The Vow: Chapter III
(Dark) Din Djarin x fem!reader
masterlist
Summary: The Mandalorian decides his old methods of punishment aren't cutting it out for his sweet girl.
Warnings: *scroll to bottom of chapter before reading
The Marker
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You have about 15 seconds to do this. Probably less.
Despite the sensitive time issue, you still take a moment to grunt obnoxiously loud, angrily kicking both your feet against the sealed durasteel, pointedly demonstrating your unhappiness, as if that wasn’t clear already. The soles of the Mandalorian’s boots echo irritably against the hold as he stalks away from you, having locked you inside the bunk again. It’s become his favorite form of punishment, when dealing with your snarkiness has finally struck his last nerve.
You’ve really been testing him the last few days, testing your boundaries. And growing more bold as you drew the lines between what you could and couldn't get away with. Already you’ve learned that for the most part, he’s unwilling to do more than just intimidate you into submission and confine you to the closet you’ve been sleeping in, alone thankfully.
Despite your crossness at being locked up again, this was actually the reaction you had been hoping for. With the stolen writing tool in hand, you quickly raise yourself up into a crouch on the cot, bitterly uncapping the marker and committing irreversible damage.
The rub of ink squeaking against the camera lens is just as satisfying to hear as it is to see.
And about to be as detrimental to you as it was to the camera when he realizes what you’ve done.
You lower away from your crime, leaning back on your knees to admire your art, acknowledging that you only have about a second to do so in gratification before-
“-WHAT!”
…That.
Heated strides are pounding against the floor above you instantly, retracing their steps. You ready yourself for the shit-storm that’s about to hit you. He was already pissed, that’s why he - literally - threw you in here not even a standard minute ago. But your window was limited in the first place, so you had to take advantage. The destruction had to be done one, before he realized that you’d swiped his marker. And two, in a time-frame you knew for certainty that he wouldn’t be staring directly at the monitor.
Admittedly, your smug, self-satisfaction was diminishing with each second his pounding footsteps neared you.
The door slides open with a dramatic hiss, revealing the fuming Mandalorian already reaching in to find the weapon on you. It isn’t hard. You’re sitting there on your knees, uncapped marker shamelessly propped up in your wrist. You’re ready to own this.
And oh he’s absolutely boiling, instantly snatching the marker out of your hand.
It’s almost comical really. The way he’s kneeled over you in the bunk, looking rapidly back and forth between the fresh marker he’s fisting and the blacked-out camera in the corner, like he can’t believe what you’ve actually done. He scratches at the lens, examining its fixity. You did good. It’s amusing, until his gaze turns to you.
Oh, you just know he’s giving you the look. The now you’ve fucking done it look. But what’s worse is the stare you’re hitting him back with. Pure defiance. You can almost see it fueling his rage, and it’s absolutely delicious.
The grip on the marker in his fist tightens, worn leather rubbing against cheap plastic. And his shoulders rise and fall with deep, only semi-controlled exhales. The slight crack in his resolve makes you preen, and your eyes reflect your triumph ever-so-slightly.
You’ve never heard him huffing with such laboriously controlled breathing as he is right now, like wind blowing on a cheap holo-recorder. He visibly gulps down his rage before whipping the marker up in front of your eyes.
“Where. Did you get this.”
It’s not even a question, it’s a demand for you to answer.
You keep your mouth shut, having felt unduly rebellious this morning and dangerously uncaring of the consequences.
He glares down at you, presenting you with the opportunity to change your mind about your muteness. Silent for much longer than you would have given him credit for, he finally huffs out a breath and looks away from you, shaking his head.
Another surge of pride swells in your chest. Pride at your insurgence. Pride in how you’re wearing him down.
But that feeling quickly diminishes in your gut, replaced with confusion, and a little bit of insecurity, when his apparent show of irritation turns into slow, disbelieving chuckles.
The smugness on your lips slowly pulls down into worry, until your smirk has sunken down into a tense frown and your eyes widen in anticipation of his next action. You watch him, silently, once again reminded of how unhinged this man is, and second-guessing your boldness given your situation.
He continues shaking his head, the movements short and instinctive, almost as if he isn’t actively attempting the motion. He stops only when his gaze lands on you, and stays there. The satisfaction on your face is wiped clean off. From the way his helmet is tilted at you, meaningfully, contemplative, you get the feeling that this time, he’s going to do more than just lock you in the bunk for a time-out.
Your eyes sting, demanding you to blink and forcing you to miss a half-second of your weary observation of him. Uncertainty slowly growing in your chest, mixed with a little bit of regret.
But no, it had to be done. You couldn’t let the opportunity slip to fight back, to show him that you weren’t going to roll over and submit to his rule so easily.
Nevertheless, the harsh glare from his visor is making you anxious, fidgeting slightly in your place as you lose nerve. Your gaze flickers downwards before you force it up again to maintain your stance. You box out your shoulders, straighten your spine, and hit him with it - the look.
Do your worst, asshole.
He hums, a calm and unsettling noise that, admittedly, sounds a little bit like,
Oh, I will.
He’s propped back into the door frame now, visor still locked onto your face, turning the marker over pensively in his gloved fingers. He lets you worry for a while, occasionally tilting his head to look at the scribbled over camera before landing on you again. Letting the closed-end half of the pen lean up against the wall with his wrist, he rests his weight there, tapping it in a thoughtful manner.
The sound is taunting, loud in the quiet room. It sings, ‘What are we going to do with you?’ with each tap. But despite your nerves, there’s still enough defiance in you to hold your gaze with him, however meek it may look, patiently awaiting your sentencing.
You’re preparing yourself for something new. Having definitely brought the troublemaking up a notch. If back-talk could get you locked in your bunk for having a snotty attitude, then you’re pretty sure destruction of property would entail a little more than that.
Whatever the hell it takes to make this asshole drop you off on the nearest planet and wish he’d never wasted the time.
