Chapter Text
“Stop touching that.”
An orange, gloved hand swats a smaller, green one away from a broad console board with a stifled sigh through a vocoder. In a huff, the Mandalorian unflips the switches activated by the kid and scoops him up by the scruff of his burlap tunic, setting the green bean down on the floor with as much patience as he can muster. Still, the kid whines and tries to waddle his way back up, stubbornly pawing at his dad’s steel capped boots.
“Sorry,” you squeak out, scurrying forward to whisk the baby away before he can cause anymore trouble. “I looked away for one second and he was gone.”
As typical, the Mandalorian says nothing and continues to fly the ship in complete silence. You can only hope that you haven’t deeply annoyed him in any way as you sit back down in your passenger seat, but you take his silence as a sign that you’re in the clear. Hopefully. You give the baby a few strokes to the head to soothe your worries and his agitation at being ignored, placating you both.
Team Razor Crest’s latest and shiniest new addition to the crew was you — hired by the Mandalorian, picked from your snowy home planet, and still bright and wide-eyed with that newbie excitement. Like every other person who had grown up on Lilith, you were desperate for a job to get off world and never have to see that stupid plant ever again but you were of the rare few who actually accomplished that. He had come in looking for repairs on his ship, and coincidentally you had also been a mechanic on the service crew, but the last thing he had been trying to find was a new teammate.
Yet of the very few things you were absolutely sure of, the most prominent one was a promise you had made to yourself as a kid: that you were going to get off this shithole whatever it took, whatever the cost. When there’s a will, there’s a way, right?
In the end, he reluctantly brought you on not for your acceptable skills as an engineer or for your very rookie combat abilities, but rather on the basis that you would act as the child’s caretaker and protect him with your life wherever he went. A simple deal when you saw just how damn cute and charming the little darling was. Pretty privilege, basically. And it certainly didn’t hurt when you saw the pay, which was a very generous cut of his bounty commissions that would have taken you a year’s worth of work at your old job.
So yeah, it was an easy decision to make.
The last few months that you had spent on the team had mostly consisted of the same work — wake up, go and make yourself up in the fresher as fast as you could before the baby woke up, feed him, and then wait for the Mandalorian to come back from whatever business he was conducting. Sometimes that would take a few hours, other times a few days, and even once three weeks, so you would find quite a multitude of things to busy yourself in the meantime. Cleaning and doing various small repairs on the ship were what you were good at, and after a “hard” day’s work you would tuck the kid into bed before you snuggled up in the cargo bay, asleep on top of a few boxes that you had pushed together in semblance of a bed. You had yet to get squished by anything or fall off in your sleep, and your boss had apologetically explained that there was no room on the ship for you when you were hired, so you made do with what you had. It wasn’t all that bad when you had found the shock blanket in the first aid kit and started using an extra sack of rations as a pillow, and if it were ever especially cold you would put on all the shirts you owned. Pretty cozy.
The Mandalorian flipped a few switches before pushing a lever forward, sending the ship into hyperspace and subsequently jostling you back in your own seat. Instinctively, you tightened your hold around the kid, but the green little squirt only gave a squeal of delight and giggled at the streaking stars across the window.
With a few last button presses, the tin man stands up and makes his way to the door. “Shout if the console starts beeping,” he says, opening the seal of the cockpit.
“Wait!” you blurt out. Before you can think, you're jumping to your own feet and trying not to wither too much under the full force of his stare. “Uh— I’ll go out with you.”
Again, silence, but this time he threw you a non committal nod of his head and waited for you at the door. He even gave you space to go first, standing back and motioning with his hand that he was allowing you to pass. You tried not to think too much about how close you were to him as you walked by or inhale too much of his beskar-and-gunpowder smell that was strangely addicting like gasoline or fixate too much on the steady rise and fall of his broad chest as he breathed.
“That— uh, reminds me, actually,” you say after the two of you pass through the door and climb down the ladder. He had surpassed you with only his long strides, so now you were the one trailing him. “I saw on your ship, mister— sir— um—”
“Just Mando is fine,” he said gruffly. Were you imagining it, or did he start walking faster? Jerk.
