summary: over the years he happily fulfills all of your desires, except the one you want most of all: to see his face.
cw: 18+, smut, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), rough sex? a little fluff maybe, longing, dirty talk, language
a/n: this is my first time writing Din and I wrote it so fast but I really couldn't help myself after watching that trailer
He was your first. There have been others since, but they’ve never captured you like he did and still does even if it is true that you’ve never seen what lies beneath his helmet. The day he came through the village, you knew right then that there'd never be anyone else like him. Whilst your community was enthralled by the tiny yet powerful companion he brought with him, you were stuck on him. The way he walked, the way he held himself tall, strong, experienced, and you couldn't help but blush any time he lifted his head in your direction.
Din had one rule that you had tried so many times to understand; he'd give himself to you, but you could never see his face. Initially, even though you never showed it, it played on your mind that you were giving yourself to somebody so intimately, yet he never allowed you to see his true self, not without that goddamn barrier. But if you wanted him, and fuck, you definitely wanted him, that was the one small price you'd always have to pay, so you accepted it.
It became a sort of routine. Whenever he felt like it, after good days and after worse days, he'd arrive at your hut in the dead of night when only you would be aware of his presence. Whilst your village slept cast under a peaceful darkness, you’d wait for him, hoping that you'd hear those familiar gentle creaks of the floorboards letting you know that he was here for you.
Whenever he calls, you follow his instructions precisely. Standing facing the wall, you'll listen to the sound of his heavy armor approaching you from behind. He'll pull out the silver silk scarf from his suit and bring it over your head, over your eyes, until it's tied to block your vision. You always sense his silent hesitation before he reaches up to remove his helmet. Once he's naked, he'll undress you slowly, his large palms brushing against your skin, never failing to leave a trail of goosebumps everywhere he touches. Once he has you ready, he'll ask you to surrender your body to him in whatever way he desires: up against the wall, sprawled bare for him on the bed, in his lap, anyway he desires as long as that silver silk remains in place over your eyes.
He claims the blindfold heightens your senses, and he's right. But the more he calls, the more he worships every inch of your body under the darkness, the harder it’s becoming not to defy his rule and remove the barrier between you. The pull to cast your eyes over the man who consumes your entire body and all your thoughts every second of the day is starting to drive you insane.
Tonight should have been no different, except it was. He hadn’t shown for weeks, and the ache inside of you to be with him again was starting to mess with you. You were agitated and irritable, and you knew your friends had noticed. So when the creak of the floorboards came a few hours after the sun had dipped, it woke you from your light slumber, an excitement running through your being. The silhouette of his armor, the soft glimmer of it reflecting under the moonlight as he waited for you to notice him, made your tummy flip. He looks big in the doorway, and his size always has always intimidated you in the best possible way.
Following the pattern without a word exchanged, you stand, padding on bare feet towards the wall opposite him. You listen to his slow steps behind you as he steps inside your room. Like always, you wait for the silk blindfold, but it doesn't come. Instead, in the corner of your eye, you notice his helmet being placed down and hear the gentle clink of his suit as he undresses. His breathing deepens as he steps forward and slips the thin straps of your nightgown off your shoulders, letting the fabric slide down your body like a feather until it lands on the wood beneath you. With his palm snaking around your front, it rests low on your stomach as he pulls you back into him, his soft wet lips laying delicate kisses up your neck before they hover beside your ear. You push your naked ass back into his raging erection, aching to feel him again. God, how you've missed this.
“Please.” You beg.
“Missed me, huh?”
You nod with a bite of your lip. “You know I did. Didn’t know if you were coming back.” Your hands reach up to entangle in those curls you don’t even know the true color of. Fuck, how you wish you could turn and see the man who knows your body and your needs so well.
“Always coming back to you…” He murmurs, and for a moment you know he’s overthinking that comment; he has a frustrating habit of seizing up any time a glimmer of serious affection slips from his mouth.
“What about-”
“Be a good girl for me; promise you won't turn around.”
You nod in agreement, but you're not sure if you can truly keep such a promise.
“Get on the bed, want you on all fours, head down.”
There’s a vulnerability that washes over you when he watches you do this, but every time it excites you, the anticipation, the curiosity of how exactly he’ll take you tonight. Sometimes he’s slow, gentle and caring. Sometimes he feels distant, the pain or sadness radiating from his body. Other times when he tells you he’s had a successful mission, he’s rougher, more daring, and more dominant because the confidence oozes from him as it courses through his veins.
Sensing the dip of the bed behind you, your heart begins to race at the way you feel so exposed yet so fucking good bared open to him like this. As you wait, you notice the coldness of the night air softly blowing through the window landing on your skin. In contrast, his hot breath tickles against your ass makes your tummy flip as you anticipate his next move. The tip of his nose brushes against your lower back, trailing down slowly between the curves of your ass cheeks, his tongue instantly darting out as it reaches its destination to taste your pooling desire. Jolting forward from his actions as your breath hitches, his palms instantly grip onto your waist, holding you tightly in place as his mouth explores your drenched cunt, his hums of satisfaction making you even more horny.
“Always taste fucking divine, my love.” My love. You can't help but latch onto those words the second they escape him. He's never called you that; always a man of few words and you can’t help but wonder if he means it.
You can feel your juices coating his chin as he laps at your folds, his wet facial hair against your thighs. He gets lost in the sounds of your moans while he tastes you, his erection twitching at the sounds. When he stops, you whimper in protest, needing more. His hand smoothes up to the top of your back, pushing hard on your shoulders until your head rests down on the sheets beneath you, your ass still high in the air.
“Please, I need you," you whisper, your ass wriggling, trying to move back into him, but he holds you tightly in place. He parts your ass cheeks with his hands looking down at your glistening folds.
"Shit, it’s been too long. I've missed this view, you all open for me like this, begging for it, baby. Don't think you know what it does to me, d’you?”
His hand comes to your mouth, inserting two fingers deep against your tongue. Pushing them further inside, he gently thrusts them, making you gag around his digits, the vulgar sound making his cock even harder. When he draws them out, the wet pop of your lips makes him groan deeply.
“Gonna kill me one day with the sounds you make. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” He takes himself in hand, his fingers wet with your spit now coating his rock-hard dick before he lines himself up with your soaked entrance. You push back, eager to have his veiny shaft fill you up once again. When he finally stops teasing, the sudden instruction of his thrust pushes your head further into the bed, making you gasp at how perfectly he stretches you. It's like your body forgets just how thick he is.
"Fuuuuck," he groans, reaching down to grab a handful of your hair, “Always so tight for me.”
In the quietness of the night, there’s only the sound of his hips slapping against yours, his animalistic grunts as he drives into you over and over again, mixed with your desperate whimpers muffled in the sheets. You both know you should be quieter; if anyone found you, you know your dad would probably start a war with Din, but when he’s sheathed so deep inside of you like this, it’s hard to care about what anyone else would think. His free hand lightly scratches down your spine before curving underneath you to your tits. His thumb flicks over your hard nipple before he squeezes the flesh hard, maybe a little too hard, but you don't protest because you enjoy being completely at his mercy, willing to give him whatever he needs.
He pulls tightly, wrapping your hair around his fist as his thrusts start to turn ragged and messy. When he starts to feel your walls fluttering around his thick erection, he releases his grip on your hair, reaching underneath your body to pleasure your sensitive bud, desperate to send you racing over the edge before he spills his load. “Yeahhh fuck, that’s it, darling; almost there.”
As he works you, your body begins to shudder against the mattress as he fucks you even harder through your orgasm. “Just like that, let me feel you.”
Your nails dig into the sheets, desperate for grip as you ride out your high around him. When it passes, your body feels weightless as the energy drains from you. It’s only his strong grip on your waist that’s keeping you in place as he chases his own release, his thrusts getting harder each time. When his pants become too quick, he withdraws, releasing a loud, guttural groan into the darkness as he spurts his hot, thick cum onto your ass, breathing heavy like a feral animal.
Utterly spent, he drops down onto you. Your damp, sticky bodies joined together as they recover from your mutual highs. He never stays long afterwards; once he’s sure you're okay, he pulls his armor back on too quickly, rushing away before he could be in any danger of being persuaded to stay, leaving you cold and lonely and wishing for more. But tonight it isn’t going unnoticed how he isn’t itching to flee your bed.
“Am I too heavy?” He hums against your hot skin.
“Hmm, but I like it.” Your voice is soft but tired.
“Need me to move?”
“No, stay… a while longer.” You mumble into the pillow, never wanting to leave this very moment.
You know you need to clean up, but this is the longest you’ve had him like this, thoroughly fucked, not wanting to leave your side, so you refuse to spoil this yet. For once you sense he’s relaxed, his guard down as he allows himself to get lost in the bliss of the intimate moment you just shared together.
As you lift your head slightly from the mattress, the thin slither of moonlight reflecting into your room allows you to see his body. The rise and fall of his bare chest is starting to slow. You watch as he pulls the sheet up over you both until it lies lows on his waist. He takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth to place a soft kiss on your palm before holding it against his chest. While you lie there not saying a word, getting lost in his soft breathing as he falls into a deep sleep, you don’t realize the time passing.
You still haven’t looked up, scared to lift your eyes, to move up his huge form beside you and land on the one thing you’ve never been allowed to see. But with him sleeping right next to you, the temptation, the desperation to flick your pupils up, becomes all too overwhelming.
So when you do finally give in, you’re sure your heat skips a beat. His face is cast softly under the white moonlight, and you can’t help but admire the beauty of it. You’d created an image in your mind from his voice and what you’d felt against your skin over the time you’ve spent with him, and of course you knew he’d be striking, but it was nothing compared to the reality of seeing his face beside you now.
His skin looks a little aged, like his experiences as a bounty hunter are finally catching up with him. His brows are knitted ever so slightly as he dreams, revealing the lines across his forehead, and his eyelids flicker gently as he fights his demons within his sleep. You reach up to examine the soft curls on his head before your eyes drop slowly down over the outline of his face, moving over the patchy facial hair that has brushed against your neck and your thighs a hundred times before. He has a jaw so sharp and rigid, and you wonder how one man could possibly be so handsome, even in such low light. There's a flutter of butterflies building within your stomach as you analyze every single detail and scar on his face. You can tell he’s seen more than anyone should, and you can know he’s still holding onto so much hurt. Jesus, there's so much you would like to ask him; you almost wish you could climb inside his mind yourself to make all his pain disappear.
As you watch him, his head begins to move, left to right and back again. His breathing suddenly becomes faster and more desperate, and you feel his entire body beside you tense against the bed beneath you. Lifting your hand, you cup his face as you look down at him.
You call for him. Nothing. As his nightmare worsens and his body starts to move more vigorously, you refuse to be scared, instead calling his name louder repeatedly until his eyes finally open, landing straight on yours, startled.
For the first time, you're finally looking directly into the eyes of the man you spend your days longing for, the only man you will ever want. In this very moment as you trace a finger along the outline of his face, it feels a thousand times more intimate than anything you’ve done together.
He whispers your name; the sound of it coming from his lips as he searches your eyes makes it sound different than any time before. All his barriers have vanished, if only for a second. He blinks, swallows, and speaks again, his voice louder and more serious. “What are you doing?”
“You were having a nightmare… you were thrashing-”
“Don’t have nightmares.” He cuts you off.
"Din-"
“Have to get back to the kid.”
You shift, moving your head closer to his on the pillow as you stroke the far side of his face with your thumb. “Wait, please... let me in. You don’t have to hide from me.” you search his face, trying to take as much of him in before he inevitably runs away. He reaches up, taking your hand from his cheek with a gentle shake of his head. With a heavy sigh, he sits up looking away so his broad, scarred back hides the view of his face.
He stands, dressing with his back to you. He doesn’t look back until his helmet hides him again. He lingers, glancing down at your naked body sprawled across the bed, and you get the impression he's fighting every ounce of common sense in his body not to stay. But he doesn’t say a word; instead, he disappears off into the night leaving you unsure when or if he'll ever call again.
It isn’t until the woman he loves is in danger that Din realizes he’s wanted her all along.
ao3 // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist
Din observes the round fruit.
It does not hang from a tree or dwell within a bush. This one grows on a vine. The fuzzy stalk swirls over and around metal trellises. The fruit is a deep blue so dark it almost resembles space, but in the right light, it shines.
“It’s for fermentation.”
Your voice is soft, and yet Din cannot help but react as if you’ve commanded something of him. He promptly rises, turning in the direction of your voice. You flush with embarrassment as if you’ve walked in on him without his helmet. Arms tightening around the basket you’re holding; you bring it out in front of you like a shield.
Within the woven threads, Din glimpses the same dark fruit.
“Is it native to Mandalore?” asks Din, because questions keep him here. It gives him an excuse to stay a bit longer.
That is Din’s habit, and he is not all that interested in shaking it. The Growing Caverns are an extension of what they’re building here on Mandalore. Not only is the air breathable, but things are growing again. Din witnessed it on his second visit, when the stranded Mandalorians showed them all that they had done after the Night of a Thousand Tears.
Now, it’s a system. An effort to feed the ever-growing enclave.
You are but a small piece of that. A nurturer. Someone bringing life to the plants to sustain everyone else.
“No. It’s not native to Mandalore,” you answer, stepping closer to Din. He instinctually matches your movement. “This fruit is found on Kalevala.”
Your lips look so soft. Inviting. But it’s not like Din can kiss you. He cannot remove his helmet. Yet he can think about it. Even now, his thoughts meander outward, imagining what those lips might feel like against his lips. How they might feel against his skin.
“It likes the rolling hills and cliffs.”
“What likes the rolling hills?” asks Din absently, still focused on your lips.
“The plant,” you laugh, indicating the fruit with a nod of your head.
Din inclines his head because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He was too kriffing focused on your lips that he wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying.
Your smile remains and it is such a sweet thing to Din.
He wants to capture it. Bottle it. Keep it with him always.
This whole interaction is indulgent. There is no reason for Din to be here, but he cannot seem to stay away. That first day, after Mandalore was reclaimed, Din planned on leaving with Grogu. But you appeared with that sweet smile, asking him for assistance, and Din answered without a second thought.
Now, he’s here, remaining on Mandalore, making excuses every day just to come see you.
Din glances around the large cavern. There are raised boxes with all sorts of plants growing from them. Others dangle from pots hanging from the cavern’s ceiling while others are bolted into the walls. Something is always different when Din visits.
All Din knows how to do is fight. And here you are, knowing how to fight too, yet using your skills to feed your people instead. It’s vastly different from how he was raised, and what he’s come to understand.
Things are changing for him.
Din clears his throat. Every day he comes, and every day he says the same thing.
“Things look good here,” he comments.
Your smile shifts to a knowing smirk, and Din is thankful you cannot see his face behind his helmet. Even with the insulation, Din is sweating.
“They are,” you agree, shifting closer to him.
Again, Din matches your movements, the two of you nearly on top of each other. Over the last few weeks, you’ve done this more and more. Leaning in, standing close to him, giving him all your attention. However, you never touch him, but Din wishes that you did, even if it’s just a passing touch.
But whatever Din feels in his heart, you are not of his tribe. You are of Clan Kryze. You walk the Way differently from him. You do not always wear your helmet. While Din accepts that both Ways are true, your path doesn’t completely align with his.
While he enjoys your company, and adores your smile, Din cannot act. Everything he feels must be buried deep. Hidden. There are some things that cannot be even if Din wishes they were so.
You shift toward him again and sigh, bringing the basket to rest against your hip. You suddenly appear tired, and Din hates that.
“Why do you come here every day, Din?”
To see you. To see your smile. To hear your voice.
How does he begin to answer that?
What answer will be acceptable to you?
Does he tell you of how his stomach flips when you say his name, or how his heart races the moment you recognize him across the room?
“It’s peaceful,” decides Din because it’s partially true. “I like it here.”
Your smile returns but it’s not as bright as before. Are you disappointed in that answer? Maybe. Din hopes that he hasn’t brushed you aside with his response.
“Will you stay on Mandalore?” you ask, and that gives Din pause. “I heard that you might leave us soon.”
Din has not been open about leaving Mandalore and returning to Nevarro. It’s possible that Bo-Katan might have said something in passing.
It’s best to be honest.
“I’ve thought about it,” he replies slowly.
You nod, your smile fading a bit. “I’d miss your daily visits if you left.”
Kriffing hell, Din isn’t strong enough to resist. The truth comes rolling out of him automatically. It’s a tug. A sharp pull. A snapping of string that cannot be undone.
“I would miss them too.”
It’s the right answer, and saying so soothes something within him. That sweet smile of yours returns, and Din has to dig down into every fiber of his control not to reach out and touch you.
Din clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Let me help with that.” He nods toward the basket of fruit, arms extended.
You give it to him without resistance, and Din takes pride that he can at least do this one thing for you. Stepping to the side, Din allows you to lead the way, the two of you exiting the cavern to head toward the Great Forge. The passage is tight, made of solid rock, and as it spits the two of you out onto solid ground, you pause to glance back at Din.
Your gaze lingers on him and Din isn’t sure what it is he sees there.
But it is momentary. Fleeting.
You give him your back, continuing on, and Din strides up beside you effortlessly. Amongst the towering forges, Din glimpses the Armorer. She stares back, arms at her sides, observing. Din inclines his head in her direction and she repeats the gesture.
At the communal kitchens, Din drops the basket full of fruit off as you speak to another member of Clan Kryze.
It’s funny, this feeling, how Din could see a place for himself here. He has always been alone even with his covert. On Mandalore, with you, there is a sense of belonging, like he is supposed to dwell amongst Sundari’s broken halls.
“Thank you for your help.”
Din could melt into your voice. Let it swallow him up. Consume him.
“I’m always at your service,” he replies, turning in your direction.
You’re right there. So close. One touch can’t hurt. Just a small one.
