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parcel-of-stardust · 1 year

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The Sun Also Rises

Chapter 1: The Long Way Home

Chapter 2: Turbulence

Chapter 3: Shelter in Place

Chapter 4: Reprieve

Chapter 5: The Undertow

Chapter 6: Cold was the Night

Rating 18+ Mature (will become explicit)

Read on Ao3

Pairing: Predator x F!Reader; 2.1k words

Summary: A young woman living on her father's farm gets more than she bargained for when a wounded alien traveler crash lands in his wayward ship.

Warnings: none until later chapters

The sun is at its highest when he falls from the sky.

---

There’s sand in places it shouldn’t be, the grit of it coating your tongue, crunching wetly between your teeth as your jaw clenches tight. An exasperated groan escapes you as you roll over and lift your goggles from your bleary eyes, squinting in the direction of whatever just crash landed directly above you and forced you to fling yourself off your bike and into the scorching orange sand.

A plume of charcoal black smoke rises into the sky, not fifty meters from you.

Obscured by sweaty strands of hair, your narrow gaze hones in on what’s left of an aircraft.

Sleek, with rounded edges replacing sharper corners, the ship shimmers under the rays of the midday sun, obsidian flecked with metallic silver. It’s unlike any you’ve seen before, originating from a far-off sector of the galaxy beyond your knowledge, not listed in the trove of scattered books littering your bedroom shelves.

Your mind finally snaps back into place as you realize the ship didn’t come down from the heavens on its own.

A pilot. A crew. Maybe passengers.

Likely hurt, if not dead, judging by the increasing amount of smoke billowing from the ship’s hull, and the beginning crackles of a fire you can now hear over the wind.

You silently curse your Pop and his damned knack for helping those in need, a noble trait you’re now wishing you hadn’t inherited from your all-too-kind father.

“Shiiiit”, you whisper listlessly, shaking the remaining sand off your clothes and running toward the downed craft in search of survivors.

---

The hours that follow your discovery on the ship don’t feel real.

Old gears groan from years of disuse under your exertion. After much effort winding the handle, worn chains spill from the rafters with a loud clang, rust flecks from their stagnation falling in whisps around the barn.

They’ll still hold.

The pully system was designed to bear the weight of the larger equipment on the farm. You thanked your lucky stars Pop hadn’t had this place demolished years ago. You remember him being rather dead-set on gifting it to you as your proverbial “treehouse”, your hideaway when you were smaller and could still squeeze yourself between the rafters for the perfect hide-and-seek spot, and your workspace now that you’re older and much less maneuverable.

Years had gone by, and it remained a comfort space for you. Pop rarely ventured here, or over to this side of the property at all. He tells you it’s just too far of a walk from the house for him to bother with, but you like to think it’s his humorful way of honoring the invite-only policy you had arbitrarily placed on entry into your barn when you were about nine years old, messily etching a reminder onto a sign and pinning it to the outside doors in case anyone forgot.

You have never once in your life felt afraid here. Not until now.

Your brain is spinning into overdrive. Your breathing falls into shallow, stilted gasps as you grab the chains and start weaving them around four solid limbs and a thick torso, hooking loop and end together and tightening as best you could.

“Fuck fuck fuck”, you curse under your breath, your reaction stemming from your closeness to…you don’t know what it is.

You’d found it alone, hurt, and fully unconscious in the fallen ship, neon green blood oozing from a large gash in its side.

It would be fatal if not mended soon.

Your brain had switched into autopilot, a voice of help this hurt creature taking over any thoughts of self-preservation, that perhaps this was a dangerous road to turn down that you wouldn’t be able to come back from. You had not hesitated to haul its large body onto the back of your sand bike and whisk away towards the safety of the barn.

---

It wasn’t until after you’d dragged him indoors and chained him, when your adrenaline finally started ebbing and you could wipe the sweat from your brow, that you realized how entirely and irrevocably fucked you were.