“Oh. Well, Mando, sir, I was just wondering if you were ever planning on...” you take a big gulp, trying to calm your nerves. Why were you nervous? There's nothing to be nervous about. No reason to be nervous. “.. On changing the spark plugs of the ship,” you finish, the last part delivered with a slight choke as you try to rush the words out as fast as possible.
This time, it’s him that gives a pause. “Why would I do that?” he asks. It’s not judgemental, as if you were just a kid that had asked a stupid question, or weirded out, like you were sticking your nose into places that it didn’t belong, but actually genuinely curious as if he trusted your intelligence.
“Well, the power sparks are— they're draining too much of the ship’s air and fuel,” you explain. With your arms, you begin to rock the baby back and forth as he starts to squirm from the lack of attention and it appeases him temporarily. Just some busy work for yourself.
“That’s how they generate more power,” Mando responds, but still it’s not diminishing or dismissive of you. Again, he shows unwavering patience. He punches in a pin on the keypad attached to the wall, opening the door to his weapon’s hatch with a swing and making some adjustments to what’s inside. His own busy work. “There’s an even tradeoff being made.”
“Maybe initially, when they were first installed sir, but— uh,” you continue as he takes the blaster off his hip, empties it of its current magazine, which looked rather forlorn anyhow, and loads in a new one. “I did the calculations when I first noticed it a few weeks ago, and there’s actually a significant amount being lost instead of…used,” you finish a little lamely. “Sir.”
With some dextrous flourishes of his hand, he firmly slots some amban rifle ammo into the empty loops on his across-the-chest strap. “I…did not know that,” he confesses. “I’ll get new ones on Bespin.”
“Oh! Uh, okay, sir,” you say.
You can’t deny how surprising it feels to have a valued opinion in the tech field for once, especially after your experiences on your home planet Lilith, and you feel yourself practically glow with joy at it. Usually, when someone as young as you tried to offer an older and more well-seasoned mechanic, you were dismissed without a second thought — especially if it was a man. But this...this is nice. You could get used to this.
Hah. Here you were, being a technician, despite the irony.
But the warmth in your chest is quickly extinguished as you see how visibly the mandalorian stiffens. His grip goes deadly tight around the dagger he’s holding, and you’re half scared that it’s going to shatter in his hand and send steel fragments flying everywhere and half scared that he might stab you with it.
“...Please. Just call me Mando from now on, alright?” he almost barks out, surprisingly sharp and you can tell that he notices how your expression changes because he takes a very ragged breath in and lets it out in a crackly stream of static. “Sorry. Just…just no more ‘sir’, okay? It’s Mando.”
“Right,” you rasp out. “Mando.”
That’s all you get to say before he stows the blade in a sheath on his belt, whips the doors of his weapon room closed shut, and all but runs off to his quarters at a brisk pace, leaving you with a feeling of guilt and a burning need to know: “what did you do wrong?”
“Your dad must hate me now, little guy,” you say idly, stroking his head and combing the few wisps of white hair that he has on his wrinkly green head. His response is a noncommittal gurgle and a toothy smile; the aftereffects of having just been fed some warm Bantha milk — a pricy, recent purchase that he has you to thank for, after you bought it for him at a marketplace.
It’s okay, you imagine him saying. He’s not mad. You know it’s silly, having these made-up conversations in your head, but just the idea that the kid, with his limited emotions, manages to feel sympathy for you is still oddly comforting and it helps you feel better.
The fatigue in your legs is getting to you, so you pick up the baby and sit together on the floor of the cargo area, your back pressed against a crate and the kid staring up at you from your lap with his big ol’ buggy eyes. Your feet groan in relief and you shift around your weight a bit until you find the sweet spot, where you’re perfectly comfortable.
It’s strange — ever since the moment you two met, the relationship between you and the baby has always been a bit different from the relationship you’ve had with any other kid, no matter the species. You’ve been able to perceive what he was feeling at any given moment with relative ease; you knew how to read the faint line distinguishing his cries of hunger and cries of sleepiness, how to tell when he wants his papa to hold him or when he wants you, how to tell when he’s too hot or cold in his covers, and countless other small, trivial things. Obviously, you can admit that some things are probably due to lucky guesses, or perhaps taking care of kids on Lilith provided you with more experience than you gave it credit for, or maybe this child activated a maternal instinct in you when no one else could. You weren’t so egotistical as to rule out the variable of chance, but you can’t help but feel deep in the marrow of your bones that just maybe, there’s something really different about the green sucker.