All things considered, the words he chooses definitely succeed in puzzling you a little bit.
“Give me your arm.” The Mandalorian says, hand still thoughtfully twirling the marker between his fingers.
You blink at him.
“My…my arm?”
He nods at you, “Give me your arm.”
His hand is raised out toward you now, open palm awaiting the weight of your arm expectantly.
Your gaze flickers between his pressuring gaze and extended palm.
No. You want to say.
I don’t know what this is. But no.
I’m good.
“Hurry up,” He encourages. You’re offset by the way he’s talking. Relaxed, satisfied. Like he’s the real winner of this round. And just like that, he’s succeeded in putting you in your place again, holding something invisible over your head that makes you nervous, that warns you to obey.
Reluctantly, but careful not to take too long, you lift your forearm out to him, eyes cautiously watching him and his movements.
He closes the distance between his palm and your wrist, turning it over gently in his hand until he’s pleased with the side displayed to him. With clear intent, he lowers his resting arm, still holding the uncapped marker, and draws a short, straight line across the expanse.
He releases his hold on you, but you keep your arm floating in the air, staring at the line for a moment. The crooked, horizontal mark ugly on your skin.
You’re about to ask, even though you’re inclined not to, when he interrupts you with a gentle finger hooking under your chin, redirecting your gaze to him.
“Where’s the cap, sweet girl?”
“Um..” You blink, “It’s- uh.”
You’re still trying to wrap your head around the meaning of the line on your arm, and he wants to know about the kriffing cap?
He tilts his helmet at you, inquiring again.
“I…I dropped it.” Your gaze falls to the ground, searching for where the lid to the marker rolled off of the cot. You catch sight of the shiny piece of plastic resting next to his boot, “There.”
You look up at the Mandalorian, whose gaze hadn’t followed yours to the ground. “Down there?” He asks, nudging his head down yet still maintaining contact with you.
You nod your head, tentatively.
“Well be a good girl and pick it up.”
That has you swallowing, nervously glancing down again at the cap by his heel. Reaching down would put you in a very precarious position. Hunched over the edge of the bed with your knees still propped up on the end. You have the feeling he won’t do you the courtesy of moving out of your way. After all, he wants you to squirm under him. He wants the show of dominance.
You curse him mentally, knowing he won’t give until you do as he says. Your jaw sets as you crawl closer to him on your knees, reaching the edge of the cot. He’s at a much greater height advantage with you in this position, kneeling on an already low surface. You tilt your head up, the edge of his helmet resting down against his chest, giving him the semblance of power and authority. You decide to try asking, even though you already know the answer.
“Would you mind mov-”
“Yes.” He interrupts impassively. Like he’s about ready to lose his semblance of calm again, which makes your teeth grind, “I would, very much, mind moving. Now lean down and pick up the cap you dropped when you were being a brat.”
You clench your jaw.
Just do it. You defaced a valuable part of his ship that he used to keep an eye on you and he let you off scot-free. Just this once, let him humiliate you. You still destroyed the camera. You won.
It takes you a beat. But slowly, you bend your upper body down, crouching as much as you can without compromising your body’s integrity. He’s planted firmly in the ground, as always, your vision gliding down his unmoving form as you lower before him. You tense as your face nears his thighs, quickly moving further and stretching your fingers towards the lid. Your fingers graze it, just about to wrap around it when his foot moves, sliding further back and taking the lid with it. Your hands quickly brace themselves flat on the ground, catching the top half of your body before it barrels over.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. You risk a glance up, glaring at him from your vulnerable position by his knees. “Lost my footing.”
It takes everything in you not to snap back at him.
Lost my footing, my ass, you insufferable tree.
You bite your tongue and look at the lid, it’s just a stretch away. You spread your knees further on the cot, quickly reaching out to recover the marker lid and whipping your body back and out from beneath his legs.
“Here,” You spit, thrusting the marker lid toward his chest. His hand whips out and catches your arm before it whacks against his chest, swiftly rotating it and bringing the marker back down to your skin. He slashes a second dark line along your arm and you grunt in agitation, trying to yank your hand away as his grip tightens.
“That one,” He growls, jostling you until you still in his hold, “Is for making me ask twice. And this one,” Wet ink drags along your skin for a third time and you breathe out a long, irritated sigh, watching the third mark stain your skin, “Is for making me put up with the bratty attitude all day.” He drops your arm, swipes the cap out of your hand, and turns on his heel, pocketing the marker as he approaches the ladder.
“You forgot one.” You snarl back, just as he’s about to grab the first railing.
He whips around, “What did you say?” His tone is short, snapping in irritation at the fact that after all that, you still have it in you.
You wrench your arm up, showing him the inside of your arm with three tallies.
“You explained the last two,” You preen, using a mockingly polite voice that’s meant to piss him off further. And oh just from that widened stance you can tell it does. “One for making you ask twice. One for being a brat. So what was the first one for?”
“For destroying my monitor.” He grits out. “But now that you mention it-“
Suddenly the Mandalorian is not across the hold from you but right in front of you. You barely have time to trip backwards and try to lunge behind a crate before he’s gripping your hips and thrusting you against the wall, the impact forcing a whimper from you.
“Give me your goddamn arm.” He growls, reaching for it anyway and nailing it to the wall next to your face. He definitely has your attention now, attitude and courage dead and buried as you feel the weight of him crushing your bones. He whips out the marker with his free hand and your heart nearly stops when he shoves it in front of your mouth.
“Bite.” He orders.
“Wh-what-“
“Do you really want me to ask twice?” He snaps, startling you to respond.
You obediently open your mouth, allowing him to push the top half of the cap between your teeth. You gently bite down, feeling your heart stutter and your legs losing feeling at the way they’re stretched to keep up with the height the Mandalorian has raised you to. The cap stays propped up between your lips as the Mandalorian brings the marker down to your skin again, and for some reason, this starts to feel much less stupid and far more alarming to you.