Yes, him, at least, that’s the conclusion you come to after finally taking the opportunity to really look at what you just brought into your barn, your home, the haven where you and Pop were protected and secure from the outside world.

You brought a monster inside.

That’s how you define what lies motionless at your feet. Your mind tries to comprehend the sight in front of you. What you had just regarded as a lost alien creature needing your help seems to have turned into something else altogether as your vision became clear.

You’ve been around other species many times, some very human-like and others not at all. This one appears humanoid, which should have eased some of your fear, except it doesn’t.

He’s escaped right out of the pages of the horror novels gathering dust in Pop’s study. Tanned reptile-like skin scattered with dark blue and green splotches covers his massive body, sinews of rippling muscle wrapping around his hulking appendages that end with clawed-tipped digits. His broad shoulders and taught abdomen are covered in mesh fabric, with only a loincloth to hide what you guess is male anatomy. Black tendrils of rubber-like dreads spill from the crown of his head to his shoulders, some embellished with jeweled beads that shine against the sun peaking through the cracks in the old roof.

It's altogether primitive, he has the build of a man equipped with the weapons of a beast, the little amount of clothes wrapped around his athletic physique both bizarrely archaic and revealing.

You haven’t stopped sweating.

His face gives nothing away because you can’t see it. It’s covered with a sleek black mask, similar to the look of the ship he piloted, evidence against his primitive status.

It’s high-tech. He must be able to see out of it, the two eye shields raised up and tinged with blue. Maybe it’s for protection, for navigating, maybe his eyes don’t work like those of a human at all.

Maybe, he’s awake with his eyes open and you don’t know it.

The thought makes you back away, but looking down at the tear in his side and the fluorescent blood still slowly leaking out of it stops you.

You have to make a decision, and it has to be now.

Help him, or leave him to bleed out on the cold cement floor.

Your body starts moving before your mind can catch up, your decision already made even though you worry of the consequences of what will come after.

After you save him, then what?

You push the thoughts aside and focus, nabbing the first-aid kit housed on top of the counter and getting to work.

---

It takes longer then it should, the task of tending his wound. You’re being overly careful with your movements out of fear of waking him, when in reality you should’ve just done it quickly and gotten it over with. It looks painful, the gnarly gash running from the top of his pectoral muscle to his hipbone. Your hands shake when you clean and numb it and then your whole body starts to tremble as you begin the arduous task of sewing him up.

You get about halfway done when you stop, the hair on the back of your neck standing up in response to something in the air. The barn turns stifling hot and sweat drips into your eyes.

Beads clink together lightly when he turns his head to you.

Your fight or flight response becomes inoperable, and you opt instead for freeze, knowing it’s the dumbest and most childish move- if I don’t move he can’t see me- but you hope he’s still too out of it to comprehend you.

You stay perfectly still, needle in one hand and in the other a raggedy towel covered in his blood.

Your breath hitches as you hunch there on your knees, unmoving for what feels like hours. A low rumble begins to reverberate from somewhere in his chest, bubbling up into a full growl as he twitches, the chains strapped around him clanking together against the strain of his muscles.

“Be easy, you’re hurt badly”, you tell him in the quietest most soothing voice you can muster, not knowing if he even has the capability of understanding you, but it seems pleasing to the farm animals when you tend to their injuries, so you try the approach regardless.

You think it works, or perhaps he’s simply too out of it to resist, his masked face falling limp to the side once more.

You clasp the needle tightly and begin again.

---

Buat’a doesn’t know how it came to this.

How one moment he was traveling with ease towards the destination of his next kv-var, his latest hunt, a planet that swaths of rjets and ghequos called home, deadly prey that would make pristine trophies once he tore their bones from their flesh, growing his collection with their chalk-white skulls adorning his chambers for all to see.

How the next moment it had all gone wrong.