But maybe you’re just delusional.
“I’ve got to stop calling you ‘kid’ or ‘wart’,” you babble on conversationally. “What’s your name, hmm? What kinda name does a squirt like you have?”
Immediately, a voice in your head starts naming off all kinds of ridiculous ideas — Ben Dover, Big Ears, Beetlejuice — and you almost burst out laughing. It's ridiculous, trying to think of anything that could possibly embody such a weird little character like him, and the combinations could be infinite for all you knew.
But you can see him staring up at you with those slow blinking eyes of his as if he can hear you thinking, as if he’s trying to tell you something or communicate to you with just his gaze. There’s a meaningful look to the big black marbles that are his eyes, one that transcends beyond the simple blank-eyed baby stare that you would usually receive, and a small part of you is thinking that it wouldn't be so bad if you entertained the idea that the kid is talking to you.
Yeah, you’re definitely delusional.
“We’ll find a name for you someday, little guy,” you say instead, picking him up by his underarms and standing to your feet despite the ache of protest that they give. “For now, you need a nap.”
Not even two seconds after the words leave your mouth, and the child is giving you as wide of a yawn his little mouth can give. Already, his eyes were shifting from being sharp and awake to fluttering closed, fatigue weakening the strength of his eyelids and facial muscles. It was exactly moments like these that made you think that you two were connected in some way — it felt like no matter what, you could never be wrong about what the kid was feeling, and even it seemed out of the realm of possibility he would change up as fast as that as if just to prove you right. But, of course, there was always a level of plausible deniability and your confidence interval was never more than slim; you do put him to sleep around this time every day, and the milk was very warm, and his tiny body could be tired from digesting all the various proteins and vitamins.
Whatever the reason, he went down without a fuss to your relief. It only took five minutes of rocking before he was conked out like a light, drool dripping down his chin. When it came to tucking him in, he barely protested as you wrapped him in his blanket and set him into his hammock. You closed the door to his miniature shelf-bedroom hybrid as quietly as possible and tread lightly across the hallway, the relief at having a cooperative kid making you feel so alleviated that you almost miss it.
But you don’t.
It’s coming from Mando’s room you realize, when you slow down enough to pinpoint the location of the noise. As you turn around, quiet as a mouse, you realize that his door isn’t fully closed and there’s a sliver of a crack in the entrance, where you hear small noises of something shuffling and friction.
As you creep nearer, the sounds become more defined and you can make out what it is — wet noises of shlick shlick shlick beating in a rhythm, slow then stopping and eventually accelerating. They echo almost perfectly in time with your pounding heartbeat in your ears, as you try to keep your breathing silent so that he stays unaware of you just outside.
You have a good suspicion of what it is; you’ve stumbled upon your fair share of explicit liaisons when you were on Lilith, and you certainly weren’t a sheltered kid, but the section of your brain that hasn’t left for a lunch break at that exact moment is still trying to rationalize what’s going on. Maybe he’s greasing something especially long and phallic shaped, or somehow washing his hands, or maybe throwing some potter. Anything to convince you that this isn’t happening right now.
But in the next moment, you hear a new sound that’s a mix between a strangled gasp and having the air knocked out of your lungs, and you know exactly what it is and what it means.
Mando is fucking himself in that room.
Less than ten feet away from you.
It’s impossible for you to ignore the drop of liquid heat that shoots its way down your spine like a sniff of spice. It travels down, down, down, settling in the pits of your tummy and grazing the apex of your thighs, and stars this is new. Leaning against the metal wall of the ship provides some much needed cooling to your feverish skin, which is useful considering how weak your legs are getting at the moment. You’re surprised you don’t let out your own whimper as a response to the blazing fire kindling in your abdomen, and you keep your bottom lip in a death hold between your teeth so that you won’t accidentally make another noise. The last thing you would want is to stop the show.
He makes no other moans after the one you catch, to your disappointment, but you can still hear his hand stroking himself through the slit in the door and it takes everything in you to not shove your own hand down your pants and do the same to yourself. Kriff, it's crazy to think that you dream of this exact scenario when you’re trying to rub one out at night, leaned up against a crate. You can’t believe this is really happening, that you’re not currently asleep or hallucinating, and maybe you are but if your own mind was ever able to conjure up such an insanely sexy, realistic thing then you’re still not exactly complaining.
