#mando x plus size oc

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part I

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C   

word count: 4.4K  

chapter summary: Fennec feels worn out, Din feels hungover, and Marathel doesn’t know how to feel 

warnings:  fluff, angst, mention of blood and injury, rape aftermath, English and Mando’a cursing   

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***     

You Were Marked: Masterlist   

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Fennec was very, very tired.  She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since meeting this Marathel woman, who currently lay tranquilized on the cot before her.  Marathel, who tried so hard to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, had instead sent the palace into an uproar.  The silver-haired woman collected champions everywhere she went.  Silnima was ready to adopt her as well as make her chief baker, if Marathel wished.  Din Djarin was obviously completely in the most stupid variety of love with her, and right behind the Mandalorian, Cobb Vanth was hurriedly catching up in the adoration race.  Boba had admitted to her that even he found her charming, and he was ready to jump into any fray to protect her, like an old mobster uncle would protect his favorite niece.   

It might have been more amusing if Marathel was actually manipulative.  Marathel was not.  She was in fact so simple she was straight.  She had no guile, no artifice whatsoever.  Cobb had mentioned to Fennec that he thought of her as a full-grown child who had dropped from the sky, an apt description if there ever was one.  Everything was black and white in Marathel’s world.  She had a child’s sensibility, a child’s gullibility, almost to the point where Fennec wondered if the woman even had object permanence. 

Fennec had just witnessed another emotional breakdown from Marathel, the reasons for which were still unknown to Fennec.  Marathel had been lying quietly, appearing to be deep in thought, before she suddenly began to weep, and had become hysterical enough to require intervention from the medi-droid.  Obviously — at least to Fennec — it was all somehow the Mandalorian’s fault.  The fact that Din had both cleared the room and turned the lights off led Fennec to believe that he had: one, removed his helmet, and two, most likely kissed her, and three, probably told her he loved her.  Both apparently had trouble with complex emotions, but at least Din should know better than to run in, declare his love like a soldier heading off to war, and run out as if a Hoth blizzard were approaching.  At least give the woman a chance to reply, thought Fennec.  After Din had left — having given her a handful of the Aurodium coins — Fennec had turned the lights back on in the med-bay to see a flushed and bewildered Marathel, sitting up on her elbow, her hand to her mouth, and tears in her eyes as the sounds of Grogu screaming “MAMA!” reverberated through the ship.   

Then the ship began take-off, which shifted Marathel from bewilderment to panic until the ship ceased quaking and began to fly smoothly.  Marathel had then commented that the persistent engine noise was somehow soothing to her, and she began to relax enough to rest.   

It was shortly after this that Marathel’s latest crying jag occurred, and Fennec was nearly out of patience.  After Marathel was tranquilized, Fennec left the med-bay in search of the Modifier, who was in the cockpit with the pilot.  The pilot looked like the average mercenary: faceless, nameless, and uninterested in the cargo. 

“Is the commotion all over?” asked the Modifier. 

“It’s never over with that woman,” mumbled Fennec.   

“Something new offended her delicate sensibilities?” Fennec sighed, and reminded herself that Marathel was doing her level best to cope.  Then the Modifier asked, “Did the Mandalorian provide payment?”  Fennec flicked her eyes to the back of the pilot’s head.  The Modifier nodded.  Some things were never discussed in front of a mercenary, regardless of how inconspicuous they were. 

Din awoke in Marathel’s bed alone, curled up on his side, his mouth feeling as if he’d chewed on a Jawa all night.  His nose was stuffed up, his neck was sore, and although his visor kept out the blinding light of the two suns, his eye sockets were throbbing with the dehydration headache.  He felt around him, looking for Grogu, for Cobb, or even the Jawa he believed he was chewing on.  But he was alone, and the door to Marathel’s room was shut tight.   Din scooted over to the edge of the bed to peer at the side table, which held a large, beautiful pitcher of glorious looking water, several hydration powder packets, and a glass. 

Silently thanking Silnima, Cobb, Frith, whomever had left him this morning-after gift, Din drank the entire pitcher along with all the hydration powder, took a runner-beast-sized piss, and had a quick hot shower to cook out the remainder of the booze from his pores.   

Feeling human again, he straightened up Marathel’s bed, smoothing the sheet over her pillow.  He sat in her padded chair to pull on his boots when he noticed items on her large treatment table that had not been there yesterday: a large, waxed bag that looked as if it contained sweets, three large hanks of yarn, a big ball of near-white fluffy wool, knitting needles, and two jars of dark honey.  Set off to one side of these items was a new pair of shoes.  The shoes were an ankle-high slip-on style in a deep grey leather, flat-heeled, simple, and very appropriate for someone like Marathel.  There was a tiny scuff on the outside of one of the shoes, a few grains of sand on the inside of the other.  Din had a fleeting desire to smell the inside of her shoe.  That’s weird, right?  Yeah, that’s just weird.  I’m still drunk.  Din stood, making sure his bandolier was properly buckled, and his blasters were properly positioned on his hips.  He lifted his helmet and held it above his head to put it on when his eyes fell on Marathel’s shoes again.  He dropped his helmet into one arm, grabbed Marathel’s left shoe and took a deep whiff.   

Well, that was disappointing.  All he could smell was new leather.  With a laugh, Din put down her shoe, wondering if he would have preferred her feet to smell badly or not. He put on his helmet and opened the door.  Cobb was leaning against the opposite wall, drinking from a mug of caf. 

“How are you feeling, friend?” asked Cobb. 

“Better now.  Thank you for the water.” 

“That wasn’t me,” said Cobb with a shrug.   “I just supplied the hydration packets.” 

Din looked up and down the corridor.  “Where’s Grogu?” 

“With the other palace kids.” 

“How did he seem?” 

Cobb shrugged again.  “Subdued.”  He smiled wryly.  “He ended up between us, and we had positioned ourselves like a little fort around him.  Our arms made the roof.”  He raised his eyes to Din’s visor.  “It was quite nice. It felt good.  Made me a … little jealous of Marathel.”  Cobb went silent for a few moments, and then he took a drink from his caf.  “Look, I gotta head back to Freetown.  I trust the new deputy only so far, and I really have no reason to hang around if I can’t get my arm worked on.” 

Din remained silent.  Both men stood still for a while before Din reached out to take Cobb’s arm.  Pulling himself close to Cobb, Din whispered, “You’d leave me?” 

Cobb’s eyes went wide, but after a moment’s thought, he squinted his eyes and said, “You’re pullin’ my chain.” 

“Mostly,” said Din.  “I need to go find buyers for the Aurodium, and I need a distraction for Grogu.”  Din’s hand went to Cobb’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.  “Come with us.” 

“Uh … no.  I’m not stepping off this planet.  Jumping around the vacuum of space in a tiny metal box is my personal vision of hell.  Not even you can change my mind.”  Cobb lifted Din’s hand from his shoulder and held it.  “But give me updates on Marathel.  And … consider her staying here for a while when she’s better.”  Closer to me.  “The palace is a controlled environment for her.  Out there … I think it’s hard for her to feel safe.” Cobb dropped Din’s hand.  “She was scared of a Trandoshan she saw in Mos Espa.” 

“She should at least be cautious.  They’re assholes.”  Din nodded.  “You’re right, though.  Here at the palace Marathel would have only a limited number of people to contend with.  She’d be safe, even if I’m not here.  And Silnima can help her have a purpose.  Marathel is not one to be idle.” 

Cobb grinned. “And she now knows where to buy yarn.” 

Under the helmet Din was smiling too.  “Thanks to you.”  He leaned forward and hugged Cobb, hard.   

Cobb squeezed back, and in Din’s ear, he whispered, “Love her.”  Din drew back.  “What?” 

Din shook his head.  “That’s what … the Dahl told me.  Rodanthe.  I figured … I imagined it.  That she’d growled and my brain turned it into words.  But she hadn’t made a sound.” 

Cobb tilted his head.  “That was something you mentioned last night.” 

“I did?”  Din reached under his cuirass and scratched the bite mark; it was suddenly itchy. “I guess it wasn’t a dream after all.” 

“You don’t think it’s strange?”  asked Cobb.  “That this —Rodanthe critter ‘talks’ to you and then the next day Marathel can seemingly control you?” 

Din scoffed.  “The whole damn thing is strange.  A woman can bond with an animal on a biological – chemical – neurological manner to the point where she allegedly loses physical control and goes into a heat cycle?  And drags me into it as well?”  Din looked up and down the hall.  Seeing no one, Din leaned in towards Cobb.  “She could barely look at me at first, and the next thing I know, she’s wrapping her legs around me and climbing me like a damn tree.” 

“And I’m sure you fought that little wildcat as long as you could,” Cobb said with a smirk, but then he sobered.  “You can’t think she’s been manipulating you.” 

“I know she’s not telling me everything.”  Din scratched the bite wound again.  “I know she’s lied to me.  I probably … shouldn’t have told her I love her yesterday.” 

Cobb rolled his eyes.  “Someone’s got morning-after guilt,” he said with a sigh.  “Look.  You need to fence those coins.  She needs to get better.  Then you two must seriously talk.  And I recommend not starting with, ‘Marry me’. Or whatever it is you Mandalorians do.” 

“Oh? What should I start with?” 

“I suggest you tell her about the land mine to your sack.  That should give you two a lot to talk about.” Cobb shifted sideways. “We should both get going, you know.”  The two men clasped each other’s hands, and Cobb began to walk towards the landing tunnel, whistling.  After about 5 meters or so, Cobb turned and said, “Man, you didn’t even tell me about the land mine.  That’s classic.”  Din shot him the finger, and Cobb walked off, laughing. 

After Cobb had left, Din heard the pounding of feet and happy shrieks of children coming from the opposite direction.  He turned, and a whole passel of kids were running full tilt straight for him; one of the taller girls was carrying Grogu on her shoulders.  Upon seeing Din, Grogu squealed and leapt from the girl’s shoulders to Din’s arms, doing a forward flip in mid-air.  The other children cheered; the noise went right through Din’s helmet and exploded somewhere behind his hung-over eyeballs.  One of the boys yelled, “Let’s get something to eat!”, leading the other kids to run to the kitchen.   

Grogu bounced on Din’s arm, chanting, “Mama? Mama?  Mama?” while slapping Din’s cuirass with his little hand.   

Din took hold of Grogu’s hand, shaking his head.  “We haven’t heard anything yet, little guy.” 

Grogu scowled and jerked his hand away.  “MAMA!”  

“I want to know how she is just as much as you do, buddy, but … Mama needs to go far away for a little while.  She needs special doctors who can help her.  Special … secret doctors.” 

Grogu grunted, his face in a deep frown.  “See-kit.” 

“See-kit, that’s right,” said Din, a flush of pride going through him at Grogu saying another word.  That’s my boy.  Din held Grogu close, pressing his helmet to the little green fuzzy head.  “What say we go fly while we wait?” 

“Fy!” 

“Wizard.  Let’s go.” 

Fennec got a message from the medi-droid that Marathel was waking up.  She got into the room just in time to see Marathel roll to her side, rubbing her eyes.  Fennec sat back down on the stool next to the cot.  “Doing better?”  Marathel still looked distressed, but she nodded.  “Can you tell me what upset you so much?” 

Marathel swallowed and closed her eyes.  “He lied to me.  The Bounty Hunter.” 

We’re back to calling him Bounty Hunter.  Dank ferrik.  “What did he lie to you about?” 

“The Bounty Hunter still had the coins.  He was … he was supposed to give them to his covert, but he still had them!” 

Fennec sighed inwardly.  “He gave me some of the coins to pay for your treatment, wherever it is we’re going.” 

“But he’s not supposed to still have them!  Why would he lie to me about what he was going to do? “ 

Maker, save me.  “Marathel … please consider that there is a perfectly logical explanation.” 

Marathel sniffled.  “Like what?” 

“Perhaps the covert wouldn’t accept them.  Those coins are … very old, and they don’t exactly work as money anymore.  Perhaps Din needs to find a buyer for the coins so he can exchange them for usable money.” 

“Then why give them to you?” 

“Well, it’s not as if we had a lot of time to figure things out.  We needed cash in hand for whomever these Reconstructionists are.  Now, please, Marathel, please try to stay calm. Try to not worry about every damn thing so much!” 

Marathel colored and looked away.  “I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper.   

“Don’t be sorry.  Be calm. Be quiet, and we will all get through this,” hissed Fennec, near the end of her own rope.  

Marathel took a shaky breath.  “Yes, Fennec,” she said in such a conciliatory tone Fennec felt bad for snapping at her.  Fennec dropped her face into her hands for a while, upset herself.  Now she had these damned coins to deal with.  Either this Bishop was completely daft, or the men on that planet had no clue what those coins were worth.  When Boba had first shown them to her, Fennec insisted they first count them, just so she could feel the gold in her hands, and then they spread out the coins on the bed and … well, rolled around on them a while.  They had quite a time locating all the coins after that. 

Fennec still had no idea where they were going — the Modifier was being very tight-lipped about that — but she needed something to go on in case she needed to find buyers for the coins herself, and she was already nervous about this whole escapade going sideways. 

Fennec looked up at Marathel, who had been quiet for some time now.  Marathel’s face was as blank as fresh quarried slate.  Her eyes were unfocused, and her breathing was slow, her head slightly tilted to one side, her lips slightly parted. The slack look on her face put Fennec in the mind of someone who was mentally challenged, or in a fugue state.  Fennec shook Marathel’s arm.  “Marathel? Are you all right?” 

 Marathel’s pupils constricted, and she blinked.  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I was just … being still.” 

“That’s what you mean by be still?  You just… check out and go into a near-trance?” 

“Yes, it … it quiets the mind when they… make you do things to them.” 

“Make you do things to whom, Marathel?” 

Marathel took a shaky breath.  “The Elders … the Bishop, of course.” 

Fennec felt uneasy.  “Even before you left the Hold?” 

“Ever since I can remember,” said Marathel, matter-of-factly.  Fennec nodded.  She thought so, but it was still painful for her to have it confirmed.  No wonder Marathel was so wounded.  The poor woman’s never had a damn chance.  Fennec was wracked with guilt for her unkind thoughts about the silver-haired woman.  “Fennec?  Don’t pity me.” 

Fennec nodded again, and angrily swiped her knuckles under her eyes. “I should check your wounds.” 

“Fennec ...” said Marathel, reaching for her hand.  “My wounds are not getting worse, nor will they get better with anything you can do.  Just … sit with me, please.”  Fennec held Marathel’s hand, and in her eyes, Fennec could only see a kind of … sad tranquility that spoke of defeat. “Tell me again what I’m to say if they question me.” 

“You’re to say that you managed to escape from a Red Room; that you don’t know where you are, or how you got there.” 

“Yes, a Red Room.  I couldn’t remember.  I was thinking Dark Room.  What is a Red Room?” 

“I don’t think you need to know that, Marathel.” 

“I think I should know … I should know about what lies I need to tell.” 

Fennec sighed.  “A Red Room is where … people pay to watch and/or participate in the torture and killing of … another person.” 

Marathel furrowed her brow.  “Why in the name of Frith do things like that exist?” 

“It’s a sick, sad, galaxy.  I’d like to say it’s gotten better recently, but … not really.” 

“Is a Red Room always red?  Or is it named … because of the blood spilled there?”  Marathel sighed.  “I suppose that doesn’t matter.”  She closed her eyes for a moment.  “I miss my little hut.  Life was so simple there.  Make bread, set traps for food.  Weave if I wanted, pick flowers if I wanted, do flat-out nothing if I wanted.  Even when … Din and Grogu showed up, it was still such a lovely uncomplicated life.  Made them meals, sewed their clothes.  Made them bread.  I made more bread for those two in that short time than I would ever make for myself in three moon cycles, those greedy guts.”  Both women chuckled.  “And I got to pretend I had my own family.  We had fun, the three of us.  I even got to hear Din laugh.” 

Fennec pulled a face.  “I don’t believe that man knows how to laugh.” 

“He did!  He laughed at me; that’s why I had to throw eggs at him.”  Marathel launched into the story of the morning she wore her yellow dress and ended up in a tree because she had the temerity to scold a Jedi toddler.  By the time Marathel was demonstrating where Din’s hands had ended up on her breasts as she dropped down from the lowest branch, Fennec was near howling with laughter.  “So, I chucked an egg right at his helmet.  Splat!” 

“Oh, kriffing hell!  Then what?” 

“He said that I should be a … oh, what did he say … a storm …?” 

“A Stormtrooper?” 

“Yes!  What is that?” 

“A soldier of the most useless variety.” 

Marathel frowned.  “Should I have been insulted by that?” 

“Absolutely you should have.” 

Marathel giggled.  “Good thing I hit him with another egg and told him to piss up a rope.”  Fennec laughed.   “I stomped all the way back to my hut; I was that angry.  Later, Grogu brought me flowers, and Din brought me my favorite fruit to apologize.  No man had ever given me a gift before.”  Marathel smiled.  “The next day, Din made me breakfast.  The man made a meal for me.  Never had I considered a man would do such a thing.  We weren’t allowed to eat what we made for the men, not even the scraps from their plates.  But Din cooked for me.” 

Fennec smiled as well.  And we’re back to calling him Din.  “Men can be different when they’re from other places.” 

Marathel was silent for a while.  “I didn’t even know that there were other places until Din told me.  I didn’t believe him.  How was I supposed to understand that a tiny point of light in the sky was another big place like the one I lived on?” 

“Well, not all those points of light are planets.  There are also stars.” 

“He said that too, but I don’t know what a star is.  I don’t understand half of everything he said to me.  He probably thought I was quite dumb, which is true … I don’t know much.”  Marathel sighed.  “When he asked me to come with him, it terrified me, because I knew I would only be a burden to him.” 

“Din asked you to leave your planet with him?” 

“Yes … we had been digging clams, even though clams make him sick, but he didn’t tell me that.  I was dancing in the water with Grogu, and Din put his arm around me, held me close …  and said I should go with him and leave the Aurodium behind.” 

My, my. “But you said no.” 

“What else in Frith was I supposed to say?  I was already ruined, I’m … nothing.  I’m plain, fat, and stupid.  Sullied.  Filth.”  Marathel sobbed, tears running down her face.  She rolled over to her side and curled up in despair.  “And I knew I was going to finally die — just sooner than later — but I also knew if I could help him in some way, then … my life could have meant something to someone.  Even just for a few days, to a frightening man made of metal and his little green boy.  I love Grogu so much, Fennec.  And he’s calling me Mama.  He shouldn’t be doing that.  Not someone like me.” Marathel was weeping again, to her dismay.  She was so tired of weeping but could not stop any more than she could stop her slow loss of blood.  Fennec held Marathel’s hand and said nothing.  She had heard things like Marathel spoke of before, and no number of words to the contrary would change Marathel’s mind in her current state.  Not all fears or hurts or ugly thinking could be slayed with logic.  

After some time, when Marathel’s current storm seemed to have passed, Fennec asked, “So, what did Din say to you when he came in here?” 

Marathel sniffled and scrubbed her nose with her hand.  “Well, he turned off the lights, and then I felt something heavy drop on my lap.  It wasn’t until he was kissing me that I realized it was his helmet.” 

Fennec gave a small smile.  “So, he did kiss you.” 

Marathel’s cheeks flushed.  “Did you know how heavy those helmets are?  I thought he tossed a rock on me.” 

Fennec rolled her eyes with a chuckle.  “So, he did kiss you.” 

Marathel shyly dropped her gaze.  “Yes.” 

“And what did he say?” 

“He said …” Marathel took a breath.  “He said, ‘I love you, Marathel, ma’mwsh ha’laa, nothing else matters.’” 

“And what does ma’mwsh ha’laa mean again?” 

“‘Wounded acorn.’” 

Fennec chuckled again.  “That’s so adorable it’s almost sickening.  What was the kiss like?” 

Marathel frowned.  “Hard.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Hard.  He pressed his mouth very hard to mine.”  Marathel put her fingers to her own lips; they were almost tingling with the memory.  “But I could tell he had a mustache.  And I touched his cheek; he had facial hair, and his skin was soft.  He had told me his eyes were brown, and I saw his brown hair once, briefly … he was throwing up the clams in the tall grass, and I could just see the top of his head.” 

Fennec wasn’t about to tell her she had gotten a glimpse of him without his helmet; it probably would upset her, and Din wasn’t looking his particular best at the time, what with the concussion and the blood everywhere. “Din doesn’t sound like he’s very good at kissing.” 

“I wouldn’t know.  Kissing is only for Diwhyns and babies where I’m from.”  Marathel glanced sideways at Fennec.  “I suppose Boba is a good kisser?” 

Fennec’s head snapped up.  “Excuse me?” 

Marathel squeezed Fennec’s hand.  “Boba Fett is good to you, isn’t he?” 

It was Fennec’s turn to blush.  “I didn’t think we were that obvious.” 

“Well, I noticed.  And if I noticed, I’m sure Cobb did too.”  Fennec groaned.  “And Silnima knows too, but I don’t think anything gets past that woman.” 

“And that’s why she’s such a good Headwoman.   She would love it if you’d stay at the palace once you’re well.  She has designs on you being her chief baker.”  

Marathel curled her lip.  “I don’t know if I want to be a kitchen drudge for the rest of my life.” 

“No one’s talking about forever, just for right now, for kriff’s sake.” Fennec sighed.  “So how do you feel about Din?  Do you share his feelings?” 

Marathel thought for a while before answering.  “I told him that I loved him before I went into the Hold; at least, as much as I knew how to love anyone.  I know that I’m grateful for him, grateful that he took me away from there.  But … it’s … it’s his Creed I’m having trouble with.” 

Fennec frowned.  “What do you mean?” 

“The day before he took me to the Hold, I asked him if he would take off his helmet, that he could have me if he wished,” — Fennec frowned at this — “but … without the helmet, so that I would have his face as a last memory.  He said no, of course.  He told me that his affection for me was less than his devotion to his Creed.  And I suppose I understood that, but then … he asked if I would sleep next to him, so he could hold me, caress me while he slept.  Fondle me.  As if I were only a toy.  Not a person.  Certainly not an equal.”  Marathel sighed.  “Perhaps he does love me, but … I’m afraid I will always be in the shadow of his Creed.  That shadow may be too cold for me to bear.” 

“Well, Marathel, that’s certainly a valid thing for you to feel.”  Fennec patted her arm.  “It seems like you two have much to discuss.” 

“I wouldn’t know how to even begin.” 

“The truth is usually the best place to start.  But … for now I suggest you concentrate on what’s coming up with these Reconstructionists.  Okay?”  Marathel nodded, then sat up enough to hug Fennec hard.  Fennec hugged her back.  “It’s going to be okay, Marathel.” 

“I hope so.”  And she did. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter->

#din djarin #pedrostories #pedro stories #starwarsficnetwork #din djarin angst #mando angst #the mandalorian angst #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x fem oc #mando x fem oc #mando x plus size oc #din djarin x plus size!fem oc

[xmissrogersx]

✩₊̣̇.♡ the lyric: “his hand so calloused from his pistol softly traces hearts on my face”

me instantly:

this song is so them, literally. I would let them do whatever they want to me. I’m no kiddin :)

when i’m listening to i can fix him (no really i can), mi mind screams “GO TO WRITE ANOTHER OF JOEL AND DIN”

today i will post 2 one-shots. stay sintonized ♡

#pedro fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro x reader #pedrostories #joel miller #din djarin #din x reader #joel x f!reader #joel miller x reader #javier pena fluff #javier pena smut #din djarin x female oc #din djarin x female reader #taylor swift #the tortured poets department #i can fix him #joel miller x plus size reader #joel fluff #the mandalorian x reader #joel the last of us #tlou2 #tlou #din dijarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin x reader #joel smut #joel tlou #mando x f!reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian

[ladyxskywalker]

April 2022, part. one

thank you to the amazing fic writers for sharing some wonderful stories with all of us ! & to the kind readers for their support. 💙

please assume that all works & the blogs they belong to are 18+ only

mature adult content will be marked with a double asterisk **

be sure to check all warnings & tags before reading, feel free to skip if something isn't for you

& of course, enjoy responsibly

all the love xo A ☕

please send me things to read ! favorite fics or something you've written that you're proud of ! 💌

find more monthly fic recs over on my masterlist May 2022 coming soon ! ✨

please let me know if you would like to be removed

✨ new authors & characters added for the first time !

✨ some authors are mentioned more than once throughout the list, check to see if your works are there !

STAR WARS

✨ Anakin Skywalker

prompt – place: in the water reason: life or death by @labyrinth-runner (mermaid!reader)

✨ Armitage Hux

The Trick by @mylifeisactuallyamess (f!reader)

✨ Cobb Vanth

What Our Scars Remind Us by @flightlessangelwings (tbobf) (gn!reader)

✨ Din Djarin

Affection by @lightsinthedistancee (gn!reader)

The Covert by @juletheghoul (cam boy din) (f!reader) **

The Greenhouse by @lowlights (victorian era au) (gardener!din) (f!reader) **

Just Loss by @dvnvln (f!reader)

More Than A Feeling by @mandelirious (gn!reader) **

Siren by @ezrasbirdie (gn!reader)

prompt – ‘vanilla/slow, soft’ kinktober by @letterfromvienna (mand’alor din) (f!reader) **

✨ Grogu

Little Cold Fingers by @anxiety-riddled-mando (grogu, din x oc)

✨ Kylo Ren / Ben Solo

Discothèque by @clydesducktape (hannibal au) (dr. kylo ren) (fbi forensic consultant reader)

If I Asked You to Stay, Would You? By @a-reader-and-a-writer (f!reader)

Man or a Monster…? By @mylifeisactuallyamess (soulmate au) (ben solo) (f!reader)

✨ Luke Skywalker

Don’t Make Me Choose (two parts) by @full-time-make-believer (gn!reader)

Welcome Distractions by @full-time-make-believer (gn!reader)

✨ Obi Wan Kenobi

Brewing Tea & Sandstorms by @laserbrains (gn!reader)

Light in the Dark (series) by @purelyfiction (modern au) (doctor!obi) (f!reader)

Stranded (series) by @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories (afab!oc)

To Dwell on Dreams by @spicemaidenfic (jedi!f!reader) **

Turbulence by @star-whores-a-new-hoe (afab!reader) **

Up All Night by @vi-does-stuff (a/b/o au) (alpha!obi) (omega!f!reader) **

✨ Original Characters

Stars in their Multitudes (series) by @jedi-valjean (star wars) (les misérables) (original characters) (original jedi characters) (original imperial characters) (twi’lek characters)

✨ Poe Dameron

If The Galaxy Was Ending by @starryeyedstories (gn!reader)

No More Wasted Time (series) by @againstacecilia (modern au) (afab!reader) **

You Almost Died And You’re Making Jokes? by @a-reader-and-a-writer (gn!reader)

Your Love Is Sunlight by @acedameron (f!reader) **

prompt – relief after a dangerous situation by @dailyreverie (gn!reader)

prompt – seeing you in a new dress by @dailyreverie (f!reader)

ROGUE ONE

✨ Baze Malbus

Healing by @uwingdispatch (chronically ill) (gn!reader)

✨ Bodhi Rook

Warm Hearted by @uwingdispatch (chronically ill) (gn!reader)

TRIPLE FRONTIER

✨ Benny Miller

Dancing in the Rain by @waywardimpalawriter (plus size!f!reader)

Three Strikes and You’re In, Crush (series) by @rayslittlekitten (benny x ofc) (will x f!reader)

Why Ya Wanna (sequel to Dancing in the Rain) by @waywardimpalawriter (plus size!f!reader)

✨ Frankie Morales

Our Little Secret (series) by @icanbeyourjedi (f!reader) **

Saccharine by @forever-rogue (f!reader) **

✨ Will Ironhead Miller

Coach Miller by @marvelousmermaid (platonic!bff!will) (f!reader)

Modern Muse by @rayslittlekitten (photographer!will) (fiancé(e)!gn!reader)

Patience by @ohheyitsokay (f!reader) **

✨ Santiago Garcia

A Little Bit of Hope (Part 1) (series) by @artemiseamoon (f!reader)

prompt – ‘that’s it, that’s my girl’ by @autumnleaves1991-blog (f!reader) **

see part two for more multi fandom fic recs ! moon knight, pedro pascal, charlie hunnam, amazing spiderman, bridgerton, marvel

#star wars fanfiction #rogue one fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pxk monthly fic recs 💫 #happy reading 📖🌸☕ #inspired by thefact0rygirl 💞

[archive-of-note]

WIP wall of... smth

F!werewolf Reader x Pero Tovar (explicit)

I know about @beskarberry ‘s and have read it, but the idea was initially independent of that, lots of werewolf fic lately got the juices flowing *ba dum tiss*

Reader x Din Djarin (not entirely sure where it’s headed)

You take the creed and become a Mandalorian

smth not entirly unlike @oonajaeadira ‘s GTTT (explicit)

but with my issues, may keep this to myself in the end who knows

Artist! reader x Marcus (may already be done?)

you've got a small exhibition in DC, largely inspired by your toxic behavior in your last relationship, (may do sm art for this). Marcus has recognized his own problems, and is looking for an outlet, or someone who understands at least

Reader x Maxwell Lorenzano (post WW84)

you realize your neighbor is Max Lord, and he’s barely holding it together, he may have already started to fall apart

inspired by a fic where Maxwell gets adopted by the alley cat near his apartment, and I, like a fool, did not save it (i don’t think)

M! Reader x Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels (explicit)

you run into Jack at a gay bar, his therapist suggested that he go out and make some new connections, he took that to mean dive head first into the deep end of exploring his sexuality

Fat/Plus sized! Reader x Ezra 

Ezra finds you at one of the skeevier holes in the wall, you were supposed to be on a date, that obviously didn’t go well

(i understand why everybody uses plus sized, but fat isn’t a dirty word, its just an adjective)

reader x Din Djarin (began before BoBF, christ this is old)

you hitched a ride with Mando, both your bounties last being seen on the same planet, your hunt goes smoothly, Mando however, has gone dark

sex demon reader x Ezra (explicit)

( @pettyprocrastination you did this, well you didn’t, but you also did)

if it doesn’t work with Ezra, Pero’s gonna get the soul sucked outta his dick, and his back blown out

Several Fruit of Columbia bits that have been started but stalled out (teen-Explicit)

Maybe a bit from the Frankie X Reader X OC thing that’s been on the back burner and in my Docs for ages

#archive-of-note #WIP wall of smth

[dancingwiththeplanets]

An Angel Amongst Demons - chapter one

Boba Fett x fem!reader

     chapter 2 / masterlist     

Summary:  Boba tries to shield you from the dark side of his life. In his eyes, you are too innocent and pure for the harsh realities of the work that surrounds him. So when one day you stumble upon a meeting gone wrong when you were supposed to be hidden away, Boba’s afraid you won’t like the pieces of him he’s tried to protect you from, or worse, that now you’ll fear him.

A/N:  My first fic in like 6 years, I'm nervous! haha This is kind of an AU I think?? Takes place after the events of season 2.  I’ve added in two OC Mandos to the entourage because I love me some of that tribal brotherhood devotion. Also.. considering making this a series?

Warnings: soft!Boba (like, REALLY soft!Boba) protectiveness, maybe over-protectiveness? small character death, nobody important, two new sexy mandalorians (we’ll learn about them later), not much to be honest.

Word Count: 5.7k+

------------------------

There’s a lot to Jabba’s palace that most people don’t know about.  A lot’s changed since the esteemed Boba Fett took over the throne and claimed ownership over the fortress in Tatooine. Castle might actually be a better word for it. Somewhat modest and ordinary looking on the outside, the true magnitude and vastness of the castle is hidden underground, even past the comfortably sized throne room.

What lingers further down the sandstone hallways are an array of rooms and staircases, mostly leading down in different directions.  There’s a library and a kitchen and even a ballroom, which never has and probably never will be put to use.  There are guest rooms that are more suitably described as luxurious suites, for the grand total of zero guests that Boba will allow to stay in his sanctuary.  

There are permanently standing rooms for only a handful of the staff: the maid, Ada. Fennec, of course. And the two newest members of Boba’s trusted, elite team, Enzo and Raul, who arrived shortly before you did.  The two are a pair of dutiful and truly impressive Mandalorians who serve at his beck and call, courtesy of Boba Fett’s ally and only recognized leader (not that he’s ever told what to do), Mand’alor Din Djarin.

Past the staff rooms and further down an open and beautifully lit hall, is the communal area of the palace, the center, if you will. Fully equipped to socialize and entertain guests with comfortable seating, a fireplace, and charming embellishments around the room. A warm and pleasant area of the palace that likewise, does not get as much use out of it as it should.  

And finally, behind the common area, which in its own way, serves as a magnificent entryway, is Boba Fett’s private chambers.  Home to the respected and feared bounty-hunter turned ruler, and you, his haven.  

You. His cyare. His beloved. The ruthless king had fallen in love with you and your delicate heart, seemingly untampered with and somehow not left scarred by the harsh realities of Tatooine.  He saw in you light and tenderness, and you gave him joy and true unconditional love.  He spent many, far too many, late nights in Mos Eisley, at the cantina you worked in as a waitress. At some point visiting you every night to walk you home at the end of your shift, though you assured him you always made it home perfectly fine on your own.  But Boba secretly lived for those extra few minutes he could spend with you walking you to your residence.  Not to mention, he couldn’t fathom why it didn’t scare the bantha shit out of you to be walking around Mos Eisley alone at night, unarmed. That fact that you did sure as hell scared him.  

On most nights he walked you home, you invited him in, unless you were absolutely too spent to spend another moment standing.  But it was on those long nights that poured into the early hours of the lovely Tatooine sunrise that you and Boba grew close and eventually professed your love for one another.  Soon after, he hopefully, and quite timidly, asked you to live at his palace with him.  Though you’d never been before, you knew exactly where it was, and for that matter, who he was.

The new king of Tatooine had a reputation for being ruthless, unforgiving, and dangerous. And you didn’t miss the way people cowered away from his presence, especially when he wore the armor.  Though, by your own calculations, every other patron who marched their way through these lands was just as feral as the Boba Fett they all believed they knew, and not one had ever been as kind or as gentle, or captivated your thoughts, the way he did.    

He knew these things. More than most in the galaxy, he knew what a cruel fate such a pure being could meet, and if truth be told, he wanted to escape with your kind soul and shield you from this harsh planet before anything could harm you.

When he asked you again to go with him, you met his hopeful and loving gaze, eyes filled with devotion and admiration, and the corner of his lips pulled up just slightly in the most endearing of grins, you couldn't help but to instantly wrap your arms around him, leave a kiss to his neck, and tell him nothing would make you happier.

“Besides,” you teased, nuzzling into his neck, “I always wanted to be a princess.”

Boba chuckled and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling your face back and tracing his thumb under your chin. “Believe me, mesh’la. You already were one.”

The next day, you found yourself and what little you owned in possessions, situating in your new home.  Like everyone else, you had shockingly inaccurate presumptions about the size of the palace, soon learning that what lay hidden behind the throne room and down the sandstone halls was a modest castle to get lost in.  No matter, you adjusted to your new environment and routine, though still unused to the respect and coddling you received on a daily basis, you adored every extra moment spent with your king.

Which is how now, five months later, you lay quiet and still as a mouse in bed, gazing dreamily at a sleeping Boba next to you.  The early morning light casting a light blue hue over the room, as the suns hadn’t quite risen just yet.  You were fortunate enough that your bedroom, the top floor to your two story chambers, was one of the few rooms in the palace with a proper window, the rest of your home and castle being underground.  

A low grumble from the man next to you causes you to hold your breath, eyes not daring to leave his form as he breathes in a deep sigh. “You know,” he begins drowsily, “the moment you wake up and opt to stare at me instead of closing those lovely eyes again and getting some more rest, is the exact moment that I wake up too.”

“You don’t have to wake up,” you smile teasingly.

“I can’t help it.” He grumbles, eyes still shut heavily against the apples of his cheeks. “If you’re up, I’m up.”

“For all you know,” You retort, “I’ve been staring at you, awake for hours.”

At this, Boba’s unimpressed gaze turns to you, eyes now latched onto yours. “You haven’t been.” He says.

“And how would you know?” You giggle back, “I haven’t moved a hair. I woke up facing you, and didn’t move anything but my gaze.  So unless you can detect the vibrations from my blinking, you couldn’t know.”

“I know.”

It’s your turn to look unimpressed, “How?”

“Because,” He leans in close to you, your noses lightly touching and a devilish look in his eyes, “If you’re up, I’m up.”

“Mm.” You hum unconvinced, eyes fluttering closed as he leaves a kiss to your nose then pulls away to sit at the edge of the bed.  You follow his form as he stretches to a stand, joints popping as he twists his back and arms around, the result of a body having gone to war and back countless times. You sit up tiredly and lean against the headboard, watching him pull on his under armor, then latching on the Beskar.  Piece by piece his body is decorated with more intimidating and handsome armor, slowly shielding your eyes from the scarred but lovely body of his that you admire possibly a little too much.

“You stare any harder and I might decide to take it back off,” Boba quips, a smirk rising on his cheeks.

You blush, shaking your head and looking away, gaze now pointedly out the window.

“Mesh’la,” He says, grabbing your attention again, his hands now occupied tugging on his gloves as he takes a few strides towards you. He smiles at the pink tint to your cheeks and your guilty smile, the remains of having been caught admiring him still plastered on your face. “I have important business to attend to today. But I’ve arranged for those workers to come and paint the library in a couple hours, would you mind overseeing it?”

He lifts a hand to lightly brush his thumb along your cheek, looking down upon you quizzically.  

“Of course.” You nod eagerly. You've slowly been tending to every inch of the palace, erasing all remnants of the Hutt’s and adding in touches of comfort and warmth wherever you can.  You wouldn’t say decorating is a passion of yours.  But this is your home now, you might as well fill it with things you admire.  Plus, Boba said if you didn’t take over the project, he’d just paint everything grey and toss out the old furniture without replacements.  