First his navigation went out, ripping the ship abruptly out of hyperspace as he tried and failed to course-correct. The autopilot went next, sending the nose into a downward spiral that launched his stomach into his throat as he scrambled for the controls. Once he switched on the manual steering, the ship steadied enough for him to chart a turbulent path to the nearest planet for damage control.

That was his plan before the outer shields decided to fail as well, and what should have been a rough but survivable landing turned into a doomed downward tailspin when the ship lost power entering the planet’s orbit, the electrical units short-circuiting under the immense pressure of the upper atmosphere.

There was nothing more he could do besides try with all his strength to manually even out the ship as much as possible before impact, praying to Paya herself to make it a quick death. He’d rather that then the prospect of bleeding out slowly on a barren planet with no hope of rescue from his brethren.

The goddess did not hear his plea.

He has no time to react to the impact of the ship plowing into the planet’s surface, sand smashing through the windows as he’s sent soaring forward into the shattered glass. The ship skids upon the smooth land like a tossed rock skimming on water, jolting him up and down until finally coming to a halt on a raised hill.

Pain shoots through his abdomen and he knows he’s hurt, he knows there’s a glass shard imbedded into his side, and he doesn’t look down at it when he rips it out with a roar. Time slips away from him quickly, he scrambles to get to his gear, to his med pack to stop the blood running in rivulets down his side before he passes out.

He doesn’t make it.

---

Hanging on the edge of consciousness, he waits for death to take him, for Paya to wrap her arms around him lovingly and bring him into the next life.

But something feels wrong. His side is on fire, pulsating as if alive, the pain coursing through his body too much to bear. A faint light flickers in the corners of his vision, growing brighter one moment and dulling the next. He wants to reach out for it, he wants the light to envelop him in its warmth and ease his passing, but he can’t move.

What seems like hours go by, and he dreams of traveling to the edge of the universe, of killing hordes of kiande amedha with his hunt brothers until their bodies form a mountaintop under his feet, of the clan he would leave behind once he was gone.

They’ll never find his body to bring back home.

One more swell of adrenaline fills him at the thought, infrared light pouring into his line of vision when he opens his eyes under the mask.

There’s something there with him, someone in his presence, a faint outline of flame red and orange very close to where he lays wounded.

There’s a racing heartbeat. The rapid puffs of anxious breath. He senses its fear.

A defensive growl wells from inside his ribs as his muscles strain against whatever has him bound in place. The pain in his side is less.

Then the softest voice he’s ever heard reaches his ears, halting his ragged breaths.

He can’t parse the language, not without the help of his translator, but it feels unthreatening, gentle even, soothing him back into the clutches of the peaceful dark as he loses consciousness once again.

Yautja language: kv'var-hunt rjets-type of animal ghequos- 4 meter long carnivore with sharp teeth kiande amedha-"hard meat" (xenomorphs)

Buat'a- "boo-ah-tah"

#predator #predator x reader #predator x you #yautja #predator fandom #predator fanfiction #predator smut #yautja fanfiction #yautja smut

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parcel-of-stardust · 1 year

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Chapter 5: Travelers

Rating 18+ Explicit

Word count-4.3k

WARNINGS: A bit of smut, more angst than I intended but oh well. A bit of fluff too, how sweet.

“We drink the poison our minds pour for us and wonder why we feel so sick.”

The three-day trip to Scarif passes uneventfully on the Crest.

The Mandalorian continues to exhibit his usual stoicism throughout the journey, which is nothing different than what you’d expect, but you note his distant behavior seems to have dialed up a few notches more than you’d anticipated. You didn’t think he could get more taciturn than he already is, but the cold shoulder he typically presents even on his good days turns to ice the longer you’re stuck together on the ship.

His aloofness hangs in the air as something palpable, something you swear you can feel buzzing in the space surrounding him anytime you get close enough.

Which is why you eventually decide it’s best to spend your time below deck while he broods in the cockpit.