The mental image alone is enough to get your heart racing like a fathier. You can practically see him laid back on the meager scrap of metal he calls a cot, cock in that huge hand of his with a hastily removed glove somewhere on the floor. In your imagination, he keeps most of his armor on and his pants are only pulled down low enough to reveal his throbbing length, swollen and a dark shade of crimson that makes your mouth water. His head is thrown back in pleasure, helmet leaned against the railings of his bed, chest rising and falling rapidly in response to each pull his hand makes on his cock, and underneath all that beskar his muscles are stiff and tensed up as if he were in the middle of a fight.
You can’t help but wonder how accurate the picture you’ve conjured up is. You want to know what he really looks like; you’ve always been curious, sure, but that was nothing in comparison to the pure, unbridled want for him growing in your gut and you’re afraid it’s going to make you do something ballsy like walk into his room right now. Kriff, should you do it? Would he like it more if you were there, stroking him instead and letting you please him? Would he hastily cover himself up and order you to never talk about it again? Or worse, would he instantly go limp the second he sees you and fire you for insubordination?
You’re still wondering when suddenly Mando moans out your name. Each syllable a sob, sounding fully broken and so sweet that it’s almost painful, saturated with bliss and slurred like he’s drunk on spotchka.
Your.
Name.
You feel the previous streams of warmth in your core turn into gushing, frantic waterfalls as the flames of arousal explode into a house fire, a forest fire between your legs. Thank the maker for your teeth practically biting your lip off, right? Or you would have definitely blown your cover.
Fuck, have you ever been this wet? From someone just saying your name? All it takes is for you to catch the big, scary, beskar-covered bounty hunter, who you’ve seen wrestle people literally three times your size into a carbonite freezer, whispering your name as he strokes himself off for your nervous system to liquify and for your composure to go out the window. You’ve been in the exact same position far more times than you could even bear to count, with your fingers between your thighs and his image in your mind, but to know that he’s thinking the same thing about you? That he also thinks about you in his leisure time and in the privacy of his own space?
It’s enough to convince you that you for sure are not going to stay outside his room. You are going to get your ass in there, no matter how hard your heart is pounding and how nervous you may be, and you are definitely not going to give up this golden opportunity to finally make a move on him, and-
And then the console starts going berserk.
Fuck. Of all times? Now the ship decides to announce that it's ready to drop out of hyperspace?
At that moment, it has the same effect on your mind as a cold shower would. You know you only have a limited amount of time before Mando bursts out the door and discovers you snooping on him, listening in like a creepy pervert, and you also know that you need to move fast in order to beat him. Frantically, you run with as lightly as you can muster on your jellified legs towards the ladder up to the cockpit and you climb it like a madman. With any luck, you can feign having been there all along to track the ship’s course after you finished taking care of the kid and pretend that you had never heard your boss jerking off. You pray to the maker for strength in your fingers so that you don’t accidentally slip and fall off the ladder as you climb the rungs.
The second you get into the flight deck, you sit down in the captain’s seat without a second thought and drop the ship from hyperspace, steering the Razor Crest down to Bespin and trying to control your breathing to give no indication that you were neither sprinting five seconds ago nor still incredibly soaked. You made it not a moment too soon; the second your hands are secured around the toggles, Mando bursts into the cockpit behind you and you try not to jump out of your skin.
Relax, you tell yourself. Nothing’s wrong. You saw nothing. You don’t know anything.
“I—” you start, but it comes out in a garbled jumble. You clear your throat and adjust your grip on the controls, trying not to let your hands sweat too much and leave stripes on the joy-con. “I got it covered. We— we land in f-five minutes.”
You can’t bear to turn the seat around to face Mando. Not yet, not so soon. “Thank you,” he says from behind you, and the shiver down your spine goes all the way to your sopping cunt. “I’ll be leaving once we land.”
Right. That’s the whole reason you had come to Bespin in the first place — he had been painstakingly following a bounty for the past week, and he had finally tracked them down here after some frustrating goose chasing and dead ends. You would be a complete asshole to feel disappointed, especially considering how much this obviously meant to the Mandalorian’s job, and how much the commission was, and how much work the both of you had put in so that you and the kid would be safe in the ship while he was out doing the work. A complete, lonely, horny asshole.