You shiver as you untuck yourself from your velvety comforter.  For a fortress built on possibly one of the hottest planets in the Outer Rim, this place can get cold.  Probably due to the fact that it’s rooted so deeply underground.

Happy to have something to do, you head to the fresher for a quick wash before Boba leaves to his duties.  You exit your chambers together, Enzo and Raul already waiting in the common area for you both.  Upon seeing them, you turn and leave a gentle kiss to the cheek of Boba’s helmet for a final moment of private intimacy before you descend the staircase, hearing him chuckle fondly at your action as he follows.  

“Good morning Fett, my lady.” Enzo bows lowly, turning to you.  You laugh and shove his shoulder upon reaching the pair of them. You can hear the hint of amusement in his voice as Raul shakes his head beside him.

“Good morning gentlemen.” You smile.

Boba huffs coming to stand beside you, “Gentlemen.” He scoffs at your words.

Raul clears his throat, “Crane should be here soon, boss.” He says, visor trained on Boba and arms crossed over his chest, gaze briefly turning towards you before meeting the boss again.  

You look towards your partner, “Your meeting today?” You ask.

“Yes.” He says, giving a quick nod.

“Alright,” You say, glancing at the suspiciously still trio of Beskar-clad men, “I’m going to the kitchens to have some breakfast.  Then I’ll meet up with those workers in the library.”

Boba nods again, confirming your agenda.

You stare up at him, waiting for him to sputter out whatever it is you know he’s wanting to say.  

“...Then,” You go on, “I guess I will, do some reading or...baking or...stare at the wall or something.”

“Sounds like a riveting afternoon,” Raul says after a more than comfortable silence.

“Okay,” you smile, chuckling a little and taking a step back, choosing to dismiss yourself now before the awkwardness has a chance to develop. “Have fun with Mr. Crane.”

Boba clears his throat as you turn towards the kitchens, stopping you with a hand on your arm. “Mesh’la,” He says, glancing pointedly at Raul and Enzo, who move to wait for him a few paces away. “Could you do me a favor?”

You tilt your head suspiciously, urging him to go on. “You’re acting rather strange Boba Fett.” You tease.

He grunts, “I’ve had a lot of trouble with Calendei Crane. He’s not a very loyal man, nor do I consider him a good one.  He’s had a lot of chances to make up for the problems he’s caused me, but recently he went too far, and we’re not going to be having a charming reunion just now.” He sighs, “What I’m trying to say is... he didn’t necessarily come here by his own accord.  And he won’t be very happy that he is.”

“I understand.” You nod.

Boba frowns inside his helm. I don’t think you do cyare.

“Alright then,” he says, “That said, I would really appreciate it if you would stay away from the throne room today.  At least until I send Fennec or Enzo for you or something.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his hand opening and closing nervously by his side. He thinks you don’t know what he means. Oh Boba.

You reach for his hand as you step closer to his form. “Boba,” you whisper, leaning up towards him with a small smile, “You are the most kind and gentle man I’ve ever known. But I know that you are a man of business and principles.  You do whatever you have to do. If an employee of yours is out there making a mess under your name, I would expect nothing less than for you to handle it.” You say, hoping to reassure him.

You raise your free hand to rest against the cheek of his helmet, “But I’ll busy myself back here until you’re done.”

He lets out a sigh in relief, hand reaching up to grab yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.” He says, before tenderly tapping his forehead against yours and turning to get on with his day.

You shake your head at his retreating form.  Despite all of the darkness and dirt and the scum that surround Boba in his everyday life, he really does try everything in his power to not let it touch you.  It’s almost as if despite the late night confessions and raw conversations you two have shared about your lives don’t translate to reality for Boba.  As if he somehow believes you don’t truly know what it is that he does and who he is.

He seems to forget that you yourself have grown up with the same scum that populate this planet.  In the nearest city to here in fact, where all the mudscuppers of the galaxy would stay and wreak havoc when this was once Jabba’s palace. You’ve seen things. You’ve experienced things. Some things that, shamefully, you haven’t yet shared with Boba.  But what you can say with the utmost of certainty is that you know exactly the kind of people that like to deal in underworld business.  And you know that there are many cruel beings out there. But Boba, he certainly isn’t one of them.

You sigh, turning to pass through the empty dining hall to the kitchens. The light tapping of your shoes echoing in the desolate space. A part of you wishes you had said to him, ‘Oh Boba, when will you learn that you don’t need to protect me from yourself?’

A necessary conversation for another time, you decide.

Shaking away your thoughts, you wander into the kitchen, making yourself a quick breakfast and giggling a while with Ada, as she begins preparing a stew for all staff members taking up a residency in the palace.  She often prepares meals in substantial quantities, making enough for herself, you, Boba, Fennec, and the two other Mandalorians to all enjoy in your respective chambers.

“Take some of these to go dear!” She calls out, chasing after your form as you exit the kitchen. “You had better be eating a balanced diet.” She chides, handing you a towel with some berries on it.

“Thank you Ada,” you smile, leaving a peck to her cheek and making your way to the library.

When you arrive, the workers still aren't there, and you hum glancing at the clock.  They should have already been here and working at least for an hour by now.  

Expecting their arrival soon, you busy yourself with cleaning dusty bookshelves and making piles of the previous inhabitants' furnishings and decorations you’d rather not have.

You plop down on the floor after sorting through your ninth bookshelf, sighing after attempting to categorize everything by genre. Even opting to make a pile of books to get rid of, because really, nobody needs handbooks on slave trading and dealing in the dark business of the underworld. They’re just not something you’d like in your home.

You glance at the time again. “What on Tatooine.” You mutter, stretching to a stand.  You’ve officially been bailed on, because you've been sitting in this dingy library for four hours and if nobody’s shown up yet, you doubted they would be.  

Looking around at the mess you’ve made, you decide to finish tackling this task tomorrow, and head back down the hall towards your private chambers.

You pause to lean against the wall with your eyes closed, letting out a great yawn. It’s barely past noon and you’re already beat.

A voice calls your name just in front of you, startling you in the dark, candlelit hall.

“Ada!” You jump, with a hand to your chest.

“Mm, I’m sorry sweet one.” She frowns. “You had better go check on your Mandalorian.” She says sternly, wagging a finger up at you. “He sounds angrier than a farmer whose fresh crops have been raided by Tuskans.”

You furrow your eyebrows at her words, frowning. “Does he sound alright?” You ask, concerned.

“Too riled up.” She chides, shaking her head as she continues to pass you in the hall, grabbing a hold of your arm “Go straighten him out, lecture him on that temper of his.”

“Ada,” You sigh, “He’s dealing with a trying issue right now, and I promised that I’d stay away from this meeting.”

“Peh,” She waves her hand in dismissal, “Fine, your decision. But I did see a couple of those workers you were waiting on looking rather frightened up in the throne room.  Go on and fetch them and get on with your project. You left quite a mess in there for me to deal with.”

“What?” You look disbelievingly at her, “Well why didn't you just send them my way. I waited all morning for them.”

She shakes her head, looping her arm through yours as you continue walking side-by-side. You roll your eyes at the nerve.

The sound of sudden, unmistakable shouting, coming from much further down the hall and up the stairs ascending to the throne room stops you instantly. Your eyes widen a bit as the voice carries on, rather menacingly.  You wouldn’t want to be the one receiving the tail end of that conversation.  Boba truly does sound pissed. You wonder how long he’s been with this Crane fellow.

“Ada,” you whisper, the lower tone seeming appropriate, “Don’t you go trying to get me into trouble.” You say, pulling her back as she tries to urge you forward.

“Young lady,” She scolds, looking up at you in a surprisingly threatening way. “I have much work to do. I need my good broom which I left up those stairs, and you need your painters or carpenters or whatever it is those fellas up there are. So, let us ladies get on with our business and fetch our things.”

“If you’re already heading up,” You say through slightly gritted teeth, “Then why don’t you just go up there, grab your broom, and do me the favor of nudging down my workers while you’re at it.”

“Because I have a bad leg. Now either accompany me up stairs so that I don’t fall or go on and get those things for the two of us at last!”

“Maker, Ada fine!” You say, losing your temper. A part of you knowing she was just stirring up trouble. You start up the first step and turn to her with an obvious empty threat. “And I’ll be sure to note to Boba that our maid has a bad leg leaving her incapable of climbing our palace full of stairs.” You mutter disbelievingly.

“Mm, you do that.” She counters.

You sigh, shaking your head as you quickly make your way up, hearing Ada walk away behind you.  

That woman knows far too well that we would never replace her, you think.

Your focus shifting back to the surprisingly silent throne room just up and down the hall, you walk wearily, suddenly a little nervous.

You notice as you near the room, your steps silent down the hall, that there is a hushed but heated back and forth taking place.  

“-swear Mr. Fett I-I d-didn’t know they were-”

“-What?” You hear Boba’s ominous voice interrupt. “You didn't know what?”

His form comes into view as you peek your head into the room, watching him descend the steps of his throne and approaching the accused slowly.  You take a half step back, hoping to further hide your position, seeing as before, you were concealed behind his back.  But given his new stance, the flicker of his gaze upwards and Boba would be met with your sinful and curious eyes.

Raul, you note, leans comfortably against the wall across the room behind Boba, observing the scene from afar, but seemingly more interested in fixing a mechanism on his Westar-35.

Fennec, who, based on the fearful gaze he glances up at her with, was obviously the one to retrieve Crane, staring down at him with a daring look in her eyes, as if challenging him to try and escape this situation. Enzo stands on Crane's other side, blocking most of your view from the accused and his state. You also note that there is no such broom or fearful workers around. Ada.

“Mr. Fett-” He whimpers.

“Sod it.” Enzo growls, raising his weapon to shove against Crane’s neck, hushing his pleas instantly.

You observe the creature as best you can from your corner. You don’t want to peer out any further for fear of alerting Boba of your presence. He wasn’t human, but not terribly strange looking, a blue being, probably a humanoid, but with claws for nails that were certainly not cute. He’s on his knees, head bowed forward in obvious shame and fear, and hands tied firmly behind his back. This guy looks like he’s had a pretty bad couple of days, but you still can’t tell if you feel sorry for him or not.

Boba reaches Crane in the center of the room, and in a manner so menacing and calculated, that exerts a level of dominance that frightens even you, he crouches down on his heels, meeting Crane eye-level.

Boba slowly pulls his blaster out of its holster and lifts it to Crane’s ducked chin, using the barrel to tilt Crane’s face up to meet his.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel yourself running out of air.

“You didn’t know what Crane?” Boba repeats in a tone so hushed you could barely hear. “That you were selling information to an enemy of mine?  That you were betraying the trust that I had put in you? That you stole my property, weapons, and money to give to people who wish to do me harm?”

You can’t help but to feel anxious and on edge. Knowing very well you are not supposed to be in here observing the scene in front of you. Wondering if at this point, you should even try to make your silent leave.

Crane, seemingly breathless, and having accepted his fate, nods in defeat. “I’m sorry Boba.” He whispers.

“You violated the terms of our agreement Crane.” Boba says, rising up and adjusting his belt.  “I gave you opportunity after opportunity to make it right.  I told you that this was your final chance. I even gave you the kriffing option to leave!” He finally shouts.

You watch his chest heaving in rage as he continues to stare down at a defeated Crane.

Boba scoffs, “What did you expect would happen?”

The crippled man on the floor does what you least expect, his gaze lazily lifting up to meet Boba’s as he chuckles carelessly, his laugh soon transforming into a truly mad howl.

He looks like an absolute maniac.

Your eyes furrow in extreme discomfort as you watch the dramatic change in scene, and despite the obvious upper-hand that Boba has, you feel the urge to stand between him and this disturbed creature.

“I-I guess,” Crane breathes out between spouts of laughter, “I held out hope. Hope that the famous Boba Fett, oh-” he croaks out another laugh, “I’m sorry, that the-the King of Tatooine, would finally meet his demise like he should have all those years ago in the sarlacc. Oh, Boba, we were all so pleased when we thought you’d met the maker that day, but you...you son of a nerf herder, you lived. And WHY should you get to live while the rest of us died off! TELL ME BOBA FETT! Because you know something? You of all beings do NOT get to cheat death. You think you’re better than the rest of us, trying to make amends for your crimes against nature? Against the galaxy?”  

Crane leans his head forward nearly slamming it against the ground as he violently spits out, “-No, no, no, no old friend. You are the worst, most foul kind of scum to EVER have walked these lands. You are no worse than Jabba, don’t you kid yourself. And if I have played any part in your demise, I’ll have avenged my brothers who have died at your hand. Your end is coming Boba Fett! You will fall, and so will anyone who tries to prevent your end!” He carries on, doubling over while spitting out the most ludicrous threats between maniacal laughter.

A wave of pure fear plunges your heart, leaving a sickly feeling in your gut at his words. You don’t even realize that your longing to protect Boba has unconsciously pulled your body a few steps in his direction. Your error not evident to you until Raul moves from across the room, capturing your attention. You glance at him only to see the gaze of his visor already locked onto yours and his body making quick strides towards you.  

“Boss-” Raul says hurriedly, but not before a shot rings out, causing you to jump and gasp, hands flying up in front of you in instinctual defense.

You open your eyes and turn your head to face Boba just as his gaze snaps in your direction. Even with the visor covering his face you can see he’s taken aback by your presence. His arm lowers quickly with his blaster, holstering it.  Everyone’s attention seems to be on you.

Nobody moves for a moment, and still frozen, your gaze flicks down to the dead being, monster, who lays thankfully slain on the floor.

Seeing movement out of the corner of your eye, you avert your gaze back up to Boba, whose arm shifts nervously at his side.

“Ner- ner cyare.” He whispers, his tone strained and unlike you’ve ever heard before.

You take a step towards him, but don’t go much closer when Enzo shifts to exist as a barricade between you and the bloody mess to Boba’s side.

“What are you doing here?” He says, seeming to struggle with every word.

“I-I can’t remember.” You say after a beat, nervous again suddenly that you’ve poked your nose into business you told him you’d stay away from.

He stands frozen, panicked behind the harsh mask of his visor. His absolute worst fear being realised as you stand in the aftermath of an execution he himself carried out, right in front of your eyes.

Cruel. Unforgiving. Dangerous. Vile. Sadistic. Merciless.

All words he imagines were running though your sweet mind behind those wide eyes.

“Boba.” you utter, taking another step towards him, hesitating at first then succumbing to your hearts needs and taking up a speedier pace.

Your hands, which at some point started shaking, matching your more obviously quickened heart rate, raise up slowly to rest on his chest, and you swear he flinches at the contact.

“Cyare-” He mutters again, heart beating undoubtedly twice as fast as your own, fear and desperation clinging to the word, but he stops when your suddenly tear-filled eyes meet his gaze and you cling to the sides of his helm.

“Boba, are you okay?” You whisper frantically.

At that, he lets out a shaky exhale, body loosening and head tilting slightly at your words.

“What?” He asks, stunned.

“Are you alright?” You say, searching desperately through the dark visor of his helm for his warm, brown eyes.

“Am...am I okay?” He repeats.

“Yes I-I heard everything he said.” You stutter, head turning to meet the deranged creature's corpse covered in his own blood before Boba finally and frantically grabs a hold of your cheek to gently avert your gaze away from the scene. “He-he was absolutely maniacal.” You let out a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry I came but I-I heard shouting and A-Ada said something I can’t even remember what but I ended up here somehow and please don’t be mad but maker I just didn’t expect this-” you pause, tempted to glance at the corpse again but your cheek stays steadied in Boba’s hand, “-this monster to be here, threatening you and maker I know you’re alright, you’re always alright, but I desperately wanted to be standing between you and him to do anything to shield you from his threats I-”

“-Mesh’la.” Boba says, more of his confidence appearing in his voice and his movements but still weary nonetheless.

“Are you okay?” You repeat desperately, cradling his helmet firmly in your hands again.

“I’m-yes. Yes mesh’la, I’m alright.” He stutters out, “Are-are you not afraid of me?”

“Afraid of you?” You breathe out, taken aback. “Never, Boba. I-I could never fear you.”

Boba’s completely stilled in your arms. It feels like hours, your wide eyes looking at him with that familiar tenderness and devotion. You almost forget about the other’s, standing completely motionless around you, until Boba suddenly turns you and urges you forward with gentle hands on your waist, his form practically shielding you, quite fruitlessly, from the scene he guides you away from.

When you reach the hallway, he allows you to pull him next to you instead, as he opens the door to the closest chamber in sight and ushers you into it, closing the door behind you both.

The dimly lit room casts a warm glow on you both as you turn to face Boba, whose back is slumped up against the closed door. He heaves in slow, heavy, deep breaths.

You stand, unmoving, only a few inches from him.  Gaze locked on his visor, you wear a concerned expression on your face, your own breaths silent but speedy as you wait for him to explain his behavior.  

He finally says your name, both his palms rising in a pleading request for you to take them.  

You place your hands gently in his, and he cradles them to his chest, looking down at them. So small and clean and innocent in his dark gloves that carry the stains of countless victims.

You hold your breath when you hear a choked sob escape from his modulator. Your mouth falls open a bit, eyes flitting down to where he stares at his hands caressing your own.

“Boba?” You mutter.

As if prompted by your voice, a more obvious sob falls from Boba’s lips, and his hands release your own, finding purchase on your hips as he falls to his knees before you.

You gasp out a breath of disbelief as you watch your partner, your warrior, your Boba, cling to your waist. Silent sobs shake his body as he hesitantly pulls his hand from you and places it under the lip of his helmet, tugging the armor off and letting it topple to the floor beside you.

Tears spill down Boba’s face, following the same trail left behind by the first few that managed to fall. You grasp his face in your hands, thumbs sweeping across his cheeks and erasing the tears that slid down his scarred skin.  

Your vision blurs as your own eyes well with tears. “My love,” You whisper, “What’s wrong?”

His forehead tightens and brows furrow, making him look like he’s in pain. “Mesh’la I-” he stops to compose himself, his eyes looking down though you hold his face in your palms. “You- you do not fear me?”

“I could never Boba.” You assure him, you voice cracking as you say the words. “I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in my life. You...being with you, makes me feel safer than I ever thought I could feel.”

Your hand leaves his cheek to smooth out the worried lines on his forehead, and you bring your index finger under his chin, urging him to look up at you. “That creature, monster, whatever he was,” You start, “He was disloyal and foul and cruel. He wanted to hurt you. Which means he wanted to hurt me. I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you. You’re my everything Boba.”

He stares up at you, vulnerable, more unsteady than you’ve ever seen him, but you go on, “I know who you are Boba Fett. I know that you were a bounty hunter. I know that now you rule the underworld and that sometimes you do unpleasant things. I know that you have regrets and I know that you have a past. I have one too. But most importantly, I know that you are a good man, worthy of my trust. And I will stand by your side every day for as long as you want me here, because I love you. My mind, my body, my soul,” you whisper, tears flowing down your own cheeks now, “-they’re yours Boba. All of me is yours.”

Tears well in his eyes again as you speak, but he doesn’t hide from you as he frowns against the tears threatening to spill again. “I love you so much.” He confesses almost fearfully.

You reach down to unlatch his hands from your waist, though you’re met with mild resistance, before you kneel to be level with him. You lean forward slowly and kiss him, passionately and desperately and devotedly. He cups your face in his hands, pressing you to him as close as he can before releasing you.

“You,” He whispers, leaning his forehead against yours with closed eyes, “You are too pure for this galaxy. An angel living amongst demons.”

“And I suppose you think you’re a demon?” You shake your head, smiling at the absurdity of it.

“Me?” He grins, “A fallen angel? Most definitely.”

#an angel amongst demons #Boba Fett #boba x reader #boba x you #the mandalorian #book of boba fett #din djarin #mando #jabbas palace #soft!boba #king!boba #boba fett x reader

[beskarberry]

Devil’s Advocate

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 5

(The Mandalorian x f!reader)

“That your girl over there?” Mando followed their gaze wordlessly, reluctant to make friends right now while he was busy waiting for you to call him back to your side. “Thought so.” The stranger took a long drag on an inhalant, blowing vibrant pink clouds into the smoky room. “Sorry for your loss, Elios always gets what he wants.” Mando turned again to the stranger, fixing them with his black hole glare, but they only shrugged; watching the drinking game unfold between you and the devil himself.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 11.2k whoops

Content warnings: VICES: gambling/smoking/drinking (reader drinks) Introduction of chapter-specific OC characters. Lots of angst to fluff, sexy times of course.

A/N: This might be more self indulgent than the first chapters but not because of the smut. I kinda go off about fancy clothes so long descriptions of costumes are a big chunk of this chapter.

<-Previous Next->

You hated everything about Canto Bight.

Everything about the city was so... artificial. The stadium flood lights, the glowing neon signs, even the ocean herself had been excavated from the planet’s stubborn sandstone surface instead of eroded naturally by the march of time. To you it was like looking at Corellia’s gold painted twin, a monument to the hubris of all sentient life.

 Even the patrons of the gilded city were fake; their clothes, their makeup, their personalities. Every aspect of them was perfectly curated to deceive and lie, whatever fanciful display would work best to cheat their way to the jackpot. You almost wished you could look past the falseness of it, experience the visual fanfare of light and color that reflected on every surface. You wanted the music and the art and the decor that had been so carefully picked and placed to mean something to you, to sparkle in your heart just as it sparkled in the eyes of the teeming masses. But, all for naught, the gleaming metropolis stung your eyes; and you turned away from it to admire the quaint little space that actually mattered to you.

 You shared the tight quarters of the cockpit with the two strange boys that had recently whisked you away to the stars. Mando was seated in the pilot's chair with his tiny green son perched in his lap, trying to get him to eat his dinner without making so much of a mess. You had already eaten, and you were turning the last hunter’s puck over in your hand, reluctant to get this chase started and take away from the familial scene beside you. It would have to happen sooner or later, and you gave the puck a squeeze to fire up the projector. A ghostly blue fog glowed up into the space above your palm, and the face that looked back at you was surprisingly fair; if not for his crimson skin and long black horns you wouldn’t have known he was Devaronian by his elegant features alone.

 Elios Blackwater was a dapper debonair, his high cheekbones angled sharply under devious eyes towards a sly, sharp toothed grin. The puck notes didn’t specify what he was wanted for, though from the looks of his charming smile and shifting eyes it could easily be anything from a gamblers quarrel to breaking hearts, with a higher reward for being returned alive rather than dead. He would most likely be in a heavily inhabited area, probably as close to Canto Bight’s aurelian heart as possible. You didn’t know why Mando had taken a bounty puck for such a densely populated world, and you would have loved to know what his plan was to get to the city’s casino center before you had arrived in his life. A pair of ragamuffin bounty hunters and their floating baby bucket would stick out like sore thumbs in this gilded mecca of gamblers. If you were going to get to your quarry without being arrested, you were going to have to blend in.

 “We’re going to have to do something about...this.” You said, waving your hand in front of your partner’s ferocious attire, though truthfully you weren’t dressed any more appropriately for the mission at hand. “They’ll see us coming a mile away.”

 He glanced down at himself with a tilt of his helmet, ignoring the mess his son was making of his meal. “What do you have in mind?”

 You weren’t entirely sure yet. From where the Crest was parked you could see the glittering city’s reflection sparkling on the water far ahead of you down the beach, a sight most would find alluring, but to you it was just harsh glare. Nearby where you had landed were other space craft parked up and down the gravelly, machine-carved beach; the pleasure cruisers of wealthy betters made your little scrapheap look even worse than it already did. You watched out the cockpit’s transperisteel window, noting the movement of patrons and their attending droids loading skiffs with piles of luggage, and got yourself a mighty fine idea.

"I think so, but you're probably not going to like it. Stay here." You rose from your seat and kissed the baby on the head, earning yourself a soft, mush-mouthed chirp before you slid down the ladder and let yourself out of the old rust bucket and into the salty sea air of the Cantonican night. Gravel crunched under your boots, and you took a moment to turn and glance back at the Crest, catching the faintest flicker of scope glare where Mando was nervously watching you from the flight deck. Ahead of you a large cruiser was being unloaded by droids, the owners having long since made their way to the casinos, and you made yourself known to the robotic servants with your most charming damsel-in-distress voice.

"Hello! Excuse me! My luggage is too heavy to carry, can you help me? It's just over here on my ship..." The droid nearest you made a stiff bowing motion and tottered after you with the loaded hoverskiff floating along behind. You guided the droid up the open ramp and into the bowels of the ship to where your difficult luggage lay. It never stood a chance, bits of wire and duraplast flew across the cabin like confetti from the blaster shot to its head. Mando lowered his gun back to his holster, freeing his hands to help you haul the skiff into the narrow cabin space, then quickly close the ramp behind you.

The sled took up most of the walking space in the ship, so you got up on top of it and began looting through the stolen designer bags, pulling resplendent finery out into the hazy light. The first tote was full of piles of silk sewn for something with more arms than the two of you put together, so most of those items were tossed to the floor. The second bag was just capes, each a unique and lovely pattern, but nothing more. You demolished the remaining bags, making piles on the floor for ‘maybes’ and ‘definitely-nots’ until you found what you were looking for: a humanoid woman’s clothes.

Most of the unknown lady’s elegant garments would be just slightly too big on you, but you were able to settle on a soft, garnet colored evening gown that would go just above your knees, with extra length in the back. It had a sloping neckline that plunged at your cleavage, and around the bell of the skirt were silver rhinestones that caught the light of the cabin like dewdrops, the weight of them giving the dress a wistful sway. You wouldn't be able to carry much in such a revealing article, but a blaster and a knife alone had gotten you out of more trouble than you would care to admit.

You were fishing through the feminine things for something to do about your hair when you caught Mando in the corner of your eye. He was leaning against the hull wall, just watching you as you made a fat mess of the Razor's interior. You smiled down at him from your floating perch and held up the fanciful garment that you had picked out for him to see. "You like it?"

"It doesn't suit you, mesh’la." He said with a lazy tilt of his helmet. You had begun to mentally keep track of all the Mando’a he used around you, and you were starting to notice his frequent use of affectionates. You spun slightly so he could get a good look at how the fabric moved in the light, but the hunter gear you currently had on took away from the loveliness of the expensive clothes. You guessed he preferred your killer garb anyway over the flimsy, delicate fabric. Or nothing at all.

"Well, it’ll have to do, and if you don't start picking something out for yourself I’m going to dress you up like a dandy.”

He sighed, long and tired before turning his attention to the silken pile on the floor. You went back to the luggage, finding some knee high boots that were close enough to your size, but had a heel height that was going to make your ankles cry. You picked out some tasteless accessories: some bracelets, and big, jewel-encrusted hair pins to wear as well. The glitzier that you were, the less you would be noticed in this bass-ackward town. When you had made your frivolous selections you hopped off the skiff to help Mando with his costume. He was worse at finding something to wear than you were, having only picked out some of his own black leather gloves and two pairs of pants that were not made for human legs. Mandalorian armor did not come off as far as your metal man was concerned, and you were going to have to find a way to hide his bulk. You convinced him to lose his cloak, chest belts, and the bandoliers on his hips and boots, anything to lighten the load. Loose silks and stiff fiber combos would be your best friend, and you cobbled together what you could for your beskar-burdened buddy.

After what seemed like an eternity you had him dressed to the nines, or at least the eights. You had covered his chest plate in a black silk shirt and stiff black vest. The shirt had wide bottomed sleeves and neat, tight cuffs that hid his vambraces well, but you still made him wear a cinched-waist blazer plus a long, black and silver cape that almost reached the floor. You found a dark red pocket square that matched your dress and tucked it into the pocket of his vest, a subtle, but unmistakable announcement to the world that he was there with you. It was a ridiculous amount of fabric on top of an already massive mountain of metal, but the look was very in-style for Canto Bight. All together he actually passed for something besides a murder machine, and you gave yourself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. Mando held still for you while you fussed with his outfit with only the occasional huff. As much as he didn't like the idea of walking so boldly through the gilded city, he did enjoy your brazen touch each time you added another article of clothing.

“And now for the finishing touch.” There was nothing you could do about his helmet, so you were just going to have to make it look as nice as you could. You hadn’t changed into your chosen disguise yet, so you strode through the messy cabin with ease until you reached the lock box next to the cot. Inside you found the krayt’s teeth that you had gifted him and pulled them out into the light, waving them at him as you stretched over the heaps of fabric on the ground. He raised his hands in protest.

“What if I lose them?”

“You can wear these or you can wear whatever the hell this is.” You held up an enormous chain of jewels that looked like it belonged in the treasure case at an arcade instead of around somebody's neck. “Besides, I know you won't lose them, you like them too much.” He tilted his helmet at you with disdain, and you realized that was precisely the reason he didn’t want to wear them, such lovely gifts should be kept safe and secure. But he let you press the precious trinkets into the recess of his helmet where his human cheeks would be anyway. The frozen pools of moonlight tied everything about his sin-city look into a perfect, glittery bow. You had grown to admire the look of him in his cultural armor, the ferocity of it, the utility and strength of the beskar that shined no matter how much damage it took; and you were a bit sad to see it hidden. The look of the man standing before you had a wildly different feel, though it was not one you were opposed to.

“You look nice, Din.” The sound of his own name coming from your lips made his heart swell, and he reached out for your hand on instinct to pull your knuckles to his brow in the sweet gesture of his people that you both now used. His movements caused the finery he was masquerading in to catch the cabin’s hazy light, and you got excited to put on your own costume and join him in looking like a fool. When he let your hand fall, you bounded over to your pile, throwing the hunting clothes off of yourself as you went. When you were standing there in nothing but your Tattooinian muck boots you cast a sly glance over your shoulder. As expected, the single black eye of your Mandalorian was locked on your almost-naked form, and you realized that in the time you had been together he had never seen you fully naked; just the parts of you he needed to get to in the moment. “How’s this? You like this better?”

When he didn’t answer right away you looked down at yourself and saw what he was staring at. You had forgotten about the marks of conquest he had put there when he had been driven to a sexual frenzy by the last quarry’s poison, still dotting your thighs with dark purple splotches. Not once had you been upset with him for his actions, you were just thankful you both made it through the ordeal alive, but he still looked at the damning marks with shame. He had been forced to break his protector’s oath against his will, inflicting injury to your precious body with his own two hands. You waited until his visor made its way back up to meet your eyes, and you reached out for him to give you his hand. He sheepishly obeyed, and you brought his hand to your lips, kissing at the all-black leather slowly until you heard him sigh through his modulator. You would forgive him a hundred times if you had to, and then a hundred more if it meant he could forgive himself. You pulled his hands to your waist and leaned up against him, enjoying the feel of new clothes on your skin and letting your hands run up his silken arms. “Well you can have this,” You nodded down at your bare everything with a mischievous grin, “As soon as we catch this fucko.” 

This was the last bounty you would need before you made the trip back to Nevarro, but you were still on the fence about how completing your mission made you feel. On one hand you would be free of the Guild’s relentless hunters, but on the other your partnership with the strange metal man and his adorable beanbag of a son would come to a close. You turned back to your outfit and began cinching a pair of thigh holsters to your legs, hiding your wincing face as the leather closed around your bruises; a blaster on one leg and a knife on the other. You pulled on the dress and fixed up your hair as best you could, then stepped out of your good boots and into the slutty knee-highs. There was only one loose end to take care of.

 “Where’s baby?” You glanced around the messy cabin, looking for your foundling. In the corner under a pile of capes there was movement, and you cleared the flashy finery away to reveal your bestest little friend. Big, glittering orbs looked up at you from the pile of fabric, and a tiny toothy grin shined from his cute baby face. “Heya booger, you ready to go?” You scooped him up in your arms for a hug before picking a big shiny scarf up to wrap him up with, then placed him carefully down in one of the gaudy designer bags. “If anyone asks, he is a pet.” The child didn’t seem to care, he was just happy to be included, waving his little pudgy baby hands up at you to hold. You squeezed his tiny paw, then turned to Mando, “You ready to go, Lord Beskar?”

He glanced down at himself, tilting his palms up and shrugging. “I guess so, I feel ridiculous.”

“Good enough!” You made for the exit ramp with a big stride, and almost broke your damn ankle on the first step, falling gracelessly into the arms of your partner. He caught you with ease, and your cheeks went red with his strong, gentle hands on you again for the hundredth time. You got to your feet, but you would be leaning heavily on him for most of the night until the boots were broken in. With you hanging off of his arm the two of you looked like a proper couple, just heading out for a night on the town instead of two bloodthirsty bounty hunters on the prowl. You might let yourself pretend though, just for the night.

You took a transport speeder from the beach to the city’s entrance, then made your way through the gilded streets, following the red blink of the bounty fob towards your quarry. You had to stop multiple times, the fucking boots making your feet hurt like you knew they would. Mando stood patiently with you each time, and more than once offered to just carry you. His visor would glide from side to side, always on the alert for anyone that might be following you, or worse, hunting you down. The tracking fob led you to the most obvious choice of casino: the tallest, brightest, shiniest temple of vice smack dab in the city’s center. 

The front entryway was dominated by a roaring, gushing fountain, shooting geysers in a perfectly timed pattern high into the Cantonican night sky. The fountain was lit up with bright, multicolored spotlights so that every stream of water and drop of spray glittered back in defiance of the stars that had inspired them. Inside, the casino floor was packed with patrons, ranging in size and species in an infinite array of wealth and power. Chandeliers hung high above you from the soaring cathedral ceilings, sending sparkling lights racing around the endless room like shooting stars. Every surface was bright and gleaming, dozens of pillars and statues illuminated by blinding limelight. Even the floor was magnificent, black and white marble with huge inlaid stars, guiding gamblers through the limitless space towards their wildest desires. Again you wished you could appreciate the extravagance of it all, though the way the lights streamed like mercury over the beskar of your pretend date made something else sparkle behind your eyes. 

 The smell of inhalants and alcohol burned in your nose, and you took a moment to make sure your purse puppy’s face was covered with something so he wouldn’t have to endure it as much as you were. The sound of gamblers and music and roaring competition was louder than the screams of the hyperspace engine aboard the Crest, the cacophony of it all making you anxious. You were thankful that you weren’t hunting this bounty alone, and you still held on to Mando tightly, letting him lead you over the cosmic marble floor through the streaming masses. The people paid you no mind, moving out of the way without casting a second glance. Your costumes were working exactly as you had intended, and you applauded yourself for how well you had deceived the City of Lies.

You had guessed that if your bounty would be anywhere, it would be at the center of attention, and you were right. Elios Blackwater sat at the atrium bar, surrounded by beautiful and interesting people. The glint of gold jewelry caught the radiant casino lights every time he moved, drawing the eyes of all those around him. He was telling some kind of wild story that had his little crowd hooked on every word, though you could tell from a distance he was all bullshit. Immediately you knew this was a man that was used to having everything he desired, never being denied a single whim in all his days. A plan began to simmer in your skull, and you knew right away your partner was not going to like it. If you were going to get the quarry alone, you were going to have to persuade him to leave the company of his fans, and you only knew one sure-fire method for a man of Blackwater’s tastes. You let yourself off of your escorts’ arm to turn and face him, pulling his hands to your hips and letting your own rest on his shoulders so that to any outsiders you two would be just another pair of passionate dancers making their way through the counterfeit cosmos. 

“Mando, do you trust me?” His hidden eyes were still glancing around the room, scanning for any lurking threats.

“Of course.” His words went right over your head, his ears too full of the sounds of potential danger to really hear you. You huffed and ran your hands to his bedazzled helmet, pulling it down to meet your eyes. 

“Pay attention, bucket boy. I need to hear you say it and know that you mean it. Do you trust me?”  He cocked his head, confused that you would have to ask twice. 

“Yes, ner cyar’ika, I trust you.”

“Good.” You let your hands fall back to his armored shoulders, pressing yourself up against him tighter. Your fingers fidgeted in the heavy material of his cloak, he was going to hate this. “Because I need to do something. Alone.” 

That got his attention fast. 

“No, it’s too dangerous here. I want you where I can protect you. What if there’s hunters?”

“I know, I need you to cover me, but from a distance. I think I can convince Elios to walk right into the carbonite freezer, but I can’t do it with you looming over me.” You wrapped your hands around the back of his helmet, pulling him down so that his forehead met with yours. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it would work.” He sighed between your hands, the steam of his breath slipping out from under the helmet’s edge. There was nothing he would rather not do than be away from you, but he did trust you, and he nodded against your embrace.

“I’ll call for you as soon as I’m ready, ok? Just keep your eyes on me, and don’t cause a scene. No matter what.” You couldn’t kiss him like you wanted to, but you still pressed your lips to the side of his beskar before letting go, pulling yourself away from his tender grasp. His hands still floated in the space where you had been as you turned away from him and made your way to the bar, the heavy purse bumping against your weaponized thighs with every flint and tinder step of your sky high heels. As you got closer to the bounty you could hear the shreds of his conversation starting to make their way over the noise of the casino.

“...And I said ‘Darlin’ if you didn’t want to take it home with you, ya shouldn’t have put it in your mouth!” The way he was telling his story gave you the impression that it wasn’t one you wanted to hear, and you started to regret your foolhardy plan. Gold rings and precious jewels sparkled all the way from his fingers to the caps on his horns, making it impossible for most to look away, a fact made apparent by his captivated audience. The beautiful boozers laughed and cheered at his every word, though from his stupidass sounding story you wondered how much of the affection was alcohol induced. You pulled a seat up at the bar a few stools away from the crowd and ordered yourself a shot of spotchka and a couple packs of cookies. You slipped the snacks into your bag for Din’s foundling, you would be needing him for your plan to work as well; and the promise of treats would keep his bright-eyed attention on you. 

