Chapter Text
If you’re being honest with yourself, you knew you’d be caught eventually. But you didn’t think it’d be by a Mandalorian. As you're guided forward, forced to trudge your way through the unforgivable heat of Tatooine, you remain ever aware of the looming threat behind you.
One of his hands firmly grips around your left shoulder. So firm that you can clearly identify each of his fingers individually wedged into you. Though you can’t see or feel his other hand, you presume it’s holding onto the cuffs that lock your hands together behind your back. A pathetic trip on your part and an immediate yank backwards on his confirms it - yep, his right hand is definitely holding on.
The fact that you can even trip on flat terrain is evidence that your mind is busy elsewhere. It’s awash with activity, desperately trying to understand and then calculate your destiny. Thoughts burst to the surface, each one so clear and distinctive, yet quickly extinguished by the very next one. Where is he taking me? Should I try to run? Will he hurt me? You stumble again. So far, you’ve done more damage to yourself.
You’re so caught up in being caught, that it’s only after some time has passed that you realise the metal man behind you has not spoken a word. No words were exchanged when he burst through the door of the abandoned hut you were hiding in. Or when he wrestled you still enough to place you in handcuffs.
Actually, you’re not sure why you even went with him. You did put up a fight... at least, you were fighting, he was just hanging on while you wiggled around to try to escape his grip. But anxiety boils inside of you, as you’re struck by the realisation that you don’t truly know who he is.
“Uh.. do you…do you have a-a bounty on me?” you ask, as you tentatively move your head to the left to speak over your shoulder, continuing onward to Maker knows where.
Nothing. You move your head back, wanting to conceal not only your shame of being caught but also your shame of going with him without asking why. Then, his left hand moves from your shoulder and swiftly returns outstretched in front of your face. There, in his grasp, is a small box rapidly blinking red.
Maybe he’s shy, not much of a talker. Or maybe your question was so stupid, it wasn’t worth a verbal response. You go with the former, though your outright admission that you do indeed have a bounty on your head would support the latter. You give a short firm nod, trying to appear confident, and the tracking fob retracts from your vision. His hand returns to your shoulder, though this time, with a slightly looser grip.
You’ve heard tales of the Mandalorian people - trained fighters, directed only and fiercely by their creed. You never thought you’d find yourself in the presence of one, let alone be at the whim of one. Yet, here you are. Though it does leave you wondering, why you? You’re smart, no doubt about that, even the modest in you can admit it. But you’re an easy catch, and you’d assume with his upbringing, he’d prefer hunting a more skilled quarry.
You scan the horizon, searching for any sign of hope - even a Jawa could be helpful to you right now. But this part of the planet was deserted, merely a barren land devoid of life. If you had the tenacity to flee, there’s nowhere to hide from his likely shot. And in the absurd scenario that you manage to outrun your bounty hunter, there’s the risk of encountering Tusken Raiders - and your Tusken is a bit rusty.
Your choice to seek refuge on this desolate planet was not a choice at all. It was where fate had led you, simply where the ship you stowed away on had landed. Your ill-thought-through escape is evident in your impractical outfit. The harsh heat scolds your skin, and the wind continues to whip sand at your exposed body.
As unforgiving and relentless as Tatooine is, it was the presence of the Mandalorian behind you which dominated your thoughts. You had only seen him for a few fleeting moments, your memories now condensing the chaos of your earlier capture in a flurry of seconds. But the image of his imposing silhouette, illuminated against the twin sun’s light as he stood in the doorway of the hut, is burned into your brain.
Though you can’t see him now, you can feel him. And not just his physical touch, too. But him: his essence, his aura. It’s undeniable, the sheer volume of power and authority radiating from every fibre of his being. Even out of sight, he filled your mind.
You’re not sure how much time has passed. Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, you’ve been unable to notice the twin suns dipping further into the horizon and the cool air beginning to chill your body. And reality remains that way, distant and detached.
That is, until, it suddenly appears.
There before you stands a large imposing ship, with two weighty engines on either side. It’s hidden snugly amongst the boulders and ridges of the land, the ominous machine at odds with the organic environment. Your eyes scan the vessel, in awe of its size, only breaking away when the day's remaining sunlight catches and forces you to squint.
The door hisses open, and before you realise it, you’re walking up the ramp of the ship. Once again, your mind is out of sync with your body. Only when you face the carbon-freezing chamber does it snap into a sharp focus. Your body tenses. Your heels dig into the floor. And with a thud, you collide into the Mandalorian’s chest, stopping you both short.
“No wait, please… I, um, I don’t… I’m-I’m not a threat. Really, I-I have no weapons, I’m not a fighter”, you beg. Your plea spills out in a frenzy, words escaping before you can take conscious ownership of them.
