skin. You could cry with relief.

“I’m sorry,” you start talking without even thinking. “I’m sorry, Mando. Thank you. I’m sorry. I won’t – It’s just – So much. All the time. And I’m so tired, it’s so hard to sleep I feel like I can’t breathe, and then all day – “

Mando makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. “You’re sleeping in it?”

“Of c-course. I promised.”

“You – “ He stops. Sighs. There’s rustling and the bed dips slightly. You close your eyes against the darkness and concentrate to the sound of him moving and living beside you. Listen to the sounds of the kid getting lifted up to sit with him. Count your breathing. It works this time. Your hands fist into the woollen blanket beneath you. It’s warm and scratches at your bare palms. It grounds you. Mando mutters quietly, “I don’t sleep in it.”

“I know, but – “ You keep your eyes closed. “I know what it means to you.”

“Gar ratiin mirshir ni.” He says. His voice is gentler than you’ve heard it in what feels like months, although you know it’s only been a week since the change. More of the tension you hold bleeds out into the air through your breaths. His hand on your thigh tightens. “You’ve only been taking it off to eat?”

“I haven’t taken it off.” You funnel your attention to the pressure of him against your leg. “Only you.”

He says nothing to that. His hand pats your leg once and then he leaves. You hear him fumbling through the hull, and when he returns he lifts your hand and places the familiar shape of a flask in it. Its cool, and he helps you to sit again. You twist the top off and gulp the water down. He makes a noise, put his hand gently on the bottom of the bottle to tilt it down again, slow how fast you pour the cold water into your mouth. He seems satisfied and drop his hand idly back to your knee. Let’s you finish the full flask.

For the first time since landing on the green planet the silence between you is comfortable. You let your weight drop into the lumpy cot again, let your head roll to the side. Listen to the sounds of your breathing – deep and slow through the Mandalorian’s chest. Feel the warmth of his fingers where they still hold on to you tightly. The kid is babbling quietly between you on the bed, you feel his weight bouncing somewhere next to Mando’s lap. You reach out for the child and lay your hand along his back, rub your thumb gently over the dusting of hair on his head. He turns towards you and wraps his hand around one of your fingers. The emotion he gives you is warm and soft. You squeeze your hand around his. The realisation which has been floating at the edge of your thoughts since fixing the engine floods back.

“Hey…”

“What?” You sit, and Mando adjusts himself as you do, you feel him move closer in the dark. His hand comes to your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“No,” you pat his hand. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You feel for the kid in the dark, gently scoop him up into your arms. He’s still hanging on to your finger and starts slapping at your arm when you lift him, babbling again. You pull the kid up and hold him close your face, close enough that his tiny hands reach out and feel along your jaw before retreating. He makes a noise of impatience. You lower your forehead, try to butt it gently against the kid’s but he whines and twists away from you, just as he always does.

“I need the helmet.”

“Wha – You just took it off.”

“Mando, please.”

He rustles, and then he puts it in your lap. You pass him the kid and lift the helmet up to your head. It takes you some time to feel the front of it and fit it over your head in the dark, but it falls into place. The feeling is just as suffocating, but the excitement of your discovery keeps the worst of it at bay.

“Okay,” your voice comes through the modulator. “Give me the kid.”

You can almost hear the Mandalorian’s confusion, but he does as you ask. You hold the kid before you again and repeat the slow lift to bring him eye level. Drop your helmeted forehead to his slowly and carefully, making sure the Beskar doesn’t hurt him. But the kid makes a cry this time, loud and clear, and twists away from you. Even in the helmet.

“What are you doing?” You start to hear impatience in the Mandalorian’s voice now. You hand him the kid again and feel around the helmet. He must hear you struggle with it because he sighs and reaches for the clasp again, pulls the helmet off for you.

“That thing, the thing you do with the kid.”

“What thing?”

“When you headbutt him.”

“Kov’nynir?” He sounds insulted. “It’s not a headbutt.”

“Kov nee near?”

