Chapter Text
I’m not here.
You whisper those three words to the cleaner unit beeping at the door. It came by earlier this morning when you had arrived, but you hadn’t let it in then either.
It thinks for a moment, whirring.
“Okay,” it responds monotonously. “No room service required.”
You breathe a sigh of relief and sit back against the door. Thank the maker for droids. Simple, quiet, droids.
As you listen to it whir away and beep at the room neighboring yours, you don’t pick up any suspicious sounds. It should relieve you, but it doesn’t. You still can’t shake the feeling you are being watched.
A cramp in your abdomen has you gasping silently. The blockers.
Arm cradling your stomach, you stand up and go to the small dusty bench. There, the simple, damned container of Omega meds that had gotten you into this mess, stands on its own.
The bottle rattles hollowly as you snatch it up. You try not to panic - but it was so light. You are almost out, and then -
The cramp worsens, and you double over.
You have no more time. Already your mind has begun to recognize scents. Mostly Betas in the surrounding motel rooms.
One of the last remaining pills lands in the palm of your sweaty hand, and you quickly swallow it down. Your throat is dry and you almost choke on it, but your desperation to remain hidden wins out, and you force it down.
In your panic you don’t hear the creaking floorboards from the hallway. But the beep and click of your door unlocking and opening is unmistakable.
There, in the entrance, stands a Mandalorian.
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest for one single second, before adrenaline takes over. There is no way you are getting past a Mandalorian, so you immediately turn back and surge for the single window.
The glass doesn’t smash. You hit the window and bounce off it with a resounding crack. There is no time to curse your innate Omega weakness.
A shadow looms behind you. “Make this easy on yourself, kid.” The filtered voice of the Mandalorian sounds so apathetic.
Panic flares as you looked around helplessly for a way out, but he is cornering you.
“Please,” you try to say, but your vocal cords aren’t working for some reason, so it comes out as a silent plea.
His hand rests on his blaster.
A few seconds of silence go by, and you realize he isn’t going to say anything.
Even on the blockers, your submissive Omega nature wins out. You raise your hands in defeat. You force yourself not to shake in fear; to meet his visor’s gaze, to breathe deeply and calmly. Hopefully, no-one told him what you are. Hopefully, without a scent to go by, he dismisses you as a Beta.
He gently takes your outstretched hands, and binds them together with a device that seals shut. Maker, this isn’t good.
You are hauled out onto the streets of this backwater town. He mostly stays behind you, occasionally putting a hand on your back to steer you in one direction or another.
You wonder why people are staring at you with fear in their eyes, until you realize it’s the bounty hunter behind you that they’re scared of.
His ship is smaller than you thought it’d be for someone with beskar armor. You aren’t given the tour, just pushed up the ramp and onto the deck.
You immediately recognize the carbonite chamber and your heart starts pumping wildly. Is he going to freeze you in there? You try to swallow down your panic as he pushes you past it. You realize if you’re frozen, you won’t have to worry about your blockers running out during transit. You won’t have to worry about hiding your scent.
“Why aren’t you freezing me?” you work up the courage to ask.
He finishes unloading his pack and taps your shoulder towards the entrance to what you assume is the cockpit.
You resist, feeling his form come dangerously close behind you. “I - I would rather be frozen,” you say quietly. “Please.”
Again, things are quiet for a moment. Then, you hear his voice modulated through the helmet for the second time. “Chamber’s broken. Your bounty’s paying for the repairs.”
“Oh,” you manage, before you are again nudged forward. You stumble, and catch yourself on the rungs. Repairs to a carbonite chamber would be… costly. How much was your bounty worth?
You quickly ascend to the cockpit and sit quietly in a back seat, as you struggle to find a way out of your predicament. Had he taken the pills? You can’t remember. Maybe you could convince him to let you have them. They should last until you’re out of this ship.
Otherwise, you will have to tell him the truth, before he finds out the hard way.