Din’s fingers flex and then curl in before relaxing. He makes the first move, the backs of his fingers gently brushing against your bare ones. Your eyes widen, and for a moment, Din believes he’s ruined it all.
But as he starts to pull away, your index finger hooks around his, locking the two of you together. And you do not drop your hand.
Din stares into your face, and it is all that he needs. He is lost in your eyes, and your smile. How can he return to Nevarro?
Someone clears their throat, and the two of you jump back from each other.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Din,” you say quickly. “Thank you.”
Din backs away, departing with an inability to form words and a tightness in his chest he doesn’t entirely understand.
There’s a clamor near the Great Forge. A crowd.
Din navigates it, emerging from between two Mandalorians to the edge of the throng. Bo-Katan stands at the top of the stairs. To Bo-Katan’s left is the Armorer, and to her right are Koska Reeves and Axe Woves. There are several more Mandalorians that linger on the stairs. All of them are talking amongst each other.
One of the Mandalorians on the stairs speaks up, his voice projecting clearly over the crowd. His armor is the blue of Clan Kryze. “We need to send a party.”
A significant portion of the crowd vocalizes their approval. Din remains silent.
“We should,” agrees Bo-Katan. “But without knowing where they are, we’d be going in blind.”
“I agree with Rax,” says Axe. “Just volunteers. We all understand the risks.”
Several Mandalorians in the crowd step forward and voice their willingness to volunteer. Whatever Din has stepped in to, it’s not good. Glancing down the line, Din spies Paz Vizsla. He and Din have always been at odds, but Din needs answers. Melting back into the crowd, Din shuffles toward Vizsla. Din appears next to him, and the big guy gives Din a passing glance.
“What happened?” asks Din in a low voice.
“A creature from the Mines crawled out of its hole,” answers Paz.
“Attacked miners?”
Since retaking Mandalore, the Mines have been a priority. Groups go down to clear out all sorts of nasty things while other groups descend to fix pipes and passageways. Sometimes unrefined beskar ore is found. Sometimes they find armor absent its owner.
“No,” replies Paz. “Growers. Thing crawled straight up and burst through the rock.”
Din’s throat drops into his stomach.
“Casualties?”
“Two,” says Paz. “The rest were taken or injured.”
A twisted wrench within Din’s gut sends a wave of nausea through him. He wavers slightly on his feet before reality comes crashing back. Din swallows down the trepidation and terror, turning everything in him into steel.
“Who?”
Paz rattles off the names, and Din nearly sighs with relief. You are not dead, and you’re not amongst the injured. But you’re gone. Taken. And that simply won’t do.
Axe Woves raises his voice above the crowd again. “Who will volunteer?”
There is no forethought. No pause. Din steps forward silently.
If anyone will bring you back, it will be him.
Din silently slides into a crevasse, dropping down onto solid rock. Other Mandalorians move in the dark, their headlamps off as they creep closer toward their target. They too are silent, and though Din cannot see them, he feels them. They are everywhere, surrounding the beast in a circular maneuver.
The Mines are endless. Full of dangers.
This creature is but one.
Din uses his helmet’s internal display to see the world around him and pick up on heat signatures. The creature is large, easily taller than three grown men stacked on top of each other, and its fur appears coarse. While it has two legs, Din notices three sets of arms.
In the creature’s rage and confusion, it likely lashed out at whatever it could. It has the mental clarity to seize without injury, but the why is uncertain. And yet the why doesn’t matter to Din. What matters is that you’re alive.
You are alive.
Din has already found you. He just can’t approach yet.
It’s too dangerous.
When you work in the Growing Caverns, you don’t always wear all of your armor. There isn’t any point to it. It only impedes your efforts. Which is likely why you couldn’t entirely fight back.
Din will make sure you never remove your armor again. He’ll lecture you about it until you hate him for it. As long as you’re safe, that is all that matters.
The crevasse deposits Din into the den of the beast. It shifts, and Din freezes. You are right there, tucked against it. But you are not alone. There is another grower with you. The two of you have your arms wrapped around each other.
There are others, but their heat signatures no longer register on Din’s display. They are gone.
In that same display, Bo-Katan’s crouched body comes into view. She moves silently across the rock, Koska Reeves at her back. They approach you and the other grower, and with subtle movements, manage to shift the beast’s arm away from your confined bodies.
Din sidesteps, following suit until he’s right up on you. His hand is on your waist. At your back. You stiffen, and then melt, fingers digging into his flightsuit between the beskar. You do not speak. You say nothing. You only cling to him, and Din ushers you away as Axe Woves escorts the other out of the den.
Everyone backs up. Begins to retreat.
The moment Din enters the crevasse again, he moves swiftly. What Din would like to do is pick you up in his arms and carry you out. Yet it might cause too much noise or could slow him down. You’re not limping. You don’t appear injured.
From behind him comes a rumble. A shake that makes the rock around him shiver.
Din does not pause.
There’s a roar, and then a deafening boom.
The chargers have gone off.
Din tucks you against him as the crevasse widens. He bends forward to dip his arm under your thighs, and then he’s lifting. Running. Your arms go around his neck and you press your face against his chest.
Another round of chargers goes off but it is a distant thing.
There is no roar. No bellow of anger.
Din does not turn around to see if any other Mandalorians move with him. He is determined to return you home.
The twisting, tight rock widens again, and Din steps out into a cavern with a low ceiling. Din sighs with relief as several Mandalorians approach him, concern clear on their faces. Din eases you back to your feet, and though you wobble briefly, you remain upright.
You turn toward him, lips parted as if you want to say something to him. But whatever you wish to say is not to be. You are whisked away, and Din can only watch.
There is little Din perceives after that. He merely exists until he’s finally allowed to see you. For him, it feels like years. In reality, it is only a day.
“You came for me,” you murmur. The adoration and affection in your eyes is piercing, spearing him through the heart.
“I wouldn’t leave it up to anyone else,” replies Din blandly because it’s true.
You laugh, and then wince. “That’s sweet,” you say, but Din hears the doubt.
Din leans forward on the upturned bucket he sits on. Your makeshift cot is low to the ground, and Din has to look down at you in this position.
His heart hammers in his chest, the memory of hearing you’d been taken still fresh and hot.
“Your absence was a wound,” says Din. “I was hollow when I heard.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I thought you were dead.”
You fingers grip the thin blanket on your body. There is no armor. It was removed. Set aside. You’re only wearing a gauzy top and bottom. Bare feet poking out from the bottom of the blanket.
“I wasn’t,” you whisper, but Din isn’t sure why you’re resisting so much.
“Do you truly believe I wouldn’t come for you?” When Din asks, he is not harsh. He is genuinely curious. There is hope laced within the question.
You shake your head. “I knew you would. It’s all I thought about in the dark.”
“And I came.”
“You did,” you agree.
Your fingers loosen from the blanket and Din allows instinct to lead him. His hand extends, slips under yours, fingers intertwining. Your eyes are watery but there are no tears. Even if there were, Din would wipe them away.
“Why?” you whisper. “Of everyone. Why me?”
Din’s breathing is shaky as he settles himself. The truth is loud. Blaring. He needs to say it, to speak it into the ether, to know if you also feel the same. At least, in some capacity. He’ll take anything you’re willing to give him.
“You are my peace.”
You give him that sweet smile again, the one he wants to bottle up and keep forever. “Not the farming?”
Din chokes back a laugh, shaking his head. Your smile is teasing now. Kriffing hell, he wants to kiss you.
“You know what I mean,” he chastises.
“I do,” you affirm, grinning.
It is just the two of you. There is quiet. Peace.
Your free hand reaches out, fingers brushing over the beskar of his chestplate. They roam upward, pausing at the Iron Heart there.
“What do you want of me, Din?”
“You,” he says automatically. “I want you.”
Your gaze lingers where your fingers touch. It flicks upward. Holds. Though Din wears a helmet, he swears you can see behind it, peering into his very soul.
“I thought you’d pass like the rains,” you murmur, the tips of your fingers pressing lightly against the beskar. “That time would show the truth.”
“And did it?”
You nod. “You stayed. You always stayed.”
“Would you like me to stay?”
Stay. Stay here next to your bed. Stay here in this room. Stay here on Mandalore.
“You won’t leave?”
“Only if you tell me to.”
You sigh, and it’s the sweetest sound to him. “Then stay, Din. Please.”
Chapter summary: The Razor Crest departs under a silent, watchful Mandalorian pilot as Nira struggles to process leaving her homeworld behind. She eagerly shares her knowledge about the mysterious Mandalorian forge key, hoping to spark some interest, but meets only terse replies. As hyperspace swirls around them, an unexpected first interaction warms the cold distance slightly. Arrival on the rugged, storm-wracked planet Vharos marks the start of a journey far from comfort and familiarity.
The Razor Crest lifted off with a deep thrumming shudder. Almost without a word, the Mandalorian had taken his seat and directed her to hers. With practiced and internalized movements, he had started the ship—without ceremony, leaving Nira no time to prepare herself for leaving her home. She sat strapped into the jump seat behind him, eyes locked on the viewport. Obroa-skai’s towers and rain-washed streets receded beneath them, shrinking to points of silver and gold. She tried to take it all in at once, to internalize the view she knew so well and keep it in her memory like a photograph. But everything disappeared too quickly, too swiftly behind the gray streaks of the persistent rain.
It hit her then—she was leaving. Really leaving. No archive check-ins, no quick flights back for symposiums. She was committed now, heading for a world she’d only seen in holos and read about in hours of hours of preparation in the archives.
She swallowed. “Looks different from up here,” she murmured, mostly to herself.
He didn’t answer.
She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his eye through the helmet. “Do you—uh—do this a lot? Take escort work like this?”
“No.”
One word. Not unkind, but final.
She tried again a few minutes later. “So… Vharos. Ever been?”
“No.”
Okay. Third time lucky. “Do you know much about what we’re looking for?”
“No.”
The bluntness almost made her laugh. But then he added, “Heard rumors. Some forge. An artifact. That’s it.”
Her eyes lit. “Oh, that’s actually great. I can fill you in! Because this is… well, it’s fascinating, actually.” He didn’t stop her. He didn’t say anything at all. But silence was, for Nira, practically permission. “It’s not just any artifact. According to the oldest records, it might have come from one of the original Mandalorian foundries—back when beskar forging was practically ceremonial, almost mystical. There are accounts—fragmentary ones—about a key being used in rituals to seal forges, to unlock them only for people deemed worthy. And some even suggest it wasn’t just mechanical, but symbolic—like an heirloom tied to the very concept of your culture’s craft and warfare. The first references appear about two hundred years before the Purge,” she said, gesturing animatedly. “Mostly fragmentary texts, but there’s a recurring phrase: kyrim beskar adol kad—roughly ‘the key that shapes the blade.’ The translation’s debated, of course, because—” She caught herself, laughing softly. “Sorry. Academic habits. Anyway, the point is: it isn’t just a key to something physical—it’s tied to the idea of making. A forge key. There’s even an account of Mandalorian smith-priests—before standardized guild structures—guarding it as something sacred, passing it between clans.” Din’s head angled slightly, but he did not respond still. “Most people think it’s metaphorical,” she continued. “A symbolic phrase for the bond between warriors and their armor. But then there’s this record of a resting place, Vharos!”
Her hands animated as she spoke, fingers sketching invisible diagrams in the air. “If that’s true, it’s basically a missing piece of Mandalorian history. I mean, can you imagine what it would tell us about early Mandalorian metallurgy? The rites? The myth-making? It could change how—”
“Mm.”
That was all. Just a low hum of acknowledgment. A silence fell, thick and awkward. He seemed content with it; she very much was not.
“So,” she tried again, “once we—”
“You might want to get your things in order back there,” he said, still not turning from the controls. “Jump’s coming up.”
Right. Hint received. She retreated, muttering something about “organizing things” under her breath, rummaging pointlessly through her satchel while the ship shifted, its engines rising in pitch. She raised her head from the corner of the tiny sleeping bunk to the cockpit. Then, without warning, stars stretched into long, luminous lines. The ship lurched softly and slipped into hyperspace. Nira stood frozen for a beat, then drifted back toward the cockpit, eyes wide. “Oh, wow… that’s… incredible.”
She leaned over the back of his chair, watching the blue tunnel swirl around them. Eyes still fixed on the stars, she tried to shift herself back into her seat. He was making some adjustment to the control console, leaning to one side to reach a panel. The ship jolted slightly as a stabilizer auto-corrected. Nira stumbled—forward momentum carrying her square into him, palms smacking against his chestplate.
Cold. That was her first thought. Cold and impossibly smooth, no give, no warmth. Beskar. Her historian’s instinct overrode every ounce of social tact. “This… is remarkable,” she murmured, fingertips brushing along an engraved edge. “The smithing on this—how old is—”Her eyes wandered over his breastplate, getting caught by a tiny movements of his helmet. A tilt. An are you serious right now?. Then reality crashed back in. She jerked her hands back, face flushed. “Oh—sorry! I wasn’t—uh—thinking.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just a slow exhale, faint through the modulator, before stepping around her and leaving the cockpit entirely.
Nira froze. Did I… offend him? She considered following but ultimately stayed, sinking into the seat, gaze fixed on hyperspace. It was beautiful, vast and untouchable, and her chest tightened—not with fear, but anticipation.
When he returned, he was carrying two metal mugs. He stopped at her side, holding one out. “Caf?”
It was the first word he’d spoken to her voluntarily. “Yes—thank you,” she said quickly, taking it. It was hot and bitter and tasted like it had been brewed by someone who thought flavor was a luxury. Still, she smiled. If he offered me molten lava, I’d take it just for the sake of interaction and less awkward silence. The warmth seeped into her hands. She sipped again, wincing slightly but not complaining. “Could use some sugar,” she muttered, but quietly enough he didn’t respond.
He busied himself with some adjustment near the nav console, tools clicking softly. She watched him work, wondering how someone could move so quietly while armored head to toe. Her eyes grew heavy despite herself. Warmth from the caf, the steady hum of the ship, and the hypnotic swirl of hyperspace all conspired to pull her under.
She drifted off before she realized she’d done it.
A voice pulled her back.
“Dr. Velis.”
Her eyes blinked open, disoriented. Then she saw him—standing there, helmet angled slightly.
He’d said her name. She hadn’t even been sure he’d remembered it.
“Yes?”
“It’s Vharos.” He gestured to the viewport. They were descending through heavy clouds, turbulence buffeting the hull lightly. Then the clouds broke, and her breath caught.
Massive plateaus stretched across the horizon, carved by ancient rivers, each layered in ochre and red-brown stone. Electrical storms flickered in the distance, faint blueish-violet arcs skittering across the higher mesas. Valleys carved deep between them like old scars, and perched on one plateau’s edge, she saw it—a village. Simple buildings, functional and sturdy, like the world itself.
Not sure if you’d be into this butttt with the little cabin that Din just received - could we get like a glimpse of domestic life with din, reader, grogu, annndd maybe another kid or a kid on the way? Smut is welcome! But also it doesn’t have to have it
Ok hope you like the idea love you bye 😂
The Cabin
pairing: din djarin x f!reader
rating: F (one mildly steamy line of dialogue but besides that just some domestic fluff)
wc: <1k
din masterlist
The days of sneaking glimpses of The Mandalorian when he’d come to the school you taught at to drop off and pick his son up were long gone by now, but standing on the porch of Din’s cabin that he insisted was now your cabin, you couldn’t help but stare.
Din was in the yard, sparring with Grogu to keep his apprentice’s skills sharp.
There wasn’t even a sliver of skin exposed, and yet he still looked like the sexiest man you’d ever seen. It was in the way he moved, the way he taught, the way he spoke to his child like every child wanted to be spoken to. He was just so…competent. A competent fighter, though he preferred to keep that side of himself far from you. A competent father, his devotion to Grogu running as deeply as his devotion to his Creed, perhaps even deeper. And Maker knows you can’t forget his competency as a lover—his skillful hands, his neediness, his attentiveness, his desire to make you feel good, it all made you feel drunk with adoration and lust.
“That’s enough for the day,” he announced through labored breathing, the child’s use of the force making the fight nearly fair. “You did good, kid.”
“You both did well,” you added from the porch, watching as Grogu leapt across the lawn towards you until you were bending down to pick him up. “Especially you.”
“He’s getting good,” Din said, meeting the two of you on the porch. “He’s a better fighter than most adults.”
“Well, he’s your son, after all,” you replied, looking into the black of Din’s visor. Din tilted his helmet at you, something you’d slowly learned to read as a smile, and reached to pinch your chin with his gloved hand. “Lunch is ready. You must be starving, little guy.” Grogu chirped and cooed in confirmation, his wide eyed look of excitement never failing to bring a smile to your face. Looking to Din, you lifted your hand to scratch his chin from beneath his helmet. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” he replied, low and husky.
“I’m talking about food,” you laughed and turned around to walk into the house with Grogu on your hip. Din let out the slightest of chuckles and followed you inside, the door closing behind him.
“Food sounds nice too, cyar’ika.”
Later on in the evening, you found yourself sitting beside Din on the bench in front of the cabin, the lid of his helmet lifted as he sipped on a drink. Your head rested on his shoulder, his armor off, and watched Grogu chase a frog around the yard.
“How’s the little one treating you today?” Din asked, his voice unmodulated and clearer than normal. You smiled down at your just-now swelling stomach and ran a hand over it.
“Treating me okay,” you answered. “Likes to kick when you talk.”
“Really?” he huffed a chuckle. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“I think it is,” you looked at him with a smile. “They’re just excited to meet their dad.”
“I’m excited to meet them, too,” he replied, soft and sincere, as though he were on the verge of tears. Turning back to face his child as he used the force to freeze the frog he’d been playing with and hover it back into his waiting hands, Din let out another chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” you asked, smiling.
“I just never…” He paused, looking back to you before closing the lid of his helmet, his voice becoming modulated again. “Just never thought I’d have all this.”
For @dindjarindiaries celebration honoring 5 years of The Mandalorian.