The taste of spotchka was vile, but you had started your journey though the galaxy on the gigantic starcruisers that were built on your homeworld of Corellia, and you had gotten to know the taste of the sailor-favorite drink at a tender age. You sipped at your brew, listening casually to the Devaronian’s conversation, but never turned your eyes to him. Every once in a while another bar patron would swagger up beside you to offer you another shot. You turned down anything you didn’t order yourself, but you started telling them fabricated stories about your life among the stars, most of which were wild tales of fancy from old holovids you had seen. You wished you could turn around and find your favorite rust bucket, wherever he may be hiding among the festivities, and give him something to reassure him. A nod or a wave, anything to let him know you weren’t just making him jealous on purpose. 

Soon you were throwing back brightly glowing shots of brew, and a handful of interested patrons had gathered around you to hear about how you had jerry-rigged a star cruiser to run on spotchka when you were a space pirate smuggling kyber crystals for the resistance, among other things. When you had your head tilted back you cast a glance towards the bounty, and saw what you had been waiting for. His hooded eyes were watching you intently, he didn’t like that someone was getting any of the attention pie that he believed was his alone, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he had to do something about it. Soon enough the dapper devil rose from his entourage, running a painted claw through his long dark hair before making his way to you, sauntering with every step.

Hook.

“Well hello there, darlin’, name’s Elios. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing chugging spotchka when you could be drinkin’ something as fine as you are?” The debonair’s words were long and slow, making sure that every drawn syllable would be heard. “Bartender! Get this lovely lady a real drink, if ya please.” You weren’t sure what counted as a ‘real drink’, but the dark liquid that was slid over to you stank even worse than spotchka with the strength of its proof. Elios couldn’t stand that someone else might be having more fun than he was, and he was determined to put you out of commission. He wanted to do it in such a way that you would be thanking him for it, preferably while on your knees. “What’s yer name, baby cakes?”

From the other side of the busy casino you could feel the void of a visor making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Mando was standing on the far side of the slot machines where the light was just a little less glaring, so motionless he might have been part of the decorations. He wasn’t sure what your plan was, or how you would talk the quarry into being captured without gaining the suspicion of the wandering security enforcers. He bristled whenever a bar patron started trying to make nice with you, and only got progressively more frustrated when more and more started hanging around you. When he saw the bounty slink his way over to you he wanted to dash across the marble floor and break his fucking neck just for being in your airspace. ‘Don’t make a scene, no matter what’ is what you had told him, and you had asked him to trust you. So he did as he was asked. Watching, waiting.

“Hmm, I don’t think you could handle it.” Oh, Elios didn’t like that one bit, nobody told Mr. Blackwater ‘no’ without consequences. He swirled a glass of the same dark liquid around in one perfectly manicured hand, his polished claws clicking on the side of the glass. You continued to ignore him, but you started on the new drink in front of you. Yucky, at least spotchka was familiar. He took your acceptance of the drink as an invitation to join you at the bar. 

“You’re awful sly, baby cakes, tell me yer name so I can make you forget it later.” His pointed teeth flashed out from his crooked smile, and you could smell the stench of expensive cologne and aftershave. You rolled your eyes big and wide so he could see just how unimpressed you were, but your nose was burning from how bad he smelled. This was a bad idea, but only because of how well it was going to work. Fresher soap, where are you?

“I’ll tell you what, if you can out-drink me, I’ll tell you my name.” His wicked smile split his face, showing off rows of brilliant white fangs. Party-boy could probably hold a few good shots, but you were raised by sailors, and you were gonna drink his ass under the table. 

“You’re on, sweet cheeks. Bartender! Another round!” Another set of shot glasses plinked to the counter, and vanished just as fast. Elios was eyeing you up and down, seeing if you were all bark and no bite. If he could just get you drunk enough…

Far from where you were drinking the Mandalorian you had asked to trust in you was furious, trying not to thumb the handle of his blaster that poked out from the side of his hip under his cloak. It would be so easy, he could hit the target from here and it would be over, you would be back by his side and not being drooled over by that fucking pathetic excuse for a man. 

“He has that effect on people.”

Mando’s helmet snapped on the sounds’ source, so lost in vicious thoughts that he didn’t hear the stranger come to lean against the wall by him. They were tall and thin, translucent green skin and a mop of hair-like cilia growing from their head to their flowy chiffon clothes. They looked exhausted. “That your girl over there?” Mando followed their gaze wordlessly, reluctant to make friends right now while he was busy waiting for you to call him back to your side. “Thought so.” The stranger took a long drag on an inhalant, blowing vibrant pink clouds into the smoky room. “Sorry for your loss, Elios always gets what he wants.” Mando turned again to the stranger, fixing them with his black hole glare, but they only shrugged; watching the drinking game unfold between you and the devil himself. 

“Another!” You hollered, but the glasses were already in front of you, then gone again. The Devaronian hissed back the sting of the high-dollar liquor, shaking his long mane that had started to come undone. You pretended to reel from the liquor's effects, leaning back just a tad too far on your seat. “Again!” The third round of shots came and went, and Elios nearly fell off his stool. Right where I want you. You waved at the bartender for the fourth and final shot that would probably put the devil right on his ass, but that’s not where you were headed with this show of tenacity. You had to get him alone before you made your capture, or the security enforcers that littered the casino floor would descend on you like vultures. 

You waited til he had thrown his drink back before you tilted yours, purposely spilling a few drops down your front so the booze would trickle down between your breasts. Elios nearly choked, and you knew you had his full, undivided attention. Din, I’m so sorry.

“Woo! I don’t think I can do any more, Mister Blackwater, you win.” you feigned, holding the back of your hand up to your forehead, trying to convince him that the room was spinning for both of you and not just him. His sultry laugh made your skin crawl.

“Please, call me Elios.”

Line.

“Well, Elios, you still wanna know my name? You’re gonna have to work for it.” You placed a hand on his leg, running your fingers up his thigh and around the edge of his waist, pulling at his pockets seductively to drive the point home. Does he have SCALES? What the fuck ew ew ew. He took the hint like a drunk takes to spotchka, flashing you a slurred smile. 

“Well… sugar lips, we can take this... elsewhere.” 

“Sure thing, Elios, lemme just have my attendant take my Poochie up to my room.” You held the heavy purse up so he could see the big black eyes hiding in its depths. 

“What the fuck is that thing?”

“He’s a pet, obviously.”

“What kind’a fuckin’ pet?”

“Purebred.” Your quick answer seemed good enough for Mr. Drinky, and he nodded like that made perfect sense. You raised your fist to the air and snapped your fingers.

The human fortress was at your side in a heartbeat, towering above the two of you. You stuffed the purse in his hands before he could ask where to point his gun. “Here, take Poochums up to my room, mama’s not coming home tonight, if y’know what I mean. Get him washed and fed, and don’t forget to scrub his feet!” 

“Yes Ma’am.” The bag was lifted carefully from your fake-drunk hands, and you tried to flash him your best ‘Please-don’t-be-mad-at-me-I-hate-this-too’ face at your partner, but you guessed the look was lost on his visor. The scene did not escape Elios’s eyes like you had hoped it would. 

“Now what in the Mmmmaker’s Mammaries is that big ass fuckin’ thing? That some kinda droid? It’s damn fancy.” Shit balls of hell.

“Uh.. Yes! This is the finest in personal assistant droid technology! See, look.” You grabbed Mando’s empty arm and pulled back sharply on the fabric, revealing the delicate button panel of his vambrace. “Only the best money could buy...” 

“I gotta get me one of those...” Elios stared bewildered as your personal petsitting droid turned and left. “Well, honey tits, you wanna take this upstairs?” Ugh.

“Oh suurrre… Oh Mr. Blackwater I’m ~soooo~ drunk ahaha…” You were barely buzzed, and you worried that your life among the stars had given your liver bigger balls than a bounty hunter. You wobbled on your stool, for phase two of your plan to work you would have to delay Elios as long as possible. You watched as the man whose heart you had stolen faded away from you, the fancy purse hooped over his shoulder and knocking up against his leg, cape billowing behind him as he went. Alright, Baby Beans, it’s up to you now!

Din was seething under his helmet, pissed as shit that this was what your elaborate ‘plan’ entailed. He was trying not to storm through the casino as he left to take your ‘Poochums’ up to your room, whatever the hell that fucking meant. How could he be so fucking stupid? This was exactly the same ruse you had tried to pull on him from day one. Seduction was your real talent, luring your lovers to their untimely demise. How many times had you pulled this stunt? Was this your master plan all along? Ouch. Play with his heart until you were free of your Guild warrant? Ow. You were just using him to get to Nevarro, then you would fuck off to the stars and leave him behind. After everything you had been through, he was just another notch on your bedp- 

“OUCH!” 

Din looked down to his side where the pain he was trying to ignore was coming from, and saw a fat green paw sticking out of the ugly expensive purse, digging vicious talons into the side of his leg. His foundling was trying to burrow through his thigh, and his claws might actually have drawn blood. “What, womp rat? What do you want?” There was something in the baby’s other hand, something golden and flashy. Din reached into the bag and pulled the embossed card from his son’s grasp. What’s this? There was a set of numbers etched in gold filigree in the top of the card, their shimmer blasting away the destructive void he had been spiraling into.

Key card! PENTHOUSE key card! You had tricked the bounty into getting close enough to you that you could pick his pocket without him noticing. You were luring Elios right into a trap, and your Mandalorian was the snare. Din felt a mix of emotion ranging from relief to shame, how could he even think for one second that you might be deceiving him? You had asked him to trust you, and he couldn’t even contain his jealousy long enough to make it through one hunt. He felt like such an ass, you were putting your skills to good use, at great risk to your own safety, just like he had asked you to from the beginning. This wasn’t just his hunt anymore, it was a joint effort between the two of you, and it was his turn to run the next leg of the relay. The heavy, silver-laced cloak was tossed to the side as he raced to the elevator, fluttering away behind him as he flew to beat you there.

Meanwhile, you were trying to keep the bounty from falling flat on his face, and the only way to do that was to hold him up yourself. His hands were all over you, the nick of sharp, neat claws catching on the fabric of your evening dress and scratching along your skin. I’m gonna break those fingers, motherfucker. He was slurring his words, making disgusting promises of what he was gonna do to you when you reached his private penthouse. You were just out of range of his boozehole, the lippy thing trying to steal a taste of you. Wobbly steps slowed you both down to almost a crawl, which was exactly what you were trying to do, anything to give Mando time to find the hotel room first. You passed a discarded cloak on the floor, the familiar silver inlay catching the light, and you worried that you might have pushed your partner too far. What if he left? What if he didn’t see the keycard and I’m heading up alone? Please be there, Din. Please don’t leave me with this fucking creep. You both reached the elevator, and Elios fumbled to find his wallet, thankfully having a spare key that he didn’t know he needed. The doors opened, and you realized you would be stuck in your own personal hell for the entire trip up to the top floor suite. Fucking super. 

Elios was getting impatient during the ride up, and it took every fiber of your being to keep from retching as his well-moisturized hands ran up and down your spine. The elevator door opened directly into the penthouse, and his perfectly manicured claws dug into your ass to usher you into the room. The top floor suite was dark, save for the lights of Canto Bight shining in through the cathedral windows. You took a mental note of the speeder parked out on the balcony, you would be needing it later. The Devaronian was at your ear, breathing hot, boozy steam around your neck until he was facing you. He went to bite at your mouth, but you stopped him with a finger to his lips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." You whispered in your most convincing lust-laden voice. The devil chuckled and ran his slimy, forked tongue around the halting digit. Barf.

"Oh yeah, baby cakes? Why’s that?"

You batted your eyelashes and bit your lip into a wry smile before meeting his half-lidded eyes. "Because... you're going to make Daddy very angry."

His lips turned upwards in an aroused sneer, flashing his dazzling, daggerlike teeth, "How could getting a taste of that fiery little mouth’a yours make me angry, darlin’?"

Sinker.

"I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about him."

Elios didn't even have a chance to turn around to see where your eyes were looking before a black and silver fist broke his nose and sent his perfect teeth soaring across the room, throwing him down to the marble floor. Seeing his busted prettyboy face bleeding at your feet made you feel so relieved that a vicious shiver made its way from your head to your toes, and you let your body shake the devil’s touch off of you like a big wet bantha.

"Fuck! Oh fucking hell, Mando, you have -no idea- how hard it was to keep that up, he’s so gross! I’m gonna chuck his ass in carbonite so fucking hard his horns’ll break off!" Your partner was still squared up, just waiting for the interloper to try and get up and fight. He wanted the bounty to get up, flail, scream, any excuse to hit him again. But Blackwater was out cold, staining the white marble floor with his blood.

"You looked like you were handling it."

The deadpan tone of his voice told you that wasn't exactly a compliment, remembering the jealousy that had seethed out of him on Tatooine after that Trandoshan had tried to capture you. You had two choices: you could either try to defend yourself and your unconventional bounty catching method, or you could turn that jealousy in your favor. He didn’t remember much from his toxic encounter with the Ardennian, but you knew that every filthy, possessive thing he had said to you that night was still somewhere in that chrome dome of his; and you became determined to bring them to the light. You crossed one arm over your chest, raising the other to tap a finger against the corner of your lips.

"Oh? You didn't like that, did you? Didn't like that he had his hands on me? Touching things that don’t belong to him?" He didn't answer, but the creaking of leather from his fists tightening told you what you already knew. "Tell me, Mando."

"N-no." His visor remained fixed on the unconscious body still bleeding on the floor. Not good enough.

"No what?"

"No. I didn't like that." His voice was low and raspy, but only because he was trying to keep the boiling rage in his chest from blowing his fucking helmet off.

"Tell me what you didn't like." You stepped over the quarry to your man, running your fingers from his balled fists over his silk and steel arms until you were at his shoulders. You could feel the slightest shudder under all his layers at your touch.

"I didn't like him touching you. Nobody should put their hands on you, cyar'ika" His fists lowered to his sides but his visor was still on the floor. You let your hands wander up his neck to the bejeweled recesses of his helmet and turned him to meet your eyes.

"Why not?"

"B-because..."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Because you are mine." He growled through his helmet so hard that you swore you saw it vibrate, sending a delicious tingle though your spine. Atta boy.

“Again.”

“You are mine!” Even behind the beskar you could hear the clench of his teeth biting back deeper desires. His hands went to your waist, pulling you tightly to his chest. The fire coming off of him was scalding, you had pushed your luck too far with this one, and you could feel the volcano inside his ribcage boiling over. He was furious. His heavy armored head pushed against your brow, and you let your thumbs wrap around the bottom of his helmet to find the thinnest sliver of skin where the metal met the man.

“That’s right, I’m all yours.” When you had said that line to him the first time, you had been plotting your escape from his clutches, but as the reassuring words left your lips you knew there was nobody else in the galaxy you would have running their hands up your sides; and you mentally crossed ‘seduction’ off of your list of hunting skills for good. His oath of me'dinuir had swore him to your side alone, and now you knew without a shred of doubt that you wanted it to go both ways; whether you were Mandalorian or not.

You kissed at the bottom of his visor, so close to getting to feel the true, living flesh of him, and yet so far. You had to have him, you had to purge the demon’s touch from your body with the purifying fire of your protector’s rage. A choked, needy groan made its way out of the modulator, and you felt the heat of his breath on your skin. How desperately you wanted to taste it, fill your mouth with the flavor of him to replace the vile spotchka. You pushed up on his jaw, giving you just a tiny glance at his scruffy chin, and you forced your kisses into the tight, unyielding space of the beskar prison. It wasn’t enough for you, but it was a start, and you could feel his body starting to unwind at your touch. “Kiss me. Please, Mando.”

“Cyar'ika, it's not safe here.” He hated the sound of his own words, the denial of them crushing his very soul. You glanced around the dark penthouse and saw you were alone save for the crumpled devil on the floor and the designer purse that had been stashed in the corner of the room, its occupant still working on the bags of cookies. No eyes on us.

“I won’t look, just... lift your helmet a tiny bit, tin man, I need you, I need to kiss you.” You guessed you were safe enough from prying eyes, but you wouldn’t spill his name to the night just in case there were any sneaky listeners. You squeezed your own eyes shut and nipped at the armors edge again, and just ever-so-slightly began to push up on the unforgiving metal with your thumbs. You were just waiting for his hands to shoot up, to grab your wrists and halt your actions, but they were locked to your sides. Inch by inch you gradually lifted the armor, he would have all the time in the world to stop you, but when you felt the heat of his lips crash against yours you almost let your knees buckle out from under you. His strong arms were tight on your back, pulling you into him so he could kiss you harder.

So much better than spotchka. He was delicious, his taste, his feel, his scent, everything about him was intoxicating. So much more so than the despicable brew you had been throwing back all night, and a thousand times better than anything Elios could have offered. Blech. You realized then why the bounty had smelled so bad to you, though his perfume was expensive and his clothes freshly pressed, he was wrong for you. The wrongness was so overwhelming that it had nearly made you lose your drink, and you didn’t realize how wrong something could be until you tried to compare it to what was right. Din was right, he smelled of leather and beskar and the sweat of a man that had nearly combusted when someone else was at your side. And fresher soap! Thank the Maker.

A soft leather hand went to your head, pulling you into him so he could taste you better. His tongue ran over your lips, darting into you to find yours so they could dance together. You bit him playfully, and the way his breath hitched in his throat sent the fire of your core shooting all the way to your fingertips; and you knew right then that not even kissing his forbidden face would be enough for you. You pulled yourself from his lips, the snap of teeth following your retreat, reluctant to let you leave from the heat of the moment. Carefully, you let the beskar slide back down to cover him, and the anguished whine he let out into the night air almost broke your heart.

“I know, I know, I’m so mean to you, aren’t I?” With him covered you glanced around the room until you saw the private bar. With your thumbs hooked in the pockets of his borrowed vest you guided the two of you towards it until the granite countertop knocked against your ass. You used his shoulders for leverage, hopping up onto the cold surface and wrapping your knees round his waist, happy to find exactly what you were expecting to throbbing between your legs. He pushed himself against you, the feel of his stolen silks on your holstered thighs giving you goosebumps. His heavy metal head fell against your shoulder, and you wrapped your arms around him to hold him close while he ground up against your heat. He couldn’t contain himself around you, though you wouldn’t want him to if he could. You rocked your hips in time with his needy thrusts, and the growls in your ear almost made you think he would come undone with his pants still on. Can’t have that now, can we? "Mando, please fuck me, I can't wait anymore."

You heard thunder rumble out of his chest, sending electricity from where he was pressed to your shoulder straight down to where he was pulsing against your core. He was going to bring you the stars, alright, but not the ones in the night sky. He pulled back so he could look into your eyes from behind his visor, bringing a hand up to caress your pleading face.

"No, I don't want to fuck you." Your eyes shot wide, shocked that he wouldn't want you when he was rutting so hard into you that you could almost feel the dampness of precum through his layers. He saw your face and shook his head. "Elios wanted to fuck you, all of those creeps at the bar wanted to fuck you.” His helmet shook, trying to loosen the words he wanted to say. “No... I- I want to be better than them, I want to give you something else, s-something more.” He was struggling, his inexperience making it difficult to say what was on his mind. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be like them, he wanted to be worthy of you in ways they never could.

“Then make love to me instead.”

 “Yes!” The words leaving your lips were like music to his ears, so much more lovely than any song. “I want to do that! I want to make love to you, cyar’ika, if you’ll have me?”

You laughed, nodding your head to hide your bright red cheeks. How he managed to be so ferocious and so sweet on the same day was a mystery you didn’t want to solve. He quickly glanced around the room one more time just to be sure you were alone, the light of the gilded city sending streaks of color over the charms you had pressed to his cheeks. Satisfied that you were the only ones awake in the room, he leaned away from you to rip the constricting blazer off of himself so hard the fabric around his chest and shoulders started to tear. Beskar plates twinkled in the limelight, sending stars flying around the room while he worked his pants open. The sight of him springing into view made your heart flutter, among other things. Long and strong, a pearl of precum glimmering in the dark of the penthouse. His hands went to your legs, the leather of his palms snagging on the straps still belted to your thighs as he pushed the elegant fabric of your dress up to your waist. 

“You’re soaked.” You wished you could see what he saw through his visor, the sound of hitched breath telling you he could see you blooming for him clear as day, drinking you in with his hidden eyes. He hooked a thumb in the wet fabric of your panties to pull them out of the way, using his other hand to grip his cock and run the tip over your entrance, bumping against your clit while he lubed himself with your slick. You had to lean back until you were laying on the cold granite countertop, tilting your hips to the edge of the bar so he could see all of you on display. He pressed himself up and in, filling you slowly so he could indulge in every inch that disappeared inside. Your stretched walls clenched around him, making him shiver with each coiled squeeze. The Mandalorian you were giving yourself to pulled himself out of you carefully before thrusting back into you again, fighting every animalistic urge to just plow you into the bar. He was going to make good on his word, he wasn’t going to just fuck you.

But maybe he should have.

“Bing!” 

The penthouse elevator door chimed, and both of you pointed blasters on the figure that walked out from the pink haze of the lift into the dark of the room. “Elios? I know you’re up here, I’m just going to get- Oh. There you are.” The stranger spotted the crumpled, unconscious body on the floor, crossing the room until they stood over him. “About time someone split that beautiful lip of yours, Lee-lo.” The stranger that Mando had run into on the casino floor turned their tired eyes to the pair of you, noticing your obvious state of passion. “Oh please, don’t stop on my account, that’s not the worst thing I’ve walked into up here.” They squinted in the dark, then gasped softly, “Wait, it’s you! Oh good! I saw you when you were dancing and was just heartbroken when Lee-lo came between you.” The tall stranger did a little dance. “Fucking Elios.” They kicked at the Devaronian on the floor, “All he lives for is breaking hearts. I’m glad you two made up.”

The wisp of a stranger bent down to the motionless figure on the floor, yanking one of the gold rings from his horns. They said something too low for you to hear, then got up and left in another cloud of pink smoke, the elevator door closing behind them.

You both lowered your blasters, trying to wrap your collective heads around what had just happened. Mando was still buried to the hilt inside you, and you could feel him pulsing with need; but he had been right from the beginning. You weren’t safe here.

“That’s probably not the only spare key. We should go.” You whispered, trying to get your blaster back to its holster under your dress. He groaned, he was getting sick of being torn away from you. He pulled himself almost all the way out, thrust in one more time for good luck, and released himself with a pop! He pulled you to your feet, helping you down from the bar and onto the Maker-forsaken boots you still had on. Fuck these. You ripped the boots off, chucking them somewhere into the dark and crossed the room barefoot to where the oversized purse held the foundling. You were happy to see him all tuckered out in a pile of cookie wrappers, probably not the healthiest thing for him, but it worked. Behind you, your armored companion was hauling the quarry over his shoulder none too gently, ‘accidentally’ knocking his bloody head against the wall as he turned back to you. You both made for the balcony door to the speeder you had noticed earlier, tossing the bounty in the back seat like a bag of garbage. 

The ride back to the Crest was thick with anticipation, you weren't finished with each other just yet. Mando pulled the speeder right up to the ramp so you wouldn’t have to walk across sharp gravel, chucking the bounty in after you so hard he slid through the messy cabin and smashed into the wall. You slung the damned devil into the carbonite chamber, punching the freeze button with gusto. The ramp closed behind your armored companion, barely giving you a chance to get up onto the hoverskiff that still dominated the cabin floor before the lights went off. You yanked the dress over your head, listening for the sound of more fabric hitting the floor, then the clanking of beskar being tossed carelessly aside. Belts and snaps and zippers went flying, and you had to try not to laugh at the absurd amount of clothes he had to take off. The skiff tilted with new weight, and the body of a Mandalorian was on top of you, warm lips hunting for yours.

He’s naked! Every piece of armor and shred of clothing was gone, and the feel of bare skin against your body was electrifying. His mouth crashed against yours, fervent kisses desperate to taste you again. You let your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into you to kiss back. He was hungry for you, biting at your mouth and tongue like a man starved. Plush lips made their way from your mouth down your neck, nipping at your throat and sucking the tender skin until you had bruises to match the ones on your thighs. His hands wandered down your body, rubbing at your breast and teasing your nipples until you were gasping for more. The devious digits moved on until his hand was between your legs, pushing at your folds and finding your clit to spin circles on. He was becoming an expert at finding what made you squirm and whine from his touch, rolling callused fingertips into you until you were making a delicious mess on the pile of stolen silk. 

But he wasn’t done there. The fuzzy kisses went from your breast down your belly to where his fingers were working into you. He pulled his hands from your soaked cunt and replaced them with his face, pushing his tongue up against the tiny ball of nerves that had so much power over you. Short, quick circles between long, languid licks had you arching your back and pulling his hair, demanding more. Lost in the heat of your thighs he was happy to give you everything, pushing the smooth muscle of his mouth into your slit and upwards against your clit until you were seeing stars again. 

Your hands couldn’t stop exploring him, from his thick head of curls to the strength of his shoulders. The muscles kept going, tight coils on his back and the warm, rigid wall of his chest. The trail of fuzz on his belly went up farther than you were expecting it to, and the fine hairs tickled your fingers on almost every inch of his skin. Your hands trailed over the numerous, vicious scars that marred his flesh like a road map of every near-death experience he had lived through. Gashes on his arms and burns on his sides had healed over into smooth, textureless skin, the marks of a seasoned hunter that nobody but their barer had ever seen.

Having drank his fill, he pulled his face from the apex of your thighs, pushing your knees apart and quickly sheathing himself in you with a ragged groan. Mando’a praises poured from his lips, some you were familiar but many you weren’t, though all of them made your heart flutter. Strong hands wrapped around your knees to keep you in place on the wobbly sled while he pounded into you, the feeling of bare skin on the backs of your legs making you wish you could see him in the light. But the darkness was the greatest keeper of secrets, hiding your love making from the condemnation of his creed. 

Make love. Though the phrase was just another on the long list of euphemisms used for sex, the pair of words weighed heavy with meaning in their new context. You wanted to explore the concept the way your hands explored his body, but the fire of your core was thrumming with heat, demanding your undivided attention. Din fell forward to your chest, the sweat of his efforts sticking to your breasts. Wandering kisses sent fire over your skin as he made his way over your peaks, sucking hard on their tender buds. Beskar-strong hips rocked against yours until you saw fireworks again, bearing down so hard on him with your orgasm that he sank his teeth into the crook of your shoulder. Bites made their way from where he had surely drawn blood on your flesh up your neck til they turned to kisses again. His brow pushed against your forehead, though your lips were right there he still defaulted to the only show of affection his armored inheritance allowed. Hot gasps of air puffed over your skin from the heat of his breath, and you knew he was close. You locked your legs around him, forcing him to pump every last drop of himself into you, painting your walls with his seed until it was spilling down your ass onto the piles of clothes.

The strength of his arms gave up, and he let himself fall against you, his face pushed against your cheek. You could feel his bristles brushing over your skin as his breath heaved, soft but scratchy. His hands wrapped under you and up your back, hugging you to his bare chest so hard the air was squeezed from your lungs. Fuzzy-lipped kisses dotted your cheeks and face, taking extra time to kiss your lips, each one a promise of more to come. You dragged your nails over his back, making him groan and shake at the touch. Never had anyone to scratch that itch, have you, tinman? Tight muscles loosened under your careful touch, making him sink harder onto you until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. 

You wanted to stay there forever, but as the sweat on your bodies cooled it became sticky and made pulling yourselves apart a chore. Both of you reluctantly made your way off of the skiff, clinging to the walls of the cabin while he hunted for his helmet in the dark. Lights came on gradually once his bucket was back in place so you could find your own clothes, and when you had both gotten yourselves put back together you piled everything you had stolen onto the hoverskiff and pushed it back down the ramp of the Crest. The Mandalorian was back in his beskar, and he cocked his vambrace back and shot a wall of fire onto the little sled, incinerating all evidence of your thievery and passion. The bonfire burned brightly on the gravelly beach of the Cantonican ocean, sending flaming ash into the light of the new dawn. 

You decided to keep the red pocket square that you had tucked in on his costume, though you weren't sure what you would need it for again. Sentimental. You went to the supply crates where your backpack and droid mask were kept so you could squirrel the thing away, when you caught the familiar glowing blue of spotchka at the bottom of the larder. The horrible color made you fucking nauseous after today, but even more distressing was that you realized it was just sitting there unsecured when there was an impish child onboard that could easily get into the bottled brew and make himself sick, or worse.

“Din, we need to put this somewhere safer.”  You held the liquid lantern up for him to see what you were talking about. “What if our foundling gets into it? He might get really sick or-”

“Our?”

Shit. “Sorry, your foundling. Your foundling might get-” Din crossed the small space of the cabin until he was standing close to you, the child in question tucked against his chest. The baby’s big, nebulous eyes glittered up at you, and you couldn’t help reaching out to rub his sail-like ears. He chirped happily at your touch, and as much as you wanted to keep your eyes on him, his father was towering over you, making you squirm under his tilted glare. 

“Say that again.”

“Your foundling.”

“No. The other word.”

“Our?” 

“All of it.”

“Our foundling?”  His helmet cocked to the other side, doing his big metal bird impression. The arm that wasn’t holding the child pulled you up against his chest, squeezed right against the baby in question. The familiar galaxy-erasing hug made you realize how many times you had thought of the child as your own, he was your little buddy, your missing baby when he had been stolen away, your secret weapon that you had hidden in your purse. But he wasn’t your child, he was Din’s, so for him to also be considered as yours…

“Ours.” Above you the word was spoken like it was new, as strange on his tongue as Mando’a was to you. “Our foundling. I like that.”

You couldn’t turn your head up to look at the man who had you wrapped against himself so tightly, but you could smile at the green little child that was flashing you his adorable toothy grin. You little fart, you thought with a laugh, you’re gonna make me go all soft. Almost as though the creature could hear your thoughts he squealed in delight, patting your cheeks with his fat baby paws. You let your arms circle around the boys that had made your life a roller coaster of emotion blasting through the endless sea of stars. It might be a hell of a ride, but you weren't ready to get off any time soon. The memory of the sands of Tatooine where you had been trying to forget the dangers of the universe was starting to fade away, replaced by the moment you were losing yourself in. You were happy to see it go, though your past self would be shocked at how comfortable you had gotten with a magic alien baby and a man with no face.

“Yeah… I like it too.” You hummed into the beskar, feeling Din’s arms tighten even more. You were glad he couldn’t see your face, because the lovely smile had vanished. This is all going to end soon. You buried your face in the tiny space between the foundling and his father’s armor, trying to ignore where the coaster’s rails ended. Only one stop left.

Nevarro, here we come.

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[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty-One point Five (Din)

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C     

word count: 2.9K  

chapter summary: Din takes a bad decision and makes it worse. 

warnings:  angst, mention of incest, inbreeding, suicide, infertility, masturbation, English and Mando’a cursing  

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***      

You Were Marked: Masterlist

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter

Din stared at Marathel.  “When do we …” 

“When do we leave?” 

Din was unable to speak.  Marathel could hear his breathing in the helmet as he continued to stare at her, and she knew that he normally took care to not let his breathing be heard.  I have broken him, she thought.  I have destroyed his soul, set it afire, burned away any care or affection he could ever have for me, and that is as it should be, but I am sorry I had to hurt him so to do it. 

Din swallowed the bile that had risen again in his throat, burning his sinuses.  I can’t, I can’t.  Her words seemed to have filled him with a poison that threatened to burn him down to nothing.  Never, never, had he heard of such an existence as hers. Anyone else would have died.  Anyone else would have killed themselves — should have killed themselves.  And she tried, oh she tried, but whatever oversaw this horrible universe, be it the Force, or Frith, or a cruel Maker and Destroyer of Worlds, kept her alive. Alive and beautiful and smart and talented and kind, despite being filled with pain and shame and self-loathing and guilt.  And love, for Frith’s sake, love, love for Grogu and even for him, because she’d had to love him to empty out her guts like this to him, to share her agony in the hopes of …  

“Bounty Hunter?” 

He looked back up at Marathel, and there was concern in her voice and on her face, concern for him; she’d just described how she’d survived the most horrific existence possible, and she was concerned for him?   

As he stared at her, one part of his mind continued the litany of I can’t I can’t, but another part of his mind was desperately trying to remind him that he loved her and nothing else mattered. 

But it did. 

It did matter. 

It mattered to him that she hated his Creed.  His Creed, the one thing that some days kept him going, that made his own life worthwhile.  It mattered to him that she believed her Hold and his covert were alike.  It mattered to him that she believed his Creed worked at the expense of others. It mattered that she believed he’d used his Creed to hurt her.  It mattered that she believed that her … birth circumstances made a difference in his feelings for her. 

It mattered, because as much as he would hate to admit it, there was the possibility that she could be right. 

Marathel watched Din’s gloved hands clench into fists.  She was suddenly struck with horrible anxiety; she was reminded of her dream — the Bishop disguised as Din, stalking towards her with the intent to do her harm.  It frightened her to see those fists, because she had just spent however long telling him the most disgusting and degrading things, and then she had the audacity to make a comparison of her circumstances to his Creed, to a man whose hands could kill her as easily as caress her.  That was an unforgivable thing that she did.  And she did it because … to her it was the truth.  Her truth.  And right now, that was the only truth she cared about. 

Marathel heard him swallow and take a shaky breath, but he still said nothing, and his visor pointed towards a point over and beyond her shoulder.  She leaned forward, and softly said, “Din?” 

“I can’t,” he softly uttered, shaking his head. 

Marathel nodded, and leaned back against the wall, and she went back to looking at the night sky as Din turned and walked out of the room. 

As he left, he practically crashed into Cobb, who grabbed him by the wrists, muttering, “No, you don’t … don’t you dare …” 

“Leave off, Cobb …” hissed Din as he worked to twist his hands away.  He almost succeeded, but he was distracted and upset, and Cobb got a tight hold of him again.  

“Don’t you fucking dare walk away from her!  She needs you right now!” 

Looking past Cobb’s shoulder, Din could see a weeping Silnima, curled against the wall.  Din stopped struggling.  “I can’t, Cobb.” 

“You better, if you love her like you say you do,” replied Cobb.  He released Din’s hands.  Din took a step back.  He looked at Cobb for a moment, and then he turned and continued down the corridor.  Cobb sighed deeply.  Silnima had paused her crying to see Din walk away, and she was wracked with fresh sobs. 

Down in the courtyard, ten feet below Marathel’s window, Fennec and Boba sat on the hard-packed ground.  Fennec leaned back against Boba, and his arms, wrapped around her, gave her another squeeze.  “I hate it when I’m right,” muttered Fennec, and Boba said nothing, but kissed the top of her head. 

Silnima went to the kitchen to cry in private.  Cobb stood just outside Marathel’s room, watching her watch the sky.  She’s too quiet, too still.  She only lost it a little there, the rest will go soon, and I think it will be like a Sandcrawler exploding. 

Cobb walked up to Marathel, and reached up to gently pull on her arm and her leg.  “No, don’t,” she said, twisting away, but he kept pulling at her.  “You shouldn’t be touching me,” muttered Marathel. 

“You ain’t got no cooties, now come down here.”  He gave her another tug, and she let him lift her down from the windowsill.  He pulled the chair aside to pick up her blanket, and he wrapped her tightly in it.  As Cobb sat back down, he hauled her onto his lap, picking up her feet to tuck them at his hip.  Marathel sat stiffly in his arms, looking down at him.  Cobb looked up at her, and he placed his hands on her cheeks, his thumbs softly stroking the hair at her temples.  He whispered, “I’m so sorry, honey.” His warm hazel eyes bored into her silver ones as he continued to stroke her hair, and finally her eyes filled with tears, and she wilted against him, into his arms, and her head fell to his shoulder with a wail. 

Din walked all the way to the landing tunnel, straight to the landing gear of the Crest.  He stepped behind the landing gear, in darkness and out of sight, stripped off his helmet, and vomited into the sand. Twice.  He dry-heaved, spit, and swallowed, but the sickness was still inside, an insidious toxic feeling.  Tears threatened, but he kept them back by sheer force of will and replaced his helmet.  His Creed.  His strength, his salvation.  He walked around to the side of the ship and slapped the ramp control. 

Din walked up into his ship, his mind whirling.  He couldn’t go into his tiny quarters because that was where she had lain, dying.  He couldn’t go into the cockpit because he’d dreamed of her up there.  He couldn’t go into the fresher because he’d masturbated to thoughts of her in there.  Her blood had been tracked over every square inch of this ship.  Her blood was in the metal that made his helmet.  His Creed was now tainted by her. 

Marathel.   

Never had another person uprooted Din’s life in such a volatile manner.  He had lost both his parents, he had been adopted into a warrior religion, he had lost his mentor, he had gained… well, a son.  He was a murderer, an assassin, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, and now an ersatz father to a little green Jedi, which, in the scheme of things, should have been enough excitement.   

But no, he had to get tangled up with a woman, and not just a woman, this woman.  Not another Mandalorian, not another mercenary (although, to be fair, Xi’an had turned him off from ever attempting that again), not even the quiet and lovely Omera.  A Mandalorian — even one from another sect — would be understanding of his Creed.  At least Omera had been respectful as she questioned his Creed.  To hear Marathel say she didn’t give a shit about it upset him greatly.  How dare she?  How dare she attack the core of who I am?  How could she be that cruel?   

He pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the floor.  He kicked the crate into the center of the floor — near the divot he had placed there — and sat, leaning over, his elbows on his knees.  His misery was too familiar; it was the same as when he first realized what the Dilimgau was, how it had been used.  He thought he might howl now as he had then, but instead, no sound left his lips other than the breath from the bottoms of his lungs.  He hugged himself tightly to keep his chest from exploding open with the pain.   

Why are you crying, son? 

I can’t, Father. 

What’s got your thermals in a twist, kid? 

I can’t, buir. 

And he couldn’t. He couldn’t fathom how to wrap his head around everything he had just heard. He was an engineer’s son, although he was a bounty hunter and an assassin, a murderer and a criminal. He still had the mind of an engineer, and he wanted so much to fix this, and he had no idea how.  