The problem with the blockers was that you can’t recognize other people’s scents either. You can’t tell if the Mandalorian is a Beta or an Alpha. You hope beyond hope he is a Beta, but something about the way he exudes masculinity, silent and dangerous as he sits back in the pilot’s seat with his legs spread, makes you nervous.
***
The silence is endless.
Seriously, you can’t bring yourself to break the tension in the cockpit. He sits perfectly still and for a time you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, before he leans forward to flick a few switches.
You watch his every move with bated breath.
Finally, after what must be hours, his helmet turns as he observes you.
You have made the back seat your home for the time being. The chair is a little too big for you, and so you’ve managed to curl up in it to foster a tiny kernel of warmth. Your tired eyes open more as you stare back at him.
A moment later and he’s still staring, almost as if he’s trying to figure something out.
Shit. You had curled up on instinct but you saw it now. You were acting like an Omega. Quickly you unfolded yourself and sat properly in the chair, eyes darting around the room to find something else to stare at.
“How old are you?”
Your gaze instantly darts back to the Mandalorian sitting in front of you as you hear him speak again. Maker, his baritone voice through that helmet sounds good.
“Twenty-five,” you respond. They didn’t tell him that?
He turns back to face ahead a moment later.
***
You don’t know if you had managed to sleep, or if you were just laying there in silence. You had lost track of time a while ago, and now you just listen to the quiet hum of the ship, lulling you into darkness.
Until you realize you have a need you can’t ignore.
Clenching your thighs together, you clear your throat. “I need t-to relieve myself.” It comes out more as a question than a statement, and you wish you hadn’t said anything.
His chair turns to you as he stands up.
Bringing you back down the ladder, you are reminded just how small this ship is. He only takes a few steps before he is on the other side of the ship, opening the door to the tiny bathroom.
You hold your hands out, still bound together, for him to unlock.
With a few button presses in places you couldn’t reach, he deactivates the device. Your arms suddenly feel light as the weight is lifted off you, and you stretch for the first time.
His helmet angles down at you.
You barely have a chance to react before he grabs your left wrist gently but quickly.
“What are you - ah!” you cut yourself off with a cry of pain as he inspects the bruises on your forearm. “Must have been from the window.”
He lets go, but stays put. You watch him with wide eyes for a moment, unsure if you’re supposed to be waiting for him to say something. Why is he just standing there? Lost in thought again?
“Excuse me,” you say quietly.
He steps to the side to let you pass.
You take care of your business quickly. A quick, private moment, allows you to reassess your situation.
You pull your sleeves down and breathe deeply. It is now or never.
Opening the door, you prepare to ask him a question, when you see he’s laid out some items on the crate. Shiny, metallic objects.
You can’t help it, your stomach drops and you clutch the side wall for support. “P-please don’t - ”
He stiffens at your voice and quickly turns around.
He’s holding a needle.
“What are you going to do to me?” you gasp. He has no reason to torture you, right? He can’t possibly know - surely you still have a few hours on the blocker before your scent reappears. Unless they had told him. Had they?
“Relax. It’s just bacta.”
You stare at him, uncomprehending. He’s said about four sentences to you and you can’t get over the sound of his voice.
“For your arm?” He explains patiently.
Oh. Oh.
You pull your sleeves down again, and tentatively step forward. “Why?” Why waste it on a prisoner?
A modulated sigh is your only response, as though he thinks you should already know the answer.
You hold your arm out, pulling your sleeve up, and look away with your eyes closed. “Okay, just do it.” You aren’t the biggest fan of needles.
There’s a brief moment of shuffling as he prepares it, then, you feel his bare hand on yours, supporting you. Rough, calloused, and warm.
Heat floods your arm and you breathe a sigh of relief. He’s taken his gloves off. It’s as if he knows exactly what you need to calm you down. But, you know it can’t be that. He probably just needs more control over his hands so he can administer the bacta properly.
A slight prick, and then he’s letting you go.
