Rough Day by guardianangelicas

Rough Day

This story doesn't belong to me. It belongs to guardianangelicas on AO3.

Maker, why is this even a thing?

You don't know his name. You've never seen his face. He barely says a word, doesn't even move much unless he needs to. If he didn't have such an obvious complex about droids, you would've thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years. You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you've heard about his culture-most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense. Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his "poof gun" or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.

But that doesn't stop you. Nope, the fact that you've never even seen a strip of his skin doesn't stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter. Stars, it's ridiculous. The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall-

He terrifies you. You're absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive. You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot's seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about. The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn't accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.

So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way. You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there's nothing else to occupy your time. You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works. With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.

Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet. He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.

You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.

"Isn't... isn't he still conscious in there?" You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man's shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, "Yes," before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.

You had to bite down on the back of your hand to keep from whimpering when you touched yourself later that night.

Maker, you want him. You want to help him relax, give him something soft and warm to come back to after exhausting days spent in the elements, after not sleeping for who knows how long and toting elusive criminals behind him. Sometimes you can't think about anything else besides how hard he'd fuck, how much he desperately needs it, how sexy his voice would sound raggedly gasping your name through the modulator in his helmet. You want to get on your knees and give him the reward he deserves for putting himself in danger for a living, risking his life time and time again for mere credits. If he even returns your feelings by ten percent, it'd be gracious and far more than you deserve.