5 Years of the Mandalorian: Day 2 - Boots
din djarin x f!reader
words: 708
summary: helping din with a simple task turns a little devotional.
warnings: dom!din djarin, use of good girl, established relationship, riduur!din, married couple, din djarin takes the helmet off, prelude to smut but nothing explicit, boot worship, hints of foot fetish, to me this is [spoilers] but we'll call it a standalone drabble, no proofreading or anything tbh
dividers by @saradika-graphics
You don’t mean to.
You don't mean to make a thing out of it. And yet, here you are.
It becomes something of a routine. Mando comes back from a hunt and goes straight to the fresher. He leaves his boots at the foot of the ramp, when possible, so as not to track filth through the Crest.
It started out innocently enough. You saw his sad, lonely boots sitting out in the rain, getting dirtier instead of being cleansed.
Help us, they seemed to say. You imagine they’d have squeaky little voices.
While it occurs to you later that this is a sign you’ve been alone too long on the ship, in the moment, it tugs at your heartstrings. Those poor, abandoned boots. It’s not their fault that they’re so dirty!
Yeah, you’re definitely starting to lose it in your solitude.
You tiptoe down the ramp in your bare feet, hopping quickly to avoid the frigid durasteel before it can adhere your delicate skin to itself. Boots snatched in your hands, you make your way back to the safety of the warm ship.
Din’s boots have seen better days. Many, many, many better days. But you squint at them and think you kind of love them. The buttery leather melts under your fingers, and you can see the way they’d hold snugly to his broad, flat feet.
They’re just boots, but they’re the boots that carry him home to you. The bounties change, the unforgiving planets never change, the life never changes. And these boots bring your husband home.
So you take them to your station, a crate in the hull repurposed for the care and keeping of equipment, and you give them the spa day they so rightly deserve. You don’t mean for it to be anything more than it is, but the work is soothing.
In the end, they might as well be new. The bantha leather shines with the coat of protective oil you had carefully rubbed into the supple flesh. The grooves of his soles are free and clear of mud, stones, and detritus. A few careful stitches had pulled the lining back in place.
You’re scrutinizing them when he comes out of the fresher, clad only in loose linen trousers. His damp hair clings to the back of his neck, and his eyes are sharp as he takes in the sight of you perched there.
He doesn’t need to ask. The curve of your shoulders, your plump bottom lip trapped between your teeth, and the steadiness of your breathing tell him everything he needs to know. He tips your head up to look at him with his knuckles, and your lashes flutter as you look up at him.
“Oh, cyare,” he murmurs. “You’ve gone and put yourself down, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” is all you muster.
He clicks his tongue. "That's my job." But he takes the boot from your hands gently in his other hand. “Look at this. What a good girl, taking such good care of my things.”
The warmth in your chest spreads like a dust storm, and his thumb wanders over your lip, freeing it from your teeth.
“You like that? Worshipping me that way?”
If you were in your right mind, you’d marvel at the way his voice is so smooth and sultry, the rough rasp of it somehow silky as he wraps you in his sweet words.
But you’re not in your right mind, and you’re far too distracted by what he’s said to notice how he said it. Worshipping. Yeah, that’s about right.
You blink up at him, dazed, and nod. “Yes, sir,” you say for good measure.
“That’s my girl,” he says with a smile. He sits on the crate. “Put them on me.”
Your breath catches on something in your chest, hooked by the bait he’s dangled. Boots in hand, you sink to your knees at his feet. One by one, slowly, savoring it, you slip the shoes onto his feet.
It’s your turn to catch his breath. Unprompted, you give each a kiss to the top of the toe. His hand finds your head and holds you there as he marvels down at you, the lights framing him like some dark entity rising from the horizon. You’re captivated, utterly and irrevocably.
And so is he.
title from "Little Devotional" by Taking Back Sunday (which is how you know it's a make it hurt verse story lmao)
Summary: You’ve been Mando’s crew partner for a year now. Throughout that year Mando has warmed up to you and given you signs that your heart throbbing crush on him is reciprocated. There’s one thing making you hesitate. The condoms he bought on the most recent supply run.
Word Count: 19.1k (HAHAHAHAHAAA)
Chapter Summary: Previous feelings for each other are revealed, and then those feelings are explored. An exchange, if you will.
Content Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI, nervous!reader, soft!!!!!!mando, reader loves facial hair, fluff fluff fluff, helmet comes off, cuddling, SMUT: making out, grinding, PRAISE kink, lowkey size kink, big dick mando, consent king mando (consent king mando is the hottest mando, it is law), m and f masturbation, dirty thoughts of reader and of mando, piv, unprotected and protected piv, fingering f receiving, ass grabbing, a lil nipple play, half naked and naked mando, lovey dovey sex hehehehehe, physical descriptions of reader are as neutral as possible but reader has a vagina
A/N: I cannot thank you all enough for your responses on the first two parts. I also cannot thank you all enough for your patience for part three. It is longer than part one and two combined (y’all voted for me to post in one long part, ya get what ya ask for!), so I think it was worth the wait. Also I didn’t proofread this because I was too excited to post it. Will read over it later though! ENJOY!!
THREE MONTHS PRIOR
A thudding sound was produced by Mando’s footsteps up the Crest’s ramp. Looking up from the article you were reading on your Holopad, your eyes were trained on the lowering ramp. You nestled a bit further into your reading nook–a pile of blankets and some pillows stacked against the wall–as you anticipated the outside air hitting you.
Mando entered the Crest covered in mud. His footprints left a trail up the metal of the ramp. That’s another thing to add to the list of chores, you thought. The planet’s surface was half-swamp, so of course he would come back looking like he just rolled in bantha shit. A struggling bounty that Mando was dragging by the cuffs snapped around their wrists only made the mess worse.
With a grunt and a push, the quarry was frozen in the carbonite cell before Mando could finish the harsh grit of his, “Dank farrick.” His muddy, gloved hand left a mark on his vambrace when he touched it to close the ramp.
Silence.
A modulated exhale.
He stood with his expansive shoulders slumped and helmet turned downwards a bit. An apologetic tone crackled through the helmet, “I’m really sorry about the mess,” he slowly said as he used his hands to gesture around him.
Yeah, it wasn’t the most fun chore in the galaxy, but the alternative would be sitting and reading an article on your Holopad. Or sitting next to Mando in the cockpit, the streams of light gleaming off of his armor as you two have a sleepy conversation. They do sound like better alternatives, but you wanted to maximize your time with Mando.
You knew that Mando would help you clean up the mess. More time with Mando greatly sweetened the task of scrubbing the hull.
“I’m going to uh,” he glanced down at the muddy ensemble that covered his body, “go rinse off real quick.” He began his path towards the fresher door and stood still in front of the door. The helmet turned towards his right shoulder, like he was lost in thought. You could tell he concluded his reasoning as the helmet turned back to face the fresher door and he reached up to unlatch his armor.
First the chest plate was placed on the floor.
Tung.
Then the thigh guards.
Tang. Tang.
Vambraces.
Ting. Ting.
Pauldrons.
Dunk. Dunk.
It wasn’t unusual for Mando to remove his armor outside of the thresher. Occasionally the planet he needed to hunt on was sweltering hot, and removing the armor helped him cool down. Other times it was the inverse, the armor was too cold and he needed to heat up. It made sense to you this time as well. His armor was dirty so removing it before stepping into the fresher helped him clean up easier.
You didn’t realize he would apply the same logic to his mud-soaked flight suit.
Reaching up, his gloved fingers fiddled with the buttons at the top of his shirt. Eventually he was successful in undoing them and brought his hands behind his neck. He gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled it up and over the helmet. Off of his torso and onto the floor.
Plap.
The saturated long sleeve clung to his upper body like a surgical exam glove. Every muscle. Every ripple with his movement. They shined in the light of the Crest and displayed every lean curve of the Mandalorian’s body. Once more he reached up, this time undoing the buttons on his long sleeve.
Oh kriff.
Hands gripping the back collar of the shirt, the removal of the wet, black fabric revealed golden tan skin. Scars littered the expanse of his back from the years of combat he’d endured. The muscles that previously rippled underneath black fabric now gleamed under tan skin, coated with a layer of sweat.
Plap.
Oh kriff.
You were behind the nearly beskar-less man. Knowing he couldn’t see you, your jaw dropped.
Mando stepped out of his shoes, which revealed clean black socks. Hopefully his boots were equipped with mechanisms to keep his feet dry. Lastly, he slid off his gloves.
Plap. Plap.
Veiny, golden hands–matching his torso–were ungloved. His fingers were thick with well kept nails. You supposed that longer nails would make hand-to-hand combat difficult. As he opened the fresher door you watched his hand flex around the handle. His biceps bulged in the process of pulling the metal door open.
Once he was inside the fresher, you heard shuffling. After a minute or two, the door opened slightly. A large hand and toned forearm reached out and discarded his pants and underwear on the floor.
Plap.
The water began to run in the fresher and the pattering of liquid hitting the fresher floor filled the Crest. Occasional variations in the pattering occurred when Mando moved his body underneath the stream of water.
Then the pattering stopped. Mando must have been drying himself off, the slight shuffling sounds made their way to your ears. Those sounds ceased as well.
The Mandalorian cleared his throat and called out your name, “Um. Hey.”
Blinking a few times, you snapped out of your daydream-like state, “Yeah?” You called in response.
A pause. “Would you mind getting me some pants, please?” His voice was tight–possibly in embarrassment.
Your eyes widened and body sat still, “Uh, yeah sure! Where do you keep clean pairs?” You asked.
“Right side of my bunk. First cabinet on the left.” He raised his voice in order to enunciate his words.
Before you knew it, you were leaning into Mando’s bunk. Your gaze floated around the space in a quick glance. It was clean and organized. After witnessing his wide and tall frame the bed looked almost too small. Or maybe he just looked that large.
Your hand opened the first cabinet on the left and the other hand selected a clean pair of pants off the top of the stack. They were soft, fleece-like. Realizing they were sweatpants you extended your arm to put them back, but then hesitated as your hand hovered over the pile. Mando just came back from a hunt. A swampy, muddy hunt at that. He should get to be comfortable now.
The sweatpants remained in your hand and your footsteps took you to the fresher door. “I got you a pair,” you shyly announced.
A squeak came from the fresher door’s hinges as the crack in the door allowed Mando’s hand to stick out of the space. His palm was open, waiting for the pants to meet his touch. Your arm reached forward and placed the soft pants into the grasp of his thick fingers.
“Thank you.” The smooth bass of his voice entered your ears and went south. Air moving through his vocal chords produced warm, honey-like vibrations and they made you melt. “I’ll get the rest,” he concluded, and shut the fresher door.
You stood and studied your bleary reflection on the fresher door in awe at what you’ve experienced. Mando’s actual voice–without the helmet.
Shuffling began and ended abruptly. Lost in the awe, you didn’t realize the Mandalorian opened the door and took a step out. In consequence, his chest collided with your torso and sent you tumbling backwards. Backwards into a small puddle of swamp water and peaty mud.
“Di’kutla,” Mando let out a now modulated grunt.
Useless, worthless in Mando’a. Your heart stung a bit at the word. It’s not like you wanted to be covered in swamp gunk.
“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean to make more of a mess,” you stuttered, nervous at the potential of him being mad at you.
Without a word, he reached down and hauled you to your feet, large hands grasped you at your waist. You became off balance and placed your hands on his chest for leverage. A slight gasp escaped your throat at the sudden movement–and at touching Mando’s bare chest.
His skin was soft, but rough. Thin black hairs littered his sternum and the surrounding skin. A light trail made its way down his soft, yet toned, stomach and disappeared past the waist of his sweatpants. Once you realized where your gaze settled–the soft bulge displayed behind the black fabric–your eyes snapped back up to his visor and your hands returned to your sides. Mando’s hands brushed the insides of your forearms. The skin on his hands was rough and warm, just like the skin on his chest.
The T shape tilted and then shook from side to side, “I’m di’kutla, not you. I’m the one that pushed you over.”
His head peered downwards and noticed the placement of his hands, he quickly jerked them back to his sides and nodded, “Let’s get cleaning.”
–
The Mandalorian quickly pulled an outfit together, which lacked his usual beskar–the same black sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and a pair of black socks–and you mirrored his actions. Thankfully, he only caused your clothes to get dirty and not the rest of you. Your clean outfit was more revealing, which allowed you to bend and twist to scrub the mud off of the Crest’s interior.
While scrubbing, you would catch Mando out of the corner of your eye as he stole glances at you. An eyebrow of yours raised at his glances. You shot him a quick, “Don’t worry Mando, I’m getting it all,” in a teasing manner.
Looking back at the beskar-less man, he shook his helmet and chuckled, “I’m not worried about you getting it all. You keep the Crest sparkling clean. Was just…seeing if you needed help over there.” His visor returned to focus on the task of removing the mud from the floor of the hull.
–
The cleaning finished after an hour and a half. You were shocked at the efficiency, but you supposed two people cleaning aided in achieving the cleanliness of the Crest. Scrubbing the silver floors and walls tired you out, and Mando certainly felt the same after his hunt and scrubbing.
Sleep permeated throughout the air of the Crest and nestled itself into yours and Mando’s bodies. Fluid motions weaved your bodies past each other throughout the hull. Mando went back to change in his bunk while you used the fresher for your nightly routine. Once you were finished, you closed all the cabinets in the small space, signaling the return of your nightly products to their original places.
Which usually signaled Mando to stand outside of the fresher door.
His footsteps became louder as he strode to his usual spot across from the metal door of the fresher. You weren’t surprised to see Mando leaning against the wall of the hull.
But you were surprised at the bare chest staring back at you. The dark hairs on his chest littered your vision once more. The Mandalorian’s arms were crossed, which displayed every finely tuned muscle in the dim light of the hull.
You wanted to jump his bones. Climb him like a tree. Feel the expanse of his trunk-like arms under your palms.
“Are you all done there?” His modulated bass crackled through your thoughts. Straightening up and snapping out of your daydreams, you stepped to the side and nodded. Mando’s frame became larger as he approached you. Once your bodies were about to pass each other, an ungloved hand settled on your hip and gave you a slight squeeze.
“Thank you,” he said. His visor met your eyes before he closed the door to the fresher.
You got comfy in your makeshift bed–a nice pillow, a thick sleeping pad, and a cozy blanket–and waited for Mando to finish his nightly routine. You always tried to stay up and say good night to Mando before you drifted off to sleep.
Facing the side of the Crest the fresher was on, your head hit the cushion of your pillow and your thoughts wandered.
Mando looked so fucking good. Deliciously good.
You’ve had thoughts about him before. Perverse thoughts. But they were never this strong. But you’ve also never seen him this bare this many times.
His strong arms could wrap around you and flood your body with his warmth. Broad hands would travel up and down your back, soothing any negative thoughts away. Warm skin against yours could act like a salve for your worries.
You could think of everything vividly. His arms. Hands. Chest. Even his legs.
But the feel and morphology of his lips was blurry in your mind's eye.
Yet, you wanted his lips so bad–wanted him so bad–that you didn’t mind the unfocused image in your brain.
You wanted his lips to chase after yours like they were a bounty with the highest reward he’s seen. You needed to feel the slick of his saliva mixing with yours. The dancing of your two tongues in a battle of lust. Not only did you pine after his kiss, but you sought everything that would accompany it as well.
Mando’s ungloved hands would run up and down the planes of your body. Squeezing and palming your features as he pleased, expressing his want for you. The comfortable weight of him on top of you as your mouths molded together. His shifting muscles underneath your palms as you copied his wandering hands. You’d trail your fingertips over the never-ending expanse of his firm back. The pressure of his hard shaft would grind against your mound.
And the sounds.
The sounds.
You’ve heard him grunt before, in pain, effort, exertion, while he handled his bounties.
But you wanted to cause the sounds instead.
His lips could slide against yours and vibrate as he lets out a soft groan of pleasure. The bare chest on top of yours would rumble, sending shivers of delight up and down your spine. Your fingers would dig into his back in response, which would only increase the intensity of his groans. His breath would hitch as the head of his cock rubbed against the point in your walls that had you reeling.
And finally his voice.
Modulated or not, you hoped he would reciprocate the want you had for him. Your thighs pressed together in an attempt to soothe the ache between them.
“Maker, you feel so good.”
“Need you right now.”
“You like that, baby? Yeah? Good.”
“Fuucckkk, always so good for m-.”
You were cut off by the squeaky hinges of the fresher door, accompanied by Mando’s footsteps. Still shirtless, he came into one side of your vision and slowly walked to the other side. Your face heated up at his presence and the thoughts you just had about him. He stopped in front of his bunk and looked at you.
The T of his visor became diagonal, “You okay?” He questioned you.
Realizing he caught on, your face heated up even more as you produced a response, “Y-yeah! Yeah. Just…thinking.”
Nice save.
His helmet returned to its natural positioning. “What’re you thinking about?” He questioned once again. His large hands clasped in front of him just below his waist. Maker, he was huge. Mando put the width of the doorframe to shame as he continued to stare at you.
“Just…” You quickly tried to remedy the one sided awkwardness. “Just thinking about a book I’m reading. The plot is getting more complex.” Your shoulders rose and fell in a shrug to make your answer seem nonchalant.
“What book? Is it the cowboy one?” Mando replied. He leaned against the doorframe to get comfortable.
Your heart throbbed at his thoughtfulness. The cowboy-related book was one you brought up to him a couple weeks ago, when he asked what you were reading. Not wanting to lie to him, you shook your head and told the truth, “No, I finished that one a couple days ago. This one is about,” you trailed off, and then lied, “This is a romance book.” Your face became hot once again. At least you weren’t completely lying.
“Romance?” Mando asked, “What’s this book called?” His helmet tilted in interest. You could pick up a teasing tone if you listened closely enough.
“Oh, I don’t think you’d like it,” you returned. He usually asked for book titles when he was interested in reading them as well.
