from ifinkufreaky on archive of our own
There's one thing you can appreciate about working with the Mandalorian: he sure knows how to be terrifying to his quarry. It's not about bluster with him, or wild threats that can make a hunter seem unhinged; it's in his sheer presence. He's caught up to the quarry you've been tracking together, and now he looms over his prey like he's inevitable.
'Course, you'd never let him know he even made you shiver. "Enough with the dramatics," you say to him, coming up behind the cowering bounty and yanking her arms together behind her back. "I'm the one that got her blaster out of her hand, and that's the hardest part. Once they're disarmed it's all over. That ups my cut to 70%."
A frustrated little hiss emanates from your business partner. He points that looming mask more squarely at you. "Fifty-five was what we agreed," he says, words clipped. "And that was only because you had the specific location—"
"Without which your schedule wouldn't have been worth shit," you finish for him, pressing the binder around your quarry's wrists. At least, the metal cuff clicks shut around one of them...
Suddenly the woman is whirling around, slamming the solid metal of the binder, hanging off just one wrist, right into your stomach.
You try to grab her but the momentum is not in your favor, especially with the wind knocked squarely out of your gut. You brace your hands on your knees, willing yourself not to fall completely down as you fight the pain, not in front of Mando, and manage to suck in a decent breath as you look up with involuntary tears forming in the corners of your eyes.
Just in time to see the Mandalorian grab the woman by the throat, stopping her escape in its tracks. He shoves her to her knees, bristling with frank irritation, and presses the muzzle of his blaster to the side of her skull. "Stay down."
You stagger one step in their direction. Your gut hurts just about as much as your pride.
You can't see a smirk on that cold metal face, but you know there has to be one as he looks over at you. "What were you saying about the hard part of the job being over? I'll take that seventy."
"This gets you maybe an extra five," you wheeze, stomping to the quarry kneeling at his feet and jamming her other hand into the binder where it belongs. "And you're forgetting that I was the one that noticed her sneaking out that hatch in the back."
Another one of his annoying silences follows, the one where he stands so still and makes you wait, just guessing what thoughts might be bouncing around inside the helmet. "And she's going back in my ship. My fuel, my carbonite. I'll take sixty."
You huff.
"You're the one that started this. I would have been fine with the original agreement."
You roll your eyes. "We'll talk about it after she's loaded in."
"Up," the Mandalorian barks at the quarry, digging those orange-tipped fingers into the cloth covering her shoulder and hauling her to her feet.
The woman complies, looking defeated, and you all start walking across the plateau toward where the Razor Crest has been hidden. Mando's been in the game too long to pay docking fees at an official spaceport on a planet so chaotic that you can get away without.
Soon enough, the quarry says what everyone with a price on their head says, once the binders are tight around their wrists. "You know, you two really don't have to worry about your split. Just let me get back to my guys, I can pay you each as much as that whole price on my head."
You snort. "If that were true, we wouldn't have found you working in such a shit-hole. No way the syndicate values you that much."
"I seem to recall a story about you taking up a quarry on an offer like that once," Mando's modulator emits at you. He slows his pace so he can see your face as the three of you trudge across the uneven ground. "Didn't it end with another Guild member finding you stripped and tied up in a cellar? That would have been a sight to see."
"I heard that story too," you shoot back. "Wasn't me. But if you want to see me like that, Mando, maybe you can try to play your cards right a little later..." you force your mouth to close. Not the most well-thought-out comeback. Nor the kind of thing to say if you want a fellow Hunter's respect. Which you do. It's just that there's something about the Mandalorian that's damned enticing, that makes you wonder if he ever loosens up even a little, lets anyone touch the warm body that's gotta be somewhere underneath all that armor.
"I know a good hotel in the East Quarter," the quarry pipes up before Mando gives you a response, "soft mattresses, and real good soundproofing in the walls. Maybe you two need to work out some of this sexual tension before taking me back to the ship? You can just stick me in another room until you're done."
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd just twiddle your thumbs and wait real nice for us." You stick your blaster into her ribs and prod her to move faster, just for being annoying. "Sweet of you to be so generous, but don't worry. He and I'll have plenty of privacy while you're stashed away in carbonite for the ride to Nevarro."
The Mandalorian's helmet turns toward you sharply.
"What? It's not that I don't trust you, Mando, but I always collect in-person. I'm riding with you."