How do I find the root cause of this kind of pain?  How do I compartmentalize her suffering?  Her cruel words to me?  Her background, the fact that she’s …  

He couldn’t bring his mind to form the words, the truth about her that he’d suspected yet not allowed himself to believe about her familial relationship with the Bishop.  The man who was her father, her grandfather, going back for who knew how many generations, was also supposed to be her … 

Don’t say lover, don’t even think it!  

… sexual partner and the father of her children.  That was her purpose in life, to be an incubator for his progeny.   

Thank Frith she was sterile.  That happened, he’d heard, in clans such as hers, as if nature abhorred the practice and made it self-destruct.  It was taboo among the Mandalorians, obviously, but very taken especially seriously in his covert, which was small and only had a few families.  Relationships were severed once consanguinity was discovered, and he’d heard of pregnancies being terminated on the rare occasion it occurred.  It was another reason that bringing in foundlings was such an honored tradition, although this particular reason was not spoken out loud. 

But there had been one in his covert.  It wasn’t found out until the child was half-grown and near the age of taking the helmet.  Two young men had finally revealed that the child’s mother, their blood aunt, had molested and abused them when they were younger, and this child was the result.   

The mother and child were drummed out of the covert, her helmet confiscated, stripped of her Mandalorian heritage.  Din had struggled with whether he would feel sorry for the child or be disgusted by its existence.  He had asked his buir about his conflict, and he had responded that all three of the children deserved pity regardless, for none of it had been their fault.  But then his buir said, if you can find it in your heart to have a grain of sand’s worth of pity for the aunt, for she was sick of mind, heart, and soul … then you’ll be a better man than I could ever be, kid. 

The idea that inbreeding was the preferred practice of continuing the population was one of the foulest things Din had ever heard of.  The possibility that she could have brought forth another generation was monstrous to him.  But truly, it was not her fault, for what else did she know? 

Remember the first day?  The second?  Those days when you were still unaware of the depths of her ignorance?  She didn’t know what a ship was.  What planets and stars were.  How can you blame her for what she had no way of knowing? 

He knew he had to pity her for what she suffered inside that Hold.  He had to pity her for the circumstances of her birth, and how she would continue to suffer because of it.  If he could pity her for those things, then he had to find a grain of sand’s worth of pity for her ignorance of his Creed.  She didn’t understand because she couldn’t.   

If Marathel would allow it, I will teach her my Creed, why it’s so important to me, why it is so essential to the core of my being.  If she cannot, or will not, then I know I will have done my best by my Creed. 

I don’t always have to like her, but I must try to love her as best I can.  And if I love her, then nothing else matters. 

I’m so sorry, my ma’mwsh ha’laa.   

Din finally collected himself enough to return to the palace.  He had abandoned her, thought only of his own pain and not hers, and he had to try to make it right.  He fucked up again, he was only human, and he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.  He still didn’t know how to process at least half of what Marathel said, nor could he process half of the conflicting emotions he felt.   

He had never heard anything so vile before, and he had been an assassin for the Empire.  He was a murderer for a living, and hearing what Marathel endured after going through that door made him physically sick.  But he had to try, for her sake, to help her continue to endure, because he … 

He stepped up to the door, hearing Cobb’s voice, low, soothing.  Din moved into the doorway to see Marathel, wrapped tightly in her blanket, cradled on Cobb’s lap.  She clutched at his neck, weeping.  His arms held her tight as he gently rocked her.  Cobb’s face also held tear-tracks, and he glared at Din, as if to say, this is where you should be, you should have been the one to hold her, comfort her, tell her that none of it mattered.  But you couldn’t, so I did, and there is no helmet between me and her.  Cobb held Din’s eyes as he kissed Marathel’s cheek, keeping his lips against her soft skin much longer than was necessary before dropping his face to her shoulder.  Her hand went up into Cobb’s hair, her fingers twisting in the strands. 

Suddenly it all made sense.  Her drawing away.  Her telling him to let her go.  Her inability to return words of love.  Her hatred of his Creed.  Cobb’s insistence on being alone with her, keeping Din away as long as possible.  So it’s true, thought Din.  You son of a bitch.  Guess what, friend?  You can have her.  You deserve each other.  

The thought flew through his head unbidden, shocking him, but not enough to shake off his anger.  He ground his teeth until his jaw ached. 

No, no. Strike that.  You don’t get her. I don’t get her.  

No one does. 

She’s going back. 

Din snapped, “We leave tomorrow morning.”  Marathel’s head came up and half-turned to him, her face red from weeping, but she still was able to blush, infuriating Din even more.  He spun and left her room, heading to his room and back to Grogu.  As he passed the kitchen, he saw Silnima, her face in her hands.  He ignored her sobbing and continued down the corridor.  He entered his room and his eyes fell on Grogu, his pride, his joy.  He was that boy’s father in all ways that mattered.  Like Olba was for Marathel.  Not that it did any good.  No one protected those children.  No one protected those women.  Let them die out, let that horrible place fall out of existence.  And if Marathel wants to go back to die out with them, then I’ll take her back, and gladly let her go. 

Unmanarall and its sick, perverted culture  — including Marathel —wasn’t his battle.  Grogu was his battle.  His Creed was his battle.   

Din crawled into bed, carefully placing a protective hand on Grogu’s tiny chest, feeling the small beskar rondel under the little shirt.  A shirt Marathel had made. His Mama.   

Grogu’s going to lose his Mama, thought Din, a fresh pang shooting through his heart.    

He’s young.  He’ll forget her.  I will too, in time. 

He wanted to sleep for a thousand years.  Maybe that would be long enough to forget her.  But sleep would not come, even after he had — several times — replayed and dissected and diagrammed every word she had said to him tonight, every inflection in her voice … and then her ugly words about his Creed, and the sight of her hand tangled in Cobb’s hair.  Every root cause analysis he tried to effect had a different beginning and a different course of action he should take, muddying his rational thought. Exhausted, confused, heartbroken, Din lay there, his hand resting on the little warm body of Grogu, wishing he could sleep. He turned off his visor, and stared into the darkness, wondering why he could hear singing, and the smell of baking bread.

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian angst #din djarin angst #mando angst #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #pedro fics #pedro stories #pedrostories #pedrohub #din djarin fanfiction #mando x fem oc #mando x female oc #mando x plus size oc

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 24

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse, and soon they travel across the galaxy looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 24 - The Searchers

Sinead stood at the bottom of the ramp, hands on her hips. They were back on another forest planet. Or moon rather, and this one seemed more hostile than the last one. The trees were older and darker, covered in thick moss that swallowed the sounds of nature. The trunks were too wide for her to reach around, and the branches intertwined to make a nearly impenetrable canopy that covered the ground in shadows.

The tracking fob had led them here, to this place.

She let out a deep breath.

Inside the Crest, Mando placed the child on top of the bed. "You gotta stay here. It's too dangerous."

The child let out a sad coo and tried to climb down before Mando grabbed him and put him back.

"You can't come. I'm sorry."

Sinead smiled for the first time since they left the mining station. Mando still seemed ... hesitant around the kid sometimes, like something was stopping him from fully committing.

At last, Mando appeared at the top of the ramp. "According to the tracking fob, it's close by."

"Great." The forest swallowed the sound, making her voice sound faint and weedy.

"You can stay with the kid. I can do this myself." Mando pressed a command into the device on his vambrace and the ramp went up.

"You've already done enough heavy lifting, it's time I earn my keep, don't you think?" Plus, she'd rather not do a repeat of what happened on Zessol; somehow, the deep forest felt more dangerous than a city populated by pirates and other miscreants.

He wanted to say something more, she knew it; the way his head tilted slightly to the side made her feel exposed, vulnerable, and she turned away before he had the chance. "Where are we going?"

There was a long pause, and she could feel Mando's eyes on her back.

"This way."

She followed him away from the ship and into the overgrown forest. The ground was spongy, moisture seeping up around her feet when she stepped on the moss that carpeted everything. The way every surface was some shade of green messed with her depth perception. If it hadn't been for Mando, she would've gotten lost minutes after losing sight of the ship.

She took a deep breath of the still air, tasting the decomposing leaves on her tongue.

"You miss it?"

Mando was quiet for a moment. "Miss what?"

"Doing this. Bounty hunting."

Seconds ticked by while he thought. "It's the only thing I've ever known."

That wasn't an answer, but in a way, she was grateful that he didn't elaborate. She wouldn't have believed him if he said no, but she didn't know what to do if he said yes.

The forest grew deeper and darker as they went, fed by their silence. Now and again, a rustle went through the treetops, or one of them would become stuck in the peaty ground and have to pull their foot out with a wet squelch.

"It's kinda ironic, isn't it," Sinead said when the silence became too much. "A former slave now turned bounty hunter."

Mando rounded on her, and she took a step back, nearly tripping over a root hidden under the moss. "This isn't the same. You're only doing this to find Kyen."

That did nothing to quell the tight feeling in her chest, but she managed to force a smile. "Thanks."

They stared at each other, standing in the twilight under the trees. A shiver ran up Sinead's back.

Suddenly, a fast beeping broke the tension like a rock through an icy lake, and Mando pulled out the tracking fob.

"It's close?" Her voice sounded shrill.

"About one klick east."

"Then let's go."

After a small climb, the ground plummeted into an overgrown dell. One wrong step from a careless wanderer and they would tumble down the steep side and disappear into the foliage.

"You see a way down?" Mando silenced the screaming tracking fob.

"Not one that won't result in a broken neck." She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes; she wanted to get rid of this lingering unease that made her skin itch.

Eventually, they found a faint path snaking between the trees, which led through a thicket and into the dell. The forest seemed less dense in there, and for the first time since stepping in between the trees, Sinead got an uninterrupted look at the sky.

At the bottom of the dell, the forest opened into a clearing, with a farmhouse and a dilapidated barn that was only standing due to sheer stubbornness. Behind that, there was an empty pasture. Once upon a time, someone had painted the house white, but now it had faded into a dull grey.

"You sure this is the right spot?" Sinead whispered, eyes scanning the area. "It looks abandoned."

"Be on your guard." Mando drew his blaster.

"How do you wanna do this?" Sinead asked.

"Careful. Find out where he is."

Mando reached the steps that led to the front door when a thump sounded from the barn.

"Mando-"

"I heard it. Stay behind me."

He crept towards the barn, placing his feet deliberately on patches of moss that hid his footsteps.

The was another thump, and a shadow moved behind a crack in the small door set into the side. The tall double doors looked like they had been welded together with rust.

Sinead held her breath as Mando reached the door. He looked back at her, holding up three fingers.

One.

Two.

Three.

With a hard kick, the door came apart in an explosion of splinters.

A young human girl tumbled back with a scream.

"Oh, shit!" Mando froze halfway through the door.

Sinead was the first to snap out of it, and she pushed past Mando while shoving her blaster back into its holster. "I'm so sorry! We didn't know you were in here."

The girl scrambled to her feet, wide eyes glued to Mando. Her scruffy overalls were at least three sizes too big, and it looked like someone had taken a dull scissor to her hair, leaving it uneven and frizzled. Still, there was a determined spark glinting under her fear.

Sinead crouched down to her level. "Are you here all alone? Are there any adults around?"

The girl's eyes flickered from Sinead to Mando. Then she took a deep breath.

And screamed.

It was like a siren going off right by Sinead's head. She slapped her hands over her ears, but the explosion of sound was an icepick through her eardrums.

At last, the girl ran out of air and her scream tapered off, leaving a thunderous silence. A hand grabbed Sinead's shoulder and pulled her to her feet.

"What was-"

The door to the farmhouse exploded open, and a human shot out, a raised rifle in his hands.

Sinead didn't have time to react. Mando shoved her behind him and leveled his blaster at the human.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" he screamed, voice shaking.

The little girl darted around Mando and Sinead and ran up the stairs to hide behind the man, wrapping her arms around his leg.

"We're not here for your family," Mando yelled.

"I want you gone. Now!"

"We're looking for someone. A Twi'lek-"

"There's no one here but us! Leave, please!" He had a distinct Core World accent.

A young Togruta boy, clenching a blaster in his hands, appeared in the doorway. His lekku only reached his shoulders, and even though he was as tall as the human, it looked like someone had grabbed him by the feet and montrals and pulled, leaving him lanky and awkward.

The tip of the rifle wavered in the air before the human blinked hard and held it steady. "Take your sister and get back in the house."

"Wh-what's going on? Who are they?" The young Togruta squared his shoulders but his hands shook as he lifted the blaster.

"No questions. Just go!"

Sinead's eyes widened. A cold barrel pressed into the small of her back, and her blaster slipped from her fingers. She slowly raised her hands.

"Put down your blaster," a sharp voice sounded behind her ear. "Or I'll sever her spine."

It seemed like Jami had found them before they found him.

Mando turned with lightning speed, but Jami was quicker, grabbing Sinead by the shoulder and pulling her out of reach.

"Don't try me! I'm serious! And step back!"

Sinead felt her eyes meet Mando's through the helmet and gave an imperceptible nod. Blood rushed in her ears.

Mando's hand tightened around the blaster for a moment before it thudded to the ground, but he didn't step back, didn't try to keep the human in his field of vision.

"Kick it away."

Mando did so, his entire body tensed like a spring ready for release.

"Laar," Jami said, raising his voice, "take the children inside and stay there."

Sinead could see the human - Laar - over Mando's shoulder. He nodded tightly and grabbed the little girl before bodily pushing the Togruta back into the house. Sinead felt a warm exhale on the back of her neck when the door banged shut.

"Vekkass sent you, didn't he?" Jami pressed the blaster harder into her back, and she winced. One shot and no amount of bacta would fuse her spine back together. Best case scenario she would be paralyzed for the rest of her life.

"Let her go." Mando's voice dipped into a growl.

"I just want to be left alone, do you understand? Whatever he thinks I stole, I don't have it." Jami started to back up, dragging Sinead further into the barn and out of sight of the house.

She wet her lips. "Let me go, and we can talk about this."

Jami dug his fingers into her shoulder where the Trandoshan bounty hunter had shot her years ago, and an echo of old pain shot down her arm. "I don't want to talk. I want you to leave."

A crash from the farmhouse made him start, and the pressure on her back disappeared for a second, but it was enough. Sinead brought down her heel on his foot and twisted out of his grasp. The blaster went off, the bolt hitting Mando's armor with a ping.

Mando pounced and ripped the blaster out of the Twi'lek's hand, kicking his legs out from under him. Jami fell back with a yell, and as he tried getting to his feet, Mando kicked him back down.

"Stay."

Sinead snatched the nearest blaster from the ground. The spot on her lower back prickled like the blaster was still there.

Jami stared up at them,red-rimmed eyes burning with anger. His blue skin stood out from his clothes that were all a dull brown or grey, speckled with dirt and dust, his cheeks hollow like he hadn't eaten in a very long time. He didn't particularly look like a pirate. "If you're gonna kill me, do it now. Just don't hurt my family, please. Don't let them see my body." He closed his eyes.

Oh, shit.

Sinead looked at Mando, trying to gauge what he wanted to do, but the helmet remained frustratingly blank, and the seconds ticked by. Usually, she could at least read something from his body language alone, but now he was betraying nothing. The thought of dragging him back to Vekkass hadn't sat well with her before, and now it felt like her body might revolt against itself if she tried.

When nothing happened, Jami opened his eyes.

"Get up," Mando ordered and took a step back, his blaster following the Twi'lek as he scrambled to his feet, lips curled over sharp teeth.

The barn creaked in the stillness. Stalls lined the walls on both sides of the big double doors, but it was clear that they'd been empty for a long time; clumps of grey straw and fossilized dung piled up on the floor. A keedee had made a nest in the rafters and was watching the situation with a disapproving glare.

"So." Jami's tongue darted out to lick his dry lips. "What happens now?"

That was a good question.

Sinead gestured over her shoulder at the house. "Is that why you left?"

Jami pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Okay." She pressed her free hand to her temple. "Where's the loot?"

Silence.

"If you don't talk, I can go-" she took a step back in the direction of the house.

"No!" Fear flashed across his face. "Keep them out of this."

Mando adjusted his grip on the blaster. "Then talk."

Jami took a shuddering breath. "I ... look, there isn't any loot."

"You mean you sold it?" Sinead said.

"I mean, there never was any loot at all."

"Explain."

His mouth moved silently as he thought and a vein popped out near his temple. Then, "Vekkass sent us out to ambush a freighter on the Triellus Trade Route, running spice from Dubrava to Nal Hutta. It would've been a suicide mission even if the Hutts hadn't been involved-" he paused, tensing up until the cords stood out on his neck- "but Vekkass didn't care. Made us go anyway. I couldn't ... I wouldn't go to my death just to please some boc'ara." He spat on the ground between them.

"Vekkass thinks you absconded with the loot."

"Of course he does. Can't fathom anyone doing anything if it's not about the money. They sent me out to die in the name of a couple of creds. How did you find me?"

"Someone saw you on Trillu."

Jami bared a row of sharp teeth. "Frang! I knew it was a bad idea …"

"What's the story with them, then?" She nodded towards the house. The earthy smell of mold and old hay tickled her nose.

"They have nothing to do with this."

"I know."

He sighed. "I met Laar shortly after I left. We ... I wasn't the only one running from something. We decided it would be safer to stay together, at least for a while." His voice softened as he spoke, and his face transformed into something more gentle for a second before morphing back into a venomous mask.

 Shit.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek and watched him intently, trying to gauge his sincerity. Fear and anger radiated from him, but he seemed genuine enough. "Why even throw in with Vekkass' crew if you hated it so much? He didn't exactly seem like the deceitful type. What you see is what you get."

"I had no choice."

"We all have a choice." She felt the burn as his eyes met hers.

Jami scoffed. "Vekkass ... If you asked him, he'd say he rescued me from the spice pits on Nimbal."

Sudden cold hit her core as realization struck; she knew of Nimbal, had seen slave transports stop on Sriluur on their way to the planet. "And what would you say?"

Jami bit his tongue and looked away. "I'm not kidding myself. The only reason he kept me around was because I knew my way around a blaster, and the second I stopped being useful, he'd put a bolt through my brain. I did what I had to to survive. I don't expect you to understand."

It felt like a punch to the gut. She had nearly dragged a runaway slave back to his former master. This was all so wrong.

Jami's eyes roved across her face. "Look, I don't … I know I have nothing to bargain with, and you have no reason to help me, but please, I'm begging you ..."

"Go." It took a second before Sinead realized the word had come from her. "Just … go back into the house." She felt Mando's eyes fall on her.

"What do you-" Jami eyed Mando's blaster still aiming directly at him. "You're letting me go?"

Her mouth worked while her brain spun to come up with an answer. "I don't… I don't know."

Slowly, Mando lowered his blaster and nodded once towards the house.

Jami took a step towards the house, pausing for a moment before breaking into a run. The door to the farmhouse banged close behind him, and Sinead closed her eyes. It stung like she had been straining to see for too long.

"What do you want to do?"

She kept her eyes closed. "You're asking me?"

"It's your decision."

She finally turned to look at him; he was watching her intently, head cocked to the side. "We can't drag him back to Vekkass. Hunting a pirate is one thing, but I will not be a slave catcher."

Mando looked at the farmhouse. "He could be lying."

"I don't think he is." She couldn't explain why, but there was something about him that reminded her crushingly about herself. "In any case, I'm sure he's telling the truth about the loot. Look at this place." She spread her arms wide to encompass the barn. "Pure spice from Dubrava will net you more than a rundown farm on some backwater planet. More security, too." She bit her lower lip hard enough to break the skin. "Let's just go back to the ship. I'm sure the kid misses us."

Mando's voice modulator rustled as he sighed. "He'll run."

"Then I guess the decision's been made for us."

Mando shook his head, staring back at the house for a moment as he holstered his blaster. "C'mon, then."

Sinead stopped as they reached the edge of the clearing and looked back. The farmhouse sat cold and dead, a strange grey box amidst the vivid green of the forest. She wondered where they'd go. Then, stepping between the trees, the forest closed around her like a wall.

Mando led the way out of the dell and through the forest. She stared at the fabric of his cloak until her vision filled with grey. With every sodden step, she got further and further away from Kyen, but what was the alternative? How much was she willing to sacrifice to find him?

"What would you have done?"

Mando turned at the sound of her voice, nearly hidden in the perpetual dusk trapped under the canopy. "Does it matter?"

"Just answer the question, please."

His hands flexed in annoyance. "Sinead, I don't ... I don't know. My hunts don't usually end like this. Vekkass is the best lead we have."

Sinead looked down at the water slowly rising around her feet. "We should've just bonked him on the head before he had a chance to talk."

"You wouldn't have wanted that."

Her eyes met his through the helmet, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Suddenly, the forest seemed so quiet. "No. I wouldn't."

A noise echoed through the forest, and Mando drew his blaster, gestured at her to get down.

"Doesn’t sound like an animal.” Sinead hissed.

“It wasn’t.”

Mando retook the lead, moving slowly between the trees, keeping low to the ground. Another sound echoed through the forest closer and louder than before. Mando crouched down behind a fallen tree and signaled her to stop. She sidled up next to him and peeked her head over the moss-covered trunk.

A gunship stood in a small clearing, the metal body nearly black with carbon scoring. Seven sentients filed out of the open side. A Duros tested the springy moss with a foot before stepping out on a tussock. "What a hell-hole." He spied into the darkness with narrowed eyes, and Sinead and Mando ducked down behind the tree. "Who in their right mind would willingly live here?"

“Who in their right mind would steal from Vekkass?" Another voice rang out, to an immediate reprimand from the Duros.

"Not so loud, you idiot!"

Sinead closed her eyes and fought the urge to bang her head against a tree. As if the day hadn't been hard enough already.

"What about the others?"

"We'll go on without them," the Duros said. "Heard from Lenk they've found the ship. They'll try to break through, see if the Mando’s got any neat toys."

Cold fingers of dread closed around Sinead's throat.

"It's fine. S'not like we need 'em."

"What about the Mandalorian?"

"They don't know we're coming. If they've already killed Jami, then one less energy bolt needed, right. Vekkass said he doesn't care about the woman, but he wants the armor. Was a stroke of brilliance, it was, leaving them to do all the heavy lifting.”

Sinead's hand shot out to grab Mando's shoulder a second before he launched himself over the fallen tree; fighting seven pirates would take too long. She stabbed a finger in the direction of the Razor Crest and mouthed for him to go. He looked back towards the pirates and his shoulder tensed under her hand before he nodded once, and she let her hand fall to her side.

Mando disappeared in the direction of the ship while she slunk back the way they came. Once she was out of earshot, she broke into a dead sprint. The forest turned into a green blur as she jumped from rock to tussock to avoid getting caught in the boggy ground. Lungs burned with every breath, and her ears filled with the sound of her own heartbeat.

She bulleted through the thicket that hid the entrance to the dell, ignoring the sting as branches snagged on her clothes and hair. The farmhouse looked small and lifeless. Maybe Jami and his family had already left. She took the steps up to the door in one jump and crashed into the house, the door bouncing off the wall. She found herself in a small kitchen barely big enough to fit a table and four chairs.

Something smashed on the ground.

Jami flew up from a chair, the rifle held in a white-knuckled grip.

"Wait!" She held up her hands. "Don't shoot!"

"What do you want?" Jami's voice shook with every word.

"Vekkass' men ... in the forest ..." a stabbing pain accompanied every word.

"What?"

"I swear they're not with us ..." she rubbed her ribs, making Laar start and reach for a blaster. "They must've followed us from the base. They know you're here." She looked over her shoulder at the wall of green—no sign of them.

"If this is a trick-"

"It's not. Do you have any defenses?"

Laar lifted a shaking hand and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. "N-no. We thought we were safe."

"We were," Jami hissed and pushed his chair away with such force it clattered to the ground. "Until you showed up."

"We don't have time for-" a deep whooshing sound filled the air as something passed overhead. Sinead’s heart skipped a beat as she ran out and looked; the Razor Crest made a turn above the barn, the wind from the turbine flattening the grass and made her braid whip around her head, and it landed heavily on in the muddy pasture.

Sinead was climbing over the fence when the ramp came down, revealing Mando with a pronged rifle in his hands, the kid by his side with one little hand wrapped around the frame of the entrance.

A shout cut through the air, "what's going on?"

Sinead whirled around to see the Togruta boy running outside, the little girl attached to his leg.

"Take Elia back inside," Jami yelled, just as a blaster bolt struck the side of the ship, and all hell broke loose. The first pirate burst into the clearing.

Elia screamed as Jami grabbed her and threw her back into the house, the Togruta following close behind. Sinead jumped behind an empty watering trough just as another bolt whizzed over her head.

Shots rained through the air as more pirates appeared between the trees surrounding the farm. Sinead rolled to avoid getting hit, found her feet and ran to the ship. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a human woman take aim.

Mando ran out of the ship, vaulting over the fence in one smooth motion and sliding behind the remains of the barn door. He fired his rifle, the bolt hitting the human in the chest who disappeared in a cloud of smoldering ash; the stench of plasma and burnt flesh filled the air.

A large Twi’lek rounded the corner of the farmhouse directly behind Jami, who was crouched behind a water-barrel, doing his best to keep the pirates away from the front door. Without stopping, Sinead took aim and fired.

Suddenly, the wind was knocked out of her and she hit the ground with a dull thud. The Duros stood over her; a broad-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow across his face. Her eyes focused on the blaster trained directly at her head.

Sounds of the battle faded out as she stared into the hollow point of the blaster.

The Duros’ face froze in a grin, the blaster tumbled from his hand that stayed outstretched in an awkward position. He made a weak gurgling sound, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Sinead blindly grasped around for her dropped blaster, hands sinking into the soft earth.

Sinead’s ears popped as the Duros was lifted into the air by an invisible string. Whatever force had frozen him in place disappeared, and he thrashed, clawed at her as she got to her feet and looked around.

The child stood at the top of the ramp, tiny hands lifted into the air, wrinkled face contorted in concentration. His body shook like every muscle was tensed, and there was a slight pull on the world she had never felt before.

A bolt shot past her, hitting the pirate in the chest and his body collapsing into ash with a whoomph of sudden vacuum.

The kid slumped to the ground.

She got up on shaky legs. The sound of fighting faded into nothing.

A blaster bolt struck the ramp just below the child, and a current of electricity shocked her into motion; she sprinted towards the ship and scooped the kid into her arms just as another bolt grazed her leg, leaving a burnt strip of flesh across her calf. Then, they were safe inside the ship.

The kid felt weightless in her arms. He stared up at her with heavy-lidded eyes and curled a small hand around a strand of hair which had come loose from her braid.

“Sinead?” Mando stood in the opening, the strange pronged rifle clutched in one hand. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity before Mando left the rifle leaning against the wall and pulled the kid out of her arms.

“Wh-what was that?” Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy.

Raised voices cut through his reply, and Sinead moved numbly to the opening; Jami and Laar were in the middle of an argument, heading towards the ship. When they stopped at the bottom of ramp, Laar pointedly didn’t meet her eyes.

"Well, thanks to you, I guess Vekkass knows we're here,” Jami said between clenched teeth.

"He would've found you eventually." Mando reached inside a pouch on his belt and produced the tracking fob that went into a wild staccato beeping. "He has your chain-code. He was about to send someone else when we got there."

"And you decided to take the job."

Sinead swallowed. "He has something I need.

"And what is that?"

"I'm ... I'm looking for someone. Vekkass knew him."

Jami's eyebrows shot up. "From his crew?"

"No. This was before." She didn't know why she couldn't just tell him the truth; if anyone understood it, it would probably be him.

"What are you gonna do now? I doubt he'll welcome you back with open arms."

"You can't stay here. It's only a matter of time before he sends other bounty hunters after you," Mando said.

It dawned on Sinead what he was trying to do. "And they won't be as forgiving as us."

She watched a lot of complicated emotions flicker across Jami's face. "I know." He gave Laar a pointed look. "Unless we take the fight to Vekkass, he'll never leave us alone."

It was like Laar suddenly came back to the moment; he threw his hands into the air with a yell. "Going after him is suicide!"

"Staying here isn’t any better! You want to just keep your head down, hope that he forgets about us?" Jami swung round to face Laar, his lekku twitching with agitation.

"I want us to run!"

"I'm done with running."

Sinead looked away as an embarrassed flush crawled across her cheeks. She wished they would’ve had their argument in private.

Mando cleared his throat, and both men stopped mid yell; Laar looked like he had forgotten that they were even there.

Jami stepped back and pressed a hand to his temple. "You need Vekkass alive. I need him dead. If you help me with this, then I'll do whatever I can to help you find who you're looking for."

The sun glinted on Mando's armor as he leaned on one leg and shifted the kid further up his arm. "You know how we can get inside the station?"

"I’ve got a plan."

<- Previous chapter - Next chapter ->

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x oc #mando x oc #din x oc #din djarin x oc #din djarin #fanfiction #ends of the earth #oc: Sinead

[handspunyarns]

Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part II.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C        

word count: 6.1K     

chapter summary: Din acts horrendously, so Marathel stabs him. 

warnings:  angst, heartbreak, violence, sexual assault, English and Mando’a cursing     

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***      

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter 

“This is hyperspace?” asked Marathel.  Din grunted something that sounded like an affirmation, so she continued, “It’s different seeing it this way, forwards, than from the side …” 

Din was still discomfited by Peli’s words … five days to ‘work it out’ … as well as Peli’s assumption that he had made some kind of formal commitment to Marathel. So, he said, pricklier than he intended, “You don’t have to sit there the whole time.”

“… I’m sorry?” 

“We’re in hyperspace, so you can get up and go below.”  Din punctuated this statement by flicking off his safety harness. 

Marathel quietly said, “Oh,” and then undid the latches on her safety harness, and carefully stood.  The Crest was moving smoothly, but she could feel the slight yaw of the ship back and forth under her feet.  “Here, Grogu, sit with your father,” said Marathel, placing the boy in the seat she’d just vacated.  Grogu looked up at her with sad and confused eyes, so Marathel covered up her own sadness and confusion by ruffling the boy’s hair and whispering, “I warmed the seat up for you,” with a smile. To Din, she said, “Will you tell me if you see a Purrgil?  I saw one, while on the transport …” 

“A small Purrgil could destroy this ship.” 

Marathel frowned.  “Well, yes, but …” 

“And that would end your trip real quick, wouldn’t it?”  

Marathel had expected Din to still be angry with her, but she hadn’t quite expected him to sound like a churlish Hold boy having a tantrum, so she climbed down the ladder to the lower section of the ship.  She decided to take a quiet look around the ship, as she hadn’t had an opportunity to do so yet.   

The first thing was the vac tube, tucked into an alcove at the bottom of the cockpit ladder.  Such an odd place to be, she thought.  She stood in front of the vac tube and looked up; she could see clearly into the cockpit.  Marathel wondered if Din stood up there and simply aimed downward.  This made her smirk as she remembered the Hold boys being so proud of their distance-pissing prowess, as if that were something to be proud of.  Boys are born with their hands on their penises, and they never let go, Olba told her once.  So proud of that silly piece of flesh.  And then they think that we, as women, envy it for ourselves.  Well, I’ll be fine without it, thank you very much. 

Marathel turned left, seeing an open door.  She peered in, seeing a tiny room with a bedroll on the floor and a small hammock strung between the walls in this narrow space.  Marathel took a step in, hugging the wall, not wanting to step on what was obviously Din’s bed.  This was a private place, and she felt like a trespasser.  But then she took a breath, inhaling the male-laden scent, remembering this same scent when she was in darkness. This must be where Din cared for me, she thought, and she felt a deep pang of guilt at her recent treatment of him.  He obviously cared for her, perhaps he did love her, and she was hurting him terribly with her actions.  Better to hurt him now, rather than destroy him later when he finally understands what a toxic beast I am.  I refuse to let him waste any more of his life — the precious time he has remaining with Grogu — on me.   

Marathel was backing out of the tiny quarters when she almost stepped on Grogu; fortunately, he squeaked when she got too close.  “Hello, little one.  I seem to have invaded your private space.”  Grogu cooed and reached out with his arms, wanting up.  Marathel bent down to pick him up.  Grogu squeaked and grunted, pointing to the little hammock.  “Is that your little bed?  Did you want to show me?” 

“Beh!” 

“Yes, bed, very good, my love.  What’s that in your bed?” 

“Fawg!” 

“Fawg?  Oh, let’s see …” Marathel pushed aside a blanket, revealing a worn felted wool toy frog. “Hello, Fawg, my name is Marathel.  I’m a friend of Grogu’s; may I be your friend as well?” 

“Ah,” said Grogu. 

“Thank you, Fawg!”  Marathel picked up the plush toy and gave it to Grogu, who hugged it tightly and began chewing on its arm.   “Fawg looks like a well-loved friend, Grogu.  I’m glad you have a friend like Fawg.” 

Din stood silently at the bottom of the ladder, listening, idly scratching the itch on his chest.  She is such a good mother, and Grogu loves her so much.  He doesn’t care about her paternity, about her past, or even her — status — in her society … only that she’s giving him the love and attention he craves.  He thrived while on Unmanarall, under her care.  How could she leave him like this?  Never mind me, how could she break that boy’s heart?  The idea of her hurting Grogu put a scowl on his face.  He didn’t care for that.  Not one bit. 

Grogu began pointing towards the far end of the ship, across from the hanging box-things that swayed gently back and forth.  These, Marathel couldn’t even venture a guess for their purpose.  He kept pointing at certain panels that were above some sort of inset cabinet that contained a tiny basin.  “So, what’s this, Grogu?  Is this important?  Special?” 

“That’s where the food is kept.” 

Marathel gasped and whirled around to see Din standing about a meter away, looking at her.  Well, she assumed he was looking at her.  “Oh!  I …” Marathel took a small step back.  “Food storage, Grogu?  You must be hungry.” 

“He’s always hungry.  I have to keep the food storage locked to keep him out of it.” 

“Growing boys do need to eat.” 

“I am aware of that.”  The two of them stared at each other for a few moments while Marathel’s face grew pink.  Din asked, “Are you hungry?” 

“Actually, yes, I don’t recall … when I ate last.” 

“Then you should eat.”  Din opened the panel Grogu was reaching for and held out a shallow bin containing ration bars.   

Marathel frowned as she took a bar for herself.  “Do you … not eat real food?” 

“I do not have facilities to cook full meals.” 

“Grogu eats these, too?” 

Din tilted his helmet, and said, “Ration bars contain appropriate calories, protein, and nutrients.”  Marathel hummed quietly as she took a bar for Grogu, and Din could hear disapproval in her tone.  “I also have bone broth, and caf,” he said. 

“May I make bone broth?  I could make some for Grogu … or for you, if you like.” 

“I will eat later.”  Din showed her where the bone broth was.  He turned to go back to the cockpit. 

“Din?” called Marathel.  “I don’t know how … how to make bone broth on your ship.” 

When Din turned back, he saw Marathel with her head down, and the only reason her hands weren’t up her sleeves was because she held Grogu.  He found two cups, filled them with water, and showed her how to heat it using the warmer.  He then filled a metal canteen from the inset water spigot and said, “Here. Drink. Stay hydrated. Anything else?”  Marathel shook her head.  “Fine.”  Din went back towards the cockpit ladder. 

As Marathel stirred the powdered bouillon into the warm water, she muttered, “Poo to you as well, you … knob.”  Din paused ever so briefly on the ladder, and Marathel wondered if he had heard her. 

He had. His helmet could amplify quiet voices very well, and he thought, like I’ve never been called that before. Not in those exact words, but still.   

Marathel and Din didn’t speak to each other for a while after that.  He remained in the cockpit.  Marathel sat on the floor, drank her broth and ate half of the chewy, flavorless bar while she wound a hank of yarn into a ball by holding the open hank on her bare feet.  Then she measured Grogu by holding up her forearm to his little body, casting on stitches to knit something for him.  Din was curious as to what she was making — he’d been watching her the whole time on a monitor —while Marathel quietly began singing to Grogu: 

“Babi cah’c wyd, babi cah’ch wyd,  Rwy’n ni cwrdd’chi ah,  Gwthio yn bywyd, gwthio yn bywyd,   L’ owd mam ei awr’ah wyd!” 

Grogu sat on her legs and watched Marathel’s hands make fabric out of sticks and string as she sang the same verse a few times, alternating with humming the only song melody.  The quietness of her voice and the lilting way she sang the song in her Oldtalk was making Grogu sleepy, and he dozed off, laying down on her legs and using her thigh for a pillow.  Seeing Grogu sleep made Marathel drowsy as well — she had hardly slept at all the past few days — and her head kept bobbing towards her chest. 

After a while, she felt the weight of Grogu being lifted off her legs.  “If you’re sleepy, go lie down.”  

Marathel lifted her head, still half-dozing.  “Mmmm … what?” 

Din put Grogu in his hammock, then came back out of his quarters, passing her on his way to the tiny galley.  “Go lie down in there.” Din waved his hand towards his bedroll, scratched his chest, then got warm water for caf. 

“No.” 

“No?”  Din turned to her, cup of warm water in his hand.  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” 

“No, I’m not going to take your bed.  I am inconveniencing you enough.” 

“Marathel …” 

“Where will you sleep?” 

“In the cockpit.  Now go lie down.” 

Marathel scowled at him.  “I’m not taking your bed.  I will sleep on the floor.” 

“I’m not letting you sleep on this metal floor; go sleep on the damn bedroll!” 

Marathel gathered up her knitting and stood, stepping back into her shoes.  “You don’t tell me where to sleep!” she hissed.  “I sleep where I choose!” 

“FINE!  Then no one sleeps comfortably on this trip!”  Din stomped off to the cockpit ladder. 

“Gwyr’dwp bai,” Marathel muttered under her breath. 

“I heard that,” snapped Din, as he put his cup up into the cockpit.  He climbed the ladder and made it all the way back to his chair before he realized that he’d forgotten to add the caf crystals to his warm water.  Haar’chak!  Exasperating woman!  He didn’t understand what she’d called him, which annoyed him even more, knowing it was nothing good.   He lifted his helmet enough to sip the warm water. There’d been times when there was only warm water and no caf to put in it, so that was nothing new.  Sometimes, a ration bar had to last a week, yet Her Highness ap Unmapeth — or whatever in blue fuck she was calling herself — turned up her nose at it.  And then she has the nerve to suggest that Grogu isn’t eating properly?  And furthermore, why the shab is my skin so itchy?  Din sat and stewed for a while, fiddling with the gauges that needed no adjustment, when he heard Marathel’s voice from the bottom of the ladder. 