His bare shoulders shrugged, causing his chest to flex for a moment. “Was just curious what you were reading.” He sounded a bit disappointed. The door frame appeared to widen as he turned to enter his bunk.
Not wanting to leave him hanging, you made up a book title, “Hunter and Prey.” Your eyes widened at the sheer explicitness of the three words that left your lips. Hunter and Prey? Really? It would have been easier just to tell him what you were daydreaming about him railing you.
Mando’s broad frame filled the entrance to his bunk once again. “Hunter and Prey?” He said in a teasing tone, one much more decipherable.
You throw his tone right back at him, “Oh c’mon. The book has romance and adventure. Two birds with one stone.” You’ve told him how much you like adventure books, so hopefully your lie stuck.
The beskar helmet slanted in thought. “I guess so,” he settled his playful response and paused. A playful tone arose from his modulator once more,
“Don’t get too interested in bounty hunters. I think getting caught is only fun in the books.” His chest, dark hairs splaying across the surface, vibrated as he chuckled.
A slight smile spread across your face at his joke, “You never know, some bounty hunters don’t take their job as seriously as you do,” you stuck your tongue out at him in jest.
Mando shook his head, probably biting back a chuckle, and faced his torso towards you for the final time that night, “Good night.”
Still smiling, you responded, “Good night.”
The bunk door shut and only a dim light in the hull remained as a light source. Shadows from different cargo boxes cast themselves across the silver wall. It would take too much work to decipher which reflections on the walls belonged to which items. Warm light from a lamp near your living space casted a blanket of relaxation over the area. You couldn’t escape the feeling, and your body slumped into the material of the sleeping pad.
Once you closed your eyes, you realized your body was the only thing that the warm light seemed to calm down. In your mind, one thought took center stage.
Mando.
The way he leaned against the door frame. A broad expanse of dark hair covered his chest and traveled down past his waist, the horizontal and vertical lines of hair mimicking the T of his visor. Crossed arms were decorated with a smooth topography of muscles. His voice, laced with relaxation and ease. How attentiveness was like second nature to him.
How far did that attentiveness extend?
You thought about how carefully he listened and remembered details from your conversations. Picking up on things you’ve needed without you even realizing they’re necessary. Like the sleeping pad you’re laying on. The warm, cozy blanket he came back with one day.
Would he do the same in bed?
Your hand traveled down to your mound. Dipping under your waistband, your fingertips found your clit. Slow motions started to stimulate the bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. It wasn’t the first time you masturbated on the Crest, you were human after all. But it was the first time you masturbated without assistance–from a book, video, or picture–and were spurred on by thoughts alone.
He’d probably listen to your breath hitch as his thick, veiny fingers hooked into a spot on your inner walls just right. And he’d continue, hitting that exact spot over and over. With trained precision. Like it was nothing.
Upper teeth bite down on your lower lip as you thought about his fingers inside of you. How thick they are. How skilled he would be with them. Wet seeped from your slit onto your bottoms. The fingertips from your clit reached down to collect your wetness, and you resumed rubbing your clit at a faster pace.
He’d make you cum like it was his duty, as if it was part of his Creed. With confidence. Pride. Mando’s fingers would be soaked, so soaked that he’d raise them to meet your mouth. “Open.” He’d demand.
You knew you’d get that wet for him because you were already that wet for him. One of your hands continued rubbing your bundle while the other dipped into your entrance. A singular finger eased its way into your hole, but you wanted to feel the stretch. The stretch you knew his fingers would easily provide. Bringing another finger against the original one, you prodded at your entrance once more. You pushed into your wetness with two fingers.
That’s it.
Your eyes closed. Jaw dropped.
Your thoughts wandered to his fingers once more, syncing your thoughts with the way your body felt.
You’d take his fingers into your mouth and suck your slick from them. Right before they would retract, you coated the two digits in a layer of saliva. He observed his own fingers and understood your silent plea. “You want more, baby?” You nodded. His fingers returned to your wet hole and filled you once again.
Your own two fingers weren’t as thick as Mando’s, so you got used to the feeling of two. You needed more. The circling at your clit kept a constant pace as a third finger joined your other two. Your thoughts jumped to something that wasn’t his fingers.
His cock.
The soft bulge underneath the black fabric of his sweatpants. It was sizable, even when he was soft–you assumed he was soft–so how big would he be when he’s turned on? If his genetics maintained their pattern, he would be big.
He’d lean over you and line his hips up with yours. Each of your legs rested on one of his sides. A large hand would grip your hip to steady you, as he pushed the thick head of his cock into you. Mando would remain attentive. You knew he’d watch your face and listen to your breaths, your moans. His heavy cock found the same spot inside of you that his fingers did.
Your inner walls clenched around your three fingers. The strokes you took were slow and drawn out, savoring the fullness of your warmth.
Once he saw that you were comfortable, he’d pick up his pace. Your moaning increased, littered with, “please,” and, “Mando,” over and over. He’d groan at his name, fucking into you with more strength. Mando put the weight of his body behind his thrusts. Your body shifted up the mattress from the effort he put in.
A small, wet sound began to echo across the hull, but you were too close to care. The hand at your clit fell into a perfect rhythm with the thrusts of the fingers entering and leaving your soaking hole. You bit your lip as you quieted a moan that threatened to leak from your mouth.
Mando’s broad palm and thick fingers would lace between yours, holding your conjoined hands above your head while he fucked into you. The head of his cock perfectly brushed against a spot deep within your walls. A place that you couldn’t reach by yourself. The Mandalorian’s hot breath fanned across your neck, he panted and groaned from his exertion.
Another brush against your walls and you squeezed around him. “Fuucckkk,” he’d moan into your neck. He continued his pace and littered your neck in sloppy kisses. “That’s a good fucking girl.”
Both of your hands worked faster. Three fingers fucked into your hole, curled to try and hit the spot deep inside of you. Your other hand increased the pace of the study rub over your throbbing clit. The bottoms you wore felt soaked against your lower hand, yet you couldn’t care less.
Mando’s thrusts would be relentless. Hard. Fast. The weight of his heavy balls slapped against the tighter hole beneath the one he was fucking.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
Each thrust would be so final. Conclusive. He fucked you like he knew exactly how this would end. His visor hovered over your face. Your jaw was dropped and your eyebrows were furrowed. The horizontal line of his visor filled your vision. His voice was merely a growl, as he demanded, “Cum for me.”
Your body went stiff as euphoria washed over you in waves. Each wave took you apart and brought you back together. The wetness of your hole only became wetter, the sound echoed a bit louder than before. Despite your attention to staying quiet, your orgasm raged on. Every reassembly from each wave of pleasure calmed your being, and your stiff form slumped into your sleeping pad. Your hands kept moving, but at a slower pace. Another wave followed every thrust of your fingers. You savored the warmth your orgasm brought you. Halting your hands, your mind came-to.
That was the hardest orgasm you’ve ever had.
–
That hunt kriffing sucked, Mando thought.
Cold water ran down Mando’s body as he rinsed himself off in the fresher. Drops of liquid pattered onto the metal floor, pooling at his feet. Everything in his body felt limp, a result of his exhaustion from the hunt.
The only thing that wasn’t limp was his dick.
Mando was already on the edge of his perverse thoughts. Seeing you, comfortable and cozy, made his heart swell–and his cock. Providing for you was like breathing. After every hunt he looked forward to meeting your gaze and a soft smile spreading across your face.
Not only did he get to see you comfortable, but he saw you displaying your attraction to him. A display that included dropping your jaw when he took his shirt off.
He caught you gawking at him in the reflection of his chest plate. Your jaw dropped when he removed his final layers, and Maker, it only made his situation worse. Not only was his body dirty, his thoughts were dirty too.
Before his brain started to spiral, he quickly completed his rinse-off and turned off the shower in the fresher. Stepping out, he realized he didn’t bring any fresh clothes in with him.
Shit.
You were in the hull and would probably bring him something if he asked for it. But what does he ask for? A full outfit? He at least needed bottoms. He thought of how complicated it would be to explain where multiple things are in his bunk through the metal door of the fresher, so he opted to just ask for one thing–pants.
“Um. Hey. Would you mind getting me some pants, please?” Mando asked. He was a tad embarrassed. He plans hunts meticulously to save the most amount of time, he’s attentive to every detail in combat, and he forgot to bring pants into the fresher with him.
You brought him the pair and the Mandalorian quickly changed. Pausing before he touched the door handle, Mando became nervous. What if your jaw-dropping was one of disgust and not of attraction?
Only one way to find out.
–
Mando laid on the mattress in his bunk and finally let his thoughts wander. They wandered like a desperate quarry. So desperate to find a discreet place to live, but showing themselves at some point in the end.
He thought of the book you were allegedly reading: Hunter and Prey. You were reading a romance novel. About bounty hunters.
His hardened cock only made his sweatpants tighter. Hips shifting upwards, he sought relief in adjusting his position. The only thing adjusting did was rub the head of his cock against the fabric of his pants. Black fabric created a heart-stopping friction against his tip.
Dank farrick.
Finally giving in to his perverse thoughts, he let them wander. Just like how he would let an easy bounty wander around town. At any minute, he could capture them and complete his hunt, but sometimes he enjoyed “playing with his food” first.
His imagination put you on center stage. Your hair. Your eyes. The shape of your body and the planes of it he sought to run his hands over. Warm skin would glide underneath his palms and act like a sedative. Calmness washed over his mind. Then he thought of your lips. So delicately crafted. Your lips framed your gorgeous smile, like they were housing an ancient masterpiece in an art gallery.
The smile you gave him whenever he returned from a hunt made his heart melt. You’d be snuggled up reading, bent over the small stove cooking, or hunched over a mechanical issue. No matter the situation, you would look up and find his gaze behind his visor. Something anyone else could rarely accomplish. He finally felt like he had a purpose hunting, besides survival.
You.
You’d meet him halfway and wrap your arms around his torso. His arms would snake around your torso and hold you in a tight hug. “I missed you,” he’d say. “I missed you too,” your response would vibrate against his chest. His hands would run up and down your back, relishing the feel of your body in his capable arms.
He groaned at the thought. In frustration of not being able to have you. The simple image of a hug had him reeling, desperate to meld his being with yours. You were so perfect and lived in his damn ship. You spoke with him as if he were just Din, and not Mando. Images of domesticity juxtaposed images of his bounty hunting profession. It was a blessing and a curse.
The pair of you would retreat to his bunk and turn off the lights. Your bodies would press together as the two of you shared the space of the mattress. He would press his helmet into your hair, smelling the faint scent of you through the metal–and the shampoo you recently bought at a market. He’d use his broad hands and thick arms to bring you closer to him, nearly crushing you via cuddling.
Mando’s face heated up at the thought. Feeling the heat of your body against his was something he would be willing to get on his knees and beg for.
Hands would begin to drift and adventure in a bold manner. His palms would glide up and down your body, stopping occasionally to grasp and rub different areas. He thought of the way your ass would feel in his palms. Soft. A cushion. A spectacle he almost didn’t feel deserving of. His hands would wander north and his fingers would tease your nipples through your shirt. You’d gasp in response and squirm against him.
Maker. He almost forgot. The sounds you would make. The Mandalorian groaned and reached down to palm his cock through his sweatpants. Relief flooded his body like how precum flooded from the head of his cock. Rough palms glided up and down the silky skin of his shaft. Once the friction became too much, he reached into a side compartment and produced a small bottle. Squeezing the plastic sides of the bottle, a small dollop of lube was squirted onto his fingers. He quickly returned to his thoughts and his actions. The lube allowed his large grip to seamlessly run along the length of his shaft.
Shit. Would you be this wet?
After exploring the feel of your body, Mando would pull you to sit in his lap. You’d be in between his legs with your back facing him, your legs resting out in front of you. He’d grip the insides of your knees and encourage you to let your legs fall to either side. Once he was pleased with the positioning he asked, “Is it okay if I take these off?” Rough fingertips pinched at the waistband of your pants and underwear. Getting an enthusiastic nod and a small, raspy ‘yes’ in response, the Mandalorian pulled both articles of clothing off of your lower half.
He focused his strokes near the tip of his cock. The nerves in the head of his shaft sent electric currents through his body. Normally his self-pleasure sessions weren’t this intense, but you did something to him. You were special. Better than any brothel service. Any piece of pornography. You were gorgeous. Beautiful. Mesh’la.
He thought of dipping his fingers into your slit. Hopefully, that would pull another gasp from you. Every breathy exhale and pleasured sound only increased his need to hear them more frequently. Starting with one finger, his fingertip would push into your entrance. He’d go slow at first, pumping in and out of your wet sex knuckle by knuckle. Mando would give you some time to adjust to the feeling, and then increase his pace. Moans and gasps fell from your lips much more frequently than before. Your pussy was soaked from just a few fast strokes from his thick finger. If you were comfortable with it, he’d slip another finger alongside the singular one. His pace slowly increased to resume the speed that had your back and shaking legs pressed against his.
“Ohhh, Ma- Mando-o,” would quietly cry from your throat.
“Fucckkk,” Mando said under his helmet.
Wet sounds emanated from the action of stroking his rough grip up and down his thick shaft. Underneath the helmet, he bit his lip in frustration. He already imagined you could feel heavenly around his fingers, but he needed to feel your slick walls around his cock.
First he would make you cum with his fingers. The orgasm would send you reeling back into his hold. You’d be a shaking and stuttering mess, reaching for one of his broad hands and lacing your fingers between his. An effective way to ground yourself.
“Good girl,” he’d praise.
After you came down from your high, his strong arms would bring you to lay down long ways on the mattress. Parting your legs once more, Mando’s broad hips settled between yours. Glistening folds were presented to him at the center of his vision. You looked delicious. He wished to taste you, but his need to fuck you overtook the pleads from his tastebuds.
His thumb rubbed slow circles on the bundle of nerves between your legs. Your sparkling eyes would meet the gaze behind his visor and your brows would furrow in desperation. He’d do anything you wanted. Anything to please you.
“What do you want, mesh’la?” His gravelly voice echoed throughout the small bunk.
You’d bite your lip, shyness creeping over your face, but you overcame the feeling. He loved it when you were confident in asking for something from him. “I want you to fuck me,” you requested.
Mando let out a strangled groan at his thought of the words. He loved knowing that you wanted him. He loved when you voiced your desires, sexual or not. Your comfort in his presence was the most potent aphrodisiac Mando could consume. The tip of his cock throbbed at the thought, and his thumb reached up to attempt to sooth the sensation. Bare hips bucked into the air at the touch.
He would line his hips up with yours and prod the wide head of his shaft against your wet entrance. Before pushing in, he reached towards a cabinet to produce his bottle of lube. Mando quickly spread a generous amount over the veiny surface of his cock. As much as he wanted to fuck you, your comfort was his upmost priority. Giving himself a few strokes with his large grip–your eyes trained on his hands–he lowered his hips once more. The T of his helmet stared into your face as he slowly pushed into you.
Your jaw would drop, just like it did in the reflection on his chest plate. The slick walls of your pussy hugged his thick cock, making his jaw drop in unison.
His wide hand tightened around his hardness. Each stroke had him fucking himself into his grip. Mando’s jaw clenched in concentration, the combination of his hand and thoughts of you were furthering him closer and closer to the edge.
The Mandalorian nearly collapsed on top of you, but he caught himself on his elbows, caging you in his hold. Silver beskar making up his helmet hovered over your face, his eyes trained on yours. A whimper escaped from your throat when the head of his cock brushed against a particular spot. He honed into the point and hit it repeatedly, with precision.
Your fingers dug into his bare back, most likely leaving crescent marks in their wake. He dropped his helmet into the crook of your neck. The action allowed him to hear every sound you made. Sometimes simple breathy moans, interrupted by his slow, yet strong thrusts. Other times, you’d attempt sentences:
“Ma- Mando. Maker, you feel so good.”
“K-kriff you’re b-big.”
“Mm-mm-mm, don’t, stop.”
A knot coiled in the pit of Mando’s stomach. He threw his head back into a plush pillow and focused his grip towards the tip of his cock. Quiet, slick sounds filled the space of the metal-lined bunk. His breath quickened as his imagination delved deeper.
Mando’s thrusts slowed to a near halt as he raised an arm and propped an elbow to hit a switch on the wall. The space went dark. Everything went silent.
Hiss.
Tunk.
In a hurry, he muttered, “can I kiss you, baby?”
Instead of replying in words, you craned your neck to meld your plush lips with his. Delightful needles ran up and down Mando’s body in pleasure. In disbelief. Feeling your lips on his was something he’s only dreamt of, knowing that completing the action would be a risk to his Creed.
But at this moment, Creed be damned, he craved the motions of your mouth against his. Fighting and expressing a bond that he longed for, slick lips slid against each other in a battle of lust-influenced emotions. Mando pushed his tongue into your mouth, and in the same motion, pushed his cock further into your wet heat.
His mouth swallowed your moans as he rutted the head of his cock against the particularly sensitive spot within your walls. The grip you had on his broad back became stronger. Skin against his hips brushed against the skin of your inner thighs, and your legs captured his body closer to yours. Lips tightened against his, shifting into a portrayal of pleasure, leaving you unable to kiss him properly. In response, the Mandalorian buried his head into the crook of your neck and placed sloppy kisses along your skin.
Almost there. Jaw clenched and teeth gritting, Mando fucked into his fist at a brutal pace. Soft pants accompanied the slick sounds in filling the space of his bunk. Maker, he hoped you were asleep. He didn’t know how much louder he’d get, and more importantly, how much control he had over his volume.
Unable to maintain a steady grip on his back any longer, your grasp traveled to the soft, wavy locks of his hair. The Mandalorian groaned. He didn’t realize how much he craved that simple contact, one many took for granted. Your fingertips massaged his scalp, and it was as if you massaged all of his worrisome, negative thoughts away.