The way he’s acting is not only vastly annoying to you considering what you two have done together, done to each other in the short time you’ve known him, but also terribly boring.

Cleaning your weapons and gear only takes up so much time. You have your new rifle bright and glinting in the overhead light of the ship, yet you find yourself running the oiled cloth down its barrel for the umpteenth time.

You’re borderlining on obsessive behavior; you’ve always considered yourself tidy, but not uppity about keeping things to any sort of pristine standard.

The issue with running out of things to do is not so much a detriment to your physical body, but rather, to the current torrent of thoughts and emotions swirling in your mind that you’re trying to keep from spilling over.

Keeping your hands busy ensures your mind is elsewhere.

When you run out of things to do, you start to think.

To really think. About the events that led you to your first encounter with the Mandalorian only a few short weeks ago, and everything that’s happened in the time following.

From enemies, to…well, you didn’t know what to call it now.

Your initial confrontation with him was an orchestration by the Hutts, your dispute with one another manifested by larger forces outside of your control. You don’t blame him for it, and you don’t think he blames you either.

Yes, in an unfortunate turn of events, he did drop you back on the Guild’s doorstep after your tryst on his ship, but really, wouldn’t you have done the same if you were in his position? Credits were credits, and it’s not like he owed you anything. The fact that he not only let you live, but decided to grace you with a decent if not a bit harsh fucking should’ve been enough for you.

The proverbial one-night stand that could’ve ended in bloodshed but instead ended with quick orgasms and a very quick goodbye.

But in the end, he bought you back from your original captors for a ridiculous number of credits that still had your mind reeling when you thought about it.

“I need your services,” was the only explanation you’d gotten from him at that time, but it had been enough.

You still couldn’t believe your talents had been worth that much to him, that he’d stamped a dollar amount on your freedom and paid the price in-kind. You remember how grateful you’d been to get out of the servitude he was slightly responsible for you being in.

Your surprise run-in with him on Tatooine and his subsequent purchase of you for 12,000 credits didn’t seem coincidental to you. It seemed like he had chosen you.

He could’ve bought a hired gun anywhere else, someone more skilled and less hot-headed, yet he took the time and effort to not only find you but overspend on you to become his surrogate girlfriend during your stay with the Tuskens and help him take down a rancor on Felucia. He even gave you the option to leave or stay with him after it was all over, a choice someone in service to another would never have gotten.

No, no you aren’t enemies. Not anymore.

But what then?

You weren’t stupid enough to think what you currently shared was friendship. An uneasy alliance? Accomplices? Reluctant collaborators?

You were never one to need labels, so you aren’t sure why it matters to you now.

Your brows furrow together as you stare up at the ceiling of the Crest from your position on the grated floor of the ship’s hull, blanket and pillow tossed haphazardly into a makeshift bed because you were absolutely not about to sleep in his sorry excuse for a bunk.

There was something about your ill-defined relationship with the Mandalorian that irked you more than you wanted to admit.

His fortitude was something to be reckoned with, but you could hold your own with bottling shit up, pushing it down, and thrusting head-long through the galaxy with a chip on your shoulder and your blaster in hand.

It had served you perfectly well your entire life, fueling you with enough inner turmoil to stoke the fires of rage that welled in your heart.

It made you a good hunter. A near-perfect shot. You learned fast and had an uncanny ability to hone your skills and keep your focus on the next target.

Shoot, keep moving. Shoot, keep moving.

Only now, you feel stuck, unable to keep up the steady cycle of adventuring into the galaxy with reprieves on Tatooine in between. Stuck physically on his ship, a ship that’s beginning to feel like another prison cell all over again. And stuck on the topics of labels and relationships and things not meant for hunters like you and Mando to experience.

What you’ve done together, the things that happened between you on the Dune sea, in the Tusken hut, and on the overgrown vines of the jungle planet were hard to forget.