Yeah.
He had been gone for almost a whole day.
In the hours that he had been away for, you had plenty of time to think of the…the Incident. Plenty of time to mull over your feelings on the event, to rationalize your emotions and dissect every “what” and “why” and “how”, allowing your thoughts to run circles in the same loop over and over again.
The cycle always started with the same instigating question- “will this go anywhere?” He liked you, and you liked him, so what reasons could there be for not going further?
Well. For one, he is your boss. Your employer. If it were to ever end badly, you’d be stranded on some Outer Rim planet or, worse, left back on Lilith where you had tried so hard to leave.
And for another, would you two even be good for each other? What if it turns out he has a crazy weird fetish, or that he actually finds you detestable? Or what if having to take care of the kid and balance a relationship is too hard to handle? Neither of you deserve that kind of stress, but least of all him — his life was already stressful enough. Best case scenario, you two fall wildly in love, get married, have tons of babies, find domestic bliss, and you'll be glad that you had found the bravery to approach him; worst case scenario, you two scar each other so deeply that you will never be able to love another person without thinking of the trauma that the other caused. And that is where the line of thinking would hit a dead end until you started the cycle again.
You’ve been stuck here, thoughts running in the same, identical pattern now for a while.You know it’s pretty stupid to get hung up on stuff like this, but you couldn’t help it. Trust me, you’ve tried everything you could think of to distract yourself some way — you fed and played with the kid until he eventually got tired and went back to sleep, you cleaned the ship and organized some equipment, took a nice cold shower, and repaired the annoying leaky exhaust pipes, but you still managed to find time to think about Mando at any opportunity you had. It was getting dark outside now, yet still you kept thinking on and on and —
CLANG.
The sound of metal hitting metal is so startling that you actually jump and let out a yelp. It’s quiet afterwards, but you feel your heart pounding in your eardrums amidst the silence and it only gets louder when you hear the loud CLANG again.
Pirates, is your first thought. The Mandalorian’s been gone for a day and they think the ship’s empty; they’re here to ransack some easy loot.
Then you hear the sound of the hatch opening. Mando, is your second thought, accompanied with some ease. You know he has the ability to control the ship from his vambrace, you've seen him use it a few times by now, so he must have brought back a particularly violent quarry that’s wrestling with him outside as he tries to wrangle them in.
But maybe the quarry killed him, you continue to think. Maybe someone’s here for the kid and I’m going to die.
Please. The Mandalorian, dying? It’s impossible. You know it is. But what if? He’s not immortal, either. What if he did die and left you unprotected on the ship? What if someone’s going to kill the kid? You should get a weapon. You’ve seen him open his weapon’s room enough, you could probably enter the pin number in and grab a blaster. Protect yourself and the baby. But if he’s still alive he’d be pissed to find you going through his stuff. He would for sure be mad. Mad that you were snooping and mad that you thought he died.
He won’t be mad if he’s really dead, you point out to yourself.
The hatch has descended fully, and you hear the heavy gait of someone limping up the walkway with the unmistakable noise of heavy dragging across the floor, making your blood chill to ice — someone’s out cold, and that is definitely their body being hauled towards you, and you better hope that it's the quarry who’s unconscious.
Both the footsteps and your pulse get louder until they're competing for dominance in your ears. The stranger reaches the top, the massive corpse inches closer, you crouch, getting ready to run or fight for your life, they round the corner, and —
“Oh, thank the Maker,” you gasp as your eyes instantly fall on the T-visor face.
He says nothing, but you sense that your relief is mirrored in him with the momentary pause he takes to sustain eye contact before he continues lugging the quarry. Just as you predicted, the Twi’lek captive is unconscious. A dribble of indigo blood flows out of a fresh hit to the side of his head, and it leaves a long, smearing trail on the floor as Mando drags him to the back of the ship. He makes it look easy, towing a fully grown man.
You hear the standard noises at the end of a hunt — shuffling, thuds as the person is shoved forcefully into a stall, the beep of machinery as the freezer is activated, and the wheeze of gas being dispensed.
Standing up, you move to go meet Mando in the hull when suddenly he’s the one stumbling into you first, practically shoving a medpac in your hands and grabbing your arm for support as he limps both of you over to the cargo bay.