“Oh, kriff Mando, keep going. F-fuck, you make me feel s-so good.”
A few more firm, yet gentle thrusts of his cock made you squeeze your soaking walls around his shaft. His balls felt heavy against your ass. He knew he was close.
“Mando, oh, oh, Mando, I’m gonna cum,” you whined out, the sound filled his ears as he continued his pace and his languid kisses against your neck.
Mando squeezed his eyes shut. Teeth dug into the thin skin of his lower lip, the hairs of his mustache tickled the skin directly below his lip. Large hands maintained the quick pace along the silky skin of his cock. Just a few more strokes and he was done for.
A knot twisted and turned in the pit of his stomach, and he fucked into your glistening seam with more vigor. Your moans became strangled whines. Each escaping gasp climbed octaves until you finally snapped and clamp your pussy around his cock.
“I’m cumming, oh fuck. Oh, Din!”
The Mandalorian snarled as thick streams of cum erupted from the head of his cock. Translucent, white liquid covered his stomach and chest. His head spun as the waves of pleasure washed over him. The sensations dug themselves deep into his bones and he felt like he was floating. A cloud of ecstasy trapped him and he didn’t want to leave. Seeking to draw his orgasm out longer, he continued fucking his hand until the sensations became too much. Mando’s chest dramatically rose and fell in the aftermath. Panting, he looked down at the mess he made on himself.
That was the strongest orgasm he’d ever had.
Reaching towards a different cabinet, he grabbed a soft towel and began wiping up his mess. Thoughts rushed throughout his mind, in contrast from his usual mindset after masturbating. In the chorus of wandering thoughts that still occupied his mind, one made itself bold and prominent.
Maker, he needs to ask you on a date.
–
Mando stood a meter or two in front of you. His hands hung uselessly by his sides. Posture slightly askew, you could sense he was doubting himself. Thick fingers played with the strings on the bracelet while he waited for your response.
Your jaw went slack, eyes widened. So you weren’t crazy. Everything added up. He made caf for you every morning. The small ‘good nights’ he gave you every night. The even smaller ones with an added word in Mando’a, one he never said around you. The things he told you, about his son, about his feelings, that he never said to anyone else. How he was careful around you, trying not to look intimidating. He tried to make you comfortable at all times.
He cared just like you cared.
You placed one foot in front of the other, giving Mando time to back up if he wanted. He remained in place as he waited for your approach. The armored man stood like a statue in the hull. The beskar and the metal of the Crest became one. If you didn’t focus on him too much, he almost looked like a statue erected in the middle of the hull. As the toes of your boots met the toes of his, you snaked your arms around his waist and pressed your head to his chestplate.
Mando instantly wrapped you up in his solid arms. His helmet was buried into the crook of your neck, the cold metal delightfully stung your skin, and he squeezed you. The Mandalorian’s large hands ran up and down your back as his hold refused to let you go.
You didn’t want to let him go either. Your body sought fusion with his warmth, with his being. All of the comfort he provided. All of the safety that he gave you. It seeped through his body to yours. A sense of peace washed over you.
Mando’s helmet shifted towards your head more, the modulator crackling near your ear, “Is it safe to say we feel the same?” His broad hand continued to rub along your back. The warmth from his palm created the most soothing sensation you’ve experienced. Bringing yourself out of the state of bliss to recognize the question he was asking, your brows furrowed. He almost sounded uncertain of himself, voice tinged with hope.
You leaned backwards to look into his visor. A Mandalorian. The Mandalorian. Sworn to a creed of combat and honor. Mando didn’t have a problem taking down a dozen people at a time, but confessing his feelings to you made him nervous. A small chuckle escaped from your chest at the realization.
The corners of your eyes crinkled from your laughter. His helmet tilted in confusion. “Yes, Mando, we feel the same.” You raised a hand to hold the crook of his neck, rubbing your thumb along the fabric of his cowl.
He pulled you into another hug, this one with more space between the two of you, so he could look down and into your eyes. Your hands rested on his chest plate, and his rested on your waist. A rumbling feeling against your hands made your head tilt in confusion this time. Mando continued to clear his throat. His breaths got slightly quicker.
“I feel like I need to explain th-,” the Mandalorian cleared his throat once again, “I need to explain the condoms.”
Your eyes widened. He doesn’t have to explain himself, but if he wasn’t going to the brothel, why did he need them? Mando only expressed interest in you, as far as you know.
Oh.
Oh.
The beskar-clad man’s chest rose and fell with a deep inhale and exhale, preparing himself for explaining the condoms on the receipt from the market.
“I was going to ask you out on a date. Just something simple,” he shrugged and brought his covered eyes to meet yours, “I bought your favorite snacks, got us some takeout, and I was going to give you the bracelet then. I just wanted to be prepared in case anything…escalated.”
Cheeks burning, you took Mando’s hands into yours. You smirked and gave him a light chuckle. “You would try to fuck me on the first date, Mando?”
He looked down at the floor of the hull and shook his head. “I’d only do what you’re comfortable with,” he said, giving your hands a squeeze.
“You also don’t even know if I would have said yes to a date,” you teased him.
A low rumble resonated from his chest, he hooked a finger through one of your belt loops to pull you closer. “I think I might have made a fair assumption.”
Hands glided up Mando’s chest, and you clasped them behind his neck. “You’ll never know unless you ask…” Another rumble came from his chest. A hand snaked its way from your waist to your chin. Mando’s index finger and thumb grabbed your chin and made you look at him face-to-face.
“Well, would you like to go on a date with me?” The beskar helmet tilted and gleamed in the faint lights of the Crest’s hull.
“Yes, Mando, of course I do.” Your eyes took after Mando’s helmet and they gleamed with joy. The dull silver of the hull starkly contrasted your excitement. Warmth between the two of you radiated and exploded throughout the space. Your energies seeped into the metal of the Crest just as your feelings seeped into each other's consciousness.
Mando’s large hand returned to rub long lines up and down your back. “I got your favorite snacks, some takeout…” He reminded you as his speech trailed off.
“How soon can we go on the date?” You asked eagerly in response. Snacks, takeout, and Mando sounded like the perfect combination. A perfect way to turn around the anxious thoughts that clouded your mind not even an hour ago.
“We can do it now…?” Mando suggested slowly.
“Yes! Yes please!” You bounced in place and threw your arms around the Mandalorian. He reciprocated your hug with an even tighter squeeze and pulled away from you.
“Let me find a good place to park the Crest,” Mando walked away and climbed the ladder to the cockpit. You went to follow him, but he turned and stopped you at the base of the ladder. “You stay down here, it’s going to be a surprise.” Before you could respond he bounded up the ladder and began takeoff.
–
Mando pressed his vambrace and the ramp slowly revealed the market in the distance. Lights flashed and others were lit in different colors. Rolling hills were lit up by the faint glow. The sun was fully set, which allowed the sky to display an array of stars.
“This is beautiful, Mando.” You turned towards the man in silver and he wasn't looking at the sky. Not looking at the gorgeous colors streaking out from the center of the market, onto the landscape. Not even the different lights and colors that lit the small town.
His gaze was focused on you.
“I was hoping you’d like it.” He took a few steps closer to you with the market bag, a blanket, and two pillows in hand. Stepping in front of you, he laid out the blanket where the hull’s floor meets the ramp. Reaching into the market bag, he took out an assortment of snacks and a takeout meal for each of you.
“Mando, you didn’t have to do all of this,” you chuckled in amazement.
“I didn’t have to, yes. But I wanted to,” he bends down to sit on the blanket and he offers a hand to help you down. You took it and plopped down next to him, your thigh brushed his as you reached for different food items. Mando leaned on his arms placed behind him, watching in amusement as you enjoyed yourself.
The assortment he managed to purchase amazed you. Each item was something you’ve mentioned to him before. A shiny bag of one particular food, a box filled with something else, and a steaming takeout container of another dish. Relishing the diversity of it all, thoughts of Mando’s enjoyment prodded your mind.
You turn to him, “Aren’t you going to eat?”
His helmet turned towards you and he waited a second. The helmet. No kriff, he can’t eat with you.
“I’m sorry, I for-.” Mando stopped you.
“You know I don’t mind when you eat in front of me,” he started.
He was right. You felt bad in the mornings when you sipped on your caf and indulged in your breakfast. He was probably hungry after a night’s rest. The Mandalorian told you at the time, “I’m used to it. Mandalorians never bonded over food or eating.”
Expecting the same reasoning to leave his mouth and filter through the helmet, you were shocked when he chose a different path.
“I’ve been planning this for a while, mesh’la,” he paused and adjusted his positioning on the ground, “I’ve been thinking of ways to eat with you…” He explained, and then trailed off.
He’s been thinking of ways to eat with you. To eat. With you. Something he’s never done with you before. In the past, you’ve tried to get him to, even saying you’d wear a blindfold, but he never wanted to take that step.
And what does mesh’la mean?
“You don’t have to, I understand if-.” You began to tell him.
“I think I found a way that I would be comfortable with,” Mando said.
“What is–. Oh, Maker!” You squealed as Mando scooped you up and placed you in his lap. Your back to him and your legs tangled with his. As soon as you settled, the Mandalorian took his takeout container and brought it between your back and his stomach.
“There’s one rule,” his modulator crackles in your ear as he rests the temple of his helmet against your actual temple, “you can’t turn around.”
“I won’t,” you squeaked, heart beating out of your chest, “I swear to you.”
The cold feeling of the beskar disappeared from the side of your head. What you didn’t expect was the hiss of the helmet breaking its seal around Mando’s head, even though it was implied. What you definitely didn’t expect was for Mando to place the helmet just enough forward that you could see it in your peripheral as you ate.
You forgot Mando was a human. He had a head and a face. And his face was not the one that peaked at you from the corner of your eye. His face is the one directly behind your head.
The popping sounds of the food container being opened snapped you out of your thoughts. Mando’s utensils clinked against the sides of the container as he gathered food to put into his mouth.
“Mmmm,” he grunts out, his mouth probably full of food. A few more seconds went by, “that’s really good.”
His voice.
His unmodulated voice.
It was like honey dripped over your body. Soaked through your skin and traveled through your veins. Soothed you. The warmth between you two increased yet again. Not just physical warmth, but the warmth you felt when you discovered new things about each other. When you discover new ways to care and new things to remember.
“What’s on your mind?” His large, calloused hand found the crook of your knee and gave it a light squeeze. His other hand set his empty food container to the side. That was fast, you thought. But you suppose he eats for business, not for pleasure.
“What does mesh’la mean?” You asked him as you marveled at the sight of the market again. His knees pressed into yours and the hand not on your knee snaked around your waist as he pulled you closer to him.
He tucked his face into the crook of your neck. His breath fanned over your ear and he tightened his arm around you as he spoke, “Mesh’la is Mando’a,” he hummed as he pecked a quick kiss onto your neck, “Mesh’la means beautiful.”
You smiled, face heating up, and hummed another question, “and what does cyar’ika mean?”
Mando buried his face into the back of your hair and left another quick peck on your head. He pulled away to mutter near your ear, “Cyar’ika roughly translates to sweetheart.”
Your torso vibrated against his, that’s really sweet, you thought, but you wanted to tease him a bit, “First date and you’re already calling me beautiful, huh? And you’ve been calling me cyar’ika for a while now.” A smirk splayed across your face.
The Mandalorian went stiff and asked, “For a while?” Confusion radiated from him and his beskar.
Your smirk morphed into a small smile. “Sometimes I wait up for you when you go on hunts, or I happen to be awake when you come back,” your heartbeat picks up at your confession, but you continued, “I like hearing you say good night to me. It’s…comforting. But then you started tacking ‘cyar’ika’ onto the end of it.” You shrugged like it was nothing.
Mando shifted underneath you, realizing he’d been caught red handed. Then he countered with, “One year of being crew partners and you’re already planning matching bracelets, huh?”
He got you there.
Softly giggling, you reach an arm backwards and bat a hand at his chest, playfully tapping him. A chuckle comes from behind your head. His hold around your waist fastens and he brings his wrist donning the bracelet out in front of you. He wraps his large hand around yours, the one with your bracelet on your wrist. You peer down and admire the identical weavings of thread.
Mando’s throat clears behind you and he speaks softly next to your ear, “I think you have good taste. It matches my armor,” his knee comes up to nudge yours. A moment of silence followed, “The green is for my son, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” meekly comes from your throat. The broad grasp covering your own gave your hand a squeeze. Mando rested his chin on your shoulder and faced the crook of your neck. Soft breaths fanned over your exposed skin.
“Did I get his color right?” You questioned. He previously said Grogu was a light green color, and you hoped the color on the bracelets mimicked his color.
The Mandalorian brought your joined hands up to focus on the color of the light green thread weaving from between the silver and brown. When he spoke, his tone sounded strained, “Yeah, yeah that’s probably it.”
When Mando last spoke to you about his son, he said it’s been a year or so since he gave them to the Jedi. A year without his little one, the bundle of joy that Mando cherished. Then the reason for his uncertain answer and strained voice washed over you.
“You,” an exhale steadied your soft speech, “You can’t remember his color that well, can you?”
A shaking breath made the man’s torso shudder against yours, “No, I can’t,” he admitted in a tight voice. His face pressed deeper into the crook of your neck and he held you close to his chest. You rubbed circles along the back of his hand in comfort. Hesitantly, you brought your other hand behind you and ran your fingers through his hair.
The texture of it made your heart melt. It was longer than you thought it’d be, you assumed he would keep it short so it didn’t bother him within the confines of his helmet. Soft waves brushed through your fingers. Your fingertips lightly scratched at the roots of his hair on his scalp.
You thought your heart melted, but Mando melted exponentially more. The large frame that was his body nearly crushed yours with the tension he released. A soft groan left his throat and vibrated against your neck. Mando’s body loosely wrapped around yours in a protective shell.
“I was hoping that the green on the bracelet would make you think of him. It could make you remember,” you explained to him, continuing the scratches against his scalp.
Then it was silent. Sounds of your exhales and the small rustling sounds of your fingers through his waves of hair were the only ones that traveled to your ear drums. The Mandalorian was heavy against you, boneless, acting as a beskar-weighted blanket. His warmth permeated from his body to yours. It was comforting. He was comforting.
Then a sharp inhale from Mando, “I have to thank you,” he began.
You nearly snapped around to respond, but you kept your gaze trained on the twinkling lights of the market. “For what?” You asked.
“For everything,” he added.
Was Mando really giving you a job review right now? On your first date? “Mando,” you chuckled and shook your head, “I’m just doing my job.”
“I’m not talking about the job, cyar’ika.”
Your eyes widened. Oh. No words exited your mouth.
Mando continued, “I need to thank you for making me feel safe. You’re, you ju–,” he sighed in annoyance with himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not too good at this.” His strong arms gave your waist a squeeze.
Before you could reply, he resumed his train of thought. “You make me feel emotionally safe. I know I can tell you anything. Share whatever is on my mind. And you’ll be there for me,” a deep inhale interrupted his speech, “and I haven’t had that since I had Grogu.”
His tone was strained once again and he shook his head while it was nestled near your neck. Gaining composure, he explained, “People look at me and see this bloodthirsty Mandalorian. They’re scared of me. Kriff, I’m sure some have mistaken me for some emotionless droid,” his speech snarled at the word.
You smirked at his distaste for the metal beings, but you didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts with a snide remark.
“But you see me as human. As a man with emotions and thoughts. You talk to me like I’m just a guy that happens to be covered in beskar.”
That was where you butted in, “Because that’s what you are Mando. And you’re not just some guy. You’re a Mandalorian, an actual one, the ones that no one seems to recognize today. Mandalorians are bound to a Creed of honor. Mandalorians stick to their word. They rescue. They protect. They care,” you paused to grasp the hand laying on top of yours, “You’ve told me enough about your Creed for me to realize that very little of it is truly about being solely physically and mentally intelligent. It’s about the combination of those strengths with emotional intelligence. Because what is using your head if you aren’t using your heart too?”
Mando was silent behind you. His body was stiff, no longer relaxed. Shit, did you offend him? You weren’t Mandalorian, should you have been interpreting the Creed?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be analyzing your Creed like that. I’m not Ma-”
“No,” he stopped your speech, and resumed his, the baritone of his voice being small within his throat, “You got it all right.” Strong arms squeezed you. Mando held onto you as if someone threatened to take you from him. His face returned to its spot by your neck and he whispered, “Maker, you’re perfect.”
The words sent chills down your spine. Before you could fully relish in the implications of his phrase, small kisses were being planted up and down the curve of your neck. Eyelids closed, you bit your lip at the brushes of his lips against your skin. No longer distracted by the visuals of the market lights, your attention focused on the feeling of his face on your neck. Soft lips meticulously placed pecks up your neck. His face slid against your warm skin, leaving a prickling sensation in its wake.
Prickling…your eyes widened and you straightened up, just slightly.
Mando froze in his tracks, voice laced with concern, “you okay?”
You cleared your throat and let out a small chuckle, “Yeah, yeah, I just,” your body vibrated against his as you chuckled again, “I just realized you have facial hair,” you explained as your face heated up. Half in embarrassment of not realizing earlier, and half in excitement. You loved facial hair.
“Oh. Yeah,” he hesitated, “do you not like it? I can shave if you-.”
You stopped him before he could finish, “No! No, I mean. I like facial hair,” you explained sheepishly.
A smirk grew on Mando’s face, and you didn’t even have to see him to know it was there. Stubble prickled on the skin of your neck once again. This time, the man rubbed his face across the slope in front of him in an attempt to tickle you.
A giggle bubbled out of your chest and you twisted in his hold. The fanning of his breath over your neck created a delicious warmth on your skin. Warmth that soothed the pin pricks from the man’s stubble. Mando’s trunk-like arms caged you in and kept you tight in his grasp. He stopped after only a few seconds, placing soft kisses on the skin that he just scratched.
