Recap: Yska and the Mandalorian left the port for Planet Makeb, where the Hutt Cartel and the Republic vy for control over valuable mineral deposits. She stumbled upon the previous crew's quarters covered in blaster-scars. The Mandalorian gifted her the room and a datapad before insisting she take his bed. Readers also learned the Mandalorian's true name - Razzen-Va.


Author's Note: Hey lovely readers, thank you for your patience! Sorry about the html mess up earlier. I'm still alive! I got the quarantine blues and struggled with this chapter immensely, as well as my everyday life. Also forgot to update FFnet for about 5 months. I think we can all agree the world is crazy right now and we could all use some kindness and love. Hopefully this chapter finds you in good health and adds a little joy to your day!

Again, this is heavily edited to meet FFnet guidelines. Head over to Ao3 for the explicit version if you're of age (I also update there more frequently).

The Mandalorian's Reward

By Scarlet Willows

Chapter Five

Over the next couple days, Yska and the Mandalorian had cleared out the old crew's quarters. Everything could be salvaged for scrap money when they docked. They'd fallen into a bit of a quiet routine while working - with Yska mustering the strength to ask a few questions about bounty hunting and the Mandalorian indulging her more than he should have.

She'd scrubbed at the blaster scars with industrial cleaner, but nothing short of paint would fix them. The fresher unit was working wonderfully even after so long without use, and only required a bit of elbow grease to shine up. All in all, it was a good space - a blank canvas that Yska was excited to make her own after they acquired supplies from Makeb.

During the night, she slept alone. During the day, she ate her meals alone. In fact, most of the time she was alone. The silver commando was usually either in the cockpit or in the cargo hold, tinkering with things. Yska was too nervous to seek out his company, afraid to disturb him or get underfoot.

In the eternal darkness of space, Yska only knew it was "nighttime" when the commando would demand her "services". He'd taken her rough enough to make her squeal and slow enough to make her cry in frustration: on the sofa, the bed, the floor, against the wall, and recently on the kitchen counter.

Sometimes he wanted her during the "day", too. It always seemed to catch her off-guard and make her nervous (even if she did enjoy herself), but at least she'd become better at anticipating his needs.

Without a face to read - and a reticence for speaking - Yska had begun to notice a few ticks in his body language. Nothing big or obvious to the average person, but...enough to help her navigate his moods a bit better.

The few times she'd spied him at the helm of the ship or cleaning his blasters, his actions were precise, fluid. Confident. It was the same when he went through his morning exercise katas with the efficiency of an apex predator.

But when he entered a room with Yska - conversation clipped - his actions seemed...stuttered. Shoulders rigid, left fist clenching and unclenching. She wondered if this was a nervous tick. Did...she make him as nervous as he made her?

She'd become most familiar with his body language when he wanted her. He'd sit more forward, left hand on his knee, helmet zeroed in on her. Or he would stand taller, feet shoulder-width apart, head tilted a fraction.

And after he'd gotten what he wanted...his shoulders relaxed. The swirling energy of his presence seemed less coiled. It seemed easier to talk to him then.

She was learning that his body could be as expressive as a face if she paid close enough attention. And today, it seemed like it would be a slow session where he tortured the orgasm out of her - if the panther-roll to his shoulders was any indication.

She curled further into the couch with her datapad as the perpetually-armored Mandalorian advanced. "Ohhh, none of that now, Yska." He stopped in front of her, stance wide and towering. "Come on," he coaxed, a tad more gentle.

Swallowing hard, she turned off her datapad, setting it aside, and began to uncurl her legs...but, apparently that was too slow for him. The Mandalorian crouched suddenly - the movement graceful even with so much armor. The warrior threaded his arms through the girl's thighs before yanking her to the edge of the couch. She yelped.

He was impatient today. Yska braced her arms behind herself as he jerked her leggings down. He tossed them over his shoulder uncaringly.

She blushed, shoulders up to her ears as he spread her.

From his waist pouch, he produced a sleek pink aid. Yska had discovered the hard way that he'd gotten an assortment of devices in a separate supply box before they'd embarked. It was the same box he'd stashed in his side table drawer the first night.

Yska wasn't sure how she felt about these sessions, even though it had only happened twice. It was always pleasurable - like he'd promised - and the end result was always mind-blowing. But, she always felt wrung out afterwards. Drained. "Maybe I want you to be boneless when I'm done with you," he'd said after she'd complained the first time.