Mando's ship is a real bare-bones operation; it's not much more than a cargo hold and a cockpit. It's almost enough to make you regret insisting on coming along. You can't find a spot to get comfortable in, and there's nothing to do. Mando's not helping; he's been sitting at the controls of the ship, back perfectly straight, since take-off. The course has already been set; the eerie lines of hyperspace are streaking by, and there's nothing in this cockpit that actually requires his attention unless something goes wrong.
"So... what do you usually do while you're in hyperspace?" you finally ask, slouching against the cockpit wall.
Mando's hands turn palm up. "This."
"You serious?"
He shrugs. "Good time to meditate."
You look out at the rushing stars. "You have got to be kidding me. I'd go completely crazy in about five minutes."
"You probably would," he says. So calm, so matter-of-fact.
You look down at him sharply. He hasn't moved a muscle, though he could be looking at you sideways through his visor and you'd never know. Infuriating. You plop down into the seat behind him. "You don't think I'm capable of being quiet?"
"I've never known you to be."
You flip your hair. "Some of us have a thing called 'people skills.' But it doesn't look like they cover that in Mandalorian school."
Now he turns his face toward yours. "Is that what you think you have."
You nod, stifling the quick words that heat up your tongue so you can prove how quiet you can be.
"I've seen you try to get free drinks from soldiers that haven't had shore leave in months, and still not be able to seal the deal."
Mando? Teasing you? That's new. You scoff at the accusation. "You just left too early. You would have seen where that night went. Try loosening up a little sometimes."
Another silence. Then he swivels away from you, back to his perfect posture. "No thanks."
"What are you jealous?"
The stack of armor in the pilot's seat gives you no reaction at all.
You exhale loudly. "You know, I always thought you must have had some other kind of life to go back to, the way you drop those pucks off with Karga and never stick around." You glance down the ladder at the empty cargo hatch, thinking of the junky little cot you saw crammed into a closet down there. "But you really live like this? Nothing but work for you, huh. Is that what it takes to be the best hunter in the sector?"
His helmet moves a fraction in your direction. "At least you can admit it."
Your face gets hot. You did not mean to give that to him. "Some people say that about you." You cross your arms, trying to get more comfortable by throwing your feet up on the control panel to his left.
He rolls his neck, beskar facing pointedly at your feet until you huff and move them.
Your frustration cracks into all-out mockery. "Ooh," you blurt out in a sing-song voice, "I'm Mando, when I'm not hunting I sit perfectly straight and stare into space; my capture rate is near-perfect because I never sleep and guns are my religion."
His helmet tilts above his metal-encased shoulder, dangerously close to actually looking at you again. "If you're going to keep running your mouth like that, I can think of a few ways to make you shut up."
It takes you a moment to recover from the rush that shoots through your body, a confusing mix of adrenaline and frank arousal as he speaks to you with the tone he usually reserves for quarries. Then you bark out a laugh. "Mando! Did you just make a dirty joke?"
Slowly he swivels the chair toward you, until he's facing you squarely with his legs spread and fists on his knees. "I suppose you could take it that way."
And then he just sits there, staring at you, as you decide which way to take it. Was he trying to say he hadn't meant it as a come-on? That you're the only one here with a dirty mind, that immediately imagined him shoving his cock down your throat? Fuck. Or does he want you to take it that way, to climb into his lap and sit your ass down on the battered metal plate covering his thigh...
You have to shake your head a little to make the thoughts stop. That is so not what he means. "You're just mad that we make a great team," you say, standing up and grinning, trying a new tactic. "That after almost bungling the hunt today," the helmet cocks sharply at that accusation, "you realize that you need me. I've got skills you can't even come close to."
It's hard to determine what sound comes out of his modulator, but you think it's a snort. "What are you talking about."
"My aforementioned people skills, for a start. Don't forget I was the one that took in that warlord on Strigoth by getting him to follow me out to the edge of town without any of his guards. Not everything has to be a shootout. And I knew the quarry today was going to run before you did."
Mando crosses his arms over his chestplate. "Keep telling yourself that. I'm still not raising your percentage."
"I can hack any security system since the final Imperial update release, which is most of them in the Rim, and on top of all that"—you swing your left hand in like you're going to slap him upside the helmet, and when he lifts his arm to block, you smack him over the ear with your right—"I'm faster than you."
You jump back instantly, not sure how he's going to react. His body tenses up into a fighter's crouch, starting to come up out of the chair toward you. Then he sits back down, body language deliberately relaxing. He adjusts his helmet with one hand. "You're a child."
"I call it playful," you shoot back, the adrenaline rush of what you just did almost making you giggle. "Another asset you seem to be lacking."