The kisses down your neck became more intense. Mando would graze his teeth against your skin and tighten his hold around you. The small marks trailed further down your neckline. Receiving the trail of small marks felt like a dream. Each mark gave you a slight pinch, sending your hips rocking backwards to grind against him.
A soft moan left Mando’s lips and vibrated against the skin of your neck. His grip tightened near your waist and brought your hips closer to his groin. Soft lips returned to your neck, the other side this time, and began placing small hickeys down your skin. One place in particular, where your jawbone meets your neck beneath your ear, sent your ass grinding down into his lap.
Then you feel him.
And you kind of freak out.
He’s big.
Were you ready for this? Of course you’ve dreamt about it, you kriffing came to the thought of it, but the opportunity overwhelmed you. Your mind raced. You felt like you didn’t consider all of the factors that went into this.
Sure, you’ve had sex before, but what if you weren’t good enough for Mando? You’re still clothed and he already has you hot and bothered. You haven’t done anything to him yet. You had to do something or else you’re going to be a dead fish in bed. Were you ready to actually do something with him?
Your hips stilled, and of course Mando noticed.
His actions also paused, “You okay, cyar’ika?” He asks softly. Mando’s words make their home in your heart and you melt. You are okay. You’re with him. But being with him made you anxious. Mando didn’t deserve to put up with shitty sex.
“I just,” you paused and shifted in Mando’s lap, “I think I need to lie down,” you lied to him. He quickly reached for his helmet and sealed it back around his head. The pair of you organized the garbage and the remaining snacks, quickly getting ready for bed.
–
You were almost there. You could’ve done it. You dreamt about it for months and yet you chickened out. His hands were right there, and you got up and went to bed. Dank farrick.
Mulling over your thoughts, you laid on your bed and stared at the ceiling of the Crest’s hull. You could masturbate to the thought of him again, sure, but it just wouldn’t compare. The thoughts of Mando’s hands, his broad chest pressed against your back, the warmth of his legs wrapped around yours haunted your consciousness and refused to allow you to fall asleep.
It was only amplified by the thought Mando put into the date.
“I’ve been planning this for a while.” He said.
How long? He happened to get your favorite snacks, your favorite takeout, he went back to get the bracelets, and he parked the Crest to get an amazing view of the light-filled market. Mando put all this thought into the date and he made some moves on you.
Your heart and clit were beating at the same loud pace.
In an attempt to focus on something other than the ghost of Mando’s hard-on on your lower back, you opened a side door and exited the Crest. The door opened and closed quietly with your careful treatment of the doorknob.
The market is still it up beautifully, projecting the colored waves of light onto the surrounding hills. You sat just a few feet away from the Crest, knees tucked up towards your chest, your chin resting on your kneecaps. After a couple minutes of sitting outside, you found that the best way to distract yourself was trying to count all of the different vendors you could see. The lights made it difficult to distinguish one stall from another, and it didn’t help that the market was sizable.
Forty four, forty five, forty six…
“Do you mind if I join you?” The voice came from the exact man you were trying not to think about. But he was also the exact man you wanted.
You looked back towards him and patted the ground beside you. He accepted your silent invitation and plopped his body down next to yours. A breeze swept through the night landscape and left you covered in goosebumps, slightly shivering. Mando must have noticed, since he draped his long, black cape over your shivering frame. His arm followed the embrace of the cape and pulled you closer towards his heat-radiating body. The other arm snaked under your legs and he barely lifted you, so you settled into the shape of his body. Just like Mando’s cape, silence fell over the both of you. His grip around you remained tight while he did his best to warm you up.
“Why are you sitting out here?” He whispered to you. The helmet crinkled his voice, resulting in the crackling of the syllables. Delicacy laced the syllables that flowed into your ears, despite their choppiness.
Your shoulders rose and fell and you followed it with a sigh, “I was just thinking too much. Couldn’t fall asleep.”
The shoulder leaning against Mando vibrated when he hummed in understanding.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He offered.
Your head fell to his shoulder to rest. The pair of you talked about a good majority of things. Whatever ended up on your or Mando’s mind. You found it to be a great stress reliever and knew that the Mandalorian did as well. If you didn’t get it out, by talking to Mando, the regretful feeling would just ruminate in your brain forever. At this point you highly doubted that this was a conversation topic that could cause Mando’s feelings about you to change.
“I just feel dumb.” You deadpanned.
“Dumb? Why’s that?” He responded immediately.
You paused and considered your choice of words. Being blunt was probably the best course of action. It was Mando after all.
“You wanted to do more with me and I rejected you,” you sighed and pressed your face into his shoulder.
Another quick response followed, “That’s completely okay. You don’t have to do something just because I want to do it. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable earlier. I meant what I said. We’re only going to do what you–.”
Your head left his shoulder and faced his helmet to look into the depths of the thin black line running horizontally across the beskar. His speech stopped at your action.
“I wanted to do it. I wanted you to do it,” you admit.
Mando’s bones turned to jelly beneath you–you didn’t realize how tense he had gotten–and yet his helmet tilted in confusion.
Before he could ask the question, you answered, “I was nervous. I haven’t done anything like that in a while. Maybe I wasn’t going to be good in bed.” Your face returned to his shoulder to nestle itself into the crook of his neck.
His embrace tightens around you once more. The T shaped gaze dropped to meet yours and he shook his head from side-to-side.
“Cyar’ika,” his chest jumps from a chuckle, “all you have to do to be good in bed is lay on the mattress,” he slowly grits out. His voice is so smooth you’re surprised his speech is still modulated. Still in doubt, the corner of your mouth pinched upward and your brows bunched together.
He noticed the uncertainty of your expression and slowly added, “I also haven’t done anything like this in awhile,” a pause was accompanied by the shaking of his head and a harsh exhale, “and I’m kriffing nervous too.”
A small smile spread across your face at the confession. It did make you feel better. He was going through the same emotions you were. The somersaults of butterflies that wound your stomach into knots. Lightheadedness that flooded through your bodies at the sight of the other. Your emotions were so strong, these physical responses accompanied them.
The Mandalorian’s actions put you in a state of awe for the trillionth time. He does things that would make you freeze, panic, scream for help, for his help. Physical conflict was like breathing to him. It was involuntary. Completed without thought.
So many nerves bubbled within him. All because of you. All he had to do was confess his feelings to you and his composure shattered into a million pieces.
A million pieces you would pick up and put back together. You would reassemble the puzzle that was Mando over and over again. If it meant spending time with him, you would do it for eternity. Each time finding a new piece, a new feature to treasure and combine with the rest.
Mando continued to hold your body and your gaze. The combination of him and his cape have warmed you up considerably, and you find yourself being languidly pulled closer into his torso. Your butt settled between his two thick thighs. Both of your thighs settled on top of one of his. The warmth and physical contact was appreciated, and you rested your head on the Mandalorian’s shoulder once more.
You’re quite literally being cradled by him. One of his toned arms finds its way behind your back to keep your torso against his. The other arm found its way to your knees, holding you closer to him as much as possible. A gloved hand runs up and down your thigh once he’s satisfied with the method of cuddling.
The friction his leather hand creates on your thigh is delicious. Every bit of heat from the contact is being transported throughout your body. You felt heavy and relaxed. But the heat from his hand turned into a burning need. The strokes up and down your thigh got riskier. His hand made its way farther up your thigh. Thick fingers splayed across your clothed limb, the wide spread covered more surface area, which drove the heat from his touch right to your clit. On some strokes, his thumb would graze the inside of your thigh. Almost there, but not close enough.
Bathing in the warmth of his touch, you didn’t realize your eye contact with Mando was maintained. He must have noticed your expressions morph into ones that you make when deep in thought. His thumb grazed the inside of your thigh once more, and you bit your lip at the tingly sensation on your bundle of nerves.
That’s all he needed to see what was on your mind. Still maintaining eye contact, his hand stopped on your upper thigh. Mando’s grip gently tightened as he spoke. The modulated voice sailed across a smooth sea of honey as he laid out his words.
“Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. Anything, mesh’la.”
You got your do-over. There’s no way you’d reject him now.
The bone of your teeth grazed your lip. Eyes closed, you took a deep breath and gained some composure. Mando’s helmet filled your vision once you opened your eyes. His chest rose and fell in anticipation.
A small smile made its way onto your face. “Can you pick up where we left off?” You suggested.
Rumbling emanated from his chest, his grips on your back and your thigh tightened in delight. He pulled you closer to him in a hug and buried his modulator near your ear.
“Here or in the Crest?”
“Crest.”
The beskar man helped you onto your feet and led you back inside of the Crest. Once the door was shut and locked, and once Mando triple-checked the security systems, he sauntered over to you. His hands found their way to your waist as he pushed you back in the direction of his bunk.
His bunk.
Before you could fully process it, you were lying on the long bed watching Mando as he stood, removing his armor from his body piece by piece. Just his flight suit remained on his large frame. He hardly gave you time to admire him before he sat beside you and pulled you into his lap once more. The Mandalorian’s hands–now bare–settled back into their previous positions.
Feeling more confident than you were before, you leaned into his neck and placed light kisses along the curve. A deep groan rumbled from his chest and his hands ran up and down your body. You playfully bit the skin of his neck and sucked, bringing a hand up to rest on his neck to keep it in place. Your hickey-like kisses trailed upwards towards his jaw. Once you met the juncture where his neck met his jawbone, you sucked on his skin harder and left a light mark.
He loved that. The grip on your thighs and waist became impossibly tight as he growled. Every noise that escaped from his helmet went straight to your clit. Your hips ground downwards onto his thigh, but to no avail. A look of desire painted your face but a sound of frustration–desperation–left your mouth.
Mando hummed in agreement. The low tone through the modulator questioned you, “Where do you want me to touch you first, mesh’la?”
You turned into a puddle. A horny, wet, puddle.
“I’ll do anything.” He said conclusively.
Biting your lip, your brows furrowed in delight at the sensation of his grip. The hand on your thigh was higher up your thigh than any time before. Warmth from his palm traveled from the neurons in your quads to the nerves in your clit.
“Rub my clit? Please?” you asked. Desperation leaked from your mouth at the request. If Mando didn’t put his hands down your bottoms in the next thirty seconds, you were sure you were going to explode.
Mando’s chest vibrated as he chuckled, “Mmmm. I like it when you ask nicely. Good girl.”
Oh. Fuck.
You were molten beskar in his hands, at his forge. You trusted him. His skill. His knowledge of you. His perceived obligation to you. And you were ready to be shaped. Molded. Created into something new. With his support.
His stare remained on your face as his fingertips found your clothed clit. You tensed at the contact and his motions slowed.
“That alright?” He asked, concern melded to the grit of the voice that left the modulator.
A confirming hum vibrated from your throat. Your nod accompanied the sound.
“Have to hear you say it.” He responded. At first you thought he was teasing you, but the tone he used and the intense stare that was glued to your face said otherwise.
“I need to and I want to make sure you’re alright every step of the way, yeah?”
You nodded up at him.
“Good,” he reacted to your body language, “then be a good girl and tell me if this is okay. Tell me how it feels.” His voice dropped incredibly low with his demand. It was gentle, but firm.
A shaky exhale escaped from your mouth as you whispered your reply, “I-I want you to keep going. It feels so good.” Wide eyes looked up at Mando and he continued his motions.
The friction of his fingers on your clothed clit was delicious. Each movement sent sparks up and down your limbs. Your head fell to rest on Mando’s shoulder as he maintained his pace. His gaze remained glued to yours.
Then you realized he was wearing too many clothes. The friction against your clit was amazing, but you wanted as little friction as possible between your bodies. Reaching down, your fingers tugged on the edge of Mando’s shirt.
“Can I take this off?” You asked.
“Of course,” he replied. Thick fingers deftly undid the buttons at the top of his shirt and you aided him in pulling it over his head. The tight long sleeved layer was removed in the same fashion. Mando’s chest, littered with dark hairs, filled your vision. Broad plains of skin rose and fell, making his pecs stand out on his chest. Strong shoulders that framed his chest only made his body look wider.
While you were gawking at him, Mando slid his hands partially under your shirt and around your waist. His fingertips pinched at the hem of your shirt.
“Can I take this off?” He echoed your previous question.
You nodded and muttered, “yes,” in response, helping him pull the fabric over your head.
His fingers became more confident and he applied more pressure, quickening the strokes of his fingertips over your clothed bundle. Your jaw dropped in response. As you returned Mando’s stare, your eyelids drifted downwards over your eyes, but not all the way. Your breaths were more audible, bordering on being moans.
Mando seemed to love your reactions, the hand you placed on his neck rumbled as he let out a guttural moan. He picked up his pace in response. The clothing between your bundle of nerves and his fingers created the perfect friction. Wetness pooled in your underwear with the increasing speed of the Mandalorian’s thick fingers.
Then his digits left your clit.
You let out a slight whine, disappointed at the loss of his touch. Before you could question him, his fingers dipped just below your waistband. Not enough to really feel anything. Just enough to make a point.
Making eye contact with Mando, his visor tilted in questioning.
“Can I pull these down?” He asked gruffly.
You nod at him, knowing your gaze is burning into his from behind his beskar.
“Do it,” you half demand, half plead, “it feels so good when you touch me.”
His helmet drops next to your temple in reaction to your words. A crackle escapes the modulator with his harsh exhale. Without hesitation, his hand slid down past your waistband and brought your bottoms with it. Mando threw them to the side and slipped his hand down your underwear. His fingers easily found the pressure point of pleasure past your mound.
You thought the feeling over your clothes was delicious. The feeling of his bare hands on your bare clit was divine. Nothing could replicate the feeling. Nothing came close to the sensations he willed your body to produce. The sensations he produced with just his fingertips.
Mando resumed the slow pace he set previously. He was testing the waters, seeing if the feeling was just as good before. Your hips bucked up into his hand and another exhale left his helmet, this one quicker.
“Mmmm, okay, okay,” the modulator let out a soft understanding.
His fingers sped up to reach the fast pace he had set over your clothed clit. This time, the feeling was a thousand times more potent. The fibers facilitated most of your pleasure before, but now it was all Mando. Rough skin on his fingertips, created by years of pulling triggers and colliding fists, produced amazing friction. A feeling so electrifying you swore you could feel every ridge and valley of his fingerprints.
Your cunt squeezed around nothing and you mewled in desperation. Mando’s helmet still stung your temple with the cool temperature of the metal. His breathing was heavy, arm stiff, making sure your pleasure was maintained.
One circle around your bundle. Then another. And another. The pleasure was phenomenal, which caused your wetness to leak from your hole.
Mando looked down and groaned at the sight.
“Ffuucckk. So wet for me.” He gritted out, continuing the pace of his fingertips around your nub.
Your hips attempted to follow his motions to make more friction, but to no avail. Mando’s fingers were amazing, but his digits just on your clit weren't how you wanted to cum.
The sentence flowed through your brain: “Have to hear you say it.”
Before when you were sitting in Mando’s lap, his fingers inching towards your waistband, you didn’t know if you were ready. You didn’t know if you would be enough. Hesitation blocked your desire and you worried about taking too much and giving too little.
But now you wanted it all.
Everything you thought about before. His hands. His fingers. His lips. His unmodulated voice. His cock.
You needed it.
It was as if Mando had a switch to turn you off and on. The motions of his fingers wavered your switch off and on, and your confidence flickered on. No more shyness. You had to be direct, and then you would get what you were desperate for.
“Mando…mmmm…M-Mando,” you attempted your request.
His fingers slowed, his attention divided between your speech and your clit. “Yes, cyar’ika?” His grip on your back tightened, indicating that he was listening.
You bit your lip in nervousness, but mustered up the confidence to finally say what you needed, “I want you to f-finger me,” you said between waves of pleasure.
Mando stopped altogether and dipped his fingers lower, edging his reach towards your hole. One finger prodded at your entrance and that feeling alone made you squirm.
More liquid seeped from your seams and your thoughts returned to the ones you had earlier today. You wanted to kiss him. So badly.
Biting your lip at the thought, you accidentally stuttered out, “I-I w-want.” You realized your request was ridiculous and buried your face in his shoulder, acting as though nothing ever left your lips.
His fingers trailed upwards along your wetness and then back down, hesitating before he began your request. Confused, you brought your head up to look at him.
“What do you want, baby?”
Baby.
Kriff.
You shook your head, “It’s nothing.”
His helmet tilted in a, “I know you’re lying,” type of way. “It isn’t nothing, and we both know it,” he gently reasoned. A large hand ran up and down your back, the other rested on your sex.
Shaking your head once again, your eyes widened and the corner of your mouth turned up in matter-of-factness, you whispered, “You wouldn’t do it.”
Immediately, “Try me,” he calmly demanded.
Kriff it. The most he would do is reject you.
“I want you to kiss me.” You confessed.
The T of his visor stared at you blankly. In contrast to the steady gaze of his helmet, his chest heaved and lowered at a faster rhythm.
Then you were on the mattress, Mando was standing up in his bunk, going for the door. Dread hit you like a brick wall.
“Mando, Mando I’m sorry. I knew it was ridiculous! I-I shouldn’t have even asked,” you pleaded to him.
Then it was dark. And a large pair of hands were on your waist.
Hissss.
Your brows furrowed in confusion and your eyes remained wide in a pleading expression.
“Relax.”
The word dripped from Mando’s lips and traveled to your ears. His tone was like thick, warm honey. A soothing bass resonated throughout the room and into your bones. Once the tone reached the marrow within them, they turned to jelly. Your body slumped into Mando’s broad hands.
A dip in the mattress alerted you to his positioning within the bunk. He sat beside you, hands remained around your waist, and he gave you a slight tug as a request to move closer to him. Once you were close enough, Mando slid you into his lap to resume your previous entanglement.
Your head relaxed on his shoulder and he pulled your torso closer to his with the tree-trunks he had for arms. Instead of his hand slithering down to find the band of your underwear, it traveled up your arm and towards the crook of your neck. The Mandalorian’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on your jaw, just in front of your ear. He shifted a bit, and then you felt warm air fanning over your face.