“That’s one more for not shutting your fucking mouth when it’s good for you,” He hisses, “One for raising your voice at me. And this one,” He pauses, voice lulling down to a scary, deep, timbre, “Is just for my benefit.”
He instantly releases his hold on you and steps back, having finished his work. You lose an inch of your height as you slide down the wall, stumbling to find purchase again on the floor. The cap slips from your lips and you gasp as you hear it clanging off somewhere in the hold, immediately tensing at its loss. You’re about to glance around the ship and look for it when the heaving Mandalorian takes a step toward you. Your attention snaps to him and instantly your arms cross tightly around your waist for security and you look up at him, taking an extra step away to offer you a cushion.
The heavy rise and fall of his chest would make anyone think the Mandalorian had just taken down a beast, watching it cripple before him. He raises the weapon in hand as he points it at you. “Well?” He asks, breathlessly, “Why don’t you count those again. Did I get them all, sweet girl?” He asks, voice straining with restrained tension.
There was a lot of weight behind that “sweet girl” that you haven't heard from him before. For the first time, it sounds more like a threat than a term of endearment, and you really, really, dislike it. Almost as if he was giving you one, final, chance to be his sweet girl.
“Well?” His voice brings you back to his inquiry, “Did I forget one?”
Your heart pounds in your chest, but it doesn't look like his is doing any less than yours. Chest heaving, he looks like he’s ready to roll up his sleeves and armor and draw a few more on you. Ready to restrain the beast once and for all.
He huffs at your silence, taking a step towards you. Your hands raise in a flash, defensively sheltered in front of you as he nears. “N-no! You…that’s all,” You stutter.
He slows to a stop before reaching you, chest still heaving slightly as he dares you to change your mind, his tone dangerously charged. “You sure?” He challenges.
You nod instantly, quick and exaggerated to show him you get the point.
This seems to please him, and he nods, however still fuming, and turns to make his leave before you stammer after him, “W-wait.”
The Mandalorian pauses, taking a beat to stare at the wall before him before turning slowly. Embodying the posture of a man at his wits end and barely hanging on by a shred of patience before you. His helmet lands on you, tilted questionably as you rise from where you’ve rushed to the corner of the hull, picking up a little plastic lid that earlier had clattered to the corner.
“I-I dropped this,” You murmur, hand crossing protectively over your form and marked-up arm, eyes averted to the floor, “I’m sorry.”
The Mandalorian is frozen in place before you, staring down at the lid in your hands. He watches your fingers tremble slightly, holding the fragile lid he’d forgotten about in the heat of his disciplining. Gloved fingers slowly wrap around the plastic, and he hums, surging with delight on the inside.
The anger in his chest slowly warms to a slight pleasure, and he grins triumphantly under his helmet. He caps the marker slowly before you, before tucking it into his utility belt.
Looping his fingers under your chin, he lifts it gently until your reluctant gaze meets his, and he recognizes the anxious, uncertain gleam in your eyes as a search for approval.
“There’s my good girl.”
--------------------- You…are not really sure what you should be doing with yourself right now.
In fact, you feel pathetic.
Basically, in the span of a few hours, you’ve gone from rebellious badass to disciplined, badly behaved child to self-punishing, useless piece of bantha fodder. In fact, since the incident earlier, you’ve done nothing but sit silent and pretty as a loth-kitten hiding from a threat, ears and head bowed down in shame. Knees to your chest, you willingly - yes, willingly, and without having been asked - sit just outside the bunk and under the watchful eye of the monitor in the hold. Just so he can keep an eye on you.
This pisses you off for a number of reasons. One, you are not, I repeat, not, a child. You’re a grown ass woman, however young or limited your knowledge of the galaxy may be. Two, you have nothing to be sorry for. As puny as you feel in this moment, at least you’re not rolling over and submitting to whatever fucked up version of a wife he thinks you are. And three, perhaps the most irritating conclusion you’ve come to over and over again… neither of those first two things matter in the slightest because now you’re scared as shit of testing your captor again. And now, even more than before, you feel stuck. Stuck and defeated.
It feels pointless, having destroyed the lens in the bunk, if you’re willingly going to sit out here and let him watch you. But now just…doesn't feel like the time to spit in his face further and crawl into the newfound privacy of your cot.
It would be best to just…stay.
Stay and sit like a good girl.
This is bullshit.
You roll your eyes at your situation, fingers tracing over the lines on your arm for the thousandth time. It’s not like there’s anything else to do but think about what you’ve done, and, once again, you find yourself contemplating the meaning behind these markings. Evidently, he’s keeping track of the times you misbehave. Based on whatever made up scale or level of tolerance he has at the moment, which is great for you.
Regardless of the absurdity of it, you can’t deny the sick, nervous feeling in your stomach that forms whenever you ruminate over the meaning of the tally marks.
It sends a shiver down your spine, the fact that you’d tested him and he finally showed you that it wouldn’t be tolerated.
Because in the last few days, your greatest consequence was sitting in a locked bunk until you were done screaming or crying or “throwing your tantrum.” But the Mandalorian always came to you when he felt like you’d had enough time, and let you start over with him until you did it again.
But this time, you’ve hit another level. Your boldness and willfulness to continue to fight against him finally unlocked the next punishment. And it’s weird and confusing and you’re all the more pissed and frightened because you don’t even know what it means.
What even is your purpose here?
The question causes a shiver to run down your spine.
Oh, don’t go down that road..
You know what your purpose here is.
To be his.
Another wave of sickness spreads through you, and you immediately try to backtrack your thoughts, focusing on the immediate problem at hand. More than once in the last few standard hours you’ve found yourself sinking deeper into your thoughts than you’d like to go right now.
These are the thoughts that left you weeping and shaking without restraint for the first couple of days, before you learned to block those trains of thought off.
Those can be revisited.
In time.
Your fingers slide down your arm, catching on the invisible grip of ink each time the pads of your fingers meet the beginning of a new line.