What started in the dark with filthy hushed whispers and poorly stifled moans had moved into the light of day, when golden rays streaked through his glossy brown hair as he lay resting and fully unaware on your naked hip bone.

Helmet off, exposed to the elements.

Exposed to you.

Because of you.

He had drunk from you that night. A Mandalorian, brought to his knees by the taste of your pussy, nearly forsaking the values of his own creed by indulging himself in his pleasure. Your core had wept for him as he ate you out for hours into the morning, uncaring how many times you passed in and out of consciousness as the pink sun began to rise in the distance.

You feel your face flush hot at the memory, and how angry he’d be if he knew you had accidentally stolen a glance at his perfectly tousled helmet hair as he fell asleep soundlessly against your skin. You didn’t look at his face, but you know he’d never believe you no matter what the truth was.

“Fuuuck”, you whisper, hand rubbing in between your eyes in response to an oncoming headache.

Bounty hunters screwing each other was a practice entirely normal in your line of work. You had indulged when you could, scratching the itch that would surface on those lonelier nights spent in the marshlands of Naboo, or when you’d drank far too much Corellian wine at some overly obnoxious club on Coruscant.

It didn’t matter what the scenario was.

The lines were always drawn in the sand, straight and clear and never blown over by wind. And you’d not only accepted that’s how your relationships would go, but you welcomed it.

You were beholden to no one. Could come and go as you pleased. Fucked who you wanted, when you wanted. It was all on your terms. Never attaching to one person, one place for too long.

Never attached, so nothing could be severed.

It kept you safe. It kept you focused. It kept anyone from getting too close.

And for the life of you, you don’t know why this lifestyle you’d fully accepted and integrated yourself into long ago was suddenly so frustrating to wrap your head around.

You need sleep. You need off this ship. A new mission to sink your teeth into. A distraction.

As if on cue, a loud clang reverberates through the hull as the Mandalorian plants his feet firmly onto the grated floor you’re currently laying on.

You nearly jump out of your skin, managing to bite down hard on your lip to stifle a yelp.

“Maker, be a little louder when you’re sneaking up on people Mando.”

He stops in his tracks, helmet meeting your gaze for the first time in two days.

“I’m going to shower,” is his only response before he turns and shuts himself in the fresher.

---

About 20 minutes later, he comes out the exact same way he went in, full armor not a pinch out of place, breezing past you on his way back to the cockpit for the night.

You’d possibly think he’d spent that time in the fresher simply looking up at the ceiling and coming back out, going just as mad as you felt yourself becoming, but his scent hits your nose a small beat behind his billowing cape.

You note how unlike him it smells.

It’s not smoke from a freshly fired blaster round, not gunpowder residue left on his vambrace from a bounty gone wrong, not the mix of metal and sweat from hours spent on a desert planet with the sun beating down on his beskar body.

Clover followed by a hint of vanilla fills your nose, and you audibly inhale as the alluring scents combine and settle pleasantly around the hull. It’s fresh and light like spring rain, mild and warm like sunrise on a dewy morning.

The smell permeates the Crest and calms your overactive mind enough that you finally drift into a light yet restful sleep.

---

A few hours later and you find yourself sitting in the cockpit, unable to sleep properly now that your circadian rhythm has been thrown off by the perpetual darkness of hyperspace.

Awkwardness hangs in the air between you and the Mandalorian’s unmoving figure in the pilot’s chair, but you’d managed to alleviate some of your concern over the tension between you by taking three large swigs of the rum canister you kept stored amongst your things. Still tired and slightly woozy, but it’s a better feeling than sitting alone and sober with your wayward thoughts.

No one speaks for a long time; you occupy yourself by staring at the flashing switches and green and red nobs scattered along the control panel that remind you of stars.

You know you’ll be the one to break the silence, not as adept at tolerating quiet the way he is.

You attempt a playful approach.

“Didn’t know you were holding out on me the first time I showered here.”