He only shrugs in response, then swivels back to facing the oncoming stars.
He's given you an opening that's impossible to resist. As soon as his back is turned you swing your open hand forward. He's ready for it, which you basically expected, and he knocks your arm away before you can make contact with his helmet this time. And ouch, that gauntlet of his jars your forearm all the way to the bone. You make a frustrated little noise. "Well, if you want to stick to business, we still have to talk about the final terms of the split. We can go back to 55-45, if you admit that today I had the superior skills."
"With you taking the forty-five?"
"Hell no."
He pauses, and you think he's about to say something mature and reasonable, like he always does. Instead, he comes back with a very calmly-worded: "I could put you out the airlock right now."
You swear there's a wry little tone to that modulated voice. "You'd have to catch me first"—you slap the bucket on his head again—"and we've already determined I'm faster than you."
"Stop that," he growls, finally standing up. His cloak swirls dramatically and you try to suppress the primal feelings that make you a little weak in the knees when he comes up to his full height in such close quarters.
"Make me." The words are out of your mouth before you can decide if they're really such a good idea.
The Mandalorian's helmet tilts. Now it's his turn to try and work out what you may or may not be implying. When he finally speaks, there's a new tone in his voice, one that catches something deep in your belly and drags. "You think you can take me?"
...Can you? You may be as good a Hunter as he is, but you couldn't say unarmed combat is one of your strong suits. And you don't even want to think about how much he out-weighs you, especially with all that armor on. But how can you possibly eat your pride and back down after you've provoked this?
You look around the tiny space of the Razor Crest's cockpit. Mando's helmet stays squarely aimed at your face.
"A lot of expensive equipment in here," you say casually. "Wouldn't want to damage anything throwing down right now."
"Mm-hmm." His skeptical hum makes the modulator crackle. Did he just lean in closer?
At this point the sexual tension is thrumming like a mis-firing engine in the space between you. If he had a face you could read, a mouth you could tilt your face up and kiss, you'd know what to do, but this? Even your renowned 'people skills' are failing you now.
You look away from the impassive, dark lens that covers his eyes, and that's when he retaliates. One heavy gloved hand whips around your side and thuds a stinging strike right into your ass. The impact knocks you forward, almost into his chest, but you stop yourself before your hands touch his breastplate.
You suck in a breath and freeze, wide eyes drawn like a magnet back to that beskar face. Mando just spanked you. Hard. Mando... just... The pain ignites an arousal so sudden and strong that you're worried you're about to start trembling. It would absolutely kill your reputation if any Hunter found out that your sexual tastes ran submissive, that a deep secret part of you wanted nothing but to be overpowered and forced, to be used by someone stronger than you, better than you...
You can't think of anything to do but flee. "I... uh..." His helmet tilts again, watching your face closely as you stutter. "Yeah, I guess I was being a little too childish. I'll stop...stop trying to make you lighten up." Your eyes slide away from his helmet's eye slit, unable to handle even the imagined eye contact. "I'll leave you alone to do whatever it is you do up here. Meditate. I'm gonna go down and..." you make for the ladder to the cargo hold, "and clean my blaster."
He just watches you go. You can still feel the impact of his hand on your ass, with every movement of your leg as you climb down the rungs of the ladder. Fuck, it's making your pussy tingle just a badly, too. Your head has just dropped below the hatch when Mando's modulated voice follows you down with a suggestion that sounds suspiciously like a command. "Why don't you clean mine, too."
You feel your face and chest getting hot as soon as you get down to the relative privacy of the ship's lower level. If you were trying to maintain control of the conversation, you'd say something sassy back to that, not let him win an inch of dominance, but you're not in control anymore, are you? Not of yourself, not of whatever this is that's going on between you. And it's so dangerous. How would you keep his respect, if your top competitor in the Guild knew this about you, what you wanted him to do to you...
Mando's weapon rack is set into the wall across from the ladder. Certainly there's cleaning supplies stashed somewhere in that section, but you're too shaky to get right to work. Instead, you walk down along the racks of carbonite, idly inspecting his cargo as you try and pull yourself together.
Four of the racks are currently occupied; the Mandalorian has been busy. Each one is tagged with a bounty's chain code. You recognize two of them from Karga's list. Quarries that you had passed on, that seemed too difficult to be worth their price. Bastard was about to show you up again when he unloaded these trophies.
You take a deep breath when you reach the end of the line. Your ass still tingles in the most tantalizing way, but you grit your teeth and tell yourself to ignore it. Maybe if you just stay down here, avoid your traveling companion until the ship reaches Nevarro, everything else will go just fine. No more bruises to your pride, no dirty secrets revealed. Yeah. That's smart.