Aches settle over your forearm as you move it, but it’s a good, healing ache. You flex your hand and smile for a brief moment, before remembering you’ll probably be restrained again soon.
The med kit clinks together as he finishes packing it away. His large, tan hands have no trouble handling the delicate instruments, and you tuck that piece of knowledge away.
He surveys the crates for a moment once he’s done, and you realize he’s looking for his gloves. You quickly hold them out to him, too flustered to meet his gaze. You hoped the small act might foster some form of respect, at the least.
They’re back on his hands in a matter of seconds, but he spends more time strapping and fastening them.
Now or never, you remind yourself.
“Did you bring the meds?” You pretend not to seem too interested. You can’t even meet his gaze - his visor.
“Meds?”
You nod. “The ones in my room. They were on the bench when you… when you arrived.”
He’s almost finished fastening his glove when he pauses.
That’s when the first pang hits your abdomen. No. You couldn’t have burned through it already. It was supposed to last at least eight hours!
Shit. Shit, shit shit shit shit SHIT. How long were you half asleep up there?
But you don’t have time for these thoughts as you are brought out of your pain by his voice.
“Stars… are you - ?”
“No,” you grit out, but your nostrils flare as you struggle to breathe, and suddenly you are overwhelmed with a scent that screams Alpha.
The second pang hits, signifying the end of your blocker, and all your senses heighten in a rush.
Suddenly it is crystal clear to you that you are in the middle of an Alpha’s home. The scents are overwhelming. This ship is his territory, and you are right in the middle of it.
The wave passes. You groan, realizing you hadn’t been paying attention for a few seconds.
He’s backed up to the other side of the small space. His helmet follows your movement as you straighten up and lean on the wall.
Your whole body locks as he observes you. The need to submit is bad. Your mind is flooded with images of presenting for him, allowing him to scent you, touching you with those hands.
It’s been so long on blockers, you struggle to regain control of your hormones. You are sure he can scent the mess you’re in. Arousal has begun to grow in your core, producing wetness between your legs that will surely stain your panties. You’re not sure you can make any good decisions right now.
So you wait for him to make the first move.
Minutes go by, and you’re panting, burning up against the cool metal of the wall. You could curl up and fall asleep right here, running on fumes. Or you could break this tension by approaching him, stripping, and kneeling. Hoping he accepts you. Stars you want to.
He’s been so perfectly still for so long. You can feel his heated gaze, even through the vizor.
Tell me what you need me to do, you feel like saying.
Finally he speaks. “Omega.” His voice is gravelly and low, like he’s restraining himself.
You can’t help it; a whine rises in your throat as you hear his voice again. His voice. Him. Calling you Omega. You shift your legs and dig your hips farther into the wall as arousal seeps through your panties. They must be ruined.
He growls at you.
“Fuck,” you moan, as the sound of his growl causes a fresh wave of wet arousal between your legs, “Mandalorian, sir, please I - ”
“Quiet.”
Your mouth shuts instantly, running on instinct. It somehow turns you on even more, how he barks out an order and you obey.
“You need to get yourself under control.”
You grit your teeth and lean your forehead against the wall, shaking your head. His voice is torturing you, and you want more.
“Omega. Control yourself.”
You whimper.
The Alpha’s command is like magic. It cannot be disobeyed. Slowly, you build up your walls like you learnt to before. To calm down your scent and force yourself to think properly.
A few deep breaths later, you feel calm enough to get off the wall.
He’s still staring at you, his whole body tense under his armour.
“I am so sorry,” you say. You’re terrified of what he will do, and at the same time your newly awakened instincts are screaming at you to offer yourself up to him completely.
His shoulders sag, and he approaches you. The restraints are left behind on the floor, but you barely notice as he stops in front of you. You have to look up to meet his gaze.
For a moment you fear he won’t say a thing. That he’ll just go back to stoic silence and you won’t have any idea what to do.
Then, he speaks softly.
“Are you cold?”