He looks at you as if finally noticing your presence beside him in the chair. You meet his visor with a haphazard smile.

“That soap smells damn good Mando, I’ll have to borrow it next time.”

A barely audible “humph” manages to filter out as he turns from you.

So it’s like that then.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s been going on with you?”

“Are you drunk?”

His accusatory tone and the way he’s managed to completely ignore your question and turn the focus on you raises your hackles.

“Maybe I am. There’s nothing else to do on this Maker-forsaken ship, and you’ve been piss-poor company for the last two days. There’s only one solution for it in my eyes.”

With that, you raise the flask in a mocking toast towards him and upend it into your mouth, wiping away the drip and coughing as the rum burns your throat.

It’s ripped out of your grasp before you can recover it.

“Give it the fuck back Mando,” you warn as you stand to reach for it.

He follows suit, standing as he holds it out of your reach, suddenly towering over you.

“You’ve drunk enough.”

His tone is chastising, making you feel like a teenager being told off by an angry parent.

“Excuse me? Out of the two of us, which one is in charge of me? I’ll be done when I want to be done.”

You jump up in an attempt to grab at it, your swipe missing as he easily shoves you backward.

“This is my ship. You’ll do as I say when you’re on it, and until you stop acting like a child, I say you’ve had enough.”

Oh, you’ve had enough alright.

“I’m the one acting like a child? Are you serious right now? You’re the one who’s been putting himself in time out for the past two days up here, and now you’re dodging questions like some scared pouting idiot,” you seethe between your teeth, launching at him and shoving him off balance, nearly taking yourself down in the process.

He rights himself quickly before you can capitalize, your movement slowed by the alcohol inhibiting your reflexes.

“God dammit Mando, you son of a-”

His billowing voice shocks you out of your next advance towards him, piercing off the walls of the cockpit and rendering you speechless.

“Do you have ANY idea how much danger we were just in back on Felucia?” he shouts at you, closing the space he’d created between you both in one large stride. “How much danger you put us in by not listening to me? How you got yourself hurt and I had to help you through it, had to do something so you wouldn’t suffer?”

The way he’s standing over you, chest puffing in and out in anger turns your blood hot, makes your head spin with thoughts of fear laced with that telltale desire.

“For fuck’s sake Mando, you know how shitty I feel about that, I said I was sorry and I-”

“We left the Crest unguarded all night, we could’ve been robbed, captured, killed, sucked in by that planet and spit back out the other side. We should have been more careful but we weren’t, we fucked up, I fucked up, I can’t believe I let that happen.”

And there it was.

His hands shoot out to grab your shoulders tightly.

“Don’t you get it? I lost myself with you that night. Fuck, I jeopardized the whole goddam hunt because I c-couldn’t fucking stop myself.”

Your eyes blow wide with realization. You could never have fathomed in the 48 hours you had been losing your mind down below in the hull, the same thing was happening to him not 15 feet above you.

“That can’t happen. I can’t do that again.” He shakes you in his tight grip and you wince, head lolling back and forth as he continues. “I almost gave up what means the most to me. The thing I’ve honored all my life.”

“Your creed,” you affirm with a whispered breath.

“Yes.”

You aren’t sure how to handle what this situation has spiraled into. Your head pounds from intoxication as your mind does cartwheels over itself. His grip on you hasn’t lessened despite his quieter tone, his hands fever-hot on your shoulders. You sense the self-loathing bubbling up from within him, radiating out of his suit and raising the temperature of the entire room.

You chew on your lip before speaking, wondering if you’d both be better off if you just stayed quiet.

“Look Mando, it was a freak thing, okay? It was my fault, not yours. You helped me, did what you had to do, and no one blames you for doing what you did with all the crazy fucked up shit that happened.”

You’re so bad at this.

You strive to show him comfort rather than resistance, but easing someone else’s anger is something you’ve never been good at, having enough difficulty keeping your own in check even at the best of times.