“Maker, what happened?” you breathe out as he sits on one of the crates, directly under a light fixture so that you can see every smear of blood soaked into the fabric of his top. His back is to you, presenting the injury with his spine bent and he sits in between your knees as you perch on the box stacked on top of the one he’s on.
“Quarry ni-nicked me in the back,” he grunts out, and with every breath you see the wound flexing open and closed through the gash in his shirt. Of all things, you manage to notice that his skin is so golden, even under the dried blood. “I’m fine, but— but it’s hard to reach.”
You push the growing queasiness in your gut down as much as you can as you open this particular medpac for the first time. To your relief, it’s all the standard issue stuff; things you’ve used before and are familiar with, but you are still painfully aware of the fact that you’ve never had to treat something so…gory.
“Should we use the cauterizer?” you ask as you rifle through the box, passing a multitude of bandaids and salves on your way to find some disinfectant.
“No, it’s not that bad,” he says. “Just spray some bacta on it and it should be fine.”
The scoff comes out of your mouth before you can think twice about it. “‘Not that bad?” you repeat incredulously, opening a packet of sterilizing wipes. Perhaps with his line of work, maybe it could be on the shallower side, but to your sheltered eyes you’ve only seen such extensive cuts at the butcher’s shop.
The cloth is cold in your hands. “You get used to- aagh, kriff,” he hisses, cutting himself off with a shout as the rubbing alcohol makes an unexpected pass over the injury. You can feel him stiffen underneath you, like an archer drawing a bow, and his back muscles ripple with the movement.
“Relax,” you murmur, but he never does. He sits there, rigid as the pauldrons of beskar on his shoulders and with his teeth gritted against the occasional mmph he lets out.
With the wound properly cleaned, more of his skin is made clear to you. Other scars in various stages of healing are also there, accompanying the main injury; some are still pink and tender looking, clearly more recent, while others are shimmery and raised in their last stages of healing. You see a particularly thick and jagged one start at the bottom of the rip in his tunic before it disappears behind the fabric with only a fraction of itself revealed, and you wonder what could have caused something so nasty.
What mainly draws your attention, however, is his complexion- it’s tanned and bronzed and slightly freckled, as if he had spent a lifetime under the sun despite the fact that you’ve never seen him without armor on. There’s a scatter of moles about a finger away from the cut that looks pretty similar to pictures of the Burning Snake constellation, something you’ve never seen yourself but are blessed to have learned about from textbooks and the odd Coruscant traveler. His skin is slightly damp from sweat, yet it smells fresh and it's teaming with life as you watch his muscles contract. It’s refreshing, is what it is. He’s spent so much of your time employed on the ship acting like some heartless mech and doing the work of a bot that seeing, physically seeing his biology is actually surprising you.
Then Mando shifts slightly underneath you and you realize you’re staring.
“S-sorry,” you whisper, snapping out of your reverie and scrambling to get the bacta spray.
You activate the dispenser and the second the solution hits the cut he makes another pained noise, this time higher and more desperate sounding in pitch. It’s broken and anguished, as the chemical reaction of bacta on a fresh injury is almost always just as sharp as the injury itself, but it’s also short and brief as the natural pain relievers in the microbiotics are released soon after. Only then does he soften just the slightest bit.
“Thank you,” he breathes out.
Nothing comes out of your mouth, like your lips are glued shut or your tongue’s frozen solid. You just sit there like a goof, paralyzed, the uncertainty that was brewing in your chest quickly bubbling up as you carefully calculate what your next move should be.
You probably should have let go of him by now. You probably should have begun packing the equipment back into the med pack, stood up, and left for the night. He thanked you, and you should have just said “you’re welcome” and that would be that — you would keep the relationship professional like a good worker.
But you didn’t.
“Mando,” you say instead and it prompts an inward cringe. Could you have come off any more forward?
Something in him shifts at the way you say his name, like a missing puzzle piece being slotted into place, and he lets out a groan of realization.
“Kriff,” he sighs. “You heard me in my room.”
Fucking hell. He really is perceptive, isn’t he?