“… Din?” 

“What now?” 

“I must use the vac tube.” 

“You don’t need my permission.” 

Din heard Marathel take a frustrated breath through her nose before she asked, “May I have some privacy?”  Din closed the cockpit door, and he heard a tart but muffled “Thank you.”  Din went back to drinking his warm water, telling himself to not listen, but he listened anyway.  It seemed to take a rather long time, even though he knew women took longer for such a thing — he remembered even his mother would disappear into the fresher for quite a while at times, but his father had told him once that she just wanted to get away from the two of them for at least a few minutes.  Din could hear Marathel also making quiet moans of pain, reminding him that she was still gravely injured and still healing … and still hurting in both mind and body, and probably bewildered by everything on this ship.  

Din chastised himself for his behavior, wondering why he was acting like such an osi’kovid to Marathel.  He was frustrated, confused, angry.  He forced himself to calm down.  He wanted to ask if she was all right, but then she’d know that he had in fact been listening to her most private moments ... and then he wondered if he should offer assistance, but he was afraid she’d answer yes.  What is your malfunction, Djarin?  You’ve transported women before!  You’ve been on weeks-long hunts with women!  He sighed and figured that the only difference was that he wasn’t in love with any of those women ... okay, maybe he had the hots for a couple of them but that was nothing.  And then there was Xi’an, but that was a disaster of clusterfuck proportions.  To compare Xi’an and Marathel would be like comparing chalk to cheese, as his mother would say.  Din wondered what would happen if Xi’an and Marathel ever met each other.  He chuckled at the thought. 

Below, Marathel thought she’d heard Din chuckle, which confused her, since he’d been acting like a right tymffod.  She quickly looked up at the door, which was still closed.  She was standing, one foot on the edge of the vac-tube, trying to re-insert the dilator with a new antibiotic pessary and she wasn’t succeeding.   She’d pinched herself at least twice before she felt she had the thing seated properly within her.  She changed out the absorbent pad in her underwear, and then wondered ... what am I supposed to do with this old one?  At the palace, there were receptacles for refuse, but not here on this ship, not that she could see.  Marathel rolled it up and put it in her pocket.  Now where am I supposed to wash my hands?  Oh, she didn’t understand this ship at all! And it didn’t help that Din seemed annoyed by every question she asked. She toggled the vac-tube, which not only made a whoosing noise but also appeared to have flames within, which made her jump back.  She went over to the basin where the food storage was and saw that the basin seemed to have a drain in it.  She poured out a bit of water from the canteen Din had provided into her hands, unsure if this was her water ration just for now or for the next five days.  Without the benefit of soap – which Marathel couldn’t see anywhere – she tried to get the blood off her hands using just water and the hem of her shirt.   

“Are you all right?” 

Marathel gasped again.  “Why must you sneak up on me?” 

“Did you need something?” 

“I couldn’t find soap,” Marathel muttered, still back-to, pulling her sleeves over her hands to hide the blood under her nails, her head down. 

Din reached over her shoulder and opened a small storage bin next to the basin.  “Soap and towels are in here.  I have to keep everything put away; otherwise, it may roll all over the ship.  Make sure you put everything back. If you need something, just ask.  And ... here,” he said, quietly, kindly, making her turn around in curiosity.  Din was holding out two folded blankets to her.  “Since you insist on sleeping on the floor, you should have something to sleep on.”  Marathel silently took the blankets, confused by Din’s shifting moods.  Din noticed the blood under her nails and turned back to the cockpit ladder.  As he reached the ladder, he looked down to see a drop of blood on the floor.  Din looked back at Marathel, standing silently, hugging the blankets, a tinge of pink in her cheeks.  Din opened a storage bin next to the vac tube, and within was a stack of soft cleaning papers.  He took one and wiped up the blood drop, tossed the paper into the vac tube, and toggled it.  “This vac tube burns everything that goes in it.  If you have anything to toss out, just throw it in there.  Do you have everything you need?  For now?”  Marathel nodded, and he could see she was on the verge of tears.  Din climbed back up into the cockpit.  Marathel dropped the used pad from her pocket into the vac tube, burning it away.  She washed her hands, refolded the blankets he’d given her, and made a pallet on the floor.  She lay down and pulled her blanket over her. 

“Marathel?” Din called. 

Oh, Frith, now what? “Yes?” 

“Would you like me to turn the lights down?” 

Marathel had to swallow some tears; Din’s kindness confused and upset her more than his bad temper.  “Yes, please,” she was finally able to say. 

The lights above her turned down low, just enough to see by if needed.  Surrounded by the glow of all the colored panel lights, Marathel sighed, and closed her eyes to rest. 

Reminded of their nights together on Unmanarall, Din sat quietly, listening for any sound she might make, until he became drowsy enough to take a nap himself, so he put his feet up on the console, dozing off, and his last conscious thought was I’m finally alone with her, alone again, after however many days.  I have her all to myself again. 

But only a short while later, Din was awake once more.  He couldn’t get comfortable in his chair, no matter how much he shifted.  His chest still had a deep itch, and it had also started to burn, and he couldn’t quite seem to remember why that was important.  His mind seemed to be jumping back and forth, with blank spots in between.  Was he dreaming?  Did he have another head injury?  His disorientation alarmed him, so he put his feet on the floor, surrendering to his restlessness. 

Din stared out the view shield for a very long time.  He knew Marathel was down there, sleeping, not in his quarters, but on the hard floor near the carbonite shells.  Stubborn woman!  He was really trying, here, trying to be proper and decorous, but that Marathel refused to follow standard rules of protocol.  He was trying to be decent to her, knowing that she would probably not have a single creature comfort when he took her back, if she followed through with her plan to become a hermit somewhere in the wilderness.  Unless she decides to fucking jump off the cliff as soon as I get her back, the ungrateful …  

Din let out his breath in a huff, scratching the rough itchy patch of skin behind his cuirass.  What was her game, anyway?  Making him take her back, without any explanation?  What kind of osi’k was that?  What do I have to do, fuck some sense into her? 

Din got up from his chair, leaving it spinning as he went down the ladder.  There you are, Marathel, my sweet, sweet girl.  He could just see her in the low light, that curved lump of flesh under that blanket, hiding from him, mistakenly believing that if she hid under that blanket, he would not know where she was. He stealthily moved across the metal floor, silently, a skill honed by many years in hunting people who didn’t want to be found.  Stay right there, Marathel, you be still, thought Din, the bite mark on his chest burning fiercely. 

Marathel’s eyes snapped open under her blanket.  She wasn’t sure what she had heard that startled her awake, but some noise that wasn’t the constant engine drone had awoken her from her light sleep.  Then she heard it: the breathing.  Harsh, deep, but still mechanical, as if it were coming from Din’s helmet modulator.  She normally didn’t hear him breathe at all, but his breathing let her know that he was coming up behind her.  Marathel began to descend into terror – too scared to move but too scared to stay still, and she half-rolled to her back so she could look back over her shoulder ... and there he was.  Right behind her. 

“Marathel … my pretty girl,” he crooned softly, going to one knee beside her.  “Don’t be scared, my sweet girl, my good girl …” Too late, thought Marathel; she was already terrified of this hulking man of metal beside her with his heavy, shuddering breaths, towering over her menacingly.  Din pulled his gloves off and they immediately began touching her over the blanket, squeezing her thigh, seeking out her breasts. “Finally, all alone, all to myself again, no one else sniffing around my sweet girl …”  He pulled the blanket off her, and her shirt had ridden up in her sleep, exposing her bare midriff, somehow even paler than her face and hands and arms, skin that seemed to brightly reflect the low light levels in this part of the ship.  

Uncovering her had released her scent, warm and salty and sweet from her skin, and Din bowed low to her, inhaling deeply.  Then he caught it: the scent coming from between her legs, flowing from her sweet, beautiful cunt, also salty and sweet, musky, heady, and she was waiting for him, warm and ripe, waiting for him to split her open and deliver a load into her even though his juice was no good, but his cum would still mark her as his, he wanted to fill her with his cum until it leaked back out of her, and then he’d shove it back in,  plug her cunt up with something, he was clever, he could find something in this ship he could use to plug up this pussy and mark it as his, never mind that she was in no physical condition to tolerate his cock inside her, that didn’t matter, she marked him as hers and that meant she was his, and he would tear her apart if he so wished. If she thought he had ruined her before, well, she hadn’t seen anything yet. 

He pulled her legs up and forced his body between her tightly clenched thighs so he could lay his head on her pubic mound, and her smell, that warm smell of her juices and the undertone of blood filtered up through her clothing and under the lip of his helmet, the blood smell  drove him even more mad as he thought, she marked me, I will mark her as well, and her blood will be mine, if I have anything to say about it! 

Din crawled up and lay on top of her, crushing her with the weight of his armor, and she could feel his erection against her leg as his bare hand swept back and forth over her exposed stomach, then slid under her shirt to her breast, roughly pinching her nipple and making her gasp.   “Oh, my good girl, your skin, your skin is so good, your smell, I'm going to take you, fill you up right here on this floor …” 

Panicked, Marathel felt beside her for something, anything that could help her, and her fingertips found a wooden double point knitting needle in the bag next to her.  Forgive me, she thought, as she closed her fingers around the knitting needle.  Suddenly, several things happened at once: there was a howl that came from neither herself nor Din, and Din, surprised by the howl, shook himself out of whatever trance he was in, confused as to where he was and what he was doing.  Marathel took this moment of Din’s distraction to drive the knitting needle into his bicep three times in quick succession.  Din cursed in pain, and he then found himself being force-pulled, slamming against the opposite wall.  Disoriented, Din punched the control on his vambrace that turned on the lights, and pulled a blaster as quick as he could. 

The lights went up.  Marathel was cowering, half-under the carbonite shells, pointing her knitting needle at Din, who was against the opposite wall, pointing a blaster back at her.  Grogu, who had been woken up by the commotion, held his hands out to Din, holding him back and away from Marathel. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Din shouted at Marathel. 

“Me? What the hell are you doing?” Marathel shrieked back. 

Din clutched his chest, where the burn of the bite mark was becoming unbearable. What am I doing?  What have I done?  He looked at Marathel, trembling, her clothing askew, brandishing that knitting needle at him.  What did I do?  Am I acting out my dreams?  Did I try to ... oh, no, Marathel ...Tell me I didn’t!  As Din stood, Marathel tried to push herself backwards under the carbonite shells, but he snatched her hand and pulled her to her feet.  Holding her tightly by her arm, he dragged a protesting Marathel over to his quarters and practically shoved her in, along with Grogu. He pried the door switch control off the wall and threw it into the tiny quarters as Marathel cringed on his bedroll.  “The button next to the door will open and close the door to this room.  Only you can control it now, and only from the inside.  Don’t open the door unless Grogu is with you, to keep you safe.” 

“Safe from whom?” 

“From me, apparently!  Now close the kriffing door!”  Din backed up, whispering, “I’m so sorry, mesh’la.” 

Marathel reached out and slapped the button Din had pointed to, and the door of the little room slid shut.  She had no way of knowing if Din spoke the truth — that he wouldn’t be able to get in here — but she still had her knitting needle. Grogu was beside her, whimpering and clutching her arm.  Marathel hugged him close, saying, “No, no, love, Patu did not hurt me!  He wouldn’t hurt me.  He was … dream-walking, just dream-walking. Patu had a very bad dream, and he couldn’t wake up, love.  Patu just … he just scared me, that’s all.  I’m sorry that you were scared by us.”  Marathel sniffled but smiled wide.  “Grownups do some very strange things, don’t they?  Patu must have been dreaming he was fighting someone, don’t you think?  What a silly thing to do!  Patu must fight a lot of people when he’s awake, so sometimes he must dream he’s fighting.  Just like I bet you dream of eating!  Eating things like eggs, and bugs, and frogs!”  Marathel giggled and tickled Grogu’s tummy until he squealed.  “Well, my love, it looks like we get to cwtch together, and take a nice sleep! Maybe we’ll share happy dreams, my little Godynferth.” Grogu cuddled up tightly against Marathel and quickly fell asleep while Marathel lay still, wide-awake, listening to Din move around outside the closed door. 

Outside, in the corridor, Din was taking off all his weapons.  He obviously couldn’t trust himself with weapons, not around Marathel, possibly not even around Grogu at the moment.  The bite mark still burned.  He hurriedly put everything, including his vambraces, into the weapons locker, and locked it with a time code.  He looked at the closed door of his quarters and he could hear Marathel speaking to Grogu in a bright but calming tone, hopefully alleviating the child’s fears.   Din took a breath, feeling a little calmer himself, but his deep breath reinvigorated the scent of Marathel in his sinuses, her warm and heady scent, and he glared at the closed door, wishing that he could open it and crawl in there himself, so he could revel in her musk, but she was locked away, the bitch, she’d locked herself away from him, the teasing cunt! 

Din reached under his cuirass and dug his own fingernails into the bite mark, giving him a painful moment of clarity, and he escaped up the cockpit ladder, shutting and sealing the cockpit door behind him, putting a time lock on the door as well.  Din keyed in a manual override, but only entered indecipherable gibberish as the passcode, something he’d never be able to replicate.  Now he was locked in, away from Marathel, away from his brutal desires.   

Those dreams, those horrible dreams, I thought those were bad, but to act on them?  How could I do that? And why?  What force is behind my thoughts and actions?  Marathel could be controlling me through the bite mark, but she couldn’t possibly be making me act like a psychopath!   

Din stared at the closed door and wondered if he would have to stay locked up in here the rest of the trip, separated from Marathel until he got her back to Unmanarall, spending the last days he could have with her unable to hold her, unable to touch her.  Unable to smell her.  Her scent was already gone from the cockpit.   

I should have grabbed her blanket.  The blanket would smell like her.  Smell like her skin, like that sweet pussy of hers.  

Din pulled off his cuirass, ripped open his flight jacket, and dug his nails into the bite wound again.  The pain was amazing, delicious, and he grunted.  He shifted his breeches around his erection, deciding to suffer through the blue balls, rather than reward himself with fleeting pleasure from jerking off.  For hours Din sat on the floor of the cockpit, leaning against the door.  When he felt the madness coming on, he would grip the bite mark until the pain overtook the craving, driving the toxic lust away.  As time passed, the burning became more intermittent, and eventually, ceased altogether.  

Din removed his helmet, and then his jacket, and finally his thermal shirt, not only for easy access to the bite mark, but also to see the damage Marathel had done with that damn knitting needle.  She had punctured the skin all three times, and pretty damn deep, too.  He had never known those things could be so sharp.  She punches me in the throat, bites me on the chest, stabs me in the arm.  Haar’chak, that woman is more dangerous than Xi’an!   Din laughed with how absurd this hunt had become … but also with relief that Marathel had been able to defend herself.  It hurt him, that she needed to protect herself from him.  If I can’t control myself when I’m near her, then … maybe it’s best that I’m taking her back. 

He heard a quiet knocking on the door behind him.  “Din?” 

“Marathel?  What are you doing?” 

“Are you all right?” 

“I seem to be … I think I’m myself again.” 

“What … why did you do that?  I never would have expected that from you.  You think I’m controlling you through that bite mark, but I never … I know you’re angry with me, but you don’t need to make me scared of you as well.” 

“Marathel … I’m so sorry.  I’ve been dreaming about … hurting you … like that.” Din put his head in his hands. “Mesh’la … ma’mwsh ha’laa, I’m sorry.  I’m … I am angry, and I’m scared, and I’m taking it all out on you, because I don’t understand why this is happening, why I’m compelled to hurt you, both in my dreams and when I’m awake.” 

There was a long silence on both sides of the door.  Marathel asked, “What can you tell me … what do you remember, in the moments where you feel you’re out of control around me?” 

“The bite mark burns.  I feel feverish.  And I can …” Din stopped speaking. 

“You can what?” 

“I can smell you.  I can smell your … I can smell your scent, and it compels me, forces me to act.”  He heard Marathel draw in a shaky breath.  “What?  What is it?” 

“And you feel like you will die if you can’t get … relief?” asked Marathel quietly. 

“Yes, that’s right, but … wait.  Are you suggesting … I’m going into a Dahl mating cycle?”  Din laughed sarcastically.  “Marathel, that’s the craziest damn thing I’ve heard in a long time.”  Well, maybe since yesterday.  “Why in Frith would I be doing that?” 

“Dahls are emotional creatures.  The Dahls controlled me, I bit you like a female Dahl bites her mate, and now …  You’re upset and angry with me.” 

“That can’t be.  That’s ridiculous.”  But the more Din thought about it, the more it made sense.  A weird kind of sense that defied reality.  But what else has made sense since I met this woman?  And then he remembered something about her scent, how he thought she was … ripe.  “Marathel, I need to ask, and I’m sorry … are you ovulating?” 

“Am I … you know I don’t work right.  I’m barren.  I told you that.” 

“But does that mean that none of your reproductive organs work at all, or …? You can’t keep a pregnancy, or you can’t get pregnant at all, or you’re missing things?” 

“I don’t know.  I didn’t ask.  I didn’t think the details mattered. And, anyway, my cycles were always so strange and seldom, I was never able to track them to know when I would be ...  I have no idea if I’m … what you’re asking.”   

“I’m sorry.”  Din laughed again.  “This is not a conversation I ever expected to have.”  He rubbed his eyes and sighed.  “Hell, I think this conversation has never been had before in all of time and space, Marathel. You defy explanation and reality.” 

“Well, I’m glad to know you’re as confused as I am.  It’s lonely over here, not knowing what in Frith is going on, ever.” 

Din chuckled.  “I have three new holes in my arm.  What do you know about that?” asked Din. 

Marathel laughed.  “I’m sorry about that, but you gave me little choice.” 

“I know.  I’m sorry.” 

“We seem to be apologizing to each other a lot lately,” said Marathel.   

They both were quiet for a while.  “Marathel?” 

“Yes?” 

“What part of the only song were you singing earlier?” 

“Oh … the childbirth part.  What I said was: 

Baby, come now, baby, come now,  Our heart breaks to meet you,  Push and breathe, push and breathe,  Become a mother now!” 

Din was confused, for he was sure he’d heard her sing the word rwy’n, part of rwy’n di’rugar, but perhaps rwy’n was like the Mando’a ner kar’ta, literally ‘heart’, as a word comparable to ‘love.’ Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize that Marathel was speaking to him.  “What was that?” 

“I said I’m sorry for calling you what I did,” said Marathel. 

“And what was that?” 

“I called you a … Gwyr’dwp bai.” 

“And that means …?” 

“‘Stupid brat boy.’” 

Din snickered.  “Well, that’s nowhere near as bad as the time you told me to piss up a rope.”  Marathel laughed too.  “Marathel… is there an apology part to your only song?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Will you teach it to me?”  Din heard only silence from the other side of the door.  “Marathel, please, I hate what I did to you, how I dreamed about you.  Please teach me how to apologize to you.” 

“There is no need for you to apologize.  You only acted in the same way I did, under the influence of the Dahls.  A compulsion.  A need.” 

“Damn it, Marathel, there’s more between us than just a compulsion to mate!” Marathel was quiet for a long time.  Din waited pensively for her response before asking quietly, “Isn’t there?” Still nothing. “Marathel, ner kar’ta ... please say something.” 

“When will you open this door?” 

The shab? “The door is on a timer. It will open in about ten hours.” 

“I don’t know how long ten hours is.” 

“I don’t know how many loaves of bread ten hours is.” Din chuckled at his own bad joke, but Marathel remained silent. “Ten hours is a very long sleep. It’s almost half a Basic day. I’ll warn you before the door opens.” Din urgently hoped for a response. “Marathel, I ...” 

“I’m going to lie down. Goodnight, Bounty Hunter.” 

Bounty Hunter. I’m Bounty Hunter again. Before Din could speak, he heard Marathel climb back down the ladder, and then he heard his quarters door slide shut. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian angst #mando angst #din djarin angst #star wars fanfiction #pedrostories #pedropascaledit #pedro pascal stories #pedrohub #starwarsficnetwork #din x afab oc #din x plus size fem oc #mando x fem oc #mando x plus size oc

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty-One.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C     

word count: 9.9K  

chapter summary:  Marathel explains it all.  

author's note: This is the chapter where Marathel finally tells the whole story of her upbringing in the Hold, as well as what she learned about herself from the Reconstructionists. This chapter is very dark, full of descriptions of triggering events, as well as deliberate and liberal use of the c-word. The warnings are under the cut. If you have been keeping up with this story, you should have a feel for where this chapter is going to go. If you find warnings potentially triggering, please don’t continue. 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***   

warnings:  angst, violence to women, violence to animals, aftermath of ritual abuse, aftermath of ritual sexual abuse, aftermath of torture, mental illness, degradation of women, rape, rape aftermath, non-con sexual situations, sexual situations, suicide ideation, suicide attempt aftermath, miscarriage by violence, allusion to drug use, description of ritual sexual abuse, description of child sexual abuse, past child abuse, sexual abuse by children, deep misogynistic entrenchment, mention of incest and infertility, mention of medical issues, English and Mando’a cursing  

You Were Marked: Masterlist

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter

Din sat in the cockpit of the Crest, listening to the engines scream their way through hyperspace. Up until three weeks ago, he believed he had enjoyed a relative sameness to his days.  Any other bounty trip, he would be lounging in his seat, in the galley drinking caf, taking a nap, preparing for the hunt.  The addition of Grogu changed these options very little; Din now had a companion for these activities — although Din drew the line at giving Grogu caf.  The kid had once sneaked half a cup while Din was taking a leak and the boy practically vibrated for the next three hours. 

Now, Din was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees as he watched the striations of hyperspace, willing his ship to move faster.  What is Marathel thinking? Going back to Unmanarall?   She’d better get that thought out of her head, because there is no way I’m going to let that happen!  I’m just now getting used to the concept of her being a part of my life!  Of Grogu’s life!  I didn’t get my head smashed in, nearly burn out my ship’s engines, break my feet, and get smacked with a … fucking giant dildo just for her to go running back to that … pit of degradation!  To those men, who did their best to destroy her! 

Nope, not gonna happen. 

Earlier, Din had received a message from Cobb, who let him know that the women were due in Mos Eisley a few hours after Din and Grogu were scheduled to get back to Mos Espa.  Din offered to get them from the spaceport, but Cobb said that he had it under control.  Din then said he and Grogu would run over to Mos Eisley on a speeder, meet them there, be there for when Marathel returned, but Cobb suggested that Din and Grogu just wait for them at the palace.  Din, irritated, then sent Boba a string of messages, essentially to bitch that Cobb was being an asshole, telling him that Cobb didn’t have the right to tell him what to do, nor should Cobb do what he perceived as keeping Marathel away from him, especially since he suspected Cobb had been a bit fresh with Marathel.  Boba sent a single response: 

BF: Chill the fuck out Din 

Boba must have forwarded Fennec the string of messages, for she had sent Din a new holo of Marathel, sitting on the padded bench, her feet up, her lap covered with a blanket that Din had not seen before.  She was in profile as she stared out the large window of the carriage, gazing at the same striations of hyperspace as he.  Her face was calm, but hard, as if she were wearing invisible armor.  Din focused on Marathel’s eyes, which were steadfast, almost stern, like she had made a definitive decision — and he was sure she intended to give him the brush-off for reasons he did not know or understand.   

Mesh’la, he thought.  Don’t make me let you go.  Just look at me and tell me what has hardened your heart. 

Marathel had finally uncurled herself from her protective ball, and was lounging on the padded bench, her new-to-her blanket over her lap.  The light show outside the window was fascinating to her.  This was the first time she was cognizant of her traveling through space, a concept that was still so strange.  Her whole life, she had only known the Hold, and now she knew that merely was tiny patch of land on a little ball that was floating in darkness with many balls, little and big, very similar or vastly different from the one she knew.  There is so much that I don’t know, thought Marathel.  At least I know that I know nothing.   

As she continued to gaze out the window, Marathel noticed a dark shape moving within the moving stripes of light.  It was large — it had to be huge — certainly larger than this ship that Marathel was currently sitting in. Whatever it was, it was moving at the same speed as the ship she was on but undulating as it moved.  Occasionally, some part of it pierced the light striations, sending sparks behind it.   

Marathel rolled up to her knees and moved to the window to get a better look.  Fennec, who had been reading the blind copy of Din’s irritated ramblings to Boba, noticed her movement.  She looked up to see Marathel kneeling next to the window, hands on the perspex shield, looking with wonder at the hyperspace lights outside.  Curious, Fennec captured a quick holo of Marathel — she looked quite pretty, with her face full of amazement — and stood to look out the window herself.  

“Can you see it, Fennec?  What is it?” 

“That’s a Purrgil.  A Purrgil Ultra, I would guess, by its size.” 

Marathel scoffed.  “Yes, of course, a Purrgil.  I should have known.  But what is it?” 

Fennec chuckled.  “It’s a space whale.” 

“A whale?  I don’t know what that is.” 

Fennec, amused, replied, “No whales on your planet?” 

“Not that I’m aware of.” 

“You have fish, though, right?” 

“Fish, yes, but nothing that large.” 

“Well, most whales are mammals, not fish … but anyway, these whales, instead of swimming in water, they follow the slipstreams of hyperspace.  Sometimes they collide with ships, and ships will often shoot at them to get them to leave.” 

“What a terrible thing to do.  I think they are beautiful creatures.” 

“They can be dangerous,” said Fennec with a shrug. 

“She’s not dangerous,” said Marathel.  “She’s only keeping us company.”  Marathel continued to kneel at the window, watching the Purrgil.  Fennec went back to her holopad and her conversation with Boba about what a pain Din was at the moment.  Fennec had just shot off the message Din’s just being a lovesick jackwagon, and I recall voicing my concerns about Cobb and you blew me off when Marathel gasped; the Purrgil had come closer to the ship and appeared to be looking back at Marathel with her enormous eye.   

“Hello,” whispered Marathel.  I see you, and I think you see me.  What a magnificent thing you are!  The Purrgil’s eye was the deepest blue-green of the lagoon below the cliff on Unmanarall, the one she … her thought was interrupted by the piercing whistle of a red laser blast hitting the giant Purrgil.  The Purrgil shrieked, the sound reverberating into the ship, rattling the window and vibrating through Marathel’s soul.  “NO!” screamed Marathel, beating her hands on the window.  “She wasn’t hurting anyone!”  Marathel felt Fennec’s hands on her shoulders, pulling her away from the perspex.  The Purrgil was hit with more laser blasts, and Marathel could feel the vibrations of the Purrgil wailing.  Marathel began to wail as well.  “WHY?  Why are they hurting her? Why do they always have to hurt everything?”  Marathel crumpled down to the floor and sobbed into her hands.  “It never stops!  It never changes!  They always hurt us, they only ever want to kill us, and it NEVER STOPS!” 

The door of the carriage slid open, and a conductor entered, saying, “Ladies!  You’re disturbing the other passengers!” 

Fennec stood and faced the conductor.  “I’m trying — but she’s not well!”  Marathel continued to sob.  “Give her some time, she will calm down … she was a torture victim!  She’s just upset!” 

The conductor backed up and called into his wrist communicator: “send the medi-droid to suite X-1138 immediately.”  Fennec stepped forward, and the conductor put his hands up.  “You brought an unstable woman aboard?  She will need to be tranquilized for the remainder of the journey.” 

Fennec turned back to Marathel, saying, “Marathel, please, you need to quiet down, you need to calm yourself, or they’re going to tranq you.” 

“I don’t want to be CALM!  I don’t want to be STILL!   I don’t want to be quiet anymore!  I want to be angry!  Why am I not allowed to be ANGRY?” 

Fennec took Marathel’s hands.  “You can be angry all you want, but what you’re doing isn’t going to help you or the Purrgil.”  Fennec put her hands on Marathel’s shoulders, giving her a little shake and hissing, “You’re drawing too much attention.  Now get up off the floor.” 

A medical droid appeared in the doorway, and Marathel looked at it in panic before she shut her eyes and worked to calm her breathing.  Fennec helped Marathel back to the padded bench, giving her back the blanket, and sat next to her, taking Marathel’s hand, which was knotted into a fist.  The conductor grunted and tapped a report into his holopad.  After a short time, the conductor snapped, “Arm,” holding out his hand.  Marathel gave the conductor a baleful look but dutifully lifted her arm.  The conductor scanned the chip.    “Refugee from Jakuu,” muttered the conductor.   

“Yes,” replied Marathel. 

“Name?” 

“Marathel ap Unmapeth.” 

The conductor looked at Marathel.  “From Jakuu?  With a name like that?  Only ever heard a surname of that sort from Lew’el before.”  The conductor harrumphed and went back to tapping on the holopad.  “Spice addict?” 

“No,” snapped Fennec.   “A … slave, a torture victim, like I said.  Badly injured and still recovering.”   

The conductor scowled.  “A belligerent and combative patient still requires tranquilizers and a medical permit.” 

Fennec took a deep breath, attempting to control herself before she began whaling on this jerk’s ass.  “She had never seen a Purrgil, and was upset when the ship began firing on it.  She has been greatly traumatized recently.  Have some damn compassion.” 

The conductor snorted.  “I need to get back to First Class.  Keep her quiet,” he snapped as he and the medi-droid left the cabin, shutting the door behind them.   

Fennec grumbled under her breath.  That went well.  And as much as she’d just like to slap the woman and tell her to get it the fuck together, Fennec knew she couldn’t — not just because Marathel had had enough of that kind of treatment, but because Din would lose his everloving shit. Forget a Life Day rom-com holovid, these two are a walking Naboo tragic opera, for kriffing out loud. Fennec also believed that Marathel was working towards the Death Star explosion of all meltdowns soon, and she did not want to be within range of that.   

Marathel put her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Fennec, you’re right, I’m behaving … foolishly.” She roughly swiped her tears away.  “I’ll be quiet from now on.” She leaned back and looked out the window again.  “She’s gone.  I hope she wasn’t badly hurt.  Or killed.” 

Fennec took Marathel’s hand again and gently squeezed it.  “Purrgils are tough.  They have to be, to live out there.  One that size could have destroyed this whole ship, even accidentally.” 

Marathel sniffed.  “Well, maybe this ship shouldn’t be where they are.  Even I know enough to stay out of the water where the Great Godynferth is.”  Marathel looked thoughtful.  “I keep forgetting to tell Grogu that story.” 

“Will I get to hear it?”  Fennec asked with a chuckle.  “Will Din get to hear it?” 

“I don’t believe he’ll want to, after he hears what I must tell him.” 

“Marathel … I think you really underestimate Din Djarin.” 

Marathel sighed.  No, Fennec, I don’t think I do.  Din Djarin is still a man, and men don’t like to hear certain things.  Certain truths.  She continued to hold Fennec’s hand, and both women watched the hyperspace go by.   

It was several hours later when the transport touched down at Mos Eisley spaceport.  Marathel and Fennec passed through customs easily, as they had only a small bag for luggage, and they both had chips.  The spaceport was large and noisy, making Marathel nervous, so she stuck close to Fennec.  Fennec saw Cobb waiting on the other side of the security barrier and waved.  He waved back, a single flick of his hand, and waited for the women to clear security, gazing at Marathel. 

She looks so beautiful, and still so sad.  They may have healed her wounds, but her heart looks irreparably broken, thought Cobb, and he sighed.  And Din, of course, thinks he needs to fix her.  And if what I think is true … then … I just hope he’s still willing to try.  

The women finally made it out of security after a final scan of their chips.  Marathel was rubbing her arm where the chip was, and apparently had been doing so for some time, as her arm was red, and Fennec pulled her hand away.  Cobb came forward, intending to pull Marathel into a hug, but she deftly sidestepped him.  Instead, Cobb took the bag she was wearing over her shoulder, and he took hold of her hand so she could not rub her arm any longer.  Marathel looked up at Cobb, thinking about protesting, but deciding not to bother. 

“You look a lot better, honey.  Din will be very happy to see you.”  Marathel shrugged, and Cobb put his other arm around her, leading both of them out of the spaceport to a speeder parked nearby.   

“I’m so tired,” said Marathel.  “Is it far to the palace?” 

“A couple – three hours, unfortunately.  But you can curl up in the back and take a nap, if you like.  Riding shotgun, Fennec?” 

Fennec yawned.  “If I have to.  I hope you don’t want company, Cobb.  I’ll probably doze off myself.” 

“If I’m tired, you must be exhausted, Fennec,” mused Marathel.  “Not only have you had to run from station to planet and back again, but you’ve also had to put up with me -- and my bad moods -- this whole time.   All I’ve had to do was just sit there.” 

Fennec, surprised to hear some light-heartedness coming from Marathel, replied, “Well, that’s as maybe, but I didn’t get genetically modified over the past couple of days.”  She squeezed Marathel’s free hand.  “Are you ready?”  Marathel looked at Fennec, and in Fennec’s eyes she could see the unasked question: are you ready to face Din? 

Marathel nodded, and let Cobb help her into the back of the speeder.  Once they were on their way, Marathel was unable to keep her eyes open, so she wrapped herself in her blanket, lay down on the bench seat, and fell asleep. 

Din and Grogu had landed back at the palace and were waiting.  Grogu was doing a much better job of being patient.  He had wrangled a second dinner out of Silnima, and had eaten so slow Din wondered briefly if the boy were sick again.  Din kept looking into the kitchen corridor, listening for any commotion that seemed like someone was returning to the palace. Each time, Grogu would coo or bleat, any kind of noise that would draw Din’s attention back to him.  Eventually, Din twigged to what the boy was doing, and he was grateful.  “How’d you get so smart, little guy?”  He dipped his head to press his forehead to Grogu’s.   

Boba poked his head into the kitchen.  “There you are.  They just hit Mos Epsa,” he said, and Din leapt to his feet, snatching Grogu off the table, who squawked angrily at his food being left behind.  Din followed Boba down the maze of corridors, silently seething at what he perceived as Boba’s deliberate slowness.  By the time they made it to the landing tunnel, Cobb had just brought the speeder in. Din could see Cobb, and Fennec beside him, but Marathel was nowhere to be seen.  Din pushed past Boba, panicking, wondering where she was. He came up alongside the speeder and saw what could only be Marathel: a familiar-looking rounded lump under a blanket, her long hair flowing out and hanging down on the floorboards.  He reached over and gently shook her by the ankle, whispering, “Marathel?  Mesh’la?” 

Cobb shouted, “Wake up, Mar’, we’re at Grandpa’s!” which sent Fennec — who was overtired and punchy — into peals of laughter, and Marathel’s head popped up from under the blanket.   

Grogu jumped out of Din’s arms and landed on Marathel’s legs. Marathel grunted, still squinting against the light in the tunnel, looking so soft and sleep-warm Din thought momentarily of crawling under the blanket to cuddle her.  She blinked at Grogu, finally realizing he was there, and joy spread across her face.  “My little Godynferth!” she cried, pulling him against her in a tight hug.  “My love, my sweet,” Marathel continued to coo at the boy while he shouted Mama over and over. 

Fennec and Cobb shared an exasperated look before they climbed out of the speeder.  Boba was already there to assist Fennec, and he gave her a quick surreptitious hug before taking Marathel’s bag and asking, “Marathel?  Do you need help?” 

Din grunted and reached over the side of the speeder, saying, “Let me take Grogu…” 

Marathel shook her head.  “I’ve got him, just help me up, please,” she said, reaching out with her hand.   

Din took her hand in his, feeling her splinted fingers, wrapped in metal coils through the leather of his glove. Oh, mesh’la, you’re here, you’re finally here.  “You look much better, ma’mwsh ha’laa.  So much stronger.”  He gently pulled her up to a standing position, then wrapped his free arm around her to lift her out of the speeder.  She allowed his arm to remain around her waist as they followed the others back into the palace.  Grogu continued to clutch at her, softly saying Mama. Marathel smiled sadly and stroked his fuzzy head.  Putting his hand over hers on Grogu’s back, Din asked, “Are you feeling all right?  Are you tired?” 

Marathel nodded.  “I am tired, but also … it’s hard to say.  Twitchy? Jumpy?” 

“I know the feeling.  Exhausted, but unable to relax.”  He squeezed her hand.  “Let’s get you back to your room,” he said, inwardly grimacing, hoping she wouldn’t misunderstand.  “... So you can go back to sleep,” he added. 

“No, I …” Marathel stopped walking.  She turned and looked straight into Din’s visor.  “We need to speak to each other, sooner than later. There are things I must tell you.” 

Din lifted his hand to cup her cheek.  “Can it not wait until you’ve rested?  You’ve been through so much the past few days.”  He could finally see her face fully, straight-on, not hidden by hair.  She looked exhausted; her eyes puffy.  The gash down her face still looked very red and angry, and she appeared to have abraded skin near her temples, possibly burn-marks from sensors.  Her lips were dry.  He wanted to kiss her so much, scoop her up in his arms, lay her down on a soft bed and hold her until she fell asleep. 

“Perhaps, but … I don’t feel I can rest until I have said what I need to say.”  Marathel looked down at Grogu, who was snuggled into her bosom and falling asleep.  “We should put him to bed, and then I need a few minutes to collect my thoughts.”  Please let me put Grogu to bed, Bounty Hunter, this may be my last opportunity to do so. 

Din closed his eyes, dreading whatever she was going to tell him, but he nodded.  “Okay,” he said quietly.  But when she made a move to begin walking again, he stopped her, holding her close, pressing his forehead to hers.  “What I said, what I told you, before you left … I meant it.  I love you, Marathel.  I love you.” 