His helmet was off. The room was dark. Yet you knew that you were looking him right in the eyes. You knew his face was centimeters away from yours. The series of events amazed you. If the lights were on, his Creed would be broken. You didn’t know if the Creed had a clause about being helmetless in the dark, but you knew this situation was risky.
And yet Mando was willing to put his Creed at risk. Just to kiss you.
As if he was reading your mind, his thumb halted its motions. The air that fanned over your face did so with a higher intensity.
The honied voice washed over you again, “I’m going to kiss you now, mesh’la.”
In shock, you could merely nod and whisper, “Please, Mando.”
You daydreamed–and actually dreamed–about this moment for months. Months. Different visions clouded your mind. Soft, supple kisses could be placed on your lips. Feather lip and hesitant in how they approached. Or the kisses could be rough and demanding. Muscles and embouchures would battle in combat motivated by lust.
In reality, Mando was a mix of both. His lips were soft, yet firm. Intention laced the way he moved his mouth against yours. Saliva soon wet both pairs of lips in your entanglement. Your mouths fell into a synchronized rhythms of pecks, tongues, soft bites, and sloppy kisses.
You were so focused on his lips that you didn’t notice the calloused hand making its way down your underwear. His fingers rubbed your clit once more and your hips bucked into his hand. Teeth clashed together as Mando smiled into your kisses.
He placed shorter, close mouthed kisses on your lips and pulled away to speak. Tension from the waistband of your underwear alerted you to Mando’s gesture.
His warm breath fanned over your face, “Can I take these off, baby?”
You nodded vigorously, realizing he couldn’t see you, you stuttered out, “Y-yes, please.”
In haste, the underwear was peeled from your legs and thrown into the darkness of the man’s bunk. Warm, wet lips crashed onto yours once more. You reached up and tangled your fingers into his hair. Soft waves traveled through your hands as they ran through his locks.
The Mandalorian let out a low groan at the presence of your fingers in his hair. Firm and demanding lips met your mouth, and small bites pinched your lower lip from time to time. You supposed that this was one of the first times someone carded their fingers through his hair.
Then you felt a rough finger at your soaking entrance. You clenched your walls around nothing in response. His fingers needed to be inside you. Fantasies have filled your mind’s eye about them for months. They’re thick, and you know the digits would stretch your wet hole. Thoughts of the tasty feeling manifested into words.
“Kriff, plea-please Mando. I want your fingers in my pussy,” you pleaded.
He stopped kissing you, but his breath remained close. The motion that was in his lips translated to his finger. One thick, large digit sunk into your wet heat.
From between the clouds of pleasure that fogged your head, you heard Mando’s syrupy voice in your ear, “You’re going to cum like this.”
Your body melted into his. Reaching up, you grabbed where you thought his face was. After a second of wandering in the darkness, your hand cupped his jaw and kept his face in front of yours.
Soft moans and gentle groans emanated from your chest. Each individual knuckle of his finger rubbed along your walls and left its own unique feeling. Mando pumped his middle finger into you slowly. After you were used to the feeling, it was as if his finger was the one pulling moans from your throat.
Mando picked up his pace and you began to pant, moans mingling between your loud exhales. Gripping his jaw and his neck, you anchored yourself to him. His large arms were easily holding you against him, and his torso was solid, but the deft finger in your wet pussy made you feel like you were levitating off of him.
“Maker, baby. I knew your pussy would get fucking soaked,” he gritted into your ear.
Wet sounds of his finger pushing in and out of your heat filled the darkness of his bunk. Your legs were spread wide in his lap, allowing Mando room to curve his wrist to push his finger along the tight walls of your sex. His fingertip traveled and searched, like a hunter after a bounty, and it finally found its reward.
Your hips jumped into his hand at the euphoric feeling. Awe swept over you. You thought Mando was going to be attentive, but attentive was too light of a word for his focus.
Groaning, he remarked, “Mmmm. That’s it, huh? That’s my girl.”
The Mandalorian was obsessed. His obsession led him to hit the pressure point on your soaking walls over and over again. Mando’s chest rumbled when your pussy clenched around his fingers. Resistance against his fingers only spurred his actions further.
The grasps of your hands tightened around his face and neck. Every muscle in your body clenched. Your face was screwed together from pleasure. Not only was your body taught, your moans were too.
“Nnnghh, oh fuck. M-Mando, yes.”
All because of one of Mando’s fingers.
Your grasp on his jaw shifted when he inquired, “You want another finger, mesh’la?”
Without thought, you moaned in response, “Yes! Oh Maker, please Mando!”
An empty feeling in your pussy almost made its way to your brain, but then you felt the stretch. Two of his fingers made you see stars, and the delicious stretch created by his thick digits went right to your clit.
His chest vibrated against your shoulder as he let out a deep, rumble, “That’s my good girl.”
A whimper escaped from your throat and your hips ground onto his fingers.
“I- mmf, I thought about this so many times,” you admitted.
Mando growled, “Fuck. Yeah? Tell me what else you thought about.”
His fingers picked up their pace, hitting that soft spot on your walls repeatedly. The Mandalorian made you a whimpering mess in his arms. More wetness weeped from your seams, dripping out past his thick fingers.
“I-, oh, fuck, I th-thought about y-your cock,” you confessed another fantasy that plagued your thoughts.
“Mmmm. What about my cock, cyar’ika?”
The sounds of your wet pussy and both of your moans filled the small space of Mando’s bunk.
Shhlkt. Shhlkt. Shhlkt.
“H-how you’d st-stretch my pussy w-with it,” you managed between whimpers and shaky exhales.
Fingers fucked into your messy hole faster and faster. “Is that what you want, mesh’la? Need me to stretch your pretty pussy out?”
“Yes, yes. Oh-oh fu-fuck, please,” you begged him. The hand on his jaw brought his lips down to meet yours. Mando’s tongue immediately dove between your lips, wrestling with yours in vigor. Rough, scarred skin was grounding in your hands. Each pump of his fingers tightened your muscles, curling your figure into his strong hold.
“You want my cock next, baby? Hm?” He cooed at you, never faltering the rhythm of his fingers.
Your mouth fell away from his when your jaw dropped. “Mh-mmm-mhm. Yes, please!” You squealed in reaction.
His face leaned down to hover in front of yours, “Then cum on my fingers, pretty baby,” he growled to you.
Shhlkt. Shhlkt. Shhlkt.
A few more pumps and your wet walls clamped down on Mando’s thick fingers. Broken gasps left your mouth as your body stiffened in his strong arms. Your legs shook and you left crescent marks on the man’s back.
Despite your body-shaking orgasm, the man continued his motions until you placed a hand over his to push it away. Your limp body slumped into his, the waves of pleasure left a warm sensation glowing in your skin.
No amount of dreaming could have predicted the feeling of Mando beckoning an orgasm from you like he swore to do it. The situation you were in wasn’t exactly what you dreamt of, but the reality was so much better.
A strong hand grazed your back, leaving a trail of heat from its up and down motions. Another hand pulled you in closer to him, and the warm air from his breath made its presence known on your face.
The tone he used starkly contrasted the growls from earlier, “How was that? Are you feeling okay, cyar’ika?” A deep tone, covered in honey, was laced with a small amount of concern.
“Mando…holy shit,” you said breathily.
Silently chuckling at the state you were in, the Mandalorian peppered light, slow kisses on top of your head and over your face. You relished in the feeling. His lips mimicked the sentiments of the kisses he placed on your wrist earlier in the night.
“This means everything to me.”
The phrase echoed in your mind. Of course Mando let you know before that. He didn’t have to say it, but it showed in his actions. Every cup of caf. Every conversation. Every inquisitive response he would give after you told a story. Every small intention behind each action built up within you, and you guided Mando’s lips to meet yours.
Your lips moved in sync and in slow motion. Ridges and valleys imprinted on your lips and in your memory. If Mando was dedicated to his Creed, you would be dedicated to the set of lips pressing against yours. The set of lips that made you laugh. The lips that reassured you. The lips you looked forward to hearing produce words everyday.
You didn’t even know what they looked like.
And you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. They were his lips. Mando’s lips. That’s all that mattered.
After a long stint of sloppy kisses and crescendoing moans, Mando removed his lips from yours. He was panting and en route to placing the same sloppy kisses onto your neck. His plump lips traveled down, leaving saliva marks in their wake, and then they trailed back up, settling next to your ear.
The thin skin of his lips tickled the shell of your ear as he spoke, “Still want me to fuck you, baby?”
Baby.
He’s said it before, but the word still made you squirm a small amount in his arms. Your teeth imprinted on your lips before you let out a meek, “Yes, please.” If the lights were on, Mando would see your wide eyes and your scrunched together brows. As if you had to beg him for it.
Kisses between the two of you resume as the Mandalorian shifted both of your positions on the mattress. His strong arms still clutched your figure as he slowly leaned downwards, until the pair of you were lying on the bed. Both of your hands reached up and weaved your fingers into the soft waves on his head. Mando’s thick hands traversed the planes of your body, randomly grabbing onto you and giving you a slight squeeze where his hands were.
“Uhhhgg, fu-fuck,” left his chest and escaped from his throat when you gave his hair a small tug. One of his firm, capable hands reached down and encouraged you to spread your legs. In the same motion, he shifted upwards to settle between them.
Your locked mouths never broke. Mando’s lips remained on yours as if he were tethered to them, like they were the only thing keeping him in this universe. His groin pressed against yours and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling. Your mouth watered, like it was somehow conditioned to, after sensing the large curve of his cock covered by black fabric.
One of your hands reached downwards and palmed his shaft through the clothing. Mando’s hips ground down into yours in response, and he let out a low growl.
Your fingertips found the elastic waistband of his sweatpants and tugged on it in suggestion. Before you could even ask the question, the Mandalorian sat up, leaving your upper body to feel the cold air of the bunk.
Shuffling came from in front of you. Then a soft, muted, plop.
The man was back onto you like it pained him to be away. Moans and rumbling exuded from his chest as he kissed you. Firm muscle of his tongue lapped against yours, challenging you to lustful combat. You accepted and the volume of your pleasure joined his. A couple kisses felt like forever, but it was the best eternity that you could be stuck in.
Mando’s body shifted lower to grind his hips against you once more. His thick shaft slid through your folds. A whimper came from your mouth as the head of his cock grazed your clit. Moans from the man only became more gravely, animalistic. The grit of the vibrations could have convinced you that he put the helmet back on–if his mouth wasn’t sealed to yours.
Swollen lips broke the seal from yours and Mando’s head fell into the space between your head and your neck. Heavy breathing flooded the audio in your brain. Rough hands ran up and down your inner thighs, intermittently squeezing the flesh there.
A chaste kiss met the side of your head, above your ear You could feel the slick on his lips against your ear as he gently demanded, “Tell me what you want.”
Without hesitation you replied in a whining whisper, “Please put your cock in my pussy.”
The side of your head vibrated when he let out a blissful groan into your hair. His broad chest left yours as he sat up and pulled some items from a nearby drawer. Your face heated in anticipation.
Sounds were the only thing available to you to figure out what he retrieved. A crinkling and then a tear echoed through the bunk.
The condom.
Rubber noises made their way to your ears as Mando rolled the condom onto his shaft. Maker, you wish you could see him. Those large hands forming a strong grip. The thick head of his cock leaking before he puts the contraceptive on.
You thought you’d feel him shift back towards you, but then a short pop echoed through the bunk. Like he just opened a bottle of shampoo.
Silence.
Then the slick sounds of his large grip stroking his shaft filled the air.
Your heart swelled at his thoughtfulness. You were definitely wet enough, but the consideration for your comfort made liquid seep from your pussy.
The mattress shifted around you as he lowered his torso towards yours. One side dipped much more and the slick head of his cock teased your entrance. A small moan left your throat at the contact.
Mando paused when he was lined up with your wet hole. A wet kiss was placed on your forehead before he asked, voice strained, “Are you ready for me, my cyare?”
“Yes,” breathy and quick, passed through your swollen lips.
Maker. His cock was thick. The feeling of him pushing into you was fucking amazing.
The walls of your pussy wrapped around him. A delightful stretch pricked at your soaking entrance and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. Mando was slow and careful as he pressed his wide shaft into you. Movement ceased once his balls laid flat against the flesh of your ass.
You were so lost in the new sensations that Mando’s heavy breaths suddenly made their way into the foreground of your mind. Warm air fanned against your face and his strangled moans vibrated against your chest. Head heavy, his face found its way to the crook of your neck.
“Oh, f-fuckkk. Kriff, cyar’ika, you put my dreams to shame.”
Your arms weaved around his torso and your fingers ran down his back. His face only pressed further into you, and your walls were straining against the thickness of his cock.
“Mmm-Mando. Please. Fuck me, please.”
Another rumble from his chest vibrated against you. His hips shifted backwards, and the thick head of his cock dragged against your walls. The pair of you moaned in unison, amazed by the feel of the other.
His torso rose up and slipped from your hold and you involuntarily whined. A small, gravely chuckle left Mando’s lips, “You want me back down there, baby?”
Your hands reached into the darkness and collided with the man’s chest. Hairs brushed against your fingers as you attempted a grip to pull him back down. Before you could adjust your hands to pull his shoulders down instead, he lowered himself once more and nestled his head in the space above your shoulder.
“I-I-, nngghhh,” you tried to justify your desire, but the ridges of his cock grazed against the warmth of your pussy just right. But then you tried again. “M-makes me f-feel safe,” you let out a whimper.
“Aghhh, fuck baby.” The speed of his thrusts picked up, but his strokes were still long and languid. “Want you to feel safe with me,” he grunted as his breath fanned over your neck.
You always felt safe with him. Without question. In populated cities with shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. Out in the wilderness, the forest canopy darkening the forest floor. At a run down market with nasty glares being sent your way.
“I always have,” you manage to clearly respond.
Another deep groan resonated in your ear drums. A large, calloused hand found your arm and dragged its grip towards your hand. Thick digits intertwined with yours, and the pace of his hips picked up once more.
The hair above his shaft created mind-numbing friction on your clit. Each stroke sent a shockwave of bliss through your body. The bliss made its way back down to your pussy. Wetness dripped out from around his thick cock. Soft, wet sounds filled the space of Mando’s bunk.
“Kriff, cyar’ika. Maker, you’re fucking soaked for me,” he gritted out into your ear. His mouth found yours and weak, distracted kisses were placed on your lips.
Fingertips dug into the skin on his back. You reeled into his touch. His thick cock still left a tinge of stretching throughout your walls. Each thrust of his hips soothed and invigorated the sensation in your pussy. You thought back to your fantasies and masturbation sessions. Squeezing three fingers into your soaking hole just to get a taste of how he’d feel. Now you have the real thing. And it’s so much better than your fingers buried deep in your cunt.
“What’re you thinking about, mesh’la?” The smooth baritone filled the air around you.
You bit your lip. How the hell did he know you were thinking? Small gasps left your lips, releasing the skin from the hold of your teeth. You knew he wanted you to say it, but your cheeks became hot in embarrassment.
You probably waited too long, because Mando grunted out, “I can tell you what I’ve been thinking, baby,” a soft grumble came from his chest, “been thinking abou- fuck. About how much of a good girl you are for me.”
Mewling left your throat and you tightened your wet pussy around his hard length. Mando growled and quickened his pace in response. A combination of moans and exhales from your chest were punctuated from each of his thrusts. Thick fingers splayed across the underside of your thigh and shifted your hips slightly upwards.
He found the spot. The same one his fingers came familiar with.
Brows furrowed and eyes scrunched, you moaned out a whiny, “O-oh-oh, Maker. Mando!”
“Tell me what you’re thinking about, my cyar’ika,” Mando repeated.
“Y-your cock, oh k-kriff, your cock, Mando,” you let out a shaky breath to conclude, “I’ve been thinking about your cock.”
A low hum came from the man, “What about it, mesh’la?”
You let out a keening noise when Mando reached down and grazed your clit with his thumb, drawing circles on your sensitive nub. Strong fingers splayed across your lower stomach as he rested them there. He listened to your moans and shaky breaths and concentrated on a technique. The Mandalorian figured out your body and had it down to a science. Every movement and sound that resonated from your body was a signal to him. Sound waves from you were like signals, and he replied to your every call.
His hips remained flush against yours as he gave your cunt shallow thrusts, repeatedly brushing the firm head of his cock over the most sensitive point deep within you. The combination of stimulations made your pussy clench around his shaft. A guttural moan emanated from Mando in response.
Your fingertips dug into the broad expanse of his back when you confessed with a whine, “Th-thinking…fuck…you’re so-o bi-ig.”
The thumb rubbing your clit sped up, and Mando’s other hand tightened its grip around yours. You let out a breathy sigh, your cunt only became tighter around him. The Mandalorian’s bunk was filled with the sound of your combined moans, heavy breaths, and light plaps of skin against skin.
Visions of what he looked like fucking you flashed through your mind. His huge shoulders, strong arms, veiny forearms, thick fingers. The delectable tree-thunk thighs accenting his toned waist.
You pictured a man with dark hair, probably brown eyes, with the softest lips your pair have ever met, framed by dark stubble. The man would be focused, brow furrowing in concentration. His eyes rolled back into his head and his jaw fell open when you tightened around him. Just like Mando, he’d growl in response to your wet heat, and bring his jaw back up to tighten it while he focused on you.
His hands. His cock. His voice. His lips. Kriff even the feel of his hair and skin. Each component came together to melt you into a puddle of pleasure. Moans escaped from your throat in higher and higher octaves. Sentences didn’t exist anymore, as you could barely form them.
“Think, oh shit, Ma-Mando. Think I-I’m gonna cum,” your voice sounded desperate as you alerted him.