You turn and Mando is just there, boxing you in between the racks of carbonite carriers. How can a guy covered with so much metal be this stealthy? You try not to let shock show on your face; which only means you end up freezing like a prey animal.
"You liked that." He makes the accusation solidly, with the weight of heavy interest bearing down behind it.
"What are you talking about." You know, but you don't want to answer for the heat that surely showed in your face when Mando spanked you. You try to wiggle past him, but he doesn't acknowledge your intent, makes no move to make way for you.
"You know." He's just staring down at you.
You twitch in irritation and decide if he's ignoring personal space, so can you. Your chest and thigh slide against solid armor as you force your body through the gap between him and the carbonite. "Get out of my way."
His helmet is the only thing that moves, tracking your labored progression. "Make me." He echoes your earlier challenge with an amused little tone.
"Fine." You use your entire body weight to slam him into the rack on the other side. But he recovers too quickly; when you try to step away, into the center of the ship's hold, he gets an arm around your chest.
As if your adrenaline wasn't spiking already; now your combat reflexes kick in and you pull him in tighter, squatting low and grabbing that arm for leverage. With a quick burst of effort from your legs, you flip him over your shoulder.
You follow him down, taking advantage of the way a fall inside all that metal has to stun him, and climb on top of his body. "Fifty-five percent." You also attempt to change the subject.
He reaches up and it's a struggle to control his arms. He's kriffing strong, and you've already taken off your combat equipment with the hidden tricks you usually use to deal with opponents that are bigger than you. He twists underneath you, in some way that you don't expect, and with a rough shove and a brief crushing sensation along one leg you find yourself flat on the deck beneath him. "Are you really going to pretend you don't like this?" his modulator purrs down at you.
Subject not changed. Every one of your nerve endings is in high gear now, and there's a powerful urge inside you that wants to mewl and spread your legs apart for him right here, like a bitch in heat acknowledging the alpha male. You push the image back with a growl between your teeth, and use your thighs only to try and throw him off you.
Mando responds to your offensive by smothering you back down with his hips. Something solid crushes into the apex of your thighs, and you remember his armor does not have a codpiece.
A feral little moan escapes past your lips. Mando stops, lifting up just a little off your body and cocking his helmet to the side where it hovers only a hand's breadth above your face. "What was that?" he asks, voice pleased.
And just like that, the whole game has changed. You were so worried he was trying to embarrass you, get one over on you. But if he likes it like this too... You reach your hand down boldly and throw his question back at him. "What's this?" you ask as your palm makes contact with a delightfully solid bulge straining against the thick fabric of his pants.
A deep rumble purrs out of his modulator. "If you can manage to behave, maybe you'll find out."
How does he know exactly what to say to make you squirm? Your body floods with heat as you inwardly flail around to find a non-submissive answer. "And what happens if I don't behave?"
"Then, maybe things get really interesting."
Oh. Fuck. Now there's an option. Maybe you don't even have to submit to get the kind of tumble you want from him. You bare your teeth in a ferocious, challenging grin, and take advantage of the way he's pulled his weight back to twist out from under him, knocking his helmet one more time with your elbow as you go.
You scramble across the deck out from under him, but a heavy hand catches your belt before you can get very far. You kick but Mando's already inside your reach; your heel glances off his armor without even slowing him down.
He tugs on your belt, harshly, and climbs over the backs of your legs to force you down. "Where do you you think you're going?" His voice is tight with the effort of getting himself positioned on top of you, squishing your belly into the deck.
"Mmf" is the sound you make in response, because now he's pressing a forearm into your back and putting most of his weight on it.
"Hold still." You give him a little token resistance, but mostly you let him get settled how he wants, holding you down to the floor evenly with the left side of his body. Leaving his right hand free. "So. What happens when you don't behave."
He spanks you, solid and centered and sharp.
You expected it just enough to hold your breath, and make sure you don't cry out. You may be face-down on the floor under the Mandalorian, but you still have your pride. The first smack is followed by two more, and he grunts when you still don't make a noise.
Heavy fingers smooth over the sting in your flesh. His hand feels amazing as it covers the swell of your ass, a slow, deliberate drag that feels warmer than it ought to and much more soothing than you expected.
"What's it going to be, Y/N?" he asks. When you don't answer fast enough for him, he swats at your other cheek, lazy and powerful.
Maybe he got a little noise out of you with that last one; it's just too hard to stay quiet and not flinch both at the same time under the strength of that arm.