Marathel pulled back, and looked sadly into his visor, putting her hand on his helmet where she thought his mouth would be.  “I believe you.”  She sighed, and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. “I believe you think that.”  Marathel turned, slipping out of his grasp, and continued down the corridor.  Din remained a step behind her as they walked by the kitchen, where they could hear Silnima, Cobb, Fennec, and Boba talking in low voices.   

For no reason at all, Marathel chose that very moment to stop walking and say to Din, “I don’t know where your room is.”  It was an odd moment for Din, who felt the eyes of not only Marathel but her four new champions who were about to watch him leading her to his room, even though she was carrying Grogu as a mother would her child.  Because that is who she is, thought Din, as he gently placed his hand on her lower back again, wordlessly leading her further down the corridor.  The four people in the kitchen continued their chat. 

Din led Marathel into his room, a room that was nearly identical to hers.  She sat on the bed, rolling Grogu from her arms, who giggled.  “My sweet boy, I missed you so.”  Marathel looked up at Din.  “May I sing to him?  The proper part of the only song?”  Din nodded, silent, waiting.  Marathel began humming the tune Din now knew so well.  She settled Grogu in the bed.  Stroking the child’s ears, she sang: 

“Anar’mae'n amser, ch’si gysgu,  Gorffwys nawr unwff bychsgu,  Buth Frith yn mynd aro’lr ffwrs’wych,  Llonyddwch, llonyddwch, a’gor llyrs’wych.” 

“For your benefit, little one – and for your father as well – what I said was ...  It is time to sleep, little one, it is time to rest – Frith will watch over you while you sleep, be still, be still, be quiet until morning.”  Smiling at the sleeping boy, Marathel carefully got up and waited while Din recited his traditional Mando’a words.  When he was finished, Marathel leaned over to Grogu’s ear and whispered, “Rwy'n di’rugar.” 

As she stood, Din suddenly captured her in his arms, pulling her close, his forehead to hers, her body fully against his.  They stood this way in the darkened room for some time.  “Say that to me.  Please,” he whispered. 

Marathel, her forehead still pressed against his, shook her head.  “I can’t.  Not to you.”   

“Why not?” 

“Because you are not a baby.  Those words are only said to babies.  Not to men.” 

“You did before.”  His hand slid down her back, coming to a rest just above the swell of her backside.  “Just not in your Oldtalk.” 

“I thought … that was the last time I would speak to you.” 

Din’s other hand went into her hair, tangling his fingers in it, caressing her skull. He felt anger bubbling. “Did you lie about that?” Great Frith, he was getting hard in his pants, and she knew it, and she gasped, startled.   Haar’chak, no, please don’t start acting out one of your dreams, Djarin! 

Marathel took a step back, Din letting go of her immediately.  “Please, just give me a few minutes.  I’ll be in my room.”  She stepped out and headed back towards the kitchen.   

Din felt great shame at expressing lust for her when she had so recently been abused.   

Marathel felt horrified that she had felt a response within her, she, who was a monster undeserving of such a feeling. 

Marathel fetched herself a mug of tea, and she received a warm welcome back from Silnima.  Now that her back was properly healing, she felt more comfortable being hugged by the Headwoman.  The others were still in the kitchen, and they had gone silent when Marathel had entered.  Boba and Fennec looked at each other, while Cobb considered her with a face that was somehow both sad and hopeful.  Marathel said her goodnights, and went off to her room, Boba and Fennec right behind her, but they continued down the corridor and out of sight. 

It was a good quarter-hour before Cobb heard Din’s footsteps coming towards them.  He was walking with purpose, but not rushing.  He looked momentarily into the kitchen as he passed it, catching Cobb’s worried look.  What does he know? wondered Din. 

Coming to her opened door, Din tapped on it, quietly calling, “Marathel?” 

“Come in,” replied Marathel.  Din entered and began to close the door.  “No, please, leave the door open.” 

Din straightened. He would have thought that she’d want privacy for this conversation.  He wondered if she didn’t feel safe, alone with him.  The room was only lit by the bedside lamp, which cast a dim glow.  Marathel had the shutters open, and she was sitting on the deep windowsill, looking out at the night sky, about four feet from the floor of the room, but about ten feet to the hard-packed ground of the courtyard below.   

“Marathel, I don’t like you sitting up there.” 

“Don’t worry.  I don’t plan to jump.  Besides, it’s not high enough.  I’d only cripple myself and become a burden after all.” 

Din found himself quite unable to respond to that.  “Should I sit?” 

Marathel looked at him.  “I would.”  Din pulled the chair into her line of sight.  He sat, placed his hands on his thighs, and waited. Marathel took a deep breath, and said, “I have been feeling quite guilty, these days since I awoke on this planet.  Guilty of lying to you, or at the very least omitting knowledge that I refused to share with you.  My guilt is compounded by my ignorance.  I learned a great many things about myself wherever I was, with the Reconstructionists. Things I never heard of before, things I never considered. Please … just listen to me.  Let me say what I must. 

“When I was born, the Bishop was filled with joy, I was told.  My skin was the palest of white, my eyes the brightest and lightest blue, my body already long and tall.  As I grew, my hair turned silver and my eyes darkened to match.  My skin remained clear, free of any marks or dark spots to mar its perfection, and I was tall and straight like a gorugelly tree, the perfection that the Bishop was seeking to be his Whyn, to bring the next ap Bishops to the Hold.  I was the exalted and presumed Bishop’s Whyn, his Whyn and only his.” 

Marathel took a breath and closed her eyes, drawing strength to finally answer Din’s most-asked question of her.  “The word Whyn means cunt.  A Whyn is a cunt, and that’s all.  The whole point of a Whyn is to be fucked and impregnated.   The cunt is nothing but a cum vessel, to be filled in all her holes with cum.  Breed her with the next generation of cunts.  And the generations come quickly when the cunt is getting fucked every single day.  Maybe a break for your cycle, but more than likely the cunt would be beaten for not catching pregnant, the stupid whore.”  Marathel laughed derisively, harshly.  Din felt his heart drop, wanting to stop her, tell her he’d heard enough.  But he hadn’t, not by a long shot.  Dank ferrik, he needed to hear it all. 

“Now, a Diwhyn is an old cunt.  Useless anymore for breeding, too dried out to fuck.  Good for only cleaning and cooking and raising the new cunts.  Getting beaten for being old and useless.  Getting hit by the little boys because that’s all they learn, how to hit and how to fuck and how to kick at the girl trying to tie their shoes.”  Marathel sobbed for a moment.  Then, crying, she said, “The boys — the ones who haven’t changed yet — try fucking the little girls because they’re little and they won’t fight back, and they need to overpower anybody because they’re male and that’s what males do, and they get to do whatever they want.”  Marathel continued to cry.  Din stood, handing her a clean cloth from his pocket, and then sitting back down, his hands clenching into fists.  He wanted to look anywhere but back at her, but she continued to hold his gaze. 

Marathel wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and was quiet for a few minutes before she could continue.  “Then there’s me.  A Belwhyn.  You already know the end part is cunt, so what kind of cunt is a Belwhyn?  It’s shameful, it’s a punishment to be made one, so what in the name of Frith is such a terrible deed that what was done to me is an appropriate response?  A Belwhyn is a … whore cunt.  A whore, isn’t that funny?”  Marathel laughed again.  “Here we are, cunts getting fucked in every way imaginable, but what’s important is whose cock is fucking that cunt.  And unfortunately for me, you were the wrong … never mind that I forced myself on you.”  Marathel swallowed and looked directly into his visor.  Whispering, she said, “I’m so sorry I did that to you. You were the first man who has ever been kind to me, and I do that to you.  And then, I mistake your kindness for affection on top of it.”  Marathel sighed.  “Bigger fool me. 

“You were right, it’s a brand on my leg.  It’s my earliest memory, that hot metal on my inner thigh.  I was fully naked, that Bishop drooling over me, a tiny little girl, being reprehensibly burned in a place that anyone who tried to fuck me would see.   The next thing I remember was kneeling on a cushion with the Bishop’s cock down my throat.  I was choking because I was still so little, I didn’t know how to suck a cock yet, and I didn’t know about be still yet either.” 

Please, Maker, no. Not as a little girl.  Not as her first memory. Din closed his eyes, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. 

“Be still, be still,” Marathel said with a long sigh.  “It’s so useful to be still when a cock is in your mouth or up your ass, because then your mind stops thinking and time passes quickly.  The Diwhyns teach be still, be pliant, don’t fight, don’t struggle, the pain will pass, the bleeding will stop, that endless only song, over and over and over.  I only have to hear the words be still and my mind stops spinning.  I still say it to myself!  Be still, be still, you stupid woman!” 

Marathel was quiet for a few moments, and Din was hoping she was done speaking about her first time being brutalized by the Bishop.  But then she continued, “Anyway, I was crying with the Bishop’s cock in my mouth and I couldn’t breathe with my runny nose, and I couldn’t open my mouth any wider than I already had, because I was still a little girl, remember.  I pulled my head back to breathe and the Bishop came on my face, and then I was hit because I pulled away and I didn’t let him come in my mouth, that I didn’t swallow the first cum of my intended cock like a good girl should.  Olba had been holding me upright so the Bishop could fuck my little-girl face, and she began crying too, crying so much that she was beaten, and a baby was beaten right out of her.  It was almost a full baby too, I could see that it was a boy, they made me watch her lose that baby as punishment for her crying over me, a little not-yet-cunt.  And then they beat her harder because she’d lost a boy.”   

Marathel closed her eyes, and her voice filled with disgust.  “I was so happy the baby died, because it was a boy baby, and the boy babies grew up to be little boys that kick you when you tie their shoes and older boys that try to fuck the little girls — even though they really can’t physically do that because they haven’t changed yet — and then boys become Cyiloggs, and …” Marathel frowned.  “It’s odd … there’s not really a word in Newtalk for a Cyilogg.  In Oldtalk it literally means cock.  A male chook.  When the boys get old enough to be able to fuck, that’s what they get called.  It probably started as a joke and became proper, I don’t know.  It’s about as funny as whore cunt.” 

Stop it, please stop it, please stop talking, Din cried out in his head.  You can tell me to be still through this bite mark, I should be able to tell you as well, please, mesh’la, please be still. 

Marathel, however, carried on speaking like a bartender rattling off drink specials.  She took a sip of her tea.  “Of course, a Cyilogg can’t just fuck anybody.  The Cyiloggs are supposed to learn to fuck by using the Diwhyns.  They can’t have babies anymore, so it’s safe.   The Brwddyrs, on the other hand, they can fuck the Whyns, for the most part of.  It’s okay for them, they are breeders, that’s what Brwddyrs means.  They are chosen because they are close enough to the ideal that a baby would be acceptable. 

“Me, of course, my cunt was supposed to be fucked by the Bishop and the Bishop only.  He had been fucking my face, my hands, my ass — not too often there, though, he didn’t want to wear my ass out, he said — ever since he branded me, calling me his good girl, his perfect girl, his sweet girl.  Little girl, good girl, sweet girl.  Over and over and over and over.  My cunt was sacred, not even the Bishop would fuck it yet.  Wasn’t proper.  Not until I was bleeding regularly, which ... never actually happened.” 

Din, unable to look at her any longer, stared at his knees and waited for her to continue.   

“My cycles were never right, or regular, and they’d never be on schedule.  Most of us had our cycles at the same time.  But me, I’d bleed horribly one moon cycle, and then not again for many moon cycles.  I’d practically hemorrhage every single cycle I had, passing so many blood clots.  I’d bleed until I’d pass out in the kitchen.  Until I’d faint with the Bishop’s cock in my mouth.  That happened once.  He was fucking my face while I was on my cycle, and I fainted dead away and bit him in the process.  I was beaten good and proper for that, as you can imagine.  Many jars of that smelly unguent you hate so much were used on all my bruises in my lifetime.” 

Marathel went silent for a while.  Din looked up at her; she had pulled up her knees, and she was hugging them with her elbows.  Finally, she said, “The Dahls and their eggs, I can’t quite remember how all that started.  I’ve been hit in the head so many times, I think my brain has been addled.  I remember cleaning the weapons in the Round building and listening to the men talk.  That’s the good thing about be still, you learn how to move but be still at the same time, so they don’t notice you too much.   It’s always best not to be noticed too much.  Cover your head and feet with the blanket, look as shapeless as possible, don’t make eye contact, hide your hands.  If they can’t notice you, then they can’t hurt you. 

“Dahls even have their own version of be still.  The dam barks at her kits if there’s danger.  But I hear it as be still!  Be still! in my head, and my mind slows down, just as it should. Sometimes I’ve been watching the kits run in the meadows and I can see the vytur birds overhead, looking for a moving kit to snatch, and I shout be still! Be still! to the kits, and they can hear me.  I can scream it in my head and the Dahls will stop running, freeze, not move until I release them. “ 

So, I was right, thought Din.  She marked me like a female Dahl marks her mate.  She can tell me to be still.  Am I bound to her, this way?  Is she now trying to let me go? 

“Where was I?  Oh yes, the Dahl eggs.  Somewhere in something called the Records was the story of the Dahls.  Creatures with a certain mind, that would bond with a human willing to listen to them.  The bonding made the Dahl yours forever.  What a wonderful idea, to control not only all the women but creatures as well.  

“The Dahls had been on the other side of the mountain for a long time, but for some reason, they were moving back closer to the Hold.  So, the Cyiloggs started bringing eggs in for hatching.  The Elders were supposed to bond with the hatchlings, but the hatchlings rejected them.  The hatchlings rejected all the men.  But then I suppose a Whyn bonded with a Dahl accidentally.  At first, I’m sure that the Elders were furious beyond belief.  How dare she!  How dare a cunt have control over anything!  But knowing what I know now … I'm guessing that the Elders found themselves delighted at cunts becoming fuck-animals at mating season. 

“But the Dahls … they hated being in the Hold, hated all the men.  The Whyns couldn’t control them.  The Cyiloggs would chain them, and the Dahls would break their own necks to get away, tear each other to pieces, rip the throats out of the Whyns who had bonded with them in desperation to escape. 

“Then I had to come along and hear all the Dahls.  Usually, the cunt only heard the Dahl hatchling she had bonded with, but I could even hear Dahls in the egg.  Why, no one could say.  Maybe it’s in that thing called the Record.  Olba remembered an old Diwhyn who told her as a young child of another woman who could hear all the Dahls.  Olba never told me what happened to her, but it was important enough to Olba to get me out of the Hold, and now I understand why.  I was still changing, not officially ready to fuck, not a real cunt yet.  My cycles weren’t regular, remember, even though I was head and shoulders above the other girls.  If I was in the Hold when the Dahls rose to mate, trying to madly fuck while not a full Whyn, well, that would upset the order of things, wouldn’t it?   I was meant for the Bishop alone, and under the spell of the Dahls, I would not be discerning of whom I fucked.  How dare I do such a thing! 

“But then I guess the Captain and the Duke thought it was wrong for me to be out of the Hold for so long.  Perhaps they wanted to experience the all-hearing all-fucking Dahl-cunt-woman for themselves, I don’t know.  They were the ones who were the most insistent about getting me back into the Hold.”   

Marathel looked at Din and was not surprised that he could no longer look at her.  He probably wants me to stop talking, she thought.  Well, too late now.  You wanted to know, Bounty Hunter, and I want to tell you.  “I wonder how they sent out the message that brought you.  There are things in the Hold that I have never seen — no woman has.  But you came along, and of course you know how that ended.” 

Marathel took a deep breath and rubbed her face with her hands.  “Yes, I knew what was going to happen to me.  I knew from the moment I came back to myself against that post, still with you inside me.  I knew my life was over.  I also knew I couldn’t tell you because you would stop it from happening.  But when you told me about those coins and what their worth could be to you, I had to make sure you got those coins.   I was already ruined because I made you fuck me against that post. I’m nothing.  I’m weak, fat, and stupid.  I didn’t bear the children I was meant to; I had ruined myself for the one man I was supposed to serve as Whyn … even though I hated him and the idea of being touched by him and the things he did to me and the things he did to Olba.  She’d lost the baby boy, and he beat three more babies out of her when she’d try to protect me from whatever he was desiring to do to me at the time.  She was ap Captain, how dare she interfere with an ap Bishop!  Everything I had ever done was wrong for everyone, and I wanted one thing that I could make right. 

“So, I made you take me to the Hold without your weapons. I told you to be still.  Did you hear me, screaming at you to be still inside my head? I thought you might have, because you didn’t move at all.  It worked better than I ever dreamed it could.  I have no idea why that occurred, but then I know next to nothing.  Stupid me. I made sure you got the coins, and I believed you had left. 

“You had told me any affection you had for me was less than your devotion to your Creed.  You’re a man, that’s your right of course, you can say or do anything you please.  I was less than, always had been, that’s the way of things.  My heart was broken because I loved you so much — or at least I thought I did, who am I to know at all what love is?  Children are one thing, but a man?  But I believed you didn’t care for me, which made it all the easier to hand myself over, I suppose.   You got the coins.  I had done something right. 

“After I went into the Hold, I was taken up to the second floor.  That’s where the Platform is.  I had been in there many times to clean, but I had never been on the Platform before, of course, because I wasn’t officially a cunt.  The first thing the Bishop did was carve my face.  I was tied down, and he cut me, saying that I was a whore cunt, and I should have a cunt right on my face, to show everyone what a whore I was, that I wear a cunt as my face.  How dare I betray him; how dare I be a cunt for someone else.  Especially under the spell of the Dahls, where I was the one who demanded to be fucked.  I dared to shove it in the Bishop’s face that I took you. How dare a woman, a cunt, do such a thing.” 

Marathel’s voice grew weak.  “How dare I do that ...” She swallowed and looked directly at Din to deliver her next statement.  

“How dare I do that to my father.” 

Din audibly gasped, his head snapping up to look at Marathel.  She wished she could see his face, to read the utter shock, the disbelief, and the resulting disgust.  “You hadn’t figured that out?  How surprising.  Of course, the Bishop is my father.  One of my sisters was my mother.  I have no idea who, though.  I suppose it doesn’t matter.  Cunts are all pretty much the same, aren’t they?  I pretended Olba was my real mother even though I knew it wasn’t so.  You saw all of us there in the Hold; it isn’t just the colors we wear that separate our houses.  All the Bishops are pale with light or silver hair.  The Captains are dark-complected with black, curly hair.  The Dukes and the Hunters look similar, but the Dukes tend to be blonde-haired and shorter, while the Hunters are taller with brown hair.  I always thought the Hunters were pretty to look at ... tall like trees, with brown hair and brown eyes.”   

Marathel smiled, looking wistful.  “When you told me you had brown eyes, I was so happy.  I do like brown eyes so much.   And then I saw your brown hair when you were puking in the grass.  I could just see the top of your head.  You have lovely hair.” 

Din dropped his head again, face warm, embarrassed by how much of himself he had revealed to her, accidentally or otherwise.  

Marathel rolled her eyes at his reaction and sighed again. “So, not only did I now know that you look more like a Hunter, but then … I was sure you wouldn’t look like a Bishop, no matter what my nightmares told me. 

“Bishops are supposed to fuck only Bishops, Captains are supposed to fuck only Captains, and so on.  Each house must remain pure.  If there is a cross between houses, which happened sometimes, then the mixed-girl-baby is killed, along with the whore cunt.  A boy baby?  They get placed in the house they most resemble, and life goes on. The Brwddyr who had fucked the wrong cunt?  A reprimand, maybe.  A reminder that only the correct cunts have a baby fucked into them.  That’s what Diwhyns are for, remember? 

“And now there’s a whore cunt like me to be made, tied down to the Platform.  If a cunt is going to act like a whore, then by Frith, she will be fucked like one, in every hole she has, over and over.  If she fights, if she screams, that makes it more fun.  If she’s quiet, if she’s still, beat her, bite her, shove something horrible in her holes until she screams again.   With me the Bishop went first, of course, then it became a free-for-all.  Wagers taken to see who would make me bleed from where first, how many times I’d scream, what they could draw on my skin with their knives and their whips, and their cum and piss and shit.  And they made all the children watch.  They always watch when a Belwhyn’s being made.  The boys on one side, the girls on the other.  Teach them all a lesson.  The little boys all got to take a turn on me, too.  Some would pretend like they were fucking me, but mostly they’d just poke me with sharpened sticks. Or kick me. Or bite me. Everywhere.  Little shits with their sharp teeth.  Then they made the little girls clean me off so they could do it all over again, marking the whore cunt as a lesson to the girls: This is what happens to you if you don’t obey.  Be still! Be still!  Don’t react, don’t scream, don’t cry, you be quiet and still and you watch, you future cunts!”  Marathel burst into tears.   

Din pleaded, “Stop, Marathel, for the love of Frith, please, stop ...” 

“NO!  You wanted to know, you need to hear this, and I need to tell it!  I need to not be still any longer!” cried Marathel.  She sobbed for a few minutes, Din watching her in misery.  When she finally felt she had control again, she said, “No, the Bishop is my sire, that’s what ap Bishop means, it means of Bishop.  My sole purpose as Whyn ap Bishop was to produce more Bishops by the man who brought me to life.  And I was so perfect, wouldn’t our children be even more perfect?  The epitome of ap Bishop into another generation, of course that was how it was supposed to be.  My high-ranking brothers were allowed to impregnate my sisters — their sisters, and odds are that some of my brothers impregnated their own mothers as well as their daughters.  Like it mattered.  A cunt is a cunt is a cunt, just so long as that cunt is in the right family. 

“And that’s how I thought things were supposed to be.  That’s the way it always was.  That was the way.  What other way could there possibly be?  There wasn’t anywhere or anything else to compare it to … not that I knew about. 

“Imagine ... imagine how I felt when I learned that everything, everything I knew was wrong.  It’s wrong to be sucking cock when you’re a little child.  It’s wrong to be impregnated by your father, to bear his children so he can impregnate them later when they’re ready.  It’s wrong to be known only as a cunt, wrong to be tied down to a platform, carved up, whipped senseless, to be fucked by every man in the Hold several times over in every hole you have, to have a sharp-studded metal cylinder shoved up inside you because you broke the promise you had no choice in making.  

“I didn’t know that. 

“I didn’t know that I’m an inbred, incestuous, whore cunt freak with chronic generational congenital hemophilia. That’s the phrase, one of several Eliadu taught me about myself.  Another is primary impaired fecundity.   That means that I am completely infertile.  I was never ever able to bear children, the one thing I was ever supposed to do, the only thing I wanted to do.  My insides don’t work right.  Neither does my mind … all the beatings and my injuries have taken their toll. Traumatic brain damage.  Anoxic brain damage – caused by acute hypoxia. Lack of oxygen to the brain, too many times, probably from when you were bringing me here, I guess. I suppose I’m lucky I’m not insane.  Perhaps I am.  To fix the bleeding, the Reconstructionists had to burn part of my brain and reattach it to some other part of my brain. I don’t know how it all worked; I couldn’t understand.  I just know that some parts were fixed but other parts are too ... frayed to go back together.” 

Marathel sighed.  “All I ever wanted was something more than I apparently deserved.  And I had that, for just a few days, with you and Grogu ... “ Marathel smiled again at Din.  “… the happiest of my life … and I just wanted to die with your memory foremost in my mind, to sleep in peace, at least imagining — pretending — that you cared for me in some way instead of just as another … I don’t know … object for you to play with as you wished because I threw myself at you that first time. 

“This, this — this body that you said was mine and only mine to grant consent to you to touch? It’s not mine, it’s never been mine. But even then, still … This is all I have.  I was willing for you to have it, but … I just wanted to be … not less than the man I was willing to have touch me.  The man who made me laugh and brought me gorugellys and made me feel I was at least somewhat desirable as a woman and not just a cunt.  But you ... you get to sit there, protected by your armor and helmet and weapons, and your Creed.  I got to feel your arms and hands on me, which I assume is allowable for you and your Creed. I got to feel you fuck me, you’re a man, I’m a cunt, that’s your right. I got to see your hair, which I’m certain is not allowable by your Creed.  I’m not sorry I got to see it, even if it does break your Creed.  I don’t give a shit about your Creed.  But me … all I had was everything I was born with, which is nothing at all.   Just a cunt.” 

For the first time since Marathel began speaking, Din felt a rage flare inside him.  And it was not to rail against the indignities done to her, but instead against her.  To hear Marathel say she didn’t give a shit about his Creed angered him greatly.  How dare she?  How dare she attack the core of who I am?  

He no longer wanted to listen to her.  But she kept on. 

“Did you know I have one of those chip things now?  They made me -- wherever I was when I was with the Reconstructionists.  Before I could leave, the Imps put a chip in me.  They made me take a name, a … surname, a family name, I couldn’t just travel with the only name I’ve had my whole life, that wasn’t enough for them!  I thought I should just take the surname Belwhyn, that would be perfectly descriptive, but instead I told them my name should be ap Unmapeth.  I have no idea how it’s spelled, obviously.  I can’t read, why does a cunt need to know how to read?  But I was not, not ever, going to be an ap Bishop.   

“Unmapeth means nothing.   

“Marathel Nothing from Nowhere, the Belwhyn. 

“That’s me. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.  I can’t possibly be a part of polite society, even on a shithole planet like this one.  I hate it so much here.  This sand, this dust, everywhere!  Digging into my skin, my hair, suffocating me.  I’m a monster, disgusting, untouchable, spreading my filth and disease and madness to anyone who comes near me.  Where else should I be but the planet that created me?  At least there I can live, endure … without interfering in anyone else’s life.  Especially not your life, not Grogu’s life.  

“I think I told you I threw myself off a cliff because I was under the spell of the Dahl’s mating; that’s not quite true.  Yes, they were rising to mate, and I still couldn’t bear it by myself, I felt as if I were going mad.  I had already broken free of the ropes holding me to the post — it is so difficult to tie yourself up — and I had already tried pressing stones against myself, wrapping my legs around the post, and nothing was helping and I was so desperate that I just ran, ran in a straight line, thinking maybe I could find something, anything that could help me, and I was terrified because I had considered going to the Hold and throwing myself at the Bishop.  So, I ran the opposite way, away from the Hold, and I knew the cliffs were before me.  I knew there were rocks just under the surface of the water that would kill me, bash my head in, break all my bones, and there was coral that would shred me to ribbons so that I would become food for the great Godynferth and it finally will all be over.   

“I ran straight for that edge as fast as I could -- I'm a good runner, you know that, you’ve seen me run — and I heard the Dahls screaming at me to BE STILL! but I ignored them all as I leapt off that cliff, and I turned myself over so I would land directly on my back, and I watched the sky above me as I fell and I begged the women that had gone before me that were watching me from above, let me be with you and I will watch over the little girls that come after me and protect them even though I had brought forth none of my own, and I hit that water with the most exquisite pain I had ever felt.  But … I had run so hard and so fast I missed the rocks completely.  I fell into deep water.  I tried then to drown, but I couldn’t, the water kept pushing me up and out, and away from the coral. 

“I can’t even kill myself right, how pathetic is that?   My only injury was to my back from hitting the water, and my back turned black, just like it did when you knocked me down to the floor when I was so desperate to fuck you when the Dahls were mating.   

“It just occurred to me -- you fought me harder than I thought you would, especially since you had agreed to be there with me. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be amused or upset by that.  But I suppose you only ever learned how to fight, just like I only ever learned how to be fucked.  Cobb was right, we are very alike, you and me.” 

We are nothing alike, thought Din.  And I resent you discussing this with him.  What else did you discuss?  What else did you do with him, Marathel?  With my friend? 

“By the time I got back to the hut, my back was so bruised, it took weeks for the blood to reabsorb.  Olba came out to find me because I hadn’t been up to the Hold for supplies.  I was so swollen with blood that she had to cut slashes on my back to drain it out; the unguent wouldn’t help.  I’m sure she received beatings for staying with me instead of being in the Hold. 

“You know, I don’t remember how I got out of the water, or how I got back to the hut.  Maybe the Dahls came to rescue me?  Doubtful.  The Dahls loved me, but they had more important things to do.  Even for the Dahls, fucking was more important than a woman. 

“They — the Reconstructionists — told me my people are doomed to die out.  Fewer and fewer women will be able to bear children.  I’ve already seen that in my own lifetime … the girls getting pregnant are younger and younger, women become Diwhyns earlier, more mothers die giving birth.  How much longer can that be carried on before there’s no one left?  Perhaps, if Frith wills it so, the Mist will just come when we don’t expect it and burn us all away, burn us down to ashes. 

“You, Bounty Hunter, you earned 167 Aurodium coins to bring me to the Hold.  But you took me away with you.  And then, you kept the coins instead of giving them to your covert, I don’t know why, but I suppose that’s none of my business.  Again, I’m only a cunt, you’re a man, that just how it is.  Fennec told me your covert wouldn’t accept them.  I don’t know if that’s true; I’m not a Mandalorian, that is your way, not mine.  However, it seems to me you didn’t do the job you got paid for, so you owe me a trip back, Bounty Hunter.  When do we leave?” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian angst #din djarin angst #mando angst #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #pedro pascal stories #pedro stories #pedrostories #mando x fem oc #mando x female oc #mando x plus size oc

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part I.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C       

word count: 5K    

chapter summary: Marathel leaves Tatooine. 

warnings:  angst, heartbreak, mention of incest, sexual abuse, inbreeding, and suicide, violence to women, English and Mando’a cursing    

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***     

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter 

   

It was nearly dawn on Tatooine, and the sky was just beginning to glow a deep pink.  Two windows in the palace had their shutters open, and two people were staring out at the sky.   It might have interested Din and Marathel to know that their positions nearly matched, and that neither one of them had slept.   

Din sat on his bed, his hand lightly resting on Grogu’s warm belly.  He’d removed his helmet, so that he could see the true colors of the rising suns.  Grogu coughed in his sleep, making Din turn immediately to look at him.  Grogu remained asleep, and his breathing went back to normal.  Din smiled at the boy, his boy.  His boy, who would be losing his Mama again.  Din’s smile fell and he went back to watching the sky.  He wasn’t sure why he was spending time doing this, but he knew it was preferable to walking down to Marathel’s door and telling her it was time to go.   

Give me strength, he prayed to a Maker he didn’t believe in. Help me to not take her back.  Help me not hate her for making me do this.    He asked his buir, so long gone now, for guidance.  Nothing you ever told me prepared me for this.  You taught me to fight, negotiate, come up with a plan, live my life as a Mandalorian.  You taught me how to be a man.  I was out of my element when I took in Grogu, but I had learned by watching you care for me.  What am I supposed to do now?  Where in the shab is the manual for this situation?  What ancient Mando’a chant is there to guide me on this path?  I need something, here. And you too, Frith, you not-a-rabbit son of a bitch, tell me what to do about this woman, who believes in you.  Din sighed deeply.  Clear my mind of what doesn’t matter.  Clear my mind of what doesn’t matter.  Din continued to study the sky, growing pinker, knowing that regardless, he would go as she demanded, for he loved her, and he felt compelled to do as she wished. 

Marathel sat on her bed, her hand lightly resting on the bag she had packed with her new possessions.  New clothing, her new blanket she’d been given by Eliadu.  All the little tubes of the moisturizers she’d enjoyed so much since she’d been here.  The shampoo, the soap for her hair, even though she still didn’t understand its necessity.  A new hairbrush that had been used on no one’s hair but her own. The medications from Cieroprac. The yarn and needles she’d received from Cobb at the market, but not the honey or the candy.  The two jars of honey had gone into a loaf of dark rich bread and several fruitcakes that were heavier than a Mandalorian’s helmet.  The bag of sweets went to Silnima to give to the children, as a gift from her, for she’d enjoyed hearing the happy sounds of children again.  Marathel wore the new shoes on her feet, the ones that she’d told Cobb she was not allowed to wear, but she couldn’t not wear the shoes, because they’d been a gift, and to not wear them would be rude, somehow.   

Marathel had seen many sunrises.  More than I realized, she thought.  She surely must have lived long enough to be a natural Diwhyn.  Why, why, had she been out there so long, alone?  Marathel hadn’t counted the number of times she had taken eggs to the Hold.  The Dahls laid every other season, that was, the time between the hot and the cold, and then again in the time between the cold and the hot.  How many times she had collected eggs for the Hold, she had no idea.  She remembered that the first few times she delivered the eggs to the Hold, she had entered and done the Passing-Over ceremony, which she would have performed when Din took her in, except she had usurped that moment to present herself as the Bishop’s Whyn and admit her guilt at letting someone have her before the Bishop.  But those first few times, she delivered the eggs to the Elders themselves, singing the proper part of the only song, wearing the plain knee-length skirt and unadorned tunic of the Changing Girl — the not-yet Whyn, the future cunt.  But then … Olba had told her that she didn’t need to do the ceremony anymore;  Marathel only needed to bring the eggs to the gate.  She had forgotten that. 

Thirty years.  That must be … such a terribly long time.  Why was I left alone?  Within walking distance of the Hold?  If I were so important to the Bishop … why allow me to live so long at the hut?  Was he waiting for me to come back of my own accord?  Or had he … forgotten about me? 

This thought hurt Marathel in a surprising way.  Being forgotten didn’t hurt more than being made a Belwhyn, but still somehow the same.  Perhaps she wasn’t important to the Bishop after all.  Perhaps, her presenting herself to the Bishop had been … unnecessary?  

Before she could process that thought, there was a flurry of light taps on her door.  Assuming it to be the Bounty Hunter, Marathel stood and opened the door, to see Cobb standing there with downcast eyes.  She fully opened the door and waited.  Cobb reached for her hand, raising his eyes to hers, saying, “Please forgive me.” 

Marathel allowed Cobb to interlace his fingers into hers.  “You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness.” 

“Forgive me anyway, honey, it may be the only way I let you leave this place,” said Cobb, letting go of her hand and drawing her into his arms.  “I know Tatooine sucks.  I’m sometimes not fond of it myself; too much weird shit happens here on this backwater whirlpool of dust. But it’s a much better place with you here.”  He kissed her temple, holding her tightly.  “You’re going to go, aren’t you?  You’re going to make him take you back.” 

“Yes.” 

Cobb stepped back from her, dropping his hands, his face pinching with sadness.  “Can you … really control him, like he says you can?” asked Cobb, knowing the question sounded ridiculous as he was asking it. 

Marathel’s face was decidedly blank as she replied, “I don’t have to control him.  He is taking me back because I asked it of him … and he says he loves me.” 

Cobb backed up to the doorway, shaking his head.  “Right now, at this moment … I hate you, Marathel.” 

Marathel sighed, raising her eyebrows.  “I know.” 

Cobb noticed movement to his right; Din had come down the corridor, resplendent in his armor and weapons, the formidable sight only softened by the little child peeking out of the bag he wore over his shoulder.  The two men stared at each other.  There were many things both needed to say to each other, but they would remain unsaid.   Marathel looked at them and watched a friendship fall apart before her eyes.  This, she would greatly regret.  She meant to only sever her relationship with them, not the relationships amongst them.  Din lowered his gaze from Cobb and turned to her, asking, “Are you ready to go?” 

Marathel’s eyes dropped, and her hands went up her sleeves, and both men felt their hearts hurt at her gesture.  “May I go to the kitchen and pack some of the bread for our journey?” 

Din nodded.  “As you wish.”  Marathel picked up her bag and brushed the remaining wrinkles from her bedspread.  She stepped out of her room, and Cobb smoothly took the heavy bag from her shoulder as she passed between them. Both Din and Cobb turned to watch her go, then they looked back to each other briefly before dropping their eyes to their feet. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Cobb. 

Din nodded.  After a long moment, Din whispered back, “Me too.” However, neither of them was fully sorry — and neither of them was truly in a forgiving mood — regardless of whether apologies or forgiveness was necessary between them.  They both stood silently in their embarrassment and regret, until Marathel reappeared with another bag, this one ostensibly full of bread.  Din turned to her, asking, “Ready now?” She nodded, and Din turned away from her and walked down the corridor without a word.  Marathel followed about a step and a half behind Din, Cobb silently following behind her.  Along the way to the landing tunnel, the solemn procession picked up three more people.   

Once they reached the landing tunnel, Din did not pause but went straight to the Crest, opening the back ramp and entering the ship.  Marathel turned to the small group that was also awake early this morning, seeing sadness and bewilderment on all their faces.  Boba happened to be closest to her, so she addressed him first. “Boba Fett, I am sorry that I did not get to know you better.  Thank you for what you have done for me.” 

Boba put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “I wish you peace, little sister.” Tears sprung to Marathel’s eyes due to the simple endearment, and she hugged him tightly.   

Fennec came next, and as Marathel embraced her, she whispered, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” 

“No, you don’t.  You don’t, and I will never understand why you are.” 

“Then I hope someday you’ll forgive me,” said Marathel, before moving on to Silnima, who kissed both her cheeks but didn’t say a word.  Last was Cobb, leaning on one hip in the way he had — so like Din —looking down, biting his lip.  Marathel put her hands on his cheeks, and softly kissed him on the corner of his mouth.  Cobb lifted his sad eyes to hers, and Marathel wiped a tear off his cheek with her thumb before turning and walking up the ramp into the Crest.  Din looked briefly at the four sad and confused people Marathel was leaving behind and shut the ramp. 

Shortly after, the Crest fired her engines, lifted off, and left the landing tunnel.  After the ship was gone, after standing there a long time in silence, Cobb pointed a finger at the open space where the Crest had recently stood.  “Did we … just let that happen?”  Not receiving an answer, Cobb scrubbed his nose with the back of his hand.  “Well, dank fucking ferrik.”  Cobb sighed, turned to the others, and said, “Who else wants to get drunk and eat a shit-ton of bread?” 

Boba said, “I’m for it.”  Fennec and Silnima nodded in agreement.  So, they did. 