“You helped me through that. I needed you, and you had my back.”

You wrap your hands around his wrists still holding you tightly. You fear touching him may have the opposite effect of what you intend given the circumstances, but it’s the easiest way of expressing yourself to him without more word vomiting you’d probably regret later.

It must be enough, because he doesn’t pull away from you, and you see his shoulders fall as tension releases from his pent-up body.

“I’d rather die than forsake the Creed, you understand that?”

“What about forsaking your friends? What does the Creed say about that?”

He drops his arms and tilts his head as if not expecting that kind of response from you.

You stupid girl.

You may have just fucked this up, and you fear more anger from him about bashing his creed or the possibility of launching into a long-winded conversation about what the fuck are we? that neither of you are equipped to handle.

Yet he stays unmoving, chest steadily rising up and down with arms resting at his sides. His visor is fixed on you and you know his hidden eyes are locked with yours, as if he’s never really looked at you before and needs to take his time.

You speak again before you start blushing.

“We won’t let it happen again, okay Mando? I’ll try to listen better, and you’ll… I don’t know, recite your creed ten times instead of nine every day. Sound good?”

He moves away from you to sit back in the pilot’s chair, and you take that as a temporary albeit reluctant sign of agreement. You’re not sure if the conversation produced the results either of you were hoping for, but at least you now understand the reason for the permanent sour mood he’s held onto for the past two days.

You had made him want. And wanting can be as destructive to a bounty hunter as a blaster round square in the chest. Desires are one thing, everyone has them, but to act on those desires is another situation altogether. To not only want, but to take and to have can lead to the demise of even the most skilled hunters. It was such a human flaw, fueled totally by emotion and selfishness and the need to feel something from someone else, to hold someone close to you instead of pushing them away and putting a gun to their head.

Mando’s anger had nothing to do with you, the guilt he felt for putting you both in harm’s way because of his selfish desires had finally spilled over like scalding water that had left you burned as well.

You’re a bit wobbly on your feet after so long of him holding you in one place, and you try to make it to the co-pilot’s chair, but you don’t.

You trip over your own feet but before you fall flat on your face, he’s there in a flash to catch you by the waist, guiding you toward the ground softly, no doubt saving you from fresh bruises to pair with your morning headache.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” you shift to sit with your back to the cool metal wall, “I think I drank too much.”

He stays crouched next to you as if minding a small fawn, making sure you can’t find another way to fall over.

“You should sleep,” is his reply.

“I don’t think I can move.”

He’s gone down into the hull and back up in a flash, your blanket and pillow now held in his hands.

“It’s fine. Just try to get some sleep.”

You accept them gratefully and melt into your makeshift sleep corner with a loud sigh.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I-I’m sorry again Mando. I’m really shit at this. I got way too bored and thought you were mad at me and that just pissed me off and I’m so bad with my anger and I shouldn’t have drank so much and when you started yelling I-”

A gloved thumb on your lips silences you.

Your eyes shoot up to meet his visor inches away from your face. He holds there, pushing lightly into the plush of your mouth. Your stomach knots, and you worry you might get sick if he stays this close to you for much longer. He drags the leather toward the edge of your mouth, pulling the pink flesh along before it bounces back in place.

It’s oddly soft and sensual and it’s nothing you expect in that moment because it’s so unlike both of you to touch each other with any sort of tenderness. Your chest constricts and you swallow down the alcohol threatening to rise into your throat.

When he finally pulls away and stands it makes you want to cry.

“You should sleep,” he repeats.

“What about you?”

He opens the navigational holo-map, it indicates five more hours until your scheduled arrival to Scarif. He considers the pilot’s chair for a moment, then turns back to you on the floor.

“Yeah, yeah that’s a good idea.”

Through heavy lids, you see him stand awkwardly for a beat before taking a seat on the floor next to you. Your heart skips as you scoot to make room for his larger frame in the small confines of your corner. You offer part of the blanket and he accepts it, tucking it under his arms as it drapes over both of you.