He set the pink toy on the couch. "Relax," he coaxed as he took his gloves off. A little thrill shot through her core. She was starting to have a Pavlovian response whenever he removed the gloves. She was always so entranced by the swirling designs on his blue skin, and those fingernail tattoos. She'd asked about them once - if they were cultural markings of his species or perhaps his victories as a warrior - but he'd responded less than favorably. She wouldn't ask again. But it didn't stop the burning curiosity.

She squirmed, hating feeling so exposed and on display for the warrior's gaze. Not that it mattered. Maybe she wouldn't mind if the room were a bit warmer. Why did it have to be so frippin' cold?!

"Mmm," Yska bit back a moan as he grazed her with the back of his knuckles. The backs of his multi-hued hands were surprisingly soft - it was the palms and pads that were calloused from his trade.

She lost the will to keep herself propped up and instead melted into the couch awkwardly, neck kinked and hands over her chest. "That's it," his vocoder was low and rumbly - or maybe that was just him. "Just let me take care of this."

Heat flooded the blonde's cheeks. Sex seemed to be the only time the Mandalorian could easily let out his thoughts and desires.

She could just feel the first aching beginnings of her climax when...the Mandalorian pulled away!

Grahhh! She hated this part!

As he doused her arousal with a few sharp smacks to her parts, she growled in frustration. "Ow!" she gripped herself, thighs closing quicker than a blink. "Why? Why are you so mean?" she groaned, angry tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Because I like your song most when you've been worked up," he cooed softly, voice at odds with his actions. She could practically feel the smirk dripping in his voice.

As she gripped her stinging part, he rubbed his hands firmly over her thighs, her softly flaring hips, and back to her full rump. The warrior pulled her off the couch using his grip on her hips, letting her lower back dangle off the edge. Yska's toes balanced on the cold floor and she shivered.

"Open up," he commanded. He rubbed the outside of her thighs to encourage more warmth.

She shook her head defiantly. "Nooo," she whined. "You're just gonna smack it again."

He stilled. His voice went very low and very steady. "What did you say to me, little girl?"

Oh kriff. "I-I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, shrinking even more. She hadn't denied him yet, too afraid to say no. "It just slipped out." Yska's blue eyes started to tear up. She tried to blink them back, eyes cast down. "Please...I'll do it. I'm sorry." She was shaking, voice meek and scared, "So, please...please don't...don't hurt me." She opened her thighs, eyes averted.

The Mandalorian sighed. He'd been only partly teasing, but, the human didn't get his sense of humor just yet. She was still too uncertain about her place in all this and he was intimidating. Of course she would think he would punish her for saying no. How could he be so foolish? It was so obvious he could have facepalmed.

He hoped one day they might get to a level of trust that she might talk back to him like an entitled brat. He'd like to give her a playful swat before reminding her who was boss, but...that was unlikely to happen anytime soon with her trauma.

It was his own damn fault. He couldn't rush things with her. He'd been impatient in so many ways. Why did he lose his cool around her? Why did her mere presence reduce him to the vestiges of an awkward adolescent? His passion for her was going to get him into trouble.

"Yska," he gently turned her face back to his visor. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Remember, you'll get a warning before a punishment...and it will be for something far more serious than telling me 'no.' I can handle a little petulance now and then." He made sure his smile warmed his vocoder. He stroked her hair, tucking it behind her round ear. "It takes a lot more than a whine or a disagreement to rile me up. Now, have you had enough or can you handle this?" his helmet tilted to the side.

"I it, sir," she bit her lip, glancing at the silicone aid.

" up for me, little human." This time he made certain she could hear the arousal in his voice. She did as told, fighting her instincts to keep her legs shut.

The edge pulled her over. She wailed. Her groaning sob of relief filled the room.

He was proud.

When Yska was very young, living in the orphanage, she was great at finding information. She was small, quick, and quiet as a mouse. And her attention to detail always came in handy. Whether it was overhearing the right conversation, stumbling upon the right article, or using the right keywords for search engines - she just had a knack for it. Perhaps a bit of luck had followed her around when it came to such things.

One day she'd overheard the key code to the safe where the head nun stored any valuables. Yska had used this knowledge for the greater good, like she always tried to do.

During particularly long nights, young Yska would sneak the old nun's datapad from the office vault - borrowing it on behalf of the other kids for a night of entertainment.

The other orphans would gather around the pad in their darkened dorm and watch all manner of holovids, or take turns playing games before the suns came up. It was the one reprieve in their harsh, uncertain existence - one night when they could be carefree children once again.

In the morning, Yska would tip-toe back into the office and replace the datapad exactly how she'd found it, wiped of all their history the night before. The head nun and the staff had never suspected (if they did, they'd never said anything about it).