Six. Six lines.
The same six lines you counted a standard hour ago. Probably the same six lines you counted 3 standard hours ago.
You huff out an aggressive exhale, dropping your arm and leaning your head up against the wall. Your eyes wander around the hold, narrowing in on every dangerous object in sight and wondering why the hell he still hasn’t hidden any of it. In all fairness, you assume most of it is hidden in all the cargo bins laying around. The control panel to your left flickers and catches your attention. Curiosity compels you to stand up from your stupid, self-punishing position on the ground and just push the keypad to open it, but you’ve crossed enough boundaries for the day.
Maybe for a few days…
You hate the unsettling, anxious feeling in your gut, reprimanding you as if you’ve done something wrong. You feel like a child in time-out, which isn’t terribly off the mark since you’re sure that’s what he considers kicking you in the bunk is. But you’ve put yourself here. Under his supervision. It makes you sick.
You try to shake the remorseful thoughts out of your head. No. This will all be worth it if you can climb into the privacy of the bunk tonight and finally feel safe from him. Finally have a place to hide.
The hold creaks a bit and finally breaks your thoughts. It’s been quiet for the last few hours. You wish you actually knew how much time has passed. All you can do is just sit and stare. Count the bolts on the walls. Admire the flashing lights in the control panels. See if you can track the movement of the ship with the dangling chain in the corner, it hardly moves.
It’s no different from anything else you’ve done since you’ve gotten here, aside from the crippling anxiety attacks, lashing out, and endless naps you’ve taken to pass the time.
Another long, tranquilizing sigh escapes you. You feel substantially calmer than earlier. In a strange way, the calmest you’ve been. Just sitting here. Thinking. Breathing.
You feel an even odder sense of calm when the silence of the ship is finally interrupted by the meticulous steps of the Mandalorian’s boots approaching the hold. A sense of reprieve fills you, a release from your self-inflicted punishment.
The door to the cockpit slides open, and you hear him take another step towards the ladder, pausing for a moment before his boots appear. He’s in no rush to join you in the hold, deliberately slow in his movements.
Given how shaken you were earlier, you’re surprised that you maintain your state of calm at his reappearance.
Though admittedly, the more of him that appears through the open-space leading down into your hold, the more reluctant you feel to face him, or his ire.
His boots meet the ground, cape blocking his hulking form until he turns to face you, immediately tracking your seated position on the floor. He’s still for a moment, and you’re sure he’s considering how he should approach you.
You find your eyes are trained on his boots, suddenly not in the mood for any more confrontation now that he’s before you. Certainly not in the mood to be the one to break the silence. At least you have something new to count, casings in his leg strap.
Then he says your name.
That interrupts the pattern of numbers in your head, your gaze almost flickering up to meet his before narrowing back down.
You don’t recall ever giving him your name.
He says it again, gentler this time.
Despite the increased confusion and pounding in your chest, you hum quietly to show him you’re listening. Your gaze lowers further to admire your own boots instead. Still scuffed up and ragged from your resistance boarding his ship.
He sighs, not unkindly, and through the blurry edges of your vision you watch him crouch down onto a knee before you. Low enough so that you’re compelled to meet his gaze across from you.
With your attention on him, he tilts his helmet at you. And you can’t help but feel like it’s a slightly more playful gesture than usual, almost like he’s teasing you. But you frown, shrinking away nonetheless.
Having lost your eye contact to your boots again, the Mandalorian sighs, coaxing you with a gentle tone, “Come on, mesh’la, don’t hide from me.”
You don’t respond. Eyes flickering to a random crack on the wall. You wonder how that got there? Was he fighting a creature in here and they bashed their head open on it as they fell? Did he forget to lock down a crate and it slid corner-first into the wall? Or maybe he was just walking to the fresher in the dark one night and tripped, landing helmet-first into the corner and groaning before he stood up.
The thought of the Mandalorian for once having a graceless movement brings the ghost of a smile to your lips
“What are you thinking about?” The Mandalorian hums, it almost sounds like he has the trace of a smile on his lips too.
It wipes yours clean off.
It becomes evident that you’re not going to answer, and, predictably, he sighs. “I think you’ve had plenty of time down here. Why don’t you come up into the cockpit with me?”
You don’t say anything, not sure when the sudden decision to become mute became a thing, but it was your automatic response to him this time, so may as well go with it.
“It will be good for us, I think.” He pauses, considering his words. “We could talk.”
Talk?
He’s waiting for your response this time. And despite the unexpected timidness in your disposition, you murmur, “About what?”
He sighs, though this time it carries the weight of slight relief. “Well,” He begins, clearly contemplating his words carefully, “I…wish to understand you. Understand how you’re feeling. What you want-”
“-You know what I want,” You interrupt, careful not to snap your words at him.
“I don’t.” He says calmly, “If I did, I would give it to you.”
You stare into his visor, trying to look through the black screen and meet his eyes, but only able to meet your own. Your reflection is disheveled. Despite holding back the tears today, your eyes are still swollen and red from yesterday. Your hair is a mess, features solemn, defeated.
Look at me, you plead silently.
I know you can see how hurt I am.
Listen to me.
You gather yourself, looking deep into your own reflection, gulping down your courage into your chest before you voice your needs.
“I want to go home.”
You don’t know what the Mandalorian expected to hear from you, but clearly it wasn’t that. He is normally quick to respond, even when he is patient with his timing. But you can tell he has no words for you here.
“Tell me what else you want.”
Don’t dismiss me.
I only want one thing.
“I want to go home,” You repeat, calmly.
“No,” He says strangely, “Not that. Pick something else.”
“That is everything to me. That’s all I want.” You say steadily.
He’s presented you with this moment. There is no better time for you to say it. To plead with him and show him how much you need this.
He’s silent, and you would swear that his steady position kneeled before you is faltering a bit.
“I…cannot give you that.” He says, “I’m sorry.”