Harsh breaths blew onto your face from Mando’s focused exertion. Your lip was captured under your teeth for the umpteenth time. Only tight whines left your throat. Pussy squeezing around Mando, your body followed suit. Thighs wrapped around his waist and the embrace of your arms held him close.
The Mandalorian left lazy kisses across your face and muttered endless praises.
“Such a good girl.”
“You’re so perfect, mesh’la.”
“Not going to last long after you, my pretty baby.”
Then his kisses paused from being placed on your face. “Hey,” Mando said to get your attention, “listen to me, cyar’ika.”
You whimpered in acknowledgement, but Mando wasn’t having it, “Have to say yes for me,” he let out between strokes.
“Yes-yes I’m listening,” you quickly blurted.
Almost lost in your pleasure, you realized you had to actually listen to him. To comprehend and process his words. Not that you weren’t listening to him, but the motions he pressed into you made your mind blur together. Your mind snapped to attention at his words.
Mando spoke in a gentle, yet commanding, tone. The grip sealing your conjoined hands together tightened.
“My name is Din.”
Din.
It was simple and to the point, just like how Mando was. No wasting any time. No frills. No banthashit. Just Din.
Then the tight knot in the pit of your stomach snapped. Sounds that once poured from your body ceased as your figure curled into his. The pleasure was something you couldn’t have fathomed before this. Every cell in your body ignited in a passion filled radiance.
“Din! Din, oh fuckkkk, Diiiin!”
Your wet heat clamped onto Mando’s thick cock, sending him into a frenzy of growls and grunts. His calloused thumb remained on your clit until the spasms of your orgasm fizzled out. Then you were left empty handed, but your body lifted up slightly off of the mattress. The Mandalorian snaked his arms behind your shoulders, his hands under the pillow cushioning your head.
Sloppy kisses met your mouth. Tongues pushed into mouths to wrestle with their counterparts. It was like Mando wanted to memorize every ridge of your lips and tongue. To add them to his Creed. Worship them forever.
His head dropped next to yours and your ears were filled with breathy grunts.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
Softly bounced around the metal walls of the bunk.
“Wanted this for so long, baby.”
“Always thought about you, fuck, I think about you all the time.”
The intensity of his grunts increased and you could feel his cock swelling inside you. Soft lips brushed against the shell of your ear, hastily whispering out, “Where do you want me?”
Digging your fingers into the waves of his soft hair, you eagerly responded, “In the condom, Din.”
“Fuucckkk,” he groaned.
His cock started to twitch within your warm walls. The speed and depth of his thrusts no longer followed a formula. Your head raised slightly when large fists balled the bedsheets into his hands. One of your hands drifted up and down his back, soothing him through his release. He was shaking with every excess thrust he gave your wet heat.
Then his heavy body slumped against yours. Mando’s breath was still heaving, sending strong winds across your neck. Open mouthed kisses were gently placed onto the skin there. Your fingers massaged his scalp and he let out a satisfied sigh. Silence filled the space of the bunk.
What if he regretted this? Was this just a one time thing?
“Mand-,” he cut you off with both his voice and the motions he put the pair of you through.
Suddenly you were on top of him. Your head found the plush meat of his relaxed pecs and you laid your head on them. A firm grip from Mando came to wrap around you. His strong arms held you against him like someone threatened to take you away. Mando’s fingertips traced languid shapes across your back. The tip of his nose dug into your scalp as he pressed a couple soft kisses in your hair.
“Din. Call me Din, cyar’ika.”
Your cheeks rose in temperature at his insistence. Fighting your nerves, you asked, “Is this a one time thing?”
The Mandalorian stiffened underneath you. Here it goes. You’ll have to crawl off his body and resort to the sleeping pad in the hull.
“No. Mesh’la, of course not,” a low baritone soothed your worries. Your head slumped onto his chest even more. Feeling nervous, yet confident–even though you literally just fucked him–you brought a hand up to feel his face.
His hand resumed its drawings of small shapes on your back. Humming came from beneath you when your hand made contact with his stubble. Your thumb grazed the short hairs and your fingers followed the curve of his jaw.
His lips felt as soft as they did when they were on yours. Your fingertips reached upwards a bit more. Longer hairs tickled at your digits and you let out a small giggle.
“Mmf, what, pretty girl?” His tone was laced with sleep and curiosity.
You smiled at him in the dark, “You have a mustache,” you told him in a whisper, as if he didn’t already know. A smile from him creeped up under your touch.
“Mmm. Yes, I do,” he replied matter-of-factly.
In a teasing tone, you inquired, “Who’s that for?”
A low chuckle from Din’s chest made your head rumble. The hand on your back ceased its movements. His nose dipped down to find yours, aiding him in lining up his mouth to kiss you. A gentle kiss was placed onto your lips, and you were acutely aware of the hairs that made up his mustache.
He sighed in content and murmured, “At first it was for me. I don’t know. I just liked it,” his shoulders went up and down in a shrug, he continued with a hum, “but you like it. So now it’s for you.”
Your face became hot at his words. Slightly embarrassed, you nestled your face into his chest. The thin hairs there wisped at your face.
Sleep quickly caught up to you and your whole body relaxed against Din’s. His large frame made for a comfortable bed. Muscles, none of them tense, gave you a plush surface to melt into.
Din’s strong arms wrapped around you. He continued to press soft kisses into your hair. Right before you slipped out of consciousness he whispered to you.
“I meant what I said,” he paused to wait for a response. You didn’t register him speaking until it was too late, but he continued his sentence nonetheless.
A late out of the gate entry for @beefrobeefcal’s Festive Failure December challenge, where I got Din trying to wrap gifts using safety scissors. This soft lil fic is also a special Hanukkah gifty to my sweet friend @mothandpidgeon.
Life, Lights
MDNI but teen. No warnings, just fluff and warm fuzzies. Life Day/Mandalorian Hanukkah. Sketchy Star Wars universe knowledge. Din and Grogu living happily ever after on Nevarro. Shy Marshal Mando and Greef’s niece reader. A couple goofy holiday flick Easter eggs, if you spot em 🥰
Life Day gift-making at the daycare was always a festive, if frenetic, activity for everyone involved.
Well, that had been the case, before.
The modulated grumbling and intermittent frustrated hisses emitting from the broad Beskar boulder across the table were poisoning your jolly mood. Despite the squeals of laughter from the children in the center and the sparkling baubles floating through the air, courtesy of the metal man’s tiny green son and his sneakily-outstretched hand, the usually stoic and stolid Marshal Mando showed neither a single speck of glee nor of seasonal calm; no, he remained hunched in half over the tiny table, knees practically knocking his shoulder pauldrons, growling as he tried in vain to snip through a length of ribbon with the safety scissors he’d pulled from Grogu’s cubby. He’d been stanking up the energy for over an hour.
You were kriffing sick of it.
“Listen, Marshal, I don’t know if Uncle Greef put you up to this for PR or something, but why don’t you just leave before you ruin it for the kids?”
He paused his failed cutting attempts and let the small blunt scissors drop from his (enormous) gloved fingers to the tabletop with a plasticky clink. His chest heaved with a silent sigh and he cocked his helmet up in your direction, staring pointedly at you (probably.) A green and brown ornament floated slowly, wobbling, next to his helmet and he plucked it delicately from the air without turning to glance at it, handing it out to the side where he knew wee claws would be grabbing for it. Grogu took it with a pointy-toothed grin and climbed into his father’s sturdy lap, patting him on the helmet’s cheek area with his free hand and cooing before slipping back off and scurrying after a toddling Togruta.
“It’s… no, he didn’t… I came for Grogu,” crackled the vocoder lowly. The Mandalorian watched his son trip over his robes as he ran, and you could see the restraint as he tried not to react, waiting to see how the boy responded. When Grogu scampered off without shedding a tear, the marshal relaxed, as much as he seemed capable of, at least.
“Well you’re not exactly making it magical, Mando,” you groused. “It’s hard enough wrangling all these kids, let alone when they’re hyped up for Life Day and ready to celebrate. Maybe try to make it look less like a painful obligation, for their sake.” You crossed your arms and waited for his response.
You were being rude, sure. You had a mouth and an attitude and no qualms with either of those things. As the niece of Magistrate Karga, you had a lot of leeway. As one of a handful of volunteers at the Nevarro daycare center Life Day Arts and Crafts Event, you weren’t going to let your uncle’s (reluctant) pal infect the day with his rancid vibes, even if his son was a delight. What was he going to do, arrest you?
Mando sighed again, shaking his head slightly. “I’m… sorry. You’re right. I apologize.” He pushed his chair back from the table and let his helmet drop to the tabletop with a clunk. “This is difficult for me,” he muttered towards the floor.
Huh. That was… not what you expected. “Difficult? I mean, it’s not exactly high stakes work like, I don’t know, fighting the Empire. It’s just wrapping glittery kid presents for their families.” You chuckled, adding, “I mean, come on, Mando - you’re acting like this is your first Life Day.”
He made a soft noise.
“What?”
He lifted his head with so much effort it looked it like it weighed as much as a bantha. “It is.”
“What?!”
He groaned, drawing it out as he shifted to balance on the chair, which fit a small fraction of his adult male backside. “I’ve never celebrated Life Day. I didn’t - my people didn’t do that. We do something different this time of year.” His voice trailed off and he scanned the room for his son, spotting Grogu munching cookies in the yard.
“I had no idea Mandalorians have a different holiday,” you replied honestly. You didn’t know much about them, after all, the marshal being the only one you’d regularly interacted with.
“Many people don’t,” he said simply. “And now that we’ve settled down in town, Grogu has become familiar with Life Day. I want him to enjoy this new life, to have fun with his friends. He is… very excited.”
“And you’re not.”
The Mandalorian huffed, an almost-laugh. “I am not. It’s so loud and flashy. This is not what I am accustomed to. I’m trying, but as you helpfully pointed out, I am not doing a very good job.”
Your throat seized up a bit and you tried to swallow back the scrape of shame. “I’m sorry, Mando.” Your voice lowered to a whisper. “Kriff. Please forget I said any of that bantha shit.”
“Forgotten,” nodded the metal head across from you. “But you’re right, this is important to him and the other children.”
You paused in thought before replying, something you weren’t known for. “So are you celebrating both holidays?”
When Mando didn’t answer for a few seconds, you thought he hadn’t heard your question, but just before you were about to repeat yourself, he cleared his throat. “I don’t… I don’t know.”
“Wait, but… I mean, you just said you have your own Mandalorian thing.”
His voice was slightly strained, even through the filter of the helmet. “Before the siege, most Mandalorians observed the holiday. It was something my covert observed together quietly, after, when we were hidden. And since…”
He didn’t need to complete the thought. You knew what had happened to the tribe he referred to, who had lived in the cave system below the city. Everyone did. You sat down, too, to look at the marshal straight on, across the sparkling, sticky table.
“Well, for your first Life Day, you’re not doing… the worst job ever,” you finally offered.
The Mandalorian snorted, a true chortle cracking through the heaviness that had settled between you. “High praise from somebody with paint in their hair,” he leveled smugly.
“Not all of us have karking beskar to protect us from kid grime,” you shot back with a grin. “Alright, give me those scissors. You’re never going to get those ribbons cut and curled.” You reached out with a grabby hand, and he slid a squeaky glove out to nudge the scissors your direction. Your fingers brushed, the leather warm and soft from the heat of his hand inside.
“I’ll handle the wrapping, you tell me about how the Mandalorians celebrate. Deal?”
“Deal,” and you could almost detect a smile in his voice. “Six-inch ribbon curls.”
“That’s impossible!” you gasped, teasing. “And rich, coming from somebody who can’t even figure out safety scissors.”
He grunted something that sounded like can wield the kriffing Darksaber but you ignored him, sliding the plastic blade along a length of ribbon and watching it spiral up. “So?”
He kicked a knee out lazily to the side of the chair and leaned back with his arms across his plated chest, tilting his helmet at his little boy who had paused playing to wave across the yard.
“The holiday lasts for eight nights.”
—
Several days passed.
The Life Day children’s parade was a hit, Grogu a grinning green vision riding atop Marshal Mando’s shoulders as they walked with the other families down the Main Street in front of the magistrate office that morning. The Mandalorian’s cape, freshly laundered, fluttered, dignified, with each of his swaggering steps. He lifted a hand in a near-wave when he spotted you standing by your uncle’s door, and as the parade ended, he approached slowly, like he was nervous you might bite.
To be fair, it wasn’t totally unwarranted. You’d earned that reputation fair and square.
“Looks like you figured out Life Day after all, eh Marshal?”
Mando patted Grogu’s little leg, barely dangling over the mudhorn pauldron on his chest. “Let’s say I was highly motivated. And thank you, you for our talk.”
“The talk where I insulted your culture when you were trying to be a good dad and having a hard time? That talk?” you huffed, cheeks heating slightly at the recollection.
“That talk,” he confirmed, and Maker, you just knew he was smirking at you behind that visor. “Even if you were… abrasive,” which you winced at, “I needed to be reminded not to-“
“-pout?”
The Mandalorian did not move.
“You’re pouting under there now, aren’t you?”
“I am not pouting.”
“Patu,” leveled Grogu with as serious a voice as you figured he was capable of mustering.
“See? He agrees. Pouting.” Grogu nodded.
“I am not pouting, and I was going to ask if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight.”
Oh.
“Oh!”
The Mandalorian toed his boot into the dust, dropping his gaze to the ground for a moment before looking back to your face. “It’s… ah, it’s the first night, at sunset, and it’s just the two of us. It isn’t - I mean, it won’t be, mm… Well, it’s not a spectacle but it is… special. And I’d, I mean, we’d like if you joined? If you’re not busy, with your Life Day celebrations.” By the time he got it all out, he looked exhausted, and he worried at the road with his foot again.
“Yes! Yes, I mean, yeah. At your cabin? That’s allowed? Should I… do I bring something?”
His posture relaxed. “Yes, at my home. Yes, it’s allowed. No, there’s no need to bring anything.”
“At sunset?”
“Patu.”
“Thanks, Grogu. Okay, so, sunset. Yeah, I only have plans this afternoon, so… I’ll be there.”
Mando nodded. “Great.”
—
Nobody noticed when you ducked out of the cantina in the late afternoon, most of your fellow Life Day revellers already stumbling dangerously around to the music by mid-day (including a particularly unfortunate-looking fellow who was knocked out cold mid-dance by the older woman who owned the place.)
You hustled down the road under a deepening red purple sky to your modest dwelling to change into a slightly warmer, un-spotchka-splashed tunic. You grabbed the small bouquet of flowers you’d spotted at a vendor stall after the parade, had bought with the thought that Grogu would enjoy the bright blossoms. Gathering them in your hand, you set out down the way to the marshal’s cabin, the stars now starting to wink down on your walking form.
As you approached the Mandalorian’s home, you noticed the softly glowing, flickering flames dancing in the front window, two simple lit candles of nine, placed in a row in a sleek metal candelabra, the surface of which resembled the marshal’s grey gleaming armor.
You knocked tentatively on the door.
“Patu!” called a voice from inside.
“I’m coming. Thanks, kid,” said Mando, familiar but sounding somehow softer, richer than you’d heard him before.
The door opened, and the man, dressed casually in a black shirt and pants with his hand on the door frame, was as tall and broad and solid as the marshal, but was also an entirely different person altogether. Mussed brown hair, chestnut curls twisting soft over the tops of his ears and around the base of his neck. Sparkling caf-brown eyes, long dark lashes over strong golden cheekbones, the warm golden glow of the inside lights highlighting a proud nose and the round swell of plump, pink lips. Stars.
“Hi, welcome,” said the man, sounding every bit like Mando run through a gem tumbler, all polished and smooth. He smiled, a crooked thing, a dimple deepening in his cheek above a square scruffy chin.
“I… uh, hi. Hi! Sorry, I haven’t seen the, I mean, your, um, you. I got a little confused for a second,” you rushed to explain, willing away the new, insistent thumping in your chest.
“Ah, yeah, sorry for the shock. I don’t wear it at home anymore. It’s… a long story.” His grin was shy, rosy-cheeked and gentle.
You thought the one you shot him back might’ve looked similar. “I’d like to hear it sometime. And it’s a good surprise, don’t worry.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
He chuckled and tucked his chin to his chest, muttering “wizard” softly under his breath before remembering you were still standing in the doorway. “Sorry, please, come in.” He stepped to the side and gestured into the simple, cozy room.
Grogu came waddling forward at his best approximation of a breakneck pace and reached up to you, and you smiled as you passed him the flowers. He took them in his tiny claws, smelling deeply before a short squeaky sneeze burst from his twitching nose. Mando laughed and took the bouquet, wiping Grogu’s face with his own robe.
“Dinner is just about finished, and Grogu has been excited to show you the game we play. It involves a spinning top, but watch out - he cheats. Little sorcerer.” Grogu narrowed his eyes at his father, who laughed again, so much more at ease than you’d ever imagined he could be here in his own home with his son, the rest of the galaxy forgotten.
The rest of the galaxy besides you, that was.
“I’ll keep my eye on suspicious movements, then. Thanks for the warning, Mando.”
“Din.”
“Din? Is that the game?”
“That’s me, actually. My name.”
Your heart jumped and danced like the flames in the windowsill. “Then thanks, Din.”
Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, First Meetings, Misunderstandings, Bad Puns, Humor, Meet-Ugly
Word count: 2,403
Summary:
A few days before their birthday, Leia convinces Luke to celebrate the day at a concert of the local band she has discovered recently. Luke might not know anything about Dank Farrik, but that doesn’t stop him from wearing his ‘save a drum, bang the drummer’ tee to the event. It’s funny, okay? Han thinks so too. Soon after Luke arrives, a dumb misunderstanding leads him to an awkward conversation with a handsome stranger in an alley behind the bar. And the worst part? As the concert starts, Luke discovers that the stranger is Dank Farrik’s drummer.
Written for the 2026 AU Roulette Challenge. Prompt: Band/Musician.