“I’m not a threat” you repeat with a violent shake of your head, though you probably didn’t need to say it at all. Even with all your erratic movements, it was like you were pushing up against a wall with how taut the Mandalorian’s body remained. Anyone could see you weren’t a threat, let alone one of the deadliest mercenaries in the galaxy.
You stare into the carbon-freezing chamber, and the images of what could happen next come to life from the stories you were told growing up. The cold, the silence, the dark. Suspended in time, left only with the immense realisation that you’re trapped in your own body. The small town you grew up in didn’t get many visitors, so most of what you learned was through the elders and their stories. How much of their stories are true is another question, but you don’t want to be the one to find out. You try to ease your mind, thankful that at this moment, not all of your thoughts so readily slip out of your mouth.
“Just…just let me…I can - I’ll stay still, please… you won’t know I’m here,” you add.
In a bid to give weight to your words, you lean over your shoulder and stare into his visor for the first time since your capture. Your voice goes limp at the empty void gazing back.
“I’ll be good,” you manage to whimper out. You continue to peer into the darkness, guessing with such conviction where his eyes would meet yours behind the helmet.
Before your capture on Tatooine, you’d spent the past few months on Canto Bight, lured there with the promise of excitement and opportunity that was absent from your small-town existence. For those with credits to spare, it was their playground. But unfortunately for you, you were their toy. After a streak of bad luck, you were forced to flee with a few credits and a lot of debt. Although gambling had helped you get accustomed to reading others, that knowledge was no use here. With the Mandalorian, there was nothing you could read.
“I’ll be good for you,” you say softly, gradually easing out each word to ensure he knows you're being sincere.
Against your mind's will, you force your body to relax, silently signalling to him that you mean to be no threat. Though with all your submission and pleas, you're surprised to feel his grip on your body doesn’t ease, but tighten… why?
“And if…if I do anything, you can…just…you can-” The words catch in your throat, but you’re committed to seeing them through “-kill me. And, uh…” You trail off, as the weight of what you’ve just readily suggested begins to sink in.
Your eyes are pinned wide and your breath shoots out of you in shallow, rapid bursts.
Eventually, you hear a sigh from behind the helmet, its tone sounding more annoyed than concerned at your emotional outburst.
“I’d prefer you alive,” a low voice huffs, as he shifts his weight onto his left foot.
“Yes-yes, me… me too?” you respond, though more as a question than you intended.
I’d prefer. Apparently, your life was a preference. What a strange thing to say - not threatening, definitely not kind. But even as you ponder his aloof response, you find yourself less interested in what he said, and more interested in how it sounded. His voice is deep, earthy and rich, masked slightly by the faint mechanical twang of his modulator. It sounded as though it was the first thing he had spoken in days.
With nothing more said, you turn your head back to face the carbon-freezing chamber, hoping that your negotiating - if you could even call it that - has saved you from the nightmares you’ve only heard about.
Relief washes over you when finally, his grip on your shoulder loosens, leaving his hand to merely rest against your upper back.
Moments pass, his touch holding you in a state of uncertainty. With tension building, your eyes flicker anxiously from side to side as you wait for his next move, until…
Slowly, his hand begins to descend down your back. Instinctively, you freeze, unsure of whether you’re in danger or not. But his touch is tender now, far from the roughness of before.
The smooth leather glove brushes past your shoulder blade, then near the curve of your waist before halting at your left hip. Each movement is deliberate, leaving every inch of you on edge, as your skin tingles with anticipation to feel his next.
He delicately wraps his fingers around your hip, leaving his thumb to lightly trace the subtle dip of your back’s left dimple with small brushes back and forth. It’s an area that feels so intimate for a stranger to discover, but you stand obediently still, allowing his hand to explore where his mind wanders.
Now, he wasn’t using brute force, but his power over you remains. The longer you feel his touch, the more you crave it. As the connection deepens, you find yourself listening less to your fearful thoughts and more to the desires of your body.
Wanting so desperately to catch a glimpse of the man behind the intimacy, you move your head a fraction to your left. But just as soon as you do, his helmet barely in the corner of your vision, the quiet moment is shattered. The Mandalorian’s hand quickly recoils off of your body to wrestle with your handcuffs, your wrists becoming free as they come crashing down.
The sound of his footsteps scatter around behind you, as he paces the deck. You can’t see what he’s doing, you just hear his abrupt and haphazard actions and the ship’s loud and shrill reactions, each sound jolting you further into tension. But then, the ship’s door begins to hiss shut.
Though you’d escaped being frozen in carbonite, you were still trapped on the ship. All you knew for certain was that you had to remember one thing - be good.