“Kov’nynir.”

“Have you done it? Since – since we – “

He’s quiet for a moment. “I – Yes.”

You lean towards him, reach for him without thinking. He jumps slightly when your hands find his leg. “Mando, he knows. He knows we’re not us.” You hear his scepticism in the silence. “He never does the kov’nynir,” you pause and wait for correction, but it doesn’t come, so, “with me.”

“You,” he stops. You think you hear a smile in his voice. “You tried kov’nynir?”

You flush, grateful Mando can’t see you in the dark. “Yeah,” your voice is small. “I saw you do it, and I thought… Well I thought maybe the kid liked it.” You clear your throat. “He never does it with me, though. I don’t know. But I thought – “

“In my body – “

“ – He would think it was you. But – “

“He still didn’t. Is that why he cried?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I didn’t even think, but earlier when he – “ You cut yourself off. Realise what you had been about to say.

Mando seems to hear your hesitance, because he’s gentle when he says, “When he what?”

You pick at a loose thread on Mando’s pants. Your pants. You remember finding it there before all this, thinking you should cut it off and never getting to it. You sigh. Mando is patient. You realise you don’t have a reason you haven’t told the Mandalorian, except maybe habit, an old one drilled into you by your mother and reinforced by years of living on Coruscant. You pull your hands away slowly and fold them in your own lap. You’ve never really had to put it into words before. Never felt safe enough to try. But half a cycle with him and the child, you know you can trust him with your life.

“I’ve never had to explain it to anyone before.” You start softly. “I don’t know how, exactly. But it’s like – like knowing something you can’t possibly know. A feeling, sort of. Not all the time, but sometimes, about certain things. I’ve never met anyone else, or not that I knew, who could… feel this.” You take a deep breath. “But with the little guy, I don’t know if it’s because of what he can do, what you told me about the Mudhorn, but he,” you struggle to find some way to put the connection you have with the kid into words. “He talks to me. I guess. Not with words but, just, feelings.”

You feel winded by the end of your speech. The Mandalorian is completely silent. In the darkness you can’t see his face again, can’t guess at what he’s thinking. It’s almost enough to forget he isn’t him. The orange lights blinks somewhere behind you. On and on, blinking. And there’s only the soft sounds of breathing. You start to feel nervous, the tingling of it in the tips of your fingers and bottom of your stomach.

“Mando?” You whisper.

He shifts on the cot, and it dips with his weight. “You can…” he swallows loudly. His voice is just a soft as yours. “You mean you can talk to him? Understand him?”

“Yeah. Not a lot. But if he was hungry, or happy. He could show it to me.”

Silence, and then a long, deep sigh. He must still be holding the kid because there’s a sudden happy coo. The Mandalorian shifts again. You think he might lie down, but in the dark you aren’t sure. His knees knock against yours. When he finally speaks his voice is hoarse. “You mean, all this time…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“No!” He is suddenly loud. “No, please, I’m not mad.” He swallows again. “I’m sorry I’ve been mad. I’m not mad, not at you. Not about any of this.” His next breath is ragged, long and tired. “You tried to tell me, about the planet.”

You press you knee against his, bring your hand towards him again. “Mando, this isn’t your fault.” When he doesn’t respond you settle your hand back on his knee and squeeze. “It’s not.”

He puts the child down on the cot again and puts his hand over yours. He doesn’t say anything else. You settle yourself back onto the cot as well, knees pressed together in the middle of the cot and heads laying at opposite ends. The child crawls onto your lap. The three of you lay there, staring into the darkness. Comfortable at last, as much as you can be.

gar ratiin mirshir ni: You always shock me

Gotabor: engineer 

Kov’nynir: A Keldabe kiss (butting foreheads through your helmet, a strong sign of affection in Mandalorian culture)

Tag List:  @btillys​ @vercopaanir​​ @absurdthirst​​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​​ @adikaofmandalore​​ @babyomen​​ @purpleeeslurpppp​​ 

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 4k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You are forced out into the desert to find moisture farmers on the desert planet. On your trip the Mandalorian asks you questions about your past he’s wanted to know for more than six months, and some truths are revealed. 