Din walked straight down the main section and up the ladder to the cockpit.  Marathel tarried behind, taking another look at the ship’s interior, which she had only seen briefly however many days ago.  She had no memory of the days she’d spent onboard coming to Tatooine.  In the cockpit, Din flipped the power switches, and all the lights and machinery came to life, startling Marathel briefly, but nowhere near as badly as she’d been frightened the first time Din brought her in here … the day after we met.  How long ago was that?  There were green lights, and blue lights, and red ones too, and these felt familiar now to her.  Even the vac tube before her had a familiarity … although she was concerned about it being right out in the open.  And it didn’t have a seat, unlike the one she had access to at the palace.  She briefly mused on how the two — well, three, actually — were going to maneuver bodily functions on this journey.   

“Marathel, we need to take off, so come up here,” Din called from above her.  First things first, I suppose, thought Marathel, and she climbed the ladder, carefully stepping off into the cockpit as Din continued with his switches and buttons.  He quickly looked at her over his shoulder.  “Sit there,” he said, nodding his head at the aft chair.  “Strap in, so we can go.” 

Marathel quickly sat — Din was sounding quite snappish, and she didn’t want to anger him — but looked around her, trying to figure out what a strap was.  Din took another look at her, impatient now.  He set Grogu on the console, unclipped his straps with a huff, and stood, grabbing the strap ends above her shoulders, pulling them brusquely over her head and snapping them closed into the buckles by her hips, grazing her hips with his thumbs.  “Thank you,” said Marathel in a small voice.  With a grunt, Din sat again, and put Grogu back in his lap.  Marathel noticed that Din didn’t strap himself back in, which she thought was odd, but what did she know?  “I could hold Grogu for you.” 

“He’s fine where he is.”  Din fired up the engines, and the Crest rocked for a few moments, but then slowly lifted off, and left the landing tunnel.   

Marathel clutched the armrests of her seat for a moment.  She suddenly realized that she had left the palace behind, left the people inside behind, would never see them again, and she was wracked by guilt for hurting them so.  Oh, I’m so sorry, she told them one more time.  For all her talk of going back to Unmanarall, now that the time had come to leave, it was so much harder to do than she anticipated.  Marathel bit her lip, trying to not cry. She waited for Din to take the ship up and into the darkness, but he kept flying relatively low to the ground.  After some time, Din brought the Crest into a large yard that was littered with metal hulks and small droids scuttling back and forth.  Din lowered the ship back to the ground.  “What’s … what’s happening?” asked Marathel. 

“Need to refuel.” 

Oh, thought Marathel, as Grogu shouted, “Peh-EE!” 

Din chuckled as he stood, saying, “Yeah, kid, we’re going to see Peli.  Good job with the name!”  Looking at Marathel, his tone changed to annoyance as he said, “Refueling will take a little while, so you might as well get up.”  Din reached by her hips, pressing the buttons that released the straps holding her to the chair.  He immediately went down the ladder with Grogu, leaving Marathel to struggle with the safety straps, and then the ladder down out of the cockpit. 

Din had just pressed the button to lower the ramp when Grogu frowned and asked, “Mama?” 

“You want to wait for Mar … Mama?” asked Din, sighing.  “Okay.”  Din put the boy down, looking over to see Marathel coming down the ladder, so he headed down the ramp by himself. 

Peli had come out when she noticed it was the Crest landing.  “Now, where are you headed?” she asked when Din reached her. 

Din snorted.  “Taxi service, again.” 

“Whaddya mean by that?  And where’s Little Bug?” 

“With her.  Are you gonna fuel up the Crest or not?” 

“‘With her’, who?  Kriff, Mando, who pissed in your caf this morning?” 

“Haar’chak. Never mind, I’ll do it my damn self.”  Din stalked off, sweeping a droid away with his boot like Marathel sweeping away a chook, irritated, mostly with himself, because he was being a boor and he knew it. 

Peli looked up at the open rear door to see a tall woman, a bit heavyset, wearing what looked like Imp uniform cast-offs, holding Grogu.  Well, I’ll be.  That must be her. The not-my-lady-friend. 

As Marathel came down the ramp, Peli’s first impression of her was that fear and misery rolled off the woman in waves.  Her second impression was that Marathel rather looked like a proper mother to that little green boy.  Her third impression was that she was so glad that Mando did not prefer far-too-skinny women of the standard pneumatic variety, in either hairstyle or body implants … it made her think that even her fat ass and smart mouth had a chance at some decent person.   Peli smiled and mused on how exquisite this Marathel must look, standing next to Din, with her statuesque figure, fair skin, and long silver hair.  Oh, she’s lovely! 

“You’re Mahr?  Mando’s … oh, what was it … Marathel? Well, look at you, up and walking around! Poor thing, coming in here all banged up like a stormtrooper’s speeder like you did, Maker, did you ever make a mess!  Well, c’mon, get closer so I can get a good look at you and get at my little green niblet!” happily cried Peli, reaching for Grogu.  “I don’t bite! Well, sometimes I might, but you’re not a nerf herder, so you’re safe.  C’mon, now!”     

Marathel’s head tilted slightly at the sight of this woman beckoning to her, wearing a suit like Din, hair bushier than an ap Captain, and missing teeth … just like her.  And Mando? Another person that calls him Mando.  He has many names, this one man.  Marathel came to where Peli stood under an awning.  “Hello …?” 

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m Peli,” she said, patting her hand.  “I keep that boat of Mando’s flying for very affordable prices…” — Peli shouted this last bit — “… but I also am the official auntie of this little guy!”  Peli took Grogu from Marathel.  “Dank ferrik, what is Mando so worked up about?  He’s grumpier than a nerf herder who’s been bit!”   

Grogu pointed to Marathel, and told Peli, “Mama.” 

“’Mama’?  He’s irate about ‘Mama’?”  Peli’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s ‘Mama’ now? Well, congratulations! I never would have thought Mando would take that plunge …” 

“He just started calling her that a few days ago,” said Din flatly, dragging a heavy hose around the back of the Crest. 

Peli’s face went slightly pink.  “Hmm.  Just landed myself right in the Bantha flop with that one, didn’t I?  Sorry about that.  So where are you all heading, missy?  Nevarro?  Naboo?  Canto?  Lots of wedding chapels there,” said Peli, the last bit in a whispered undertone. 

“Back to my planet,” said Marathel. 

“Back to your … now why in a siluran’s spleen would you go back there?  They didn’t exactly let you leave there in one piece, you know!  No no no, no, you know better than that!  You’re pretty, you’re obviously smart, the teeth you still got look really good, and this little guy likes you and so does Mando, I can tell.  Why would you do a thing like that?” 

“Because … because …” Marathel lost her ability to speak.   

Peli frowned and gently stroked Marathel’s upper back. Her friend’s kid was a kitchen worker at the daimyo’s palace, and had told her many things about Marathel, some of which were very hard to hear.  Now, having a face to put to the name, especially this poor soul with the horrible gash on her face, unfortunately made the horrors more real.  “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t …” 

“Because I’m an inbred incestuous whore c-c-c …” Marathel did not know why she stammered cunt to this woman, when she had said it so blithely to both Din and Cobb, almost taunting them.   

“Now you stop right there.  I don’t want you calling yourself that!  No one should have that as a name,” said Peli, giving Marathel a little shake. “And the rest of that … is just a lot to unpack, sweetie, so give me a moment.” Peli paused, allowing Marathel to wonder why Tatooine residents liked to give silly names to people.  “As far as the first word is concerned, you had no choice on who brought you into this galaxy … so that’s not your fault, you can’t help that.  The second word … I know there’s species out there that prefer it, but for us humans, that’s just a no-go, and for you, still not your fault. 

“The third word … look, there are those who say that’s not a dirty word, so long as you made it your choice to earn that distinction, then take pride in it and make it fun and profitable for you!  And if that had been your choice then I would have supported you 100%!  I would have been your kriffing cheerleader!”  This made Marathel smile, which made Peli smile.  You picked a nice one, Mando, and you were right, I do like her.  “But you didn’t choose that, did you?  So that’s another name no one should have, unless they earned it on their own terms.  And you didn’t, so that’s not your fault, again! 

“And as a reason to go back to a place they tried awful hard to make you lose all your blood … that’s just a piss-poor reason, Marathel.  I don’t even know you and I know that’s womp-whacky.  And do you think Mando would let you hold little squishy here if he thought you were a bad person?  Would he be bothered that your family tree is ... well, more like a stick?   No, I don’t think so.  Worried, more likely.  Hey, I just met you and I already like you too much, to let you do something ridiculous like that.  I don’t know what you told those numb-nuts at the palace, but I don’t think you can convince me.” Peli spit into the sand.   

Marathel stood astounded at this woman, who apparently could breathe and speak at the same time.  “I … it’s because of rwy’n di’rugar.” 

“What the Trandoshan tushy is roo-een die-ruh-gahr?” 

“’My heart breaks to keep them safe.’” 

Peli looked at Marathel, frowning.  “Huh.  I suddenly have more respect for you. Look, missy …” Peli came up close to Marathel, looking at the horrible wound on Marathel’s face.  “I can see it in your face.  I can see it in both of you.  You two are pinging off each other like hyperspace atoms.  I can hear it from across the room, for kriffing out loud. Whoever you are, whatever you got, it seems like Mando accepts it.” 

“He shouldn’t have to just … accept it.  He should have better than that,” said Marathel quietly, her eyes downcast. 

Peli pursed her mouth, and patted Marathel’s arm.  “Hey.  It’s like my old man used to say, ‘you usually get what you want, and what you need … so long as you don’t get what you deserve.” Peli clicked her tongue, and said, “You know, you two have almost five days alone together on this trip.  Maybe you can work it out.” 

“Five … five days?” 

“Yeah, five days, that’s what I saw on the flight recorder after he brought you in. Ship was a wreck.  He was a wreck.  Mando slept for fourteen hours after Boba got the Crest here, and he still couldn’t walk straight, what with the knock he got on his head and trying to keep you alive.” 

“He flies, out there, just him and Grogu … for days at a time?” 

“Kriff, sweetie, for months; they live in this thing.” 

Marathel hadn’t considered either the length of time she and Din would be alone together, or how long Din flew alone, with only the child for company.  How long was he alone before then?  How many of those ‘years’ were without the benefit of Grogu?  “Peli … you help keep his ship flying?” 

“You bet I do.” 

Marathel hugged Peli, squeezing her hard, and kissing her on the cheek.  “Thank you for keeping him safe. Please keep him safe.  Please keep that thing working.  Please keep looking after him, and Grogu.” 

“Aw, sweetie, you could do a much better job of that than me.”  Peli pulled back, noticing that Din was dragging the fuel hose back.  “I wasn’t kidding, your trip back ‘home’ is almost five days.  You’ll have time to think.  A lot.  And you get a lot of one-on-one time with my pudge-pot here!  I’m jealous.  Not really. Long hyperspace trips make me itch more than my Jawa ex-boyfriend.  So furry.  Soooooooo furry.”   

Marathel, confused by the lack of dissent on Peli’s part, asked, “Do you like bread?” 

“Do I like bread?  You mean real bread?  Not the flat crap I bake on an engine block? Hell, yeah, I like bread.” 

“Then let me give you some bread I baked last night.”  Marathel went back up into the Crest as Din came over to Peli to settle up for the cost of the fuel.   

“Nice lady, Mando.  You were right, I do like her.  Now you tell me why you’re taking her back,” said Peli in a low tone. 

Din shrugged as he parceled out credits.  “She asked me to.”  Just like she told me to leave my weapons behind.  Like she told me to be still. 

Peli frowned.  “Yeah, I don’t buy that.  And you don’t buy that either.  At least not deep down.”  Peli turned to see Marathel returning with two loaves of bread.  “But like I told your lovely lady friend, you have a few days alone together to figure it out and come up with a new answer.”   

Din looked at Peli for a few moments, thinking about the stretch of time before the two of them.  “We should go,” he said, taking Grogu from Peli. “Thank you, Peli.” 

Marathel arrived just then, holding out two large round loaves to Peli.  “I thank you too, Peli.” 

“You’re welcome, Marathel.  Come by for a visit next time you’re in town.”  Peli ripped off a piece of bread and shoved it into her mouth.  “Oh, that bread is better than sex in the back of a pod racer with no shock cushions.” 

Marathel chuckled, but Din shook his head and started back to the ship.  Peli took Marathel’s hand.  “You’re a smart cookie, Marathel.  You’ll figure it out.  Thanks for the bread.  I’ll be expecting more when you come back.” 

Marathel frowned, saying, “But… I’m not coming back, Peli.” 

“Eh, I like playing on long odds.  Now go; Mister Mando Grumpypants is waiting for you.” 

Marathel, confused, went back to the ship.  Din was checking a couple of lighted panels on the wall.  “I like Peli,” said Marathel, and Din grunted in response. The early rising suns were coming into the yard at an oblique angle, reflecting in tiny prisms off the metal floor of the Crest. Marathel squatted down and ran her finger along the floor.  “What is all this stuff?” 

Din closed the panel and turned to her.  “What are you talking about?” 

Marathel stood, pieces of glitter on her palm.  “These … little flakes of shiny something.  So tiny and thin, but they sparkle! And they seem to be everywhere!” 

Din grimaced under his helmet.  Despite him cleaning the ship twice since he and Grogu were utterly polluted with glitter while on Coruscant, both by broken bottles of glittered sex lube and the naked bosoms of casino showgirls, the kriffing stuff was still sticking to every horizontal surface.  “That is … metal dust from the ship.” 

“Dust?  Metal dust?  I’ve never heard of such a thing.  Oh, this one is pink.” 

“I … can’t see colors in the helmet.”  This was the most ridiculous thing Din could have ever lied to her about, and why he did, he had no idea.  He groaned inwardly.  “We should go,” he said, passing by Marathel to shut the ramp. Marathel climbed up the ladder to the cockpit, but she misplaced her foot on a top rung and slipped.  In a flash, Din was under her, his hands on her thighs, ready to catch her, and right above his head was Marathel’s … magnificent ass.  Oh, haar’chak, what a view. One hand began sliding up her leg before he asked, “Are you all right?” 

Marathel froze in place, saying, “I’m not hurt.  I just … slipped.”  She climbed back up, away from his hands, and stepped off into the cockpit.  Grogu hopped up without using the ladder, and Din finally climbed up himself.   

By the time he got up there, Marathel was already seated, pulling the safety straps over her head.  Din sat, clicked his safety belts in place, and started the pre-flight check.  “Hop up here, Grogu,” he said, but Grogu did not comply, preferring to snuggle on Marathel’s lap.  Din looked back at her and sighed.  “Hold on to him tight; we might bounce a bit leaving the atmosphere.  Ready to go?” 

“Yes,” replied Marathel, not sounding sure of herself at all.  She held tightly to Grogu as Din did whatever he did to fly this metal box, this tiny metal box that kept all of them from flying into space and dying. The Crest lifted, leaving Peli’s yard, and began its upward trajectory through the sky, which got darker the further they went up. The ship did bounce slightly, but Din controlled the ship so well, Marathel scarcely felt it. Din banked the Crest so they could easily leave the atmosphere, and Marathel briefly saw the curvature of Tatooine as they pulled away. I’ve left, I’ve left, I’ve left them behind, thought Marathel, her throat thick with tears and regret. She swallowed the apparent hairball she had in her craw, thinking, five days. Five days alone with him in a tiny metal box where I can’t escape him.  

Din began the calculations for hyperspace, entering the coordinates of Unmanarall. Five days, he thought. I have five days to make her change her mind. Din pulled the throttle, and the Razor Crest shot into hyperspace. 

Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian angst #din djarin angst #mando angst #the mandalorian fluff #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #pedrostories #mando x female oc #mando x plus size oc #mando x afab oc #peli motto

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty-one point Five (Marathel).

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C      

word count: 7.2K   

chapter summary: Marathel sings, bakes, reveals her age, and severs relationships. 

warnings:  angst, mention of incest, sexual abuse, inbreeding, and suicide, violence to women, English and Mando’a cursing   

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***       

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter 

Marathel did not know how or what to feel.  Her tears were of pain, of joy, of heartbreak … and of confusion most of all.  She felt glad that she had finally spoken out loud her life on Unmanarall; now that she understood the wretched newly found truth of the culture there, she had felt compelled to unburden herself.  Unfortunately, the only way Marathel knew of to unburden herself was to burden the man who professed love for her, which brought her sadness and regret. 

Marathel didn’t understand love, not in the sense of whatever it was that the Bounty Hunter felt for her. She had been told growing up that certain words meant love — sort of. Olba later told her, back when Marathel was still in the Hold and failing to fully change, that many Oldtalk words had changed meanings, that the true meanings were only spoken amongst the Diwhyns.  For example, rwy’n di’rugar,  the Oldtalk phrase for I love you, actually meant my heart breaks to keep you safe.  This phrase was specifically meant for children … and even more specifically meant for the little girls, for the boys didn’t need rwy’n di’rugar any more than they needed the protection of the Mothers that Went Before that twinkled in the night sky. 

Ng’riad, which she had said to the Bounty Hunter when she uttered fi ng’riad, d’lwch fi, chi yd’w fi was a different word altogether.  The Diwhyns told the changing girls that fi ng’riad meant love me, but it really didn’t, according to Olba.  Literally, it meant ruin me.  Not love me, hold me, I am yours, but I am yours to take and ruin.  The point of saying it was to hand herself over to a man for his use.  Love was not part of being a Whyn.   

Again, I have lied to the Bounty Hunter.  No matter how much I tell him, it is not enough.  It will never be enough.  Just like how I failed to become a Whyn, I will always fail the Bounty Hunter.   

Marathel knew how to love Grogu, but not Din, and she tried to tell him so.  She thought she loved him, but she felt certain that she had no concept of what loving a man actually meant.   Din’s love for her confused her.  Frightened her.  Excited her.  Was it some kind of ownership, like being a Whyn?  It seemed that way to her, somehow. Not in any way could she have explained, for Marathel didn’t know the right words. 

She was sitting on Cobb’s lap, crying on his shoulder. Cobb had pulled her off the windowsill and onto his lap, into his strong arms, and then he … said he was sorry, which she did not understand.  Din had walked out, which she had expected, which she had wanted him to do.  She had wanted to drive him away.  She wanted to drive all of them away from the monster that was Marathel.  It was the only way she could protect them from her. 

What kind of man is this Cobb, she wondered, that he is not disgusted by me?   

But she was exhausted, emotionally spent, having vomited out all those words to explain her reason for existing.  And Cobb’s arms were strong.  And warm.  And gave her enough safety to allow her to fall apart for a moment. She had wept for some time before he had kissed her softly on the cheek, like he had the day they went to the market.  Men didn’t kiss on the cheek, they didn’t kiss on the lips, they didn’t kiss at all in her experience.    

Cobb’s kiss had comforted her like she was a child, yet it had also warmed her, thrilled her like Din’s kiss had. Catching her breath, Marathel had then surprised herself by lifting her hand to run her fingers through Cobb’s hair, silky and fine, like she recalled a Duke’s hair to be, yet Cobb was taller than any Duke she’d ever known ... and then she had heard the quietest of moans from Cobb’s throat, surprising her again, and then he dropped his lips to the exposed skin of her shoulder. 

And behind her came the low, hostile voice of the Bounty Hunter: we leave tomorrow morning.  

How long had he been there, watching her on Cobb’s lap?  Did it anger him to see her there?  Did the kiss enrage him?  Cobb’s lips on her skin, the skin that the Bounty Hunter said he loved to touch, to caress?  It certainly sounded that way.  Marathel quickly turned, only seeing the Bounty Hunter’s back from the corner of her eye as he left the room.  And she felt shame at sitting on this man’s lap, with his hands on her, his lips on her cheek.  It may have been as innocent as anything, but for the moan from Cobb’s throat … the same kind of moan she’d heard from Din when he was eating her bread, when his hands were on her skin, when he was deep inside her. 

Oh, great Frith, what am I doing?   

Marathel stood up and turned towards the door, towards Din’s voice, but he was already gone. 

What have I done? 

“Marathel?  Honey?” 

I am a whore. 

She felt Cobb’s hands on her shoulders, turning her back towards him, and she closed her eyes tight. 

I am an inbred incestuous whore cunt freak. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking that.” 

Whore cunt. 

“You hear me?”  Cobb gave her a little shake, and her eyes flew open. 

I’m a whore who has broken the heart of the first man who was ever good to me. 

“Honey?  Talk to me, honey.”  Cobb’s voice was sounding distressed.   

“Let me go,” whispered Marathel, and Cobb released her immediately.  Her shaking hands went to her face.   

“Marathel …” said Cobb, gently touching her arm.  She shied away.  “You’re … you’ve suffered so damn much.  Now, your mind is addled, like you said, and you’re not thinking straight.  And Din … listen to me, honey, please … it’s a lot for him to take in …” 

“He hates me.  As he should,” said Marathel, wiping her cheeks.  “It will be easier for him to leave me there.” 

“You don’t have to go back there!” 

“This is the …” 

Cobb grabbed her by the upper arms again, roughly this time, and she felt anger in his hands as they clutched at her.  “I swear, if you kriffing say this is the way …” 

Marathel drew in a sharp breath at Cobb’s hands on her once more.  If I need to make them hate me to let me go, then that’s what I’ll do.  Her eyes dropped down to his chest. “Hit me if you want, but you will not make me change my mind.”  Cobb lessened his grip, looking shocked and dismayed at even the thought of striking her. Marathel’s face softened as she suddenly felt a sense of deep calm.  Or perhaps it was the sense of nothingness.  “Thank you for being my friend,” she said quietly as she slipped out of his grasp and walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen. 

As Marathel entered, Silnima straightened up from the sink, where she had been washing her face, red and puffy from prolonged weeping.  She went over to the Headwoman and took her in her arms, comforting her, whispering, “Don’t pity me, Silnima, I’m all right.” 

“Oh, Marathel, I’m so sorry,” whimpered Silnima.  Why? wondered Marathel.  Why do they pity me?  I do not deserve their pity.  “I’ve never heard of such horrible things, and I was here when Jabba the Hutt ran the palace,” said Silnima as she drew back, holding Marathel’s face in her hands, yet Marathel refused to look her in the eye.  “My dear, why do you feel you have to leave?  No one wants that for you.  Stay here, with us, let us help you.” 

“I can’t, Silnima.  I can’t be trapped in a kitchen anymore.” 

“You don’t have to be in this kitchen.  You don’t have to be on this planet, even.  You can be anywhere.  Anywhere but that horrible place you came from,” Silnima pleaded.   

“It will be all right, Silnima.” 

“No, no it won’t, Marathel!  And what will you do back there?  Those men will come for you!” 

“She’s right, you know,” said a voice at the doorway.  Marathel turned to see Fennec.  “They’ll kill you as sure as they killed the women who helped you.” 

Marathel sighed.  “I won’t … I won’t go near the Hold.  I plan to just collect what I can carry at the hut, and then … just walk.  Walk until I’m far enough away.  Away from them.  Away from everyone.” 

Fennec put her hand to her forehead in frustration.  “If you want to be a recluse, you have a million planets to choose from!  Even kriffing Jakuu would be better! Why does it have to be there?” 

“Because it’s the only place where I’m not afraid all the time,” said Marathel with such a sense of detachment that Fennec worried even more for Marathel’s state of mind.   “It’s the only place I understand. It’s the only place I think I’ll be safe from everyone.”  And you’ll be safe from me. 

“Safe, she says. In a place where you’ve actively tried to kill yourself.  A place where you’ve almost been killed,” scoffed Fennec.   

Marathel shrugged.  “I’d rather die somewhere familiar.  Wouldn’t you?” 

Fennec glared at Marathel.  “After all we’ve done to help you, practically bringing you back from the dead …” 

“I asked none of you to do that for me.  Least of all the Bounty Hunter.”  Fennec’s face dropped into shock and anger.  Marathel took a breath. “I am grateful, truly I am.  But this is the only way to set things right.” 

Fennec was at a loss.  “Marathel … this is what you want?” 

What I want has no bearing on what must be, thought Marathel. 

This is the way. 

 Marathel finally replied, “What I want … is to make bread.  I can think of no other way to repay your kindness.  I will be using your ingredients, unfortunately, but …” 

Fennec held up her hands, frustrated beyond belief.  “Make bread, Marathel. If that’s what you think will … settle things in your mind, make all the damn bread you want.” 

“Thank you, Fennec,” replied Marathel, so flat and emotionless that Fennec wanted to smack her and scream at her to wake up!  It was as if Marathel, once she had released all her pain to them, had transformed into a droid. 

Silnima stepped up and fired the gas jets on the large ovens.  “I’ll help you, Marathel.” 

“Thank you, Silnima,” replied Marathel as she began to seek out the large pans the palace used for bread-making.  Silnima brought out the things Marathel requested: certain size cups, specifically shaped bowls, particular ingredients.  Fennec pitched in; she’d put aside trying to convince Marathel to change her mind for the moment.  Marathel wanted -- or perhaps needed -- to bake bread, something that at least was in the direction of positive.   

Marathel washed her hands, put on an apron, and began setting the cups and bowls into a precise and complicated arrangement on the massive worktable.  She then noticed that Boba and Cobb had come in and were watching her.  “Baking bread was fun in the Hold.  The only song made it fun, and we each would make 12 loaves of bread.” 

“Is that important?” asked Boba.  “The number of loaves?” 

“It is.  When you have 12, they can break off into 66 possible pairs.  Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again.  That’s very important.” 

“Now why is that?” asked Cobb. 

“Gyll’wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff.” 

“Meaning?” 

Marathel turned back to her lines of cups and bowls.  “‘You can break us apart, but we will grow back together.’”  Marathel pulled the kettle off the fire and began pouring the hot water into the cups.  “Now, I haven’t done this in … thirty-some years, apparently.” The others looked at her with surprise.  Marathel frowned and paused her water pouring.    “I just found that out too.  I forgot to mention that to the Bounty Hunter.  Still not quite sure what a year is, but … forgive me if I suddenly falter.”  She tested the water.  “Still too hot.” 

“Marathel,” called Cobb.  She looked over to see him holding up a small holopad.  “Say again why the number 12 is so important.” 

He’s … what’s the word?  Making a record of me in that little device, so that even when I leave, he’ll still have a piece of me.  Typical man.  Can’t let me have all of myself to myself.  Take take take, like a little boy. Like a Cyilogg.  Like a Bwrrdyr.  Like an Elder. 

Shaking herself back to the present, Marathel tossed some sweet into the oven, which didn’t melt, but it was close.  “Four of us would each make twelve loaves at a time.  One type for the men and boys. One type for the women and girls.  It would have been better if twelve of us could make the bread, but we didn’t have enough cups and bowls.  Well, we might have if we didn’t keep breaking them.  Clumsy cunts, we were,” she said with a dry chuckle. “We had to use the cups and bowls because the loaves had to be a specific size and weight.  Perfection in bread form.  It was considered an honor to be one of the four making bread.  I was taken off bread-making shortly before I left the Hold.  I had one of my fainting spells, and I pulled several of the men’s loaves down to the floor with me, and they couldn’t be salvaged.  The head kitchen Diwhyn would have stripped my hands, but I cut myself badly enough on a broken bowl to nearly sever my little finger.”   

Marathel looked at the thick scar at the base of that finger, mostly obscured by the metal splint.  “I had forgotten all about that until now.  Hmm.” After studying the scar for a while longer, Marathel looked up, blinking at the line of cups, as if trying to remember where she was and what she was doing.  “But you were asking about the number twelve. When you have 12 women, they can break off into 66 possible pairs.  Then you can break 66 apart to get 6 and 6, then you can make them 12 again.   Gyll’wdh chi triiar whundil yn tyfu'n awhl gyda'n gilyff, we said amongst ourselves — just the women, that is — which means ‘you can break us apart, but we will grow back together.’  Now the water is almost right.” 

Marathel picked up a bowl that held dry leavening. She sifted it with a spoon, and then measured a spoonful of the stuff in the palm of her hand.  She did the same with a small bowl of sugar.  She placed both bowls in the crook of her arm and gripped the spoon in the other.  She took a breath, and sang: 

“Cowyn bach o wd’dr gymwsh,  Arn’erygg anyl fyd’dwsh,  Mewn iddi eidiwsh nach oery  Byddhi'n anad’wl’u,  Gadewsh iddi hi’n ei bywyd  Anad’wl’u ei ni bywyd.” 

As she sang, Marathel went down the line of cups, adding leavening and a tiny bit of sugar to each cup of water, then stirring briskly.  She repeated the last two lines until she finished the last cup.  Humming, she went back to the first cup and frowned.  “Your leavening breathes a little slower, I think.  It’s breathing nicely though.  Oh, what I said was:   

Little cup of water, take this gift  Breathe life into her  Do not burn or chill  Let her breathe her life  She will breathe her life into us. 

Now I must get the dry ingredients mixed while the leavening continues to breathe.” 

As Marathel spooned flour and salt into the bowls, she sang, “Ash’yd a flw’ad, pinsywd a holyn,” in a rhythmic manner.  “Cup of flour, pinch of salt.”  Stirring the dry ingredients with her hands, she chanted, “Flw’ad, holyn, cwsan, cwsan!” 

“Flour and salt, stir, stir’?” asked Cobb. 

Marathel turned slightly pink.  “Flour and salt … kiss, kiss.”  She went back up the line, digging a small divot in each bowl of dry flour, singing, “Bidd cladd’ia,” at each one.  “Dig a little grave,” she clarified.  “We bring the leavening to life and then we bury her alive.”  She glanced at the four pensive-looking people sitting on the kitchen table, watching her.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill her,” she said with a small smile, continuing her task and humming.  The others looked at each other, all worried about her mental state.  Nonplussed, Marathel picked up a wooden paddle and poured the leavening mixture into the first bowl’s flour divot.   

“Claff’wsh hi i lawr,   Claff’wsh hi yn d’fawr,   tall’wsh ei hawyr i t’wr!” 

Marathel pulled the bowl into the crook of her arm and vigorously stirred, chanting, “Doffeg ar y de’wyth, doffeg ar y che’wyth!”  Flour flew up in a little cloud as she stirred, and Marathel slung the first bowl back to the table, leaving it spinning while she moved to the next bowl and repeated the process with the same chants. By the time she was halfway down the table, the others were chanting with her, making Marathel smile, even though their pronunciation was terrible.  She’d forgotten she missed this part of Hold life. The next bowl she chanted in Basic.  “Bury her down, bury her deep, cut off her air!  Twelve to the left, twelve to the right…” 

“Punch up, slap down, fight fight fight!”  said Cobb, and the others gave him an odd look.  “Well, obviously none of you went to the local murderball matches when you were kids.” 

Marathel laughed, surprising them all.  “No sitting down in the kitchen!” she said, and she continued down the line.  The last six bowls she added honey, singing,  

“My’el wsh ef, my’el wsh ef,   dagon i by’dio an ny’dio,   oher bywyd yn llonydd.  Pace an ny’dio,   bywyd yn llonydd.” 

Marathel sobered again when she’d finished pouring the honey, thinking about how the words she’d just sung translated from Oldtalk to Newtalk.   Finally, she sang,  

“Sweeten him, sweeten him,   enough to not hurt us,   for we will be still.    Please don’t hurt us,   for we will be still. 

This bread is for the men.  They get honey in their bread.”  She sighed deeply and chanted again, “Doffeg ar y de’wyth, doffeg ar y che’wyth,” while she stirred the mixtures in the remaining bowls together.  This job done, she tossed another small handful of flour on the tops of each bowl and saying “Cws’yl, cws’yl,” in a little song-song voice as she went up the line. 

“What did that mean, Marathel?” asked Cobb. 

“Oh … cloud, cloud, like a little poof of flour.” Marathel dumped out the first bowl on the table, scraping the bowl clean with the wooden paddle.  “Silnima!  I forgot to grease the pans!  And I need oil!”  Silnima hurried over, setting the oil bottle next to Marathel’s elbow, and then she went to grease the pans as directed.  Marathel, meanwhile, attacked the first ball of dough, singing: 

“Gyd’wsh ei, lop’wsh ei, treb’wysh ei,  Duegyn iddi gusfydd hel ei!  Dygsu bwth yn gusfyyd, gws’wsh hully eto ei!  Tachga’le, machcy’le, gwlly nyt’twsh ei!  Neu’gwny Belwhyn honi, onsah gusfydd ei!” 

Marathel kneaded the dough in syncopation with the words twice through, finishing with coating the loaf with oil, and then throwing the dough with great force into the pan on the final word.  As she continued down the line, her singing and kneading took on a more frenetic quality.  By the time Marathel had finished the sixth loaf, she was singing at the tops of her lungs, and kneading and flipping the dough almost haphazardly.  After throwing the loaf into the greased pan, she stepped back from the worktable, breathing hard, her hands trembling at her sides. Marathel said,  

“Grab her, flip her, slap her,  Make her learn her place!  She will never learn, so do it again!  Harder, faster, pull her hair!  Or make a Belwhyn out of her, if she won’t learn!” 

Marathel stood silently for several moments before turning over the next ball of dough on the table.  She went back to kneading, but sang quietly, under her breath.  The last six dough balls were oiled and returned to their bowls.  “The honey loaves are braided.”  Marathel took a loaf and shaped it some before deftly cutting it into four even pieces.  “It is a braid with four strands.  It represents … the four ways …” Marathel’s voice crackled.  “The four ways … a Whyn is … taken. 

Whyn, ben’wy, as’whyn, tw’ylo.  Mhynd ma’dy sot maen a ei.” 

Again, Marathel moved in beat with her words.  She took each lobe of dough and twirled it once before deftly braiding the loaf and placing it in the oiled pan. 

“Cunt, hands, ass, mouth.  This is how he takes her.” 

Quietly, Marathel said, “I said that the only song made the bread baking fun, didn’t I?  I suppose … I never thought about the words,” as she began working on the next ball of dough.  “I suppose I was still when I made bread in the Hold.  But now, when I come to think of it, I don’t make the loaves for men anymore.  Well … why would I, once I left the Hold?”  She picked a piece of dough out from under a splint on her finger.  “I couldn’t eat the men’s food, so why would I make it for myself?  And I never sang the only song after I left the Hold. I haven’t made the men’s or the women’s bread for … I guess … thirty years.  However long that is, I don’t know.  I only make simple crusty rounds, now.”  Marathel silently prepared the last of the braided loaves, and then tossed some sweetener into the oven.  The sweet melted.  “Would you please put these in, Silnima?  I just need to slash the women’s loaves.”  Silnima began sliding in the bread pans, and Marathel picked up a sharp knife, slashing the unbraided loaves deeply from the center to one edge.   

“Bywyd, bywyd, fwl’ono dy,   Huetor’dyl yn y gwr’wsh ei,   Rhony’dwl nildy fywy mw’an inni bywyd,  Bywyd, bywyd, fwl’ono dy. 

Breathe, breathe your last,   Let her bask in the heat,   Give us your life that we may breathe,  Breathe, breathe your last.” 

Marathel’s brow was deeply furrowed, and her lip trembled as she placed the remaining pans in the oven, and then tossed some water into the oven as well, creating steam.  Collecting all the bowls and cups, Marathel said, “I’ll wash these, and when I’m done, so will be the bread.” 

Silnima began, “I can wash those …” 

“If I wash them, then the bread will be done when I am.”  Marathel found the soap and a dish brush and set to scrubbing.  “We usually did an egg-white wash on those loaves; Silnima, I forgot the eggs.”  Silnima nodded and prepared the egg wash as the kitchen became redolent with the smell of the bread.  

Fennec sat with her hands over her mouth and her eyes full of tears.  There was not a single aspect of this poor woman’s life that was not filled with torture.  Even the act of baking bread, such a simple and innocuous thing — something Marathel enjoyed — was defiled by the males of the Hold and their disgusting treatment of the women and girls.  She got up and went to Marathel at the scullery sink.  “Marathel … please, please don’t go back.  I beg you, please, we all beg you …” 

“Don’t,” said Marathel, not looking up from her task.  “There’s no point.” 

“Din isn’t going to take you back there.  He won’t take you back.” 

“He will.” 

Fennec grimaced.  “No, he won’t, Marathel, not if he ...” 

“He will,” said Marathel firmly as she looked in the oven.  “Almost done.”  Marathel finished up the last of the cups as Fennec stepped back. Using the long wide paddle, Marathel pulled the braided bread out of the oven, turning the loaves out of the pans.  Silnima brushed them with the egg wash.  The loaves were perfect, all matching in size and shape.  Marathel and Silnima did the same with the unbraided loaves, the “women’s” loaves, with their asymmetrically slashed tops.  Cobb wondered — they all did, save Marathel — if that was by design, as the slashed top, to them, could resemble … well, a woman’s area. 

“The bread is … beautiful, Marathel,” said Cobb. 

Marathel stood still, staring at the twelve loaves.  “It will be a while before it is ready to eat.  It continues to bake as it cools.  I think … I think I’ll make small round loaves now.  I think I’m done making Hold bread.  I think I’m … finished with that now.”  She shut her eyes tight, hugged herself hard, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. 

Silnima came over and took Marathel’s hand.  “What do you need, Marathel?” 

Marathel took a deep breath.  “Heavy flat pans.  Perhaps round ones, too … May I also make cake?  I make good cake.  And cookies, if there’s time …” 

Silnima squeezed her hand.  “We’ll make whatever you want.”  Silnima went to find the pans Marathel asked for, while Marathel began searching through the spice rack, opening each jar and sniffing to find the herbs and spices she wanted.  She made a little collection and brought them back to the table and began the process of proofing more leavening.  

Looking over at the table at the others, Marathel said, “You don’t have to stay.” 

Fennec, who had returned to sitting on the table, said sadly, “I’ll keep watching, if you don’t mind.”  Boba said nothing but put his arm around Fennec. 

Cobb shook his head.  “I ain’t leaving, either.  I’m recording this for … posterity.”  For Din.  For myself.  To remind myself that a woman like you existed. 