“You said if I wanted something, you would give it to me.” You say, your brave crumbling a bit in your chest, you can feel yourself losing this fight, and despite the peacefulness of it, the magnitude feels heavier than any past encounter you’ve had.
“I did. And I will.” He says gently, “Just not that.”
In an instant, tears fog up your vision entirely, and you watch his blurry form tense in front of you. “Mandalorian,” You say, the words coming out almost as a whisper, having lost most of the sound to the lump in your throat. Your brave encourages you to move forward, to plead with him completely so that he hears you. With your chin wobbling and your eyes flooding with unshed tears, you reach out and rest your palm gently against his arm as it rests on his knee. He is unmoving as you do so, eyes trained on the pain in your face.
“Please,” You whimper, your face as steady and as strong as you can make it despite the tear that loses the battle against your will, slipping over your cheek, “I want you to take me back home.”
Despite the thick armor beneath your fingers, you can feel his arm tensing under your grasp. His hand unoccupied by your hold raises to your cheek slowly, with permission, and you allow him to wipe the tear from your cheek, connecting with your pain.
“I’m sorry,” He says, hand quickly lowering from your face. The movement startles another few tears to shed as he gently pulls both arms from you, rising to a stand. Your lips part as you watch his towering figure loom before you again, and he takes a step away from you, “But I will not do that.”
Suddenly the Mandalorian turns and is walking towards the ladder, and you feel your escape, your connection to him and his understanding, slowly shattering.
“N-no,” You stutter, tears freely sliding down your cheeks now. “W-wait, Mandalorian, please!”
He ignores you, ascending the ladder as you scramble to your feet behind him. You’re slow and clumsy with your movements, your legs half asleep from having been folded up and unused for hours.
You chase behind him, quickly following him up towards the cockpit. You hear the sliding door open and close before your eyes can reach them, and you haul yourself up quicker, gaining your footing on the second floor. The door is closed before you, and you sniffle as your near it, trying to encourage it to open again.
It’s clear he’s locked it, not wanting to hear anything else you have to say. But you’re determined not to give up yet, gently tapping on the door with your shaking hand. “M-Mandalorian,” you whimper, “Please open the door.”
Silence.
You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your heart in your ears, the pressure of a headache building up instantly, and your whimper lets out into a sob.
“P-please open the door.” You ask again, tapping more gently than the first time, as if your hand has given up even if you haven't yet.
“Please,” You beg, falling to your knees in front of the closed door, eyes shut in agony as tears squeeze their way through them. “D-don’t leave me alone out here.”
Your palms are digging into your eyes as you try to use them to stop the endless stream of hurt escaping you, and you lean forward, hoping to find support against the closed door. Your mind doesn’t register that you’re collapsing further forward than you should until your body lands into two arms instead. You’re blindly pulled and lifted into a pair of arms, suddenly surrounded by comfort, and you’re cradled protectively into the Mandalorians lap. His gloved hand holds your face to his chest as you sob, slowly rocking you back and forth. You reach your hand against his chest, firmly holding the space between his chest plate and cowl, not wanting him to relinquish his hold on you. Your fingers squeeze tightly as you yank him as close to your face as possible to maintain the nearness, afraid of being alone again.
Distantly you can hear him humming to you, reassuring you, shushing you to calmness in his arms.
You’re not sure how long he holds you, petting your hair and skin until your shivers die away and your shaky sobs fade into heavy breathing against his neck. All you know is that it’s the safest you’ve felt in a long time and you really don’t want him to let you go.
--------------------- You feel your body jostled a little bit, and you move your cheek, frowning at the soreness you feel in your cheek as you pull it away from the hard surface it was resting on. You move around a little bit, stretching forward until you find a soft spot for you to sink your face into again.
There’s a continuous humming in the background that’s growing louder as you come into consciousness, but you decide to dismiss it a while longer.
It only takes you a second to recall what happened and put together where you are, but you don’t move even as you do.
The Mandalorian shifts you again only slightly as he leans forward to adjust something on the controls. You relinquish your body to move fluidly with him as he leans back carefully, clearly trying not to disturb you.
Eventually, you encourage your eyes to bat open, fighting against the salty seal of dried tears. You wince as they do, blinking in your bright surroundings. You’re tucked into the Mandalorian’s chest as he sits in the pilot's seat, your body cradled into one arm that holds you steady to him, legs draped over both legs as he leans back to keep you securely against him.
You gather that you must have fallen asleep in his arms, tired out from crying on the floor, and instead of leaving you in the cargo bay or locking you in the bunk, he kept you here with him.
You wonder if that’s just because you destroyed his ability to keep watch over you as you slept.
Your eyes flutter closed again, not ready to meet whatever you’ll be up against next. Instead you focus on the still slumberful rise and fall of your breathing, feeling the Mandalorian’s chest moving slightly as he does the same. He’s clearly been awake, keeping you steady as you dozed off and piloting the ship or whatever the hell he usually does when he’s up here.
A sudden sharp pain causes your closed eyes to squeeze together before fluttering open, and you realize that the pounding in your head has only intensified since earlier, which is annoying. You can feel the Mandalorian shift his gaze above you, and can only gather that his stupid ability to be aware of every situation means he probably knows you’re awake now too. Doubly annoying.
Still, you don’t move. You’re not really sure what you would move for. His hold on you is surprisingly comfortable, and in all honesty is nicer than sitting in the dark hold alone down the ladder. Here at least, you can see the stars.
You’re itching to look out at the stars. And assuming he knows you’re awake now, there’s no reason not to. You adjust your head, drowsily turning your face towards the window and leaning back against the Mandalorian’s chest, but for now you’ll just pretend he’s not here. This moment is about you and the stars. You’ve never been to space. Hell, you’ve never been off your crap-hole of a planet, so you don’t know what hyperspace is supposed to look like, but you don’t think this is it. The stars are clear as you slowly move through them, and you decide you must be close to a destination, something you hadn’t even thought about in your short time on this ship.