Rating: A cautious M. This chapter has some descriptions of canon typical violence. While it’s not graphic it is very obvious what is being discussed. Violence related to war. 

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity

A/N: This is the second part of the not officially two parted chapter and this is the GOOD part (hopefully, lol) Backstory amiright ladies? Backstory backstory backstory and MORE backstory. I’m a slut for it. Also an excuse for some e m o t i o n s  Because I JUST KEEP FEELING THEM. Also fckn s/o to @namay​ @hdlynn​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ and @fleurdemiel145​ for the beautiful feedback u guys r everything 💕

It's the beginning of harvest season. The aliens which run the moisture farm are ones you have never seen before, hard skin, narrow eyes almost shut against the glare of the desert. They speak no basic, but sign in a language similar enough to Tusken that Mando can negotiate a price. The two tanks of water you buy are barely enough to drink for a week. Will only get you to the next nearest planet with a trading centre by millilitres. It costs you all the spare parts you have. Makes you grit your teeth beneath the helmet.

They offer you shelter in a small outhouse. A round, domed building made of the same red dirt as the surface of the planet. Mando is quiet the whole day. Barely speaks even when the farmers leave you alone in the hut. The child’s crib finally open in the controlled air. Outside the shape of the vaporators on the horizon spear against the sky. Mando shows you how to tilt up the helmet just enough to eat without pulling it off. The farmers come by to check on you with frequency which makes you too nervous to take it off completely. He’s tense and stiff even when you are alone. You find yourself buried in your blankets before the sun begins to set. Sore from two days riding and sorer at knowing there is the same ahead. Find yourself missing your lumpy cot on the Crest.

The next morning Mando wakes you before dawn. The farm is already busy. The air is bitterly cold before the sun rises. Mando has his scarf wrapped so tightly around his face even his eyes are barely visible. It is not until well after dawn your tanks are loaded onto the carriages of the two bikes and ready to go. Mando signs his thanks. He is unsettled, twitching to leave. You set out when the last of the stars have finally faded away, melted into a pale blue sky.

The sun rises quickly once you set out. The air becomes bearable. You think that the warp of haze in the desert is worse that day, so there is no horizon. The sun is so bright your eyes begin to strain. The terrain so flat and constant. You will be glad to turn your backs to the planet and move on. The day slips by. Slow at first, so that you think maybe you will be stuck in the desert forever, and then too quickly. Your toes had gone numb first. Then your legs. Your fingers burned around the handles until they didn’t anymore. Mando doesn’t stop to eat or rest and you follow.

It's pitch black but for a beam of white from the front lights of your bike when you finally stop. You leave it on, stagger off your bike. Hands aching and sore to flex from clutching the bike. It takes some time for the blood begin to flow, hurts your toes when it does. But you have no time to linger and ease onto your feet. Mando hasn’t moved from the bike, he’s so stiff and still even in the dark by the light of the stars you can see it. You almost trip getting to his bike and when you finally do he moves, peels himself off the bike with enormous effort. He stumbles and you manage to catch his arm. It’s shaking. Badly. You should have stopped an hour ago. More, maybe. The cold is coming on too fast in the dark. You should be angry at him – angry he would risk exposing you both to the freezing night air.

“You idiot, Mando.” It has no bite. No anger. You help him to sit on the dirt and make quick work of extracting his bed roll and thermal cape from his pack. Roll them out and check you have everything in the bike light. Set the bed rolls out and catch something before you can add the thermal cape. A patch of light through the middle of it.

You move and hold it up to the light. The cape is threadbare, worn through in places so you can almost see the bike behind. You drop it to the ground and dig out your own pack, fumble for your thermal cape. Hold it to the light as well. Its seen better days, but it is whole and not so thin as Mando’s. The anger you knew you should have felt before surfaces now and you turn back to him, rolled into his bed and pull the covers back. Wrap the thermal cape around him and cover him again. He stares at you, just his eyes over the top of his scarf. You want to scream at him. Don’t. Turn back to your packs to extract the woodbricks.