Marathel shrugged, and began to measure her dry ingredients, using her hands, adding her chosen herbs.  She didn’t sing but she hummed, occasionally whispering a word or two of the only song as she worked.  When she got to the kneading stage, her movements remained calm as she flipped and stretched the dough, working it deftly with her splinted hands.  Leaving the batch to rise, Marathel began mixing batter for spiced cake.  Her soft humming continued, putting Fennec in the mind of a lullaby.  Marathel was sugaring the sides and bottom of a greased cake pan when Fennec said, “Marathel, you said that you left the Hold thirty or so years ago.  Did the Reconstructionists give you an idea of how old you are?” 

Marathel nodded.  “As far as they could figure, I have lived somewhere between forty-five and fifty Basic years.  I’m not sure what that means, precisely … I don’t understand time. Not the way you do.”  Marathel poured the batter in the prepared pans and put them in the oven.  As she went back to working with the risen bread dough, she said, “I understand what I can get done while those cakes bake.  I can track when Mist will come, or when the Dahls will rise to mate, by counting the moonrises and watching where the sun rolls through the sky.  If there is rain, I know when the fairy light insects will come.  If it is dry, I know when the hoppers will swarm.  But years, minutes, hours … I don’t understand these things.” Marathel began placing rounded balls of dough on a prepared sheet pan.  “I understand when the bread dough will rise.  I understand how much yarn I can spin from a handful of creek fattails.  I thought I understood how people are supposed to be, supposed to act.”  She cut diagonal slashes into the small round loaves and put the pans in the oven.   

“Well, hell, Marathel, I don’t understand people at all, so don’t let that bring you down,” said Cobb.  “And you and I are next door neighbors in the age game; same street, anyhow.” 

Fennec snorted.  “Are you one of those people who says that age is a social construct?” 

“Nah, I’m one of those people who doesn’t give a shit.” Fennec and Cobb laughed, and Marathel took another look at Cobb.  He had some wrinkles in his face and some white in his hair and beard, but he was not dour and cross like the men in the Hold who appeared like him.  However, the Hold made terrible people who didn’t laugh and joke like Cobb … or who were fair and honest, like Boba Fett.  The Hold certainly didn’t create women who would fight to the bitter end, like Fennec, or even Silnima … Marathel knew she didn’t want to be on her wrong side.   

I will miss them.  So much.  As much as the Bounty Hunter and his boy.  She wondered just how old the Bounty Hunter was.  She had heard his not-youthful joints creak, seen his not-youthful hands, but his voice had a youthful sound, as if he wasn’t accustomed to using it much.  But then she supposed it didn’t matter.  There was no point in wondering.   

Marathel went back to kneading dough and shaping larger loaves. The small rounds were almost ready.  The oven needed to cool down a small amount for the cake to stay moist.  Silnima was asking if she could slice the first loaves to pass around.  Marathel told her that it should be fine, and Silnima cut a loaf into thick slices and slathered it with a sweet cream spread for the others to try.   

Cobb tore his slice in half and brought it over for Marathel. “The master baker should enjoy her efforts,” he said. 

Marathel gave him a wan smile, but then looked down at the slice.  It was from the braided loaf, the bread that was meant for the men.  “I can’t,” she whispered.  “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

She kept backing up until she bumped into the worktable.  “That’s the men’s bread!” 

Cobb’s eyes narrowed in frustration.  “You’re not in the Hold, Marathel. You can eat what you please.”  He tried to grab to hand, to force her to take the bread, but she kept breaking free of his grasp. 

“I can’t, I can’t … please, don’t make me,” she pleaded before escaping to the oven to pull out the small rounds and put in the larger loaves.  “The cake is almost finished.” 

“Honey …” 

“You will never understand, there are things I cannot do!  I can’t eat the men’s food.  I can’t wear shoes.  I can’t cut my hair …” 

“Can’t cut your hair? …” 

“… and I can’t stay here.   I can’t be anywhere other than where I came from.”   

Irritated, Cobb kept trying to capture her hands.  “Honey …” 

“And no more honey!  Or your… hands, touching me! No more! There’s no point, Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Freetown. Just … no more.” Cobb dropped his hands.  Marathel turned back to the oven and began pulling out the cake.  “Excuse me,” she said, shouldering him out of the way to put the cake pans on the table to cool.  A pan slipped in her hand, and she burned her fingers.  She hissed and went to put her fingers in her mouth, but Cobb seized her hand and put it under the cold tap at the sink, even as she kept struggling against him. 

Looking at her, Cobb said, “And you can keep trying to push me away, push Din away — all of us away.  But it’s not going to work, honey.” 

“You’re a man, you may think what you wish.” 

Cobb’s grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t you do that, Marathel, that kind of game is beneath you.” 

“I don’t know what you mean," muttered Marathel, finally pulling her hand out of Cobb’s grasp. 

“The hell you don’t.” Cobb felt anger rising, which alarmed him; he rarely got angry anymore, there was no point in anger, especially at a woman who deserved so much better.   

“No, I don’t, Cobb Vanth.  I am only a stupid cunt.”  

“Stop calling yourself that!” hissed Cobb. 

“It is what I am.  A stupid, whore cunt.”  Cobb suddenly slapped her across the face. Fennec and Silnima gasped.  Silence filled the room. Fennec put her face into her hands, and Boba held her tight.  Fennec sobbed quietly; Cobb had finally done what she herself had wanted to do for days and given Marathel a smack ... a desire that now she regretted terribly once that cracking noise reached her ears.   

Marathel took a step back, her face blank, her eyes down, her hands going up her sleeves.  Quietly, she said, “You hit me, but I still did not change my mind.” 

Cobb’s face, filled with shock and dismay at what he had done to her, done to a woman, began to crumple.   Whispering, “I’m so sorry,” he stepped back, and then stalked out of the kitchen.  Out of the corner of his eye, he was certain he saw Din lurking in the shadows, but Cobb didn’t want to deal with his shit as well, so he continued in the opposite direction. 

Two down, three to go, thought Marathel as she gathered the pans to clean them.  She sensed movement from the table and looked over to see that Fennec and Boba had finally left. 

Silnima quietly joined Marathel at the scullery sink, and they did the task together.  “What do you want to make next, Marathel?” asked Silnima. 

“Perhaps more of the small rounds … and maybe some sweet bread, if you have dried fruit.”  Silnima nodded.  “Maybe, Silnima, you can teach me how you make a sweet bread.” 

“I know a good one that uses a local squash, and needs no leavening,” said Silnima.  

“That sounds good.  Can we?”  Silnima nodded again, and they cleaned the pans in silence, occasionally bumping elbows.   Marathel sensed a familiarity between the two of them, and it wasn’t just about kitchen work and bread making.  “It’s just us, now.” 

Silnima nodded.  “Yes, it is.” 

After a few more minutes of silence, Marathel asked, “Who was this Jabba the Hutt?” 

“A most disgusting creature.  He was the crime lord for this area.  He had … peculiar tastes.  Boba knew him back then.  I was here too … but as a slave … and a woman of pleasure.”  Marathel could hear the disgust in Silnima’s voice.  “That foul fat worm made me do the most horrendous things.  Not unlike those Elders where you came from.” 

“But he is now dead?” 

Silnima nodded.  “Killed by members of the Rebel Alliance.  A princess turned soldier strangled him with the very chain he used to imprison her.” 

“Good for her.” 

“It was hard for a while, once I was freed.  I kept running back to what I knew – which was easy -- rather than crawling forward to learn new skills, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And now my life is infinitely better.”  Silnima sighed and began drying the clean pans.  “You hear what I’m saying, Marathel?” 

“I do.” 

“But are you listening to me?” 

“I am.  Can we start on that squash bread of yours now?” 

Silnima pursed her mouth.  If Marathel was listening, she was not going to be deterred, which made Silnima’s heart ache.  She finished scrubbing a pan and gently placed a hand on Marathel’s shoulder.  “I’ve felt like you do now.  Defeated, lost, that you’re worth less than nothing because of what they did to you, that you deserved what they did to you ...  thinking they’re right …  whomever they are.  And people like Cobb and Fennec and Boba … they don’t get it, do they?  Fennec comes as close as she can, trying to help people like me.  And you.   

“It’s like being at the bottom in of the deepest, darkest pit, with only a tiny bit of sky visible above you, and no matter how hard and far you climb, that little patch of light doesn’t seem to get any bigger … but as long as there’s sky up there, you have something to climb up towards, right?”  Marathel sighed.  The deep dark pit, she understood perfectly.  But there was no patch of sky, no light above her; only more darkness.  No ladder to climb out with.  And she felt that she still had further down to go. Silnima drew Marathel into her arms, held her tight, and stroked her hair.  “I promise you, Marathel, as sure as the Maker made little black melons, that it will get better.”  Marathel didn’t believe that at all.  Nothing was so bad that it couldn’t get worse.  And she didn’t know who this Maker was; if the Maker was anything like Frith, the Maker was certainly another tymffod, so she just remained silent. 

Silnima released Marathel, and they went back to baking.  For hours they baked bread, cakes, sweet breads, small hand-held pies containing minced fruit, soft cookies with sweet icing, hard nutty biscuits for dunking in caf ... only speaking when necessary for the task at hand. Eventually, Silnima was so exhausted she left Marathel alone with another plea to reconsider leaving Tatooine.  Marathel only responded with a kiss on Silnima’s cheek before she went back to scrubbing the pans yet again. 

An hour or two before dawn, Marathel was sitting alone in the nearly dark kitchen, elbows on the table, hands clasped together against her mouth as she considered the enormous array of baked goods on the worktable.  She heard Din’s voice, flat, uninflected, saying, “You’re done?” 

Marathel sighed.  “We ran out of flour.” 

“I should think so, looking at all that,” he said, sitting down at the other end of the table, mimicking her pose.  He sighed as well.  “I could hear you singing your only song from my room.  I hated it.” 

Marathel shrugged.  “I hate it now, too.  The bread-making part, at least.” 

“I hate your Hold, and what was done to you there.”  Marathel’s throat filled with tears, so she only nodded.  “I hate that Cobb struck you.  If I were in here, I would have...” 

Marathel quickly said, “No! It was nothing, nothing of consequence.  He was angry with me, and the fault is mine.”  They were silent for a few moments.  “Is it time to go?” 

“Not yet.”  Din took a deep breath, then said, “Marathel, please, don’t make me ...” 

“I am not discussing this further.  There is no point.” 

“Why are you making me take you back to the Hold?” 

Marathel’s brow furrowed.  “You’re not taking me back to the Hold, just to Unmanarall.” 

Din turned to her.  “Why does the bite mark burn when you say, ‘there’s no point’?  Why does it burn when I dream that I’ve ... when I dream about you?  What are you doing to me?” 

She shook her head, confused.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m doing nothing to you!” 

With a swift and silent motion, Din stood and swept Marathel off the bench and into the deep shadows at the back of the kitchen, where she could not see at all, and he pinned her fully against the wall.  Her hands trembled against his cuirass, but she did not struggle, because she knew there would be no point; her strength was no match for his.  The Bounty Hunter could snap her neck as easily as a chook leg bone.  “You marked me with that bite, Marathel, as sure as a Dahl marks her mate, like you said to Fennec.  But I was yours before you did that.  I was yours when I saw you smile at Grogu.  I was yours when you invited me into your home.  And I’m so sorry, mesh’la,  I’m so sorry I didn’t save you.  I’m so sorry I didn’t take you away before you ever entered that Hold.  The coins were worth nothing, not if it meant I had to lose you.  And I’m sorry for tonight, I’m sorry I rejected you after you told me the horrible things that were done to you, the appalling life you’ve had to endure.  I’m sorry I misunderstood Cobb comforting you; he was only doing what I should have done!   I’m weak, I’m a coward, I couldn’t bear it, I thought only of myself, and I am so sorry.  I will spend the rest of my life begging for your forgiveness, if you will let me ... but please, please don’t make me take you back to that place.  Don’t make me let you go, please! And don’t you dare say ‘there’s no point’!”  Din undid the catches that held on his cuirass, and he tossed it to the floor.  He undid the top of his flight jacket, grabbed her hand and placed it on his bare skin, over the bite she had left on him.  Marathel gasped; his skin was hot to the touch.   

“Din, no, you must have an infection ...” 

“No, it’s not infected ... well, it was, but Grogu healed me, it’s better now ...” 

“You’re raving, Din, you must have a fever!” 

“I’m not sick, Marathel!  You bit me, Rodanthe told me to love you, you told me to leave my weapons behind and to be still!  You have control of me through this bite mark!” 

Marathel burst into tears.  She tried to pull her hand off Din’s bare skin, but he captured her hand in his.  “You’re not making any sense, Din ...” 

“I don’t understand it either, mesh’la, ner kar’ta, ma’mwsh ha’laa...”  Marathel could hear the tears in Din’s voice, even with the voice modulator in his helmet.  She hated to do this to him, to this good man, but there was no other way. 

There is only this way. 

“Stop it, Din! Don’t you see?  My madness, my sickness, I’m infecting you with whatever disease that I am! I’m dragging you down with me and I cannot let that happen to you!  This is why you must take me back!” cried Marathel. 

“You’ll kill yourself when I take you back!  I know you will!” 

“If that’s what will save both you and Grogu, then YES!  And GLADLY!  Now, LET ME GO!”  Marathel managed to twist halfway out of his grasp, but Din held her fast.  She cried, “If you think I can control you through that bite mark, then you will do as I say!  LET ME GO!” 

The bite mark flared with heat on Din’s chest, making him gasp, and his hold on Marathel faltered.  She broke loose and ran from the kitchen.  Din yelled at her retreating figure, “Haar’chak, Marathel, DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS!” 

At her door, Marathel turned, and said, “I’ll be ready to go when you are,” before shutting the door and locking it. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian angst #din djarin angst #mando angst #star wars fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #pedro pascal characters #pedro stories #pedrostories #mando x fem oc #mando x plus size oc #mando x female oc

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Fifteen (Din).

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C 

word count: 4.3K 

chapter summary: Grogu still has an upset stomach, Din and Marathel discuss diarrhea, Din receives bad news 

warnings:  fluff, angst, mention of stomach illness, mention of sexual/physical abuse and rape of adults and children, English and Mando’a cursing 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***      

You Were Marked: Masterlist   

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Despite spending half the night tending to Grogu’s tender tummy, Din awoke in his captain’s chair well before Nevarro’s dawn, with a crick in his back, just as he thought he would.  Not impressed with his premonitory powers, he checked to see if another message had come through.  None had.  His knees were stiff from being hyper-extended as he rested his heels on the console, and his back was already telling him to get the shab up.  Both knee joints popped loudly as he brought his feet to the cockpit floor.  Enough of this chair-sleeping, he thought.  Today, I’m buying the best damn bedroll on this rock.   

Din stood and twisted at the waist to one side, and then the other.  His spine refused to crack this morning, deciding instead to make his sciatica flare.  Dank ferrik.  He grunted in irritation, climbed down the ladder, and sought out caf in the tiny galley.  While waiting for hot water, Din tried touching his toes, and then deep squats to relieve the tension in his hip.   Grogu wandered out from his quarters right about this time and thinking that Din was playing the running game again, trotted over and copied Din’s movements.  Din chuckled.  “How low can you go, kid?”  Din squatted again, but he was unable to keep his heels on the floor without holding on to something.  Grogu, meanwhile, could practically put his little bottom down without lifting his heels.  Unfortunately, on the third squat, Grogu let go with a tiny squeaking fart.  Din chuckled again and said, “Well, good morning to you too.” 

Din stood once more and did one final squat, this time with his knees spread to stretch out his groin.  Gotta try to keep loose.  Can’t kick ass with a tight groin, as his buir would say.  Grogu copied this move as well, and passed gas again, and the … wetness of the vibrato sound made Din look over.  “That did not sound empty, kid,” he said with a sigh.  Grogu suddenly looked up at Din, looking both embarrassed and ashamed as a little brown-green puddle formed on the floor.  “Hey, buddy, no worries.  I guess you’re not over the trots, huh?”  Din found a couple of old but clean rags, and carefully picked up the boy, taking him back over to the vac tube.  He sat back down on the crate, got Grogu undressed, and waited for the next wave to pass.   

Din was concerned — usually Grogu threw off little bugs like sniffles and trots.  He didn’t seem to have a fever, as far as Din could tell.  Grogu’s tummy gurgled again.  “What’s going on, buddy?”  Grogu whimpered.  “You haven’t had a tummy ache like this before.  But then you probably haven’t eaten a square klick’s worth of sour berries before.”    Grogu seemed to be done for now, so Din wrapped him up in the towels.  “I think I know what might help.”  Din climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and tapped out a holotext. 

DD: I need to speak to Marathel if possible  

Din waited for what seemed like an incredibly long time before a reply pinged through: 

BF: do you have any fucking clue what fucking time it is 

Oops, thought Din.  He’d forgotten the time difference between Nevarro and Tatooine.  It was still the middle of the night there.  He was about to tap out an apology when a message pinged at him. 

BF:  hang tight 

The holopad made its chime that alerted Din that the connection had been broken.  Grogu chirped and looked up at Din. “It looks like we have to wait a bit, kid.”  Grogu snuggled up closer to Din, who stroked his ears.  In a few minutes, there was a ping on his holopad.  Din opened the connection and was surprised to see Marathel’s face projected.   

He hadn’t been gone but one day cycle, and she looked so different than how he saw her in his thoughts.  Marathel looked like she was lying down on her side in bed.  There was a pillow beaneath her head, a blanket over her shoulder, and her hair looked disheveled.  Still, even in the holo projection, her overall color looked better, and her face wound looked more healed.    My mesh’la, my ma’mwsh ha’laa,  thought Din, and Grogu cooed with delight at seeing his Mahr. 

Marathel smiled, looking both surprised and sleepy at the same time.  “Well, would you look at that.  It’s … like I’m looking through a window!”  She tentatively reached out with a finger towards the screen — making Din notice her new finger splints — and then Din saw a shocked look on her face for a nanosecond before the projection disappeared.  Din laughed.  He waited for Marathel to come back.  A moment later, the holopad pinged and Din opened the connection again, this time leaning back in the chair, ankle over his knee, with Grogu sitting on his thigh.  Casual, Djarin.  Good and casual. 

Marathel was looking over the top of the pad.  “So don’t touch until …” 

Din heard Fennec reply.  “… Until you’re done talking.  If you drop the connection again, Din should have captured your signal by then so he can contact you.  I’m going back to bed.  Goodnight, Din, this better be good.” 

“Thank you, Fennec,” said Marathel  with a smile.  Din could hear Fennec grumble, and then Marathel’s eyes returned to her screen.  “This is … I am …” Din could see tears form in her eyes, despite the delight in her face.  “You’re right there.  Both of you.  As close as if you’re here in my room.” 

Din nodded.  “You look wonderful.” Marathel’s cheeks colored, and Din realized what he had said.  “I mean, you look better.  So much better.  The treatment is working?” 

“It seems to be.”  Marathel covered her discomfort by tucking some hair behind her ear.  “You needed to speak to me?” 

I do?  Din suddenly couldn’t remember.  Then Grogu squirmed on his lap reminding him of why he had reached out in the first place.  “Grogu, it’s Grogu.  He still has … stomach trouble after eating all those berries.” 

Marathel’s face pinched with worry.  “Oh, my little Godynferth! How many did he eat?” 

“I’m not sure.  He was outside my care while my helmet was being repaired.” 

“It is now repaired?”  Din nodded.  “Your voice sounds … usual again.  Does Grogu have a fever?” 

“I don’t think so.” Marathel frowned at Din.  “He doesn’t feel warm, but then he might show fever differently than we do.”   

Grogu yawned hugely and grumbled.  “Just then, when he yawned, did he shiver or tremble?” asked Marathel. 

“No.” 

“Show me his gums and tongue.”  Din complied as best as possible, and Grogu gnawed a good hole in the thumb of his glove in protest.  Marathel chuckled and said, “Well, I’m not sure what good I thought that would do, considering his tongue and gums are usually grey.  Please, take off your gloves, and hold one of his ears against your inner wrist.”  Din did so.  “Do his ears feel hot?” 

“Not any hotter than usual, but then I don’t normally touch his ears like this.” 

Marathel smiled.  “I suggest you remember how his ear feels now for the future.” 

“Or I could just tell you that my visor does not show an elevated temperature on Grogu’s heat signature.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Marathel. 

“My visor lets me see temperatures of things around me.  If it’s warmer, it glows brighter.” 

Marathel rolled her eyes so hard Din thought they’d pop out of her head.  “You knew Grogu wasn’t feverish?  You great twmffod!   Is he even feeling poorly?” 

“I’m sorry.”  He wasn’t, not really, for he had enjoyed needling her again.  “No, Grogu is still not feeling well.  I thought if he could see you, he might feel better.” 

“What is happening, baby? Does it hurt?” she crooned to Grogu, who reached out to touch her projection. 

“His, ah … bowels are still quite loose.” 

Marathel shrugged.  “Without a fever, or vomiting, I’d say it’s your usual too-much-fruit.  Also, he may not be able to eat those berries, much like you cannot eat clams.” 

“So, what should I do?” 

“Do you know where the berries came from?”  Din nodded.  “You know the leaves of the berry plant?” 

“I do.” 

“Try making a weak tea from the leaves.  It may stop the rhyddolur.  Often, the leaves fix what the berries have done.  Otherwise, it’ll stop when it stops.” Marathel yawned, covering her mouth with her splinted hand. “And keep both him and your hands as clean as possible, so you don’t catch it too, if it is a catching sickness.  I suspect rhyddolur and armor do not go well together.” 

Din smiled.  “They do not.” 

“If he feels hungry, feed him bone broth, toast, bland white grains.  No peppers. No frogs.” 

“Eggs?” 

“Cooked eggs, yes,” said Marathel, rolling her eyes again. 

“What happens if the tea doesn’t work?” 

“Brace yourself for immediate vomit.” 

Din sighed.  “Fantastic,” he said in the grimmest tone Marathel had ever heard. 

“Don’t worry, it’s usually just one bout, to get rid of the tea,” said Marathel with a deep belly laugh, and Din’s heart about fizzed with the sound. “The problem is, ah … little ones push in all ways?”  To emphasize her point, Marathel pointed in two directions, crossing her eyes for comic effect.  Din groaned in mock disgruntlement, forehead in hand.  She laughed again, and her face softened as she felt sleepy once more.  “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, my little Godynferth. I wish I were there to help.  I would sing and rub your tummy.” 

I wish you were here, too, mesh’la.  And I wouldn’t say no to your rubbing my tummy, either. Din colored under his helmet, surprised at this sudden invasive thought. “We’re heading back tonight; only a couple errands left here.” 

“Then you’ll be back very soon.  This will be my last sleep before I see you.”  Marathel’s eyes kept fluttering closed.  “Feel better, my sweet, my love, we will cwtch when you get back.”   She must have the holopad propped up, thought Din.  He delighted in the fact that she wanted him to come back as much as he wanted to be there.  He wondered what cwtch meant, assuming that rhyddolur was diarrhea.  He watched her fall asleep, unable to tear his eyes away from the projection or break the transmission, wanting to imagine that she didn’t mean Grogu when she said my sweet, my love.  It wasn’t until Grogu began squirming again that Din finally turned off the projection, cursing himself for not recording the holo. 

Later, after Grogu felt empty again, and the sun had come up, Din went out in search of the berry bushes.  He hoped they were where he remembered. Along the way, he encountered another Mandalorian who verified the location of the berry bushes.  She didn’t know about using the leaves for tea, but she was interested in hearing the results.  “Some of the other young ones have had stomach trouble from eating these berries.  It was very dry this year; they are much more sour than usual.” 

Upon finding the berry bushes, Din tried one for himself and it was much more sour than he remembered eating in years past.  He took a selection of the softest, freshest leaves back to the covert and used one of the communal kitchen areas to make tea as Marathel directed.  It made a light brown tea, which didn’t taste like much to him, but Grogu drank it down without incident, along with some cookies made with sinsir root, which another Mandalorian parent said was good for stomach maladies.  Din chatted with her for a moment, trading tips on common childhood illnesses, when he noticed the Armorer across the hall. 

Hurrying over to her, he said, “Please, I beg you to reconsider …” 

The Armorer stood tall.  “The decision has been made regarding the Aurodium coins.  This is the way.” 

Din took a step back and looked down to his feet.  “This is the way,” he muttered. 

“I do hope this Marathel of yours recovers. She seems to have a warrior’s spirit.” 

“She does.” 

“Is she capable of raising warriors?” 

Din looked up at the Armorer, somewhat shocked she was asking such a question about an aruetii, an outsider, a non-Mandalor, comparing her abilities to those within the covert.  “I believe … she is.”  He looked down at Grogu.  “This one has already adopted her as his mother.” 

The Armorer hummed in affirmation as she stroked the boy’s ear.  “Children easily see the truth within their hearts, and the hearts of others. I heard you ate too many sour berries, young one.” 

“He has been ill most of the night.  Marathel suggested making a tea from the sour berry leaves to counteract the berries.” 

“Has it worked?” 

“So far.  Marathel helped raise many children; I trust her instincts,” said Din, a touch of proud possessiveness in his voice, so subtle that the Armorer wondered if Din even heard it. 

“Please give her my regards when you see her, Din Djarin.  And safe travels to you and your young companion.”  Din nodded and left the covert. 

Their next stop was the city center itself; here, Din was able to restock his ship as well as find himself a bed roll far superior to his old one.  He also managed to find a source for synth-blood, which Fennec had requested as Marathel had wiped out their stores.  Din hoped Marathel would no longer require it but purchased both the synth-blood and a large variety of first-aid supplies. He arranged for delivery of his purchases, and then spent some time wandering through the market.  If those rom-com holovids (that he had never watched, of course) had taught him anything, he was required to bring something to Marathel, some sort of token gift.  But what? He had no idea.   

Jewelry was out of the question; she didn’t wear any, and what the seller had was too gaudy in his opinion.  He saw a pretty yellow headscarf, but upon closer inspection thought the fabric couldn’t hold a torch to Marathel’s weaving work and would be insulting to give her.  Shoes?  Shoes would be practical, but he didn’t know her size, and after a second thought, that idea was just plain weird, he told himself.  Sweets?  He didn’t know if she had ever eaten candy or would even like it.  Din bought a bag of his favorite seaweed balls, both salty and sweet at the same time, and made his breath more palatable inside the helmet.  He got some of the blue cookies Grogu liked so much, and then got another box in the hopes that Grogu would be willing to share them with Marathel.  He also found an apothecary who had sinsir root crackers and a mild stomach tea that smelled like Marathel’s digestive tea that he liked so much. 

Near the far end of the market, Din nearly tripped over two children selling woven bracelets, made of fine yarn in complicated patterns. They cowered at the sight of the giant Mandalorian towering over them, but they then softened at Grogu peeking out from his bag.  Din also opened the extra box of cookies and offered one to each of the children … and one for Grogu, of course.  One of their bracelets featured yellow, green, and brown, so Din naturally chose this one.  The children offered to give it to Grogu for nothing, but Din countered the bracelet wasn’t for the child, and paid double their asking price, much to the children‘s delight.  He brought the bracelet into the sunlight, noticing that there was a metallic silver thread within the weaving, making Din even more certain he had made a good choice. 

Din had dithered so much in the market he had to rush to his meeting with Karga.  Fortunately, Karga had run late on his previous appointment, so no one’s time was wasted, and Karga invited Din into his sumptuous offices.  “Mando, good to see you!”  Din nodded in return.  “Sit, sit.  I am sorry that we were not able to assist you with your injured bounty.  Were you able to get them help?” 

“I was able to get her to Tatooine,” said Din. 

Karga pounced on the pronoun her.  “A woman?  That was the bounty on that nowhere planet?  Well, now, I’m interested in hearing about that.”  Din just looked at Karga with a level gaze.  “So, wait. The coins were real … you got the coins and the mark?”  Din did not reply.  “Come now, friend, you have to give me something.” 

Din wondered if Grogu could squeeze out a bit of diarrhea on Karga’s desk.  “The bounty payment was in fact the Aurodium coins.” 

“Your covert must have been delighted.” 

“The coins … were not accepted. I need advice on how to fence them.” Din tossed one to Karga, who caught it expertly and held it up. 

“Kriffing museum quality, Mando.”  Karga turned it over and over, looking closely at the maker’s marks, the reeded edge.  “As far as I can tell, this is legit.”  Feeling the weight in his palm, he said, “I don’t know enough to say if it’s more valuable as the coin or the amount of gold it contains.  What I do know is that this would have been more valuable during the Empire.  People went crazy, wanting to hold on the the Old Republic gold standard.  And you actually got 167 of these?”  Din nodded, and Karga leaned back in his chair with a sigh.  “I suppose this ties into the question you messaged me.” 

“It does.  And take the coin out of your pocket.” 

Karga grinned and tossed the coin back towards Din.  “Once a thief, always a thief.”  Karga’s smile dropped off his face.  “You wanted to know what the New Republic’s attitude was towards societies that are outside the influence of either the Empire or the Republic.”  Din nodded.  “The short answer is, they don’t give a shit.  The longer answer … if it’s a primitive culture that has had no influence of an outside society, be it Republic or Empire, then they leave it alone.  Something about preservation of indigenous culture.  Not that they cared much about that before, but apparently, it’s a new era.” 

Din tilted his helmet.  “But it’s not a primitive culture.  They speak Basic as well as their own language.  They had Old Republic coins.  They had a beskar hammer.  And they were able to send a sub-ether message.  It’s not as if that Hold dropped out of nowhere.  They are all humans.  Those people came from another place.” 

Karga shrugged.  “Perhaps they had visitors long ago that left artifacts behind.  Maybe they crash-landed there a few millennia ago and never left.  What does the woman say?” 

“She doesn’t know anything.  The society is highly misogynistic and cruel to women.” 

“So that’s the trouble,” said Karga, leaning forward with a smile.  “Your desire to rescue maidens fair.” 

“Brutally raped women and little girls forced into pregnancy pisses me off, yeah.”  Karga’s smile faded, and he looked down to his desktop with chagrin. “So, what I’m hearing is that the Republic will do nothing?” asked Din. 

“Sorry to say, Mando.  You’re on your own with this one.”  Karga leaned back again.  “I can give you four thousand for that coin right now, and I may have a buyer for another one.  But … you’re never going to get what they’re worth.” 

“Then I’ll get what I can.”  Din still wasn’t sure whether to tell Marathel about the coins, but he knew they were worthless unless changed into credits.  He kriffing wasn’t sure of what the shab to do about that Hold of hers, or even if it was truly his problem — he had his own damn shit to clean up, and he was a bounty hunter, not the kriffing galaxy police. 

Din bickered with Karga until he got ten thousand for two coins, along with the promise for future leads on potential buyers.  The idea of having to sell the coins piecemeal was chapping his ass, but Din had little choice.  He could potentially ransom more beskar using the coins, but the words the Armorer kept coming back to him — this was not his bounty to keep, but Marathel’s.  Well, I doubt Marathel would begrudge me a percentage.  We’ll call it a finder’s fee. 

“So, when do I get to hear about her?” asked Karga, shaking Din out of his thoughts. 

“Who?” 

“Your secret Jawa harem.  The woman you brought back from the nowhere planet!” 

Din smirked under his helmet.  “Nothing to tell.” 

Scoffing, Karga turned to Grogu. “Well, kid, got anything to say about the lady you two brought back with you?” 

Grogu, finally feeling a little better, said, “Sad Mahr, pree Mahr.”   

Karga looked back at Din. “Translation?” 

“Her name is Marathel. She is often sad.”  With every right to be, and I can’t seem to help her. 

“And Pree Mahr?” 

“That one is new.”  Din stood and said his goodbyes to Karga; he needed to get back to the Crest and return to Tatooine. 

The supplies arrived at the same time Din and Grogu returned to the ship, so Din got everything squared away and ready to leave.  He got the Crest into the air and on its hyperspace course without incident.  Din made some of the tea he had purchased for both himself and for Grogu, as well as some bone broth and the sinsir crackers.  Not a Pree-Mahr-quality meal, but better than ration bars, thought Din, still wondering what the shab pree meant.  Grogu was now feeling much better, so they played a low-cardio version of the running game until Grogu felt sleepy.  Din bathed the boy — making sure to meticulously scrub his own hands again — dressing him in the little sleepwear Marathel had made, and tucked Grogu into his little hammock with the traditional Mando’a goodnight. 

Grogu conked out almost immediately.  Din unfurled his new bedroll, this one so thick and cushy he had to get new undersheets for it.  Din lay down with a sigh.  So comfortable.  I’m getting so soft in my old age.  The second-to-last thought he had before falling asleep himself was that the only thing that would make this bedroll better was for it to crackle with dried rushes and herbs. 

No, scratch that.  What this bedroll needs is Marathel curled up next to me, her hair spread over me like a silver blanket. 

This thought carried Din into a deep sleep, not quite dreamless but nothing more substantial than images of Marathel’s hair floating around him.  It was a few hours later that his holopad — still in the cockpit — began incessantly pinging, the noise finally getting through his helmet and into his sleep. He woke quickly, alert almost immediately after a fulfilling sleep for once.  Grogu was still asleep.  Din pulled himself up into the cockpit, grabbing the holopad and seeing a string of messages from Cobb.  

CV:  Are you on your way back  CV:  You need to get back here as quickly as possible   CV:  GET BACK NOW  CV:  I will be sending a message every ten minutes until you respond 

Din took a breath.  Something terrible must have happened to Marathel.  With a shaking hand, Din tapped out to Cobb: 

DD: What has happened?  CV:  Her treatment has failed 

Din wanted to hyperventilate, but he quickly got his breathing under control. 

DD: What happens now?  CV: She needs to go to the Modifier’s contact, but she won’t leave until she sees you and Grogu in person.  How far out are you?  DD: About four hours, how bad is she? 

Din watched the blinking cursor for what felt like a lifetime.  Finally, the message pinged: 

CV: She might have about three hours 

Din immediately set the controls to push the Crest’s engines as hard and fast as they could go, hoping for as near as an extra point five as the ship could manage. 

DD: Just go now.  Shoot me the coordinates of where you’re taking her, I’ll catch up  CV: Can’t do that, just get back here 

Din frowned in confusion.  What possible reason could there be to delay getting help for his Marathel? 

DD: Why the fuck not?  CV: Not on holo 

Din suddenly wanted to punch the living shab out of someone, and now Cobb just made his shit list. 

DD: Tell her we’re flying as fast as we can  CV: Will do 

Din’s fingers hovered over the holopad, wanting to message: Tell her I love her.  He decided those words could not, would not be uttered to her over a holopad.  Din twisted the little yarn bracelet around and around his fingers, thinking, keep hanging on, ne’kar’ta, cyar’e, mw’mch ha’laa. My wounded acorn, you held on before, you can do it again.  Please wait for me, I’m coming back. 

Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #starwarsficnetwork #din djarin fluff #din djarin angst #mando angst #mando x fem oc #mando x female oc #mando x plus size oc #din djarin x afab oc #din x fem oc

[handspunyarns]

WIP Wednesday: this next chapter is kicking my enormous backside.

“Marathel pushed back hard enough from her feet that she propelled them both into the wall, knocking Din’s breath out of him, and he thought, under Mandalorian tradition, this could have been our first date, if I had given her the hammer as a token of courtship. This thought tickled him, and he let out a chuckle, which he regretted as it immediately infuriated Marathel, and she jabbed her free elbow into his gut as hard as she could, reminding him that he’d neglected to put on his cuirass again, but truth be told, I didn’t anticipate wrestling with a silver-haired hellcat when I woke up earlier.”

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian angst #current wip #my wips #wip wednesday #the writing process #write just write dammit #dammit they’re just great together #even when they’re fighting #mando x plus size oc

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked Masterlist 

a multi-chapter Din Djarin x O/C 

**** please feel free to review, comment, criticize, reblog, and otherwise speak your mind. ****

Pairing: din djarin x *no age gap* *plus-sized* fem!O/C  

Rating: will be 18+  

Story summary: Din accepts an ambiguous bounty for an impressive sum. It takes him days out of the charted galaxy through hyperspace to an unknown planet with inhabitants ruled by men, secretive, and unlike anything Din had experienced before. He meets a woman living alone outside of the protected boundaries of the community…

Story warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, explicit sexual content, non-con sexual content, extreme violence, rape, torture, misogynic culture, revenge, and gluten 

**** please feel free to review, comment, criticize, reblog, and otherwise speak your mind. ****

Click Here to read on AO3

Prologue

Day One

Day One point Five

Day Two

Day Two point Five

Day Three (18+, MDNI, sexual situations)

Day Four

Day Four point Five (18+, MDNI, violence, sexual situations)

Day Five

Day Five point Five (18+, MDNI, sexual situations)

Day Six (18+, MDNI, violence, rape, SA)

Day Six point Five

Day Seven (18+, MDNI, rape, torture, violence, SA)

Day Seven point Five (18+, MDNI, rape, torture, violence, blood, SA)

Days Eight through Eleven (18+, MDNI, rape, torture, violence, blood, SA)

Day Twelve

Day Thirteen

Day Fourteen (Din) (18+, MDNI, sexual situations)

Day Fourteen (Marathel)

Day Fourteen point Five (Marathel)

Day Fifteen (Din)

Day Fifteen (Marathel & Cobb)

Day Fifteen point Five

Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part I

Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part II

Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part III (18+, MDNI, rape, violence, sexual situations)

Day Twenty (18+, MDNI, rape, violence, sexual situations)

Day Twenty-One (18+, MDNI, rape, violence, sexual situations)

Day Twenty-One point Five (Din)

Day Twenty-One point Five (Marathel)

Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part I

Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part II. (18+, MDNI, violence, sexual situations)

Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part III (18+, MDNI, blood, sexual situations)

Days Twenty-Two to Twenty-Six, Part IV (18+, MDNI, violence, rape, sexual situations)

Future Days (coming soon)

#mando angst #the Mandalorian angst #starwarsficnetwork #din djarin angst #Mandalorian angst #mando x female oc #mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin series #din djarin fic #Mando x you #Mandalorian fanfic #pedrofics #pedroficnetwork #din x afab oc #din x plus size fem oc #plus size oc #plus size fem oc #no age gap