But even now, your only focus is the array of lights you seem to pass in slow motion, and the stunning few stars and planets exploding with color around you.
It’s utterly beautiful.
A content sigh escapes you and your lips part. If your eyes weren’t so agitated, you’d allow them to well up as you take in the beauty before you.
This.
This is not so bad.
“Do you like it?”
His voice cuts into the silence, vibrating against your ear and intruding into your moment with the stars. You hold back your sigh, it’s not like you’d truly forgotten he was there.
Still, you manage to nod slowly against him, keeping your focus on the incredible sight before you. For all the faults you can throw at this guy, showing you the stars isn’t one of them.
“They’re beautiful.” You further offer, not necessarily sure why.
He hums against your back, and you’re suddenly aware that he’s been running his hand up and down your arm peacefully, probably to help coax your previously sleeping form to remain tranquil.
You’ll leave it for now.
“Where are we going?” You ask, gently. Even your own stubbornness can’t keep the slight hopefulness and excitement out of your tone a little. You’ve never seen anything exciting or beautiful in your life.
“To a warm, green planet. Lots of lakes, mountains..” He says, continuing to trace your arm. Your chest swells a little bit at his words. You never dreamed you’d be able to see real mountains covered in green, real lakes not filled to the brim with mud, “Somewhere for us to take it easy for a little while.”
Us.
Of course he had to say ‘us.’
Your vision falters a little bit, and you fall silent. Your mood sours a little bit, envisioning what the next few days will bring, and soon you’re sulking in the Mandalorian’s hold instead of resting peacefully.
Almost as if he can sense your mood change, his own form begins to stiffen beneath you, becoming less comfortable and more floor-like.
You decide to try and ignore it, despite your own irritation rising at him. Your gaze flickers down, automatically being drawn to the lines on your arm as you do, and pretty quickly, you’re pissed all over again. Consequently, your eyes flicker over to his belt, where you can see the marker he assaulted you with earlier tucked snugly into a pouch.
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
You blink at his words. “What?” You ask, bafflement lacing your tone as you sit upright and face him for the first time since you’ve woken up.
“I said. Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing. Don’t.”
The look of displeasure on your face quickly morphs into a scowl at his words.
The fucking audacity.
“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He snaps instantly.
“I am not lying, asshole.” You grit, trying to disentangle yourself from his arms. He won’t let you go, and you get the feeling it’s just because you want him to.
“Ugh!” You scoff, smacking your arm against his chest plate in irritation. He takes the hit without saying anything, trying to hold you tightly in place as you fight against him. “Wait to ruin a fucking calm moment you dick.”
A noise you can only attune to a growl escapes his chest in irritation and his hands squeeze at your arms harshly to still you, “Stop it.”
“Let me out of your arms.” You grit out menacingly, stilling to stare him head on in the visor. His arms don’t let up, but he meets your gaze with his own stern one, and you can almost see his jaw clenching in anger beneath that bucket of his.
“Sit. Still. Sweet girl.” He warns, watching your eyes flicker across his helmet in agitation, as if you’re sizing him up.
You don’t move, maintaining your eye contact with him, a scowl on your face as you wait for his next move.
You stare each other down, curled up in his lap and held down by his arms, damn near straddling him as you do. You don’t even care, right now it’s about showing him that he can go to hell.
Seemingly satisfied with your obedience, he slowly nods as he looks up at you, your new position having given you the height advantage as you tried to rip yourself out of his arms.
“Grab the marker.” He says, tilting his head in the direction of his belt.
“No.” You bite, all the attitude in the world bleeding into your expression and voice.
“Grab. The marker.”
You let him sit on his demand for a moment, disrespected and unanswered, then throw it at him again, “No.”
The heaving of his chest is slowly growing heavier and heavier, albeit silent, and you’re preening at the effect you have over him again.
Here.
This is when you have the power.
He says your name, deep and guttural like he’s using it as a threat. “Pick up the marker, now, or else.”
Or else?
Is he fucking kidding with that?
You draw in a breath, ready to bark back at him-
“Be my good girl.” He growls in a final warning.
A shiver runs down your spine making you shift above him, face hardening and jaw clenching in anger.
Oh, I fucking hate it when he says that.
You look his visor up and down as if in a final show of defiance, before plastering on the fakest, most pissed-off smile you can manage, and reaching down to yank the marker out of his belt.
You hold it up before him, like the good girl you are.
“Three more lines.” He snarls, as if the three words are all he can grit out.
You keep your gaze locked on him for another long, tense moment, before batting your eyes twice and grabbing the marker with both hands.
You gently uncap the lip.
His helmet is firm on your face.
Place the lid in your lap.
Hold out your arm.
Lower the marker.
And before the asshole can even register what you’re doing, you draw a long, thick, ugly line across the arm plating of his Beskar.
Boy.
If you thought you’d seen this guy tense up before…the utter stillness that rakes through him in that moment shocks you into stillness yourself.
And before you can even look at him with that prideful gleam in your eye, he has you whipped over his knees with your limbs trapped beneath him.
A startled scream rips through you as you kick out in anger, finding yourself completely subdued under his arms, your body bent over one knee with the other holding your legs down. With your arms supporting your weight against the floor, you try to reach out and whack him with your remaining free limbs, but you can barely reach the armor plating on his arm, and it hurts you probably more than it does him.
“I would keep that arm down by your face if I were you. You’re gonna need it.”
Absolutely fuming, and admittedly, increasingly terrified as his hand slides up the back of your thigh, you scream in rage and try to free yourself once more.
“Don’t touch me!” You shout, ignoring the shiver that courses through you as his hand grazes beneath your ass. Your eyes widen and you tense up, trying to swing back at him again.
This time, he catches the arm, humming as if pleased that you so graciously offered it to him. Now you’re trying to yank it back from him, your body contorted in an awkwardly uncomfortable but not bone-breaking position.