It takes you several tries to get the fire going. The cold is biting, but nowhere near as bad as you know it must be for Mando. Whatever is lining the armour is keeping your body heat within and the coating on the coarseweave keeps the worst of the cold at bay. You coax the flames as they begin to eat through the woodbrick, poke at them until the blaze is hot and bright. Hold your hands out in front of it to warm them. Mando shifts closer beside you. As close as he can without setting himself and his bed things alight. You crouch there until your fingers no longer burn from cold and your toes have feeling. Only then do you lay out and climb into your own bedroll, sitting upright.

“What in the kriffing hell is wrong with you?” You snap at him. Hold up his ragged cape. “Why do you have this?”

“Only have three.” He says. You can still hear the shake of his shivering.

“Why do you have the worst one?” You want to hurl the thing at his head, peaking out the top of his blankets. “You don’t have the armour on anymore! You’re going to freeze to death out here.”

He doesn’t answer.

“We should have stopped an hour ago. What the kriff do you expect me to do if you die?” You wait. Wait for some kind of response. He doesn’t say anything. “Mando!”

“We’re fine.”

You could scream. Have the sudden and childish urge to hit him. You drop the helmet into your hands. You can’t think of anything to say to that. So you clamber back out of the protection of the bedroll and check the kid. Pull out some of the salted meat and pass it in to him quickly with a gentle pat behind his ear before you seal him back in. Wary of the cold. But the crib is warm inside. You find yourself wishing for one. Wish it were big enough to crawl in with him and avoid the cold.

By the time you settle back in your bedding you are too tired to be angry. You pass over Mando his share of the food. He grabs your wrist instead. Catches your eye. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

You sigh. He takes the food and draws it under the blankets. You watch as he tucks as much of himself into it before unwinding the scarf. He eats quickly. Mustn’t even taste it. Winds the scarf back up around his nose and mouth and pulls the blankets up over his head.

“Are you at least getting warmer?” You ask.

He grunts.

You think it means yes.

The feeling is creeping. Slow and quiet. Until it’s not anymore, until you realise it isn’t yours. It’s an aching feeling, tired and sad. Almost guilty but not quite. Loss. Grief – not new, but not old either. Still weeping and sore. You nestle back into your bed covers, lay down finally. Your uneaten food next to your head. The Mandalorian must feel everything so intensely, because it fills you up until you have no room left in your heart for anything else. Just like the first time you had ever felt him on the Crest. It lingers and hurts until it becomes dry. A well all used up. And then it becomes soft. Aching in a different way. Familiar somehow, but before you can place it the feeling retreats and you are alone with your own heart again. When you twist slightly so you can see his face, his eyes are visible again. Looking at you.

“Why didn’t you come with me when I asked you on Batuu?” He says, voice muffled by the blankets.

The fire cracks and pops. A small shower of sparks illuminates the dirt beneath for only a moment before they fizzle and fade. The question sits heavily between you, so heavy it’s almost visible. He doesn’t look away and you can’t. Can’t find a way to tear your eyes from his. Aren’t sure where the question has come from.

“I…” You let out a shaking breath. “I was scared.”

“Of me?”

“No!” You jerk back slightly. And then more calmly, “No, Mando. Not of you. Maybe – maybe at first. I thought… I thought maybe when you came into the shop you were going to collect the bounty on me.”

“I was never going to.”

You smile. “I know now.”

He looks away first. He has relaxed finally, not curled in on himself so tight. You peer through the dark, think he has stopped shaking as well. Feel yourself sink further into your own blankets. More comfortable. Still too cold to be tired.

“What were you scared of?” He asks.