Later, as Yska had grown older, she would sneak the datapad for more...nefarious reasons.

Most of the orphans aging out of the system would find themselves on the streets, with only a basic education and few marketable skills. With so few viable options, many of them joined the local gangs for security.

Yska had taken it upon herself to suss out information on which gangs were - for lack of better options - the best. As in, which gangs were the least violent, which paid the highest, which communities they protected and ruled, whether they dealt in spice or arms or slaves, etc.

Yska made a severe effort to use her skills to help the older orphans find legitimate work or housing, but few could beat the "benefits" of the local gangs. When honest work was scarce, she would then direct her peers to the lesser evils. She felt if her peers were going to end up in a life of crime, she could at least help by mitigating some of the damage.

She had become so adept at research under pressure (and had directed so many of her peers to certain organizations) that the head of the Twin Suns Syndicate had tried to recruit her. "Tried" being the operative word. She'd made it clear that she didn't approve of the lifestyle, but that she would work as an independent contractor if they continued their practices of "no unnecessary violence." And only when honest work could not be found. The Twin Suns seemed mollified by the arrangement.

When she'd found herself on the streets at eighteen, having aged out of the system herself, with no honest work...again, the Twin Suns tempted her with high pay and proper tech for her research. She'd found Dex instead, landed up as a brothel slave for her naivete, and then sold to an enigmatic - albeit sexy - Mandalorian commando. Life was strange.

So now, even with an outdated datapad and spotty connection to a galactic database, her skills were not even close to rusty. And no other current mystery intrigued her as much as the identity of her owner.

So with little to do (other than to spread her legs when told), she tried her luck yet again at researching what species her Mandalorian might be. As intimidating as he seemed to her, she liked how the warrior looked in his shiny beskar armor, and the dangerous thrill of a secret name and a covered face...and of course, the flanged rumble of his deep baritone voice that made her insides melt. She wished he would talk more just so she could listen to that sensual, dreamy rumble.

The mandalorian...he could be anyone. He could look like anything. If Yska wasn't allowed to know his name or see what the Mandalorian looked like underneath his mask, then she just had to know what his species was! As exciting as the mystery and strangeness could be, knowing his species might give her a face to imagine whenever he loomed over her, inside her.

And...he hadn't explicitly forbade her from trying to find her own answers…. True, the Mandalorian hadn't answered her question when she'd asked, but he hadn't told her she couldn't go...looking. Kriff, he'd even given her a datapad and no restrictions. And a lot of time on her hands.

Off the top of her head, Yska knew her taciturn bounty hunter wasn't a Twi'lik - the lekku couldn't fit under that helmet. She doubted he was a Chiss, but she couldn't rule out the possibility that his markings could be tattoos. Perhaps he was a Zabrak, but she'd never seen markings like his on a Zabrak. Her gut told her he was something different.

It was her third day of continuing her search. She'd bookmarked an archive of known sentient species on the galactic database. Yska prayed for some of her research luck to aid her now, typing into the species' search engine: Humanoid, blue skin, skin markings.

22,500,000 results.

She sighed.

The girl tried again: Humanoid, blue skin, skin markings, fingernail tattoos.

15,800,000 results.

Gahhh! She growled in frustration. How many years would it take her to go through the process of elimination? Even if she could nix a species every second, it'd take far longer than her natural lifespan. She deflated. She knew nothing about him. Or...nothing that would help.

Perhaps she was going about this all wrong….

"Yska," called the Mandalorian from down the hall.

Quickly, heart in her throat, she closed the search tab. She opened a reading application to appear as if she'd been perusing a book. "Y-yes?"

"''Yes,' what?" He stopped in the doorway, expectant.

"Yessir. Sorry, sir." Yska uncurled from the couch, setting the datapad gently on the coffee table. Her eyes cast downward, but her stomach didn't coil like it had a few days ago at the slipup.

"Do I need to spank it into you for you to remember, little human?" The warrior's weight shifted. Voice deep through his vocoder.

Yska shivered pleasantly. "No, sir. But...I think you'd like that...sir," she ventured a bold tease, eyes coy and body coquettish.

"Hmm," the Mandalorian hummed, hips canted, visor leveled. "That's just the surface of the things I'd like to do to you, little human." She could feel his coiled energy filling up the space in the room, the scent of leather and hot metal. Heat pooled between her thighs. "Things we will, unfortunately, have to postpone for another time. We are about to dock at Makeb."

Yska's stomach churned.

She had a bad feeling about this….

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