Either his bounty hunting senses are off the charts and he can read anyone like an open book, or you were just that obvious about it all; you were praying for the former.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he explained, and with his back still turned to you from your respective spots on the boxes you can’t gauge his body language that well. Why is he apologizing? “I— I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again, you won’t have to—”
“Mando,” you say again, this time allowing your voice to betray more of your desire, which effectively cuts him off when you realize that he had gotten it all wrong.
He stays completely silent as you scramble off your perch to settle on the floor at his feet, this time being the one in between his legs as you look up at him, taking the stance of a beggar or a supplicator. Your brain, always trying to protect your ego, reminds you that this should be embarrassing right now — you should be at least a little ashamed at how easily you slipped to your knees for this guy. But you’re not embarrassed, because how else are you going to get your point across? How else can you convey to him, through his skull fortified by a thick layer of beskar, that you want him? That hearing him pleasure himself at the thought of you did the exact opposite of disgust you and instead lit your insides up like a torch?
Mando is towering over you from this spot, blocking the light from reaching your face and casting a shadow over you as you stare at his visor, hoping that the yearning in your dilated pupils is not being lost in translation. In that moment, you don’t think you could ever get used to this sight — the Mandalorian’s huge chest eclipsing you, his helmet obscured in darkness, legs caging you in from the sides. Engulfing you.
Your hand goes to rest on his knee and his helmet tracks the movement with a slight tilt of his head. Maker, sometimes it feels like every little thing he does makes your want for him increase tenfold; he continues to wait patiently as you decide what you’re going to do next, still as silent as a monastery, and the realization that he’s trying to anticipate your intentions just as much as you are with him sends a jolt of certainty through you.
Your fingers begin trailing higher and inwards. His thick, armored thighs seem to go onward forever, but you reach his belt and your fingers are hovering right over his bulge — when his own gloved hand catches yours from going any further.
“Do you— are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice deep and rich through his modulator.
“Yes,” you reply instantly, without hesitation. Yes, yes, yes yes a thousand times yes. You want this.
His own response is another groan and a muttered “fuck” with as much need in it as you feel. He works quickly, helping you to unfasten his pants as your hands bump against each other and letting out occasional grunts whenever you brush against his growing tent. You let him handle the buckles and zippers, because he knows them much better than you, but the second they’re open you dive your hands into his waistband to fish him out. The moment your palm wraps around his cock he lets out a mangled gasp at the same time as you; him, out of relief, but you, out of shock because fuck he’s thick, and it’s only growing more as he fully hardens.
When you finally work his throbbing length fully out of his pants you feel your heart drop a little. What have you gotten yourself into? He’s enormous, bigger than big; he’s…hefty, to say the least. The head looks almost angry with how red it is, and your fingers can’t even meet all the way around it, and now you’re second guessing your abilities because you’ve never had anyone quite this large. You give a few experimental jerks up and down to confirm to yourself that yes, that’s real, and yes, it's his, and you’re stuck reveling in how far your hand has to travel just to cross his length.
“We don’t— we don’t have to do this,” he grits out between shaky breaths. He must have read your apprehension, and the attempt to still be honorable warmed your heart. “Do you— do you still want to? To do this?”
Your response was to give the tip of his cock an experimental lick, and you hear him let out a tattered exhale as his hands squeeze into fists, slamming them against the crate with a jolt. As you prepare yourself mentally, you begin to press your tongue against the length of him, trying as hard as you can to feel every single vein and rib on the surface.
“Oh, sh-shit,” he forces out between his teeth. “Shit, you-you’re so fucking warm— and soft— nngh.”
Pulling off, you continue to jack him off instead. “Better than your hands?” you ask, savoring each of the little grunts he lets out in time with every stroke.
“Sweet heart, of- of course, fuck,” he says right before knocking his head back on the cargo box behind him.
You put your mouth back on the tip of his cock, and then, breathing in through your nose, you push him all the way down your throat until his tip bumps as far back as you can get it; even then, he’s only about halfway. Your muscles are working as hard as you can not to gag, with your brain working double time to just relax, and the rhythmic flexing and unflexing is making him literally tremble under you.
“Fuck,” he practically exclaims. “You feel so per-perfect, don’t stop— shit, just keep your mouth on- on me.” His mouth keeps running, loosened by your lips around him, and it’s such an unexpected surprise. You had never accounted for him being chatty in your fantasies, but find that yes, you absolutely love it and you never want him to stop talking.