“Hm. Interesting.” He hums, ignoring your squirming form and pitiful noises you’re making under his hold. “I’m surprised I only gave you six, sweet girl. Nine including the three you didn’t draw.”
He drops your hand, and you whip it down quickly to help support the other arm, tired from holding all your weight. Gasping with the newfound relief, you stare at the lines on your arm, counting the same six lines and unable to ignore the invisible three.
“But I don’t think that’s enough for what you just pulled.” He says thoughtfully.
Then his hand is resting above your ass again.
Your eyes widen and you try kicking away from him again, screaming your unhappiness, “No!” You shout, “Don’t touch me!”
Despite your protests, the Mandalorian effortlessly pulls your leggings from your hips, sliding them down to your knees that are trapped beneath his thigh. You can feel your underwear clinging to your hips still, which only slightly settles the nausea in your stomach.
“Be still.” He says calmly, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down your back. “And tell me how many times you misbehaved, so that we can move on.”
You scream one final time, letting your limbs kick as much as they can before relaxing in defeat, an angry sob escaping your body.
He shushes you gently, continuing to sooth you with his hand on your back, waiting for your heart to stop pounding so intensely in your chest. “Breathe. Relax, sweet girl,” He hums.
His words should make you fume. They do. But the constant anger can only last so long, and soon you’re focusing on the feeling of his hand running up and down your spine, soothing you until you adjust. He continues making soothing noises and praising you. And in a few minutes you’re still under his hand, only the tired rise and fall of your breathing moving you. “There we are.” His hand slowly comes to a stop on your back, satisfied with your state. “There’s my good girl.”
You take a slow, tentative breath beneath him, before giving into his earlier request. Knowing the only way out of this, is through. And you put yourself here, so you’re gonna get yourself out.
You clear your throat, glancing at your arm, before muttering, “There are supposed to be nine.”
“Nine times you misbehaved?” He hums, before clucking in displeasure. “All in one day?”
You close your eyes, trying to maintain your calm.
Fuck, nine times in one day is a lot.
“I’m sorry,” You murmur pathetically, tears springing to your eyes.
You really did do this to yourself.
“I know you are, sweet girl.” He says earnestly, his hand running up and down your back again, trying to soothe your tears away and your body back into calm. “And since I know you are, how about we just do six?”
You sniffle, the action painful when your head is almost upside down no matter how much you try to lift it. You nod instantly, grateful that he’s downgrading the punishment. “Yes, please.” You murmur.
You know exactly what’s about to happen. You’re about to get spanked.
If it wasn’t so daunting and - fuck - you’ll admit to it, well-deserved after nine incidents in one day, then you would probably just yell at him some more. But you don’t even want to imagine what a step-up punishment from this looks like.
“Count them for me. Out loud. Understand?”
He pauses between commands, you know it’s to give you an extra moment to prepare, but you don’t think you’ll ever be ready.
“Yes, sir.” You say.
Crack!
You whimper, your body jolting forward at the first impact, and forcing yourself to exhale the tension, not having expected the blow to come with so much force.
“O-one.”
Crack!
“O-oh.” You whimper, eyes squeezing shut at the force of the second smack. You steel your hands firmly ahead of you, trying to brace yourself further and gather strength.
He is not holding back when, admittedly, you thought he would, and you can feel your eyes stinging with tears again.
A gentle hand lands on the worn skin of your bottom, and you jump with another whimper. The gentleness of the touch unfamiliar to the skin already.
“You’re doing well, sweet girl,” The Mandalorian coos. His hand starts to move over the tender skin in a soothing rub, and you sigh contentedly at the momentary relief.
“How many was that?” He encourages gently, not rushing you to get it out.
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself again, “Two.”
Crack!
“Ow!” You cry, jumping forward. Your mind shouts at you to count it out, get it over with, but you know that it means delivery of the next one.
Another whimper escapes you as your Mandalorian praises you again, his hand soothing your hurt bottom. “I know, baby, I know it hurts.”
Your whimper escapes as a small cry, “M-Mandalorian I d-don’t know if I can do this.”
He coos at you, continuing to rub your bottom soothingly, and for the first time you realize that he’s doing so with his bare hand. You don’t know if the leather glove would have made your punishment better or worse, but you can’t deny the immediate relief his bare skin offers yours in its absence. “You’re halfway done, I know you can take it.”
You shake your head immediately at his words, “N-no, I don’t think I can-”
“Hey,” He says, gently but firmly. “You were bad. This is what happens when we’re bad. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about disobeying me. And we’ll be grateful that we’re only doing 6 now instead of 9, yes?”
You don’t want to hear the words, but you can’t deny their truth in his mind. And you really, really, don’t want him to add on to those 6.
“O-okay,” You sniffle, “I’ll take it.”
He hums at your surrender, continuing to soothe your skin for a moment, “I can move to a different spot, if that would make it easier for you, sweet girl?”
Would it? I guess he would know.
“Okay.” You nod, sniffing again, “Thank you.”
“Look at your arm and count the last one.” He responds.
You take another deep breath before glancing at the tally marks somewhat irritably, “Three.”
Crack!
You gasp, your hips thrusting away at the impact. Your arms adjust firmly in front of you as you try to still your body from shivering in the Mandalorian’s hold.
The blow, delivered with the same force as the first three, hit closer to the area between your bottom and your inner thigh than just your cheek. And instead of feeling a sharp pain, pleasure courses through you.
And not just that, it definitely gushes a little bit from you.
Suddenly your heart is pounding again, nervousness and confusion at this new revelation. And you have to stop yourself from whimpering again as the Mandalorian lowers his hand to the abused area, rubbing it soothingly like he did the last one.
“Is that better, sweet girl?” He asks.
Holy fuck.
What the fuck?
“U-um,” You stutter, voice breathless as you focus on his skin rubbing the sensitive flesh, dangerously close to where you’re pretty sure, the evidence of your pleasure is starting to dampen you.