You roll onto your back. Above you the stars are visible, a river of silver light across the sky. Winking from the heavens. Bright. Infinite. They seem further away than you could ever reach, even in one hundred lifetimes. And yet, in the frigid desert air, close enough that if you brought your hand out from the blanket you could touch them. Trace the shape of them in the sky. A sky filled with life, and yet you are completely alone with the Mandalorian and his son. The darkness beyond the light of the fire so absolute you could be your own planet, floating with the stars.

“Everything.” A whisper. “After – after Coruscant. I’d never been alone before. Not really. And I thought… maybe… maybe I was better off. There, on Batuu.” You swallowed. Look at him again. He’s watching you too. “I regretted it, you know? After you left the first time. I thought I was never going to see you again and I thought – ”

“What?” He asks when you stop. “What did you think?”

You can’t hold his gaze, so you turn back to the stars. “I realised I was already alone.”

He’s quiet. Hums softly. You hear the sound of him shifting and when you chance glancing at him from the corner of your eye he is rolled onto his back. Staring with you into the galaxy. The moment settles around you. Peaceful. Easy. You tilt your helmet up like you had the night before, the way Mando had shown you. The air is so cold on your bare skin you hiss and swear. Hear the deep sound of your voice without the vodocor and it makes your stomach tighten. You can feel Mando look to you again at the sounds. Eat as quickly as you can. Feel relief when you can pull the helmet back down and the warm fog of your breathing warms your face.

You nestle deep as you can into your blankets. You aren’t as warm as you had been the first night out in the desert. Certainly not as warm as the night before in the dirt hut with the moisture farmers. Think you might kill the Mandalorian for giving you the warmer cape. So very typical of him not to say anything. You still miss it as you wait for the blankets around you to heat, hardly as effective without the thicker thermal cape. You tuck the thinning one in anyway, figure it must be better than nothing. You close your eyes. Open them again. Remember Batuu without really meaning to. The heat. The mech shop. The first time you’d seen the gleam of the Mandalorian’s armour. A lifetime ago. Really only six months. Think of the welding mask he’d given you as payment on his second visit to Batuu, hidden away under your cot on the Crest. You hadn’t needed it since coming aboard. Remember the way he’d tilted his helmet when he’d seen you carrying it after he’d given it to you. It makes your chest tighten.

“I don’t feel alone anymore.”

You feel silly as soon as they slip out. The words so quiet they crackle through the modulator. Drop in and out. But so loud in the quiet. Mando turns his head back to you. Eyes glowing in the flames of the fire. You don’t feel silly when you see the intensity there. It makes the tightness in your stomach double and twist. Feel a flush along the back of your neck and ears. The confession feels somehow more intimate because you are blushing in the Mandalorian’s body. Because it is his stomach you feel tightening.

“Gotabor.” His voice is so gentle. Makes the name feel different. Special. Not just engineer. The first time he’s said it to you since the swap, except – your panic attack. He had said it then too. Just as soft. Just as gentle. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do it?”

You don’t need him to elaborate. Don’t need any more explanation, even though he had never asked you before. Never brought it up. Never even asked what the records contained. He knew your bounty. Traitor to the Empire. Aid to the Resistance. Wanted dead or alive. With some number, some meagre amount which felt too infinitesimally small to represent your life. As if your life could be contained within some amount of credits. Worth so little. Your bounty didn’t say why you were wanted, that you had leaked Empire orders for tie fighters, but he had known that when he found you on Batuu. Knew your real name.

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

He’s silent.

“I didn’t even think about it first. I don’t think I even thought about it while I was doing it. It was so stupid. There was this guy, I can’t even remember his name. Some guy I met when I was out for drinks. I remember seeing him there and just thinking he was so… dirty. No one looked like that on Coruscant,” you say. Wish it didn’t sound as awful as it was. “And I saw him show some guy this little badge. I knew it. We all knew it. The insurgents. The rebel scum. And I just followed them. They didn’t see me.” You close your eyes. “They used to show these photos, you know. Have these big triumphant displays up in all the records buildings. And they had this one the next day of this – this – this pile of people. Like it was some, some victory. I never liked them. But after that night all I could see was that man in the bar lying in the pile with them. It was so stupid. And I just… I just did it. I found him again and I gave them to him. It probably meant nothing to them. Just spec sheets. Diagrams. How many they were ordering. They would do hundreds of orders. I – I guess it made me feel better. Like I wasn’t as bad as the rest of them.”