Your body stiffens in response to his proximity, your sides rubbing up together in a way that makes sweat form on your brow. He doesn’t seem perturbed by your closeness, but rather, a sense of calm forms around the both of you for the first time in days.

It lulls you into a sense of uneasy peace, unsure where you stand with the Mandalorian now that you’ve both settled yourselves into the quiet. Maybe you don’t need more answers right now. Maybe it’s enough.

He nudges you lightly. “Stop thinking so loud and sleep.”

“Okay.”

You know you should, and you’re so so tired, droopy eyes and belly full of butterflies drowning in agitated alcohol. But the comfort you find in this moment makes you want to stay awake to cherish it, knowing the tentative peace you’ve found with each other will doubtlessly end at the drop of a hat.

Wavy blue patterns filter into the reinforced glass windows and dance around the small room, illuminating the beskar steel adorning his arm. You trace small designs on the cold metal with your fingertips, lightly traveling from his wrist up to his elbow. You look up for permission to continue, and he’s already looking at you, the black T of his visor pointed down where you’ve laid your head on his pauldron.

Heat rises in your core as your eyes lock with his visor, the argument that took just place not five minutes ago fading into the background and replaced by thoughts of yearning.

He suddenly speaks and his tired voice is so raspy that you melt under his gaze.

“You called us friends.”

“I was trying to make you feel bad. I know we’re not-we are not friends.”

“No. We’re not.”

His arm snakes under the blanket and he shoves it in between your legs, instantly finding your clit beneath your sleeping shorts.

You jump at the intrusion and cross your knees, trapping his hand between your inner thighs.

“Mando!”

“Shh, listen to me,” he husks, his dexterous fingers continuing to work circles around your covered nub. “We’re not friends,” you yelp at one particularly solid rub before he continues speaking, “but I won’t deny that I want you. I want you like this.”

It’s hard for you not to whine with him lazily brushing against your slit, working his fingers against your opening with soft but assured caresses.

You mewl and push your cheek against his pauldron, watching his arm slide back and forth under the sheet. Your brain is dizzy and you feel drunk all over again, your insides twisting up as he plays with you gently.

“Fuck, I can feel you getting wet through your shorts.”

“Mando I-I want you too, shit I want-”

“I know, but like you said, we have to be careful. We have to be smart.” The way his gravelly voice vibrates against your ear makes it hard for you to agree with him.

“S-s-sure, smart, yeah, we can be smart.” You twist and move with his fingers, fighting for more friction.

“If we do this,” he pushes down against your opening and you both sigh in unison, “we both gotta keep our heads on straight.”

“Fuck, um, okay, but Mando it-”

He suddenly pulls his hand away, his touch leaving you far too soon.

“You need to sleep.”

He covers you both back up with the blanket and you look up at him, face pink with neediness and frustration.

You know what he’s doing. He’s showing you he can stop, proving to you both that he in fact can restrain himself.

“I need sleep, Mando, but I want to fuck you.”

“I want to fuck you too,” his voice steady and assured, “but not now.”

He wraps his arm behind your back and pulls you into him, your cheek now laying against his hard chest plate. You wiggle to get comfortable and try to forget about the persistent burning between your legs.

“That wasn’t fair,” you tell him, voice husky with sleep hanging on the edge of annoyance.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Now that ignites the fire burning hot under your clothes, and you do everything you can to stoke it so you can focus on sleeping.

You peek your eyes out at the vast blueness of hyperspace enveloping the Crest. There’s calmness within the deep starry beyond, a serenity and stillness despite moving at the speed of light. You wish you could emulate it, the peace and the calm.

It makes you think of possibilities. Of how unlimited and boundless a thing can be. It feels like liberation, like freedom. Despite your earlier thoughts of being trapped, it serves as a reminder that you’ve been moving all this time.

Excerpt from Atticus

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