“I can move back-”
“N-no!” You shout, definitely louder than you needed to, the Mandalorian’s hand freezes in its slide back to the previously abused skin.
“Th-this was…easier.” You say, nervously.
His hand slowly returns to lower, nearing your inner thigh and you close your eyes, chiding yourself for getting pleasure from this.
“Whatever you want, babygirl.” He hums.
Your teeth grit and you try to be silent at his words. Words that normally enrage you that are now contributing to the unbearable feeling of pleasure you’re worried will soon show between your legs.
Oh Maker.
“That was, four.” You gulp.
He hums. Before lifting his hand from your skin, the Mandalorian drags his fingers lightly between your thighs, where they rest, tracing them away from you and causing you to gasp lightly and lift your bottom up towards them.
You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment, hating yourself more and more by the minute.
“Sensitive, babygirl?” He asks. You can’t tell if you hear smugness in his tone or just his normal taunting at your punishment.
“Y-yes,” You gulp again, trying to cover it up, “I-it hurts.”
He clucks sympathetically, “Well, you’re almost done, brave girl. You’ve been so good for me.”
You’re about to respond when his hand makes contact with your bare cheeks again.
Crack!
“Oh! Maker.” You whimper quietly, waiting expectantly for the feeling of his gentle hand to follow. When it does you exhale in further pleasure, biting back your groan as the Mandalorian adjusts you over his knee. The movement shifts your underwear, gliding the fabric across your folds. You gasp audibly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks at the noise. But you’re so tender and coated in an obscene amount of slick that wasn’t begging you for friction until now.
And now that it is, you can’t get away from it.
“Where did you go, babygirl?” The Mandalorian’s voice husks lowly in your ear. His head lowered down in your direction. “Did my good girl forget how to count?”
“F-five.” You say breathlessly.
“Mm,” He hums, “I know. You’re taking your punishment so well babygirl. Such a good girl. Last one.”
Last one.
Crack!
Another whimper escapes you as you’re jostled forward by the spank. “O-oh.” You sigh, pleasure further seeping between your legs. He hit you full force with that smack, closer to where your body needed relief but not close enough.
“Six,” You sigh, shaking your head, and mentally scolding yourself for getting turned on by this.
But then his hand lowers to soothe you once more, fingers tracing dangerously close to where you’re sure your body is gaping for him. And suddenly, for an entirely different reason, you are unbelievably grateful that he kept your underwear on.
He makes a soothing noise, singing praises for you as he pets your bottom, and you can’t withhold the small groan that escapes you as your arms give and you slump completely into his cage.
“There we go, you’re okay.” He soothes, “I knew my good girl could take it.”
Oh, Maker, he’s going to kill me.
You bite your lip, desperate for some privacy now as he teases the area between your cheeks and your thighs. Tracing what he thinks are soothing patterns over the abused skin. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. It’s fine. But you can feeling your body gushing more and more at his movements, the slick starting to moisten your thighs-
Your eyes snap open.
Oh no.
It’s starting to dampen my thighs.
“M-Mandalorian,” You stutter out, trying to move from his hold again, desperate to free yourself before he catches you.
His hand slows to a stop in its massage, and your heart stops when he leans down toward you, giving you his undivided attention. But the movement causes his hand to slide slightly towards the deeper part of your inner thigh, where you could swear he must feel the slick of your folds.
“Am I done with my punishment now!” You rush out, trying to escape before he can realize the pleasure he spanked into you.
Thankfully, his hand slides away from your thighs, and you pull your body as quickly as you can to a stand before him, gushing with embarrassment all over again when you remember your pants are around your knees and now he’s staring straight at the front of your panties.
You’re quick to reach for your leggings, but he’s already reaching and pulling them over you, hands resting on your hips. You’re about to excuse yourself with another apology and hurry into your bunk when his fingers hook around your chin again.
You stand between his spread legs, silent and wide eyed as he surveys you. You compose yourself, trying not to squirm under his gaze, or between his thighs, as his helmet tilts silently at you. Nervousness is about to start bleeding through, and you’re about to speak when he does.
“Did you learn your lesson?”
Dear lord, he really does want to kill me.
“Y-yes, I did.” You murmur, trying not to cross your legs and stop the gushing between your folds.
“Good.” He nods, and before you can excuse yourself, he’s twisting your body and pulling you into his lap.
You gasp as he seats you right over his thigh. The ridges of his beskar digging right into your wet folds, parting them perfectly and making your surge with need and desire on the inside. It takes everything you have to stay still and silent.
“Shhh, I know, babygirl,” The Mandalorian hums, adjusting you further over his thigh. You can’t hold back the whimper at the way he jostles you, sliding you against his armor in the most tantalizing maneuver, and you squirm helplessly in his hold. “Shhh, shh, shh, you’re okay, I know it hurts.”
No you fucking don’t.
You want to snarl at him. Or slap him. Or grind against him.
“It’s just a part of the punishment,” He hums, but there’s something all too pleased laced in his tone that you would pick up on if you weren’t so tortured atop his thigh right now.
And what’s worse. You can’t ignore the awful fact that after what he just did to you, it feels so damn good to sit cradled in his arms
And even worse.
How unbelievably soaked your folds are beneath your leggings, and how badly you want to rub yourself against his armor.
------------
Warnings: Noncon/ dubcon elements, spanking, holy smokes where do I start uhh dark!din, delusional!din, forced marriage, abduction, drugging, Stockholm syndrome, noncon/dubcon elements, abusive relationship, manipulation (certain things listed are just potential warnings for future chapters. I don’t know where this will go but I don’t want anyone getting invested in something that takes an unexpected turn) Please let me know if there are any warnings I should add to this list.
I print these at the bottom so people don't have to run into spoilers :)
taglist: @bat-wasp @tortor-mcgee @elictriclightorchestra @flowercrowny @ygrworld