You open your eyes again. Look at Mando. Expect to see the hatred there. The revulsion. You feel it yourself, when you let yourself think about it. About life before Batuu. Some ridiculous little story of self-redemption while his people had burned at the hands of the Empire. But you don’t see them. His eyes are still gentle. The air around him is still quiet. It makes you feel better, lighter. Makes you feel even more stupid.

“I regretted it,” you say. “I went home afterwards and cried. So spoilt.”

“But you did it again.” Not a question.

“Yeah. Three more times. But the Empire was already falling apart. By the time anyone realised, I was long gone.” You want to stop, but now you’ve started you find you can’t. Words you’ve never said tumbling out. “They make you feel so important. The Empire. They make you feel like if you fall short then everyone does. Like we’re not some expendable cogs to them. Like you really matter.” And you feel awful, you feel terrible, but the words don’t stop, “The rebel guy. The informant. He said the same thing to me. The same thing as the Empire did. I was important.”

Mando is quiet again.

“I didn’t want to be just someone’s cog.”

You’re breathing hard. Almost panting. You aren’t sure if you feel better or worse having it out. Having it said. You think it might sit somewhere between. Some sort of shifting feeling between relief and fear. You wait for Mando to tell you how silly you sound. How childish he finds the whole thing. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, unchanged. Still looking at you the same way.

“Do you regret it now?”

Coruscant was different to this. Different to everything you knew now. Had been cold after your mother died and left you in the hands of the academy. But it was easy. It was inevitable. Life simply went on there. A Galaxy away from the Outer Rim. From Batuu. From the Mandalorian and his son. A son who maybe was like you. On Coruscant the war had felt like some holodrama. It hadn’t even been given the dignity of being known as war. It was a blight on the Empire, some upstart uprising. Some distant petulant child, throwing empty threats at an adult. But they had won. The Resistance had won. And life was the same for everyone else. Coruscant was too far away for the Resistance to control, and the Outer Rims too wild. But you aren’t resentful any longer.

“No. Not anymore.”

You are warm. Finally. The thinner thermal cape finally trapping in the heat of your body. You feel the weight of your eyelids. Time begins to slip, pull all around you. You think Mando is pleased at your answer, but you are too tired to figure out why. Happy he doesn’t hate you for the life you used to live. The fire still burns bright, heat pulsing against your bed rolls. You turn onto your side. Tuck your hands beneath the helmet to try and reduce the pulling it makes against your neck. You will be glad of the Crest when you get back so you can remove it.

“Mando?” You call. Not quite ready to sleep yet. He hums in response. “Why did you save the kid?”

He’s silent. You think maybe he had fallen asleep already. But finally, you hear a rustle. He turns on his side to face you across the flames. Looks as tired as you feel. “I don’t know,” he echoes you. “It just… seemed like the only option.”

You nod. There is another moment of peace. Warm and understanding. You feel the space between your souls pull. Closer together. You think you feel him again, a brush against you, but the feeling is gone before you can latch onto it. Retreating back into Mando. You think you will have to tell him about that also, three times now that you have felt his heart. But not tonight.

.

Mando goes slower the next day. Stops halfway back to let you both stretch and move. The ride is worse. Worse because your muscles ache in protest to clamping your weight around the bike. Better as well, because you will be back to the Crest in a few hours. Bearable because it is nearly over. The haze is not so bad either. It doesn’t hurt your eyes so badly. You can even manage to find a beauty in the flat, red landscape now that you know you are leaving it. You mention this to Mando while you lean, side-by-side, against his bike. It makes him laugh. The air around you both feels lighter than it has weeks. Longer even than the swap.