When you start bobbing your head up and down, the noise he lets out sounds like he’s died and he’s waking up in heaven — it’s wonderful. His hands immediately jump from his sides and weave themselves into your hair, trying desperately to ground himself by pulling on your locks, and he lets out a moan at your hum of pleasure that travels right to his cock.
“Ah, how? How are— are you so warm?” he grits out, fingers tightening around your skull with each move of your head. “You’re so- so fucking perfect, treating me so good— kriff,” he rambles, the last part coming out like a plea.
On accident, your teeth graze against his length when you’re on your way down — you’re already trying to pull off of him and say sorry, but instead Mando’s hands on your head push you even further down with a guttural growl and you realize that he likes it. And for some reason that knowledge is turning you on so hard.
He’s just so deep in your mouth. Try as you might to stretch your mouth to fit all his girth, it feels futile when he’s just that big and your mouth only goes that far; you haven’t been at it for that long but there’s already an ache in your jaw that is making you incredibly wet with the knowledge that you’re having difficulty taking him. You go a little faster, hoping to make up for the fact that you can only take a portion his length at a time, and the glide of your wet tongue makes it as smooth as a well oiled droid.
Suddenly, swiftly, you’re pulled off his cock by the Mandalorian tugging your hair, and you let out an involuntary whine. “Wait,” he gasps out, desperately, chest heaving as he holds your face out at arm's length. “G-give me a second. I don’t want to cum yet.”
You make a mournful noise from somewhere deep inside your chest. “But I— I want you to cum,” you say, voice slightly raspy, gazing up at him with a kind of wanton disappointment as if you weren’t just sucking his cock two seconds ago.
Even without seeing his face you can picture the exact expression he has on under that helmet. “You’d-you’d let me cum inside? In your mouth?” he asks incredulously, like he wasn’t expecting you to be so eager.
Nodding your head, you can only stare in awe as he lets out another euphoric moan at your answer, which sends another wave of heat through your core. Almost fervently, you put the head of his cock back in your mouth and hollow your cheeks as hard as you can because you meant it when you said you wanted him to cum in your mouth, and you’re rewarded with a keening sound in response.
“Fuck, Maker you’re so good at-at this,” he gasps out breathlessly.
Your hands, previously gripping the parts of his length that you couldn’t fit in your mouth, move lower to cup his balls and at that Mando’s hips finally give a choppy, involuntary thrust upwards, momentarily breaking the self control he seemed to have constructed so meticulously. Your throat muscles threaten to make you gag and the sudden constriction brings another moan out of him, somehow still sounding deliciously resonant even after being passed through a vocoder.
“I-I’m not gonna last very long if you keep— kriff, if you keep doing that,” he groans.
At that, you glance up at him and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in his helmet. Even you can recognize just how debauched you look — your eyes, wide and slightly glassy, looking up at him demurely, with lips puffy and abused plump, a thin line of spittle dripping down your chin. To an outsider, it may seem slutty, but to you it’s fucking sexy seeing your throat stuffed full of his cock and it’s making you extremely achy.
You can tell that Mando thinks so, too — you can tell, because he makes a choked sound that comes out as a crackle of static through his helmet, and his fingers clench like vices in your hair to keep you anchored on his length, and then suddenly he’s cumming deep in your throat with a wavering sob.
He’s saying something unintelligible from above you and for a second you think you’ve had a stroke or something from being so turned on you forget how to understand basic, but you realize that he’s actually talking in Mando’a. It sounds like he’s cursing, and his head is tilted up at the ceiling as he talks, but for all you know he could be praying with how much conviction he says it with.
His balls are taut and pulled all the way up in your hands. It just keeps going; the ropes of his cum are warm and steady in your mouth, and you try to swallow to keep up with it but all it does is make him moan even louder. When he finally stops, you continue to suckle on his cock in hopes of milking him a little more until he gently slides you off of him, making a little pop! sound in the process.
“Kriff,” Mando breathes out, sounding like he’s just ran a marathon. His visor is fixed on you with the same unwavering intensity. “I…”
I don’t know what to say, you think.
And then, from his bedroom, the kid starts wailing in distress so loudly it’s like he’s right next to you.
Of course he chose now, of all times, to wake up.