You load the water into the ship’s tanks with the mechanic. Mando avoids the yard, returns the bikes one by one. You are grateful when the mechanic is too terrified to talk to you, although a part of you thinks you shouldn’t be. You pump what you need into the ship’s tank, load the rest into the filtered water reserve. Let the mechanic talk you through the work he’d done on the ship with more patience than he deserves. It takes some time, and you double check everything by habit, protective of the ancient ship which has become your home. The mechanic fades off, leaves you to your checks. The kid is with you, you’d packed the crib aside and let him wander after you freely. Guilty he’d been cooped in there so long. He’s gleeful at the chance to stretch his legs. Sometimes crawls onto your boot and hangs on while you walk, squealing in delight at every step.

Mando arrives back as you finish closing the hatch. Eyes the smears of engine grease on the Beskar and the coarseweave.

“When we get to the next planet we need to shower,” he says. The bluntness makes you flush. “I’m going to clean the Beskar.”

You nod carefully. Relieving yourself was enough, certainly necessary. You know this will be different, though. A new kind of intimate. Know under the Beskar you must need it desperately. Know you will feel better with the grit of almost two weeks finally washed away. But – you try not to imagine it. You have enough material already that the image is clear enough without having ever stripped out of his underclothes. Try not to think about Mando surely also having the same thoughts. Seeing all of you. You manage a strangled sound of assent and have to walk onto the ship, can’t look at your own face. Can’t look at the dark blush marking those cheeks the longer you take to reply.

He doesn’t bring it up again. Let’s you empty both your packs and climbs into the cockpit. He waits for you to climb the ladder before he shows you the planet nearest to you. A trading port. You will need more fuel before long. Need more water. He’d calculated the distance already, you would make it there with what you had, but not with another jump to hyperspace. Another four days. Nearly a week. You have enough of the dried bread and fruits, and salted meats for longer. Spare rations bars. You collapse into the co-pilot’s chair while Mando sets coordinates. Prepares to leave.

Your legs are aching from the bike. Finally sitting it rushes over you fully. You groan and stretch them in front of you, stretch your arms above your head. Your back is the worst, hunched over the handlebar for days. Curled onto the hard dirt in the desert.

“Maker, I’m sore.” You tilt your head, stretch your neck out. Feel the muscles twinge and resist. “Kriff I am so sore.”

Mando huffs. “Back’s probably locked up.”

“Yeah, it feels like it.”

“Take it easy.”

You continue to move as much as you can bear. “Why am I so sore? Are you not sore?”

“I get thrown around a lot. Get hit a lot.”

You pause your stretching. For a moment you can’t piece together what he’s saying. And then. “Is this – is this a you thing? Maker, Mando, do you always feel like this?”

“Bounty hunting isn’t exactly an easy job,” he mutters. “Only if I’ve been sleeping rough. Or fighting someone.”

You groan and begin stretching again in earnest. As much as you can with the restriction of the Beskar. Mando is shaking his head from the pilot’s chair. You feel him watching you out of the corner of his eye. You push yourself up, ignore the way he tilts his head. You push your arms over your head and then drop your whole upper body down. Fold in on yourself and let your hands hang as close to your toes as you can get them. Straighten slowly. Change your stretch. It’s tight in the cockpit. There’s barely enough room for you both to sit, let alone stretch out. But you don’t think you will make it down the ladder. Eventually Mando abandons any pretence of ignoring you and swings the chair around fully. You have your back to him, but you still hear the muffled laughter.

“Shut up, Mando.”

.

Gotabor: Engineer 

Tags:@btillys​ @vercopaanir​ @absurdthirst​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @adikaofmandalore​ @babyomen​ @purpleeeslurpppp​ @fleurdemiel145​ @hdlynn​

[prokaryotics]

❤️🌹❤️

hello !!

He surprises you by stepping down to your level, standing in front of you now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body through the coarseweave and armor.

send me a 🌹& i’ll reply with smth from a WIP