His helmet comes closer down to your face. "It's okay to let go." He speaks with such confidence, such seductive calm. "I can tell you want to submit. You don't have to keep fighting it." He shifts on top of you. "Though I do like it when you struggle."
Your body rolls enticingly underneath him, without your brain's permission. "Don't you dare tell anyone you got me like this."
"Of course not." His answer is immediate. You remember how he's always been an honorable man, that part of his reputation impeccable. Perhaps you really can trust him with this side of you. He sticks to the Code, he honors his promises, and lives by the Way of the Mandalore.
That last one begs a certain question, of course. "I wasn't sure that Mandalorians could even have sex."
A throaty noise makes the modulator crackle. "We have our ways." A pause. "Is that what you want?"
You lift your head a little higher. He doesn't give you much freedom, but he shifts just enough to help you feel comfortable breathing again. "If that's what you're offering, yeah, I wouldn't be opposed to things ending up there."
His hand gropes over your ass, fingers diving to tease more sensitive flesh between your legs. "After we... resolve a few things." He grips tightly, almost cruelly. You agree in a sound that comes out much more high-pitched than you intended as he palms your ass and kneads it boldly. "Like whether you're ready to start behaving like a good girl now."
You still can't bring yourself to just say yes, as hot as his words are making you. But you curl into his hand, just a little. To encourage him.
He growls something in a language you don't know. It sounds like a curse and his weight is pressed down on you again as he scrambles with your belt, loosening your pants just enough to shove everything off the curve of your hips, baring you to mid-thigh in the ship's cool air. When he spanks you now it's sharper, the sting lighting up your tender flesh under every open-palmed strike that just keeps coming and coming. "Rubbing your ass on me does not count as an answer." Smack. "I want to hear you say it." Smack. "That you submit." Smack. "That your ass is mine tonight." A few involuntary cries squeeze out of your throat before he relents and rubs you again, the leather of his glove singing over your overstimulated skin.
You slow your panting breaths before you speak up, endeavoring to match his even tone. "Maybe I'll play along for a little while." You twist further, until you can stare up into his silver mask. "What do you want me to do?"
He pulls back, sitting up on his hip. From the angle of his helmet you'd guess that your answer does not really count as the submission he was looking for. Nor did you mean it to be. Someone's gonna top you, they've got to earn it. Even if they are already, physically, on top of you. His moment of thought ends. "Take off your clothes."
His hand squeezes at your ass one more time as you shift, like he's loathe to let go while you comply with his command. You make as quick of work with your boots as you can, then push your bottoms off after them. Mando's sitting beside you, leaning up against a large cargo crate, helmet fixed on your slowly-revealed body.
You're so self-conscious that your skin feels like it could be glowing, as you bare it for him inch by inch. There's nothing to read in that cold helmet, but its angle never wavers, riveted on you.
Once you've gotten yourself completely naked, he beckons you to come to him with two curling fingers. It's amazingly erotic to move toward him with nothing on, while every inch of the Mandalorian warrior is still covered in battle-scarred plates.
He reaches out, palm up for your hand. You place your hand in his and he draws you in, until you're kneeling right beside him. His fingers trail up your arms, over your shoulders, coaxing you closer. His touch is lighter than you expected. But you can hear him breathing through the mask. He's struggling to stay this calm. To savor this.
His helmet tips down as his fingers knead harder; he watches himself press and squeeze the flesh of your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. The modulator translates another buzzing hum. Does it fascinate him, to see so much bare and vulnerable skin, when he can show none?
You feel your nipples tighten, a silent craving for contact. This feels good, but you want so much more. You look right into his eye slit. "I won't break," you say, twisting yourself tighter into the grip of his hands.
The Mandalorian growls and rises up to his knees, helmet filling your vision as he presses himself close and rakes his fingers down your back. He's looking down at your panting chest and squeezing your ribs, watching the way your pristine tits are so close to brushing against his dirty metal chestplate. He clutches you in, pressing your belly against his, betraying a desire for closeness that he just can't achieve.
Your hands come up to his shoulders, burrowing through the cowl wrapped around his collar, trying to make contact. Your fingers curl up the column of his neck, where the thinner fabric lets you feel a hint of his body heat. He stiffens when you come close to the bottom of his helmet.
"Leave it," he snarls, just as you're telling him "Don't worry, I wasn't—"
He scoops you up tightly and sets you on top of the cargo crate he had been leaning against. Your legs open and wrap around him of their own volition as he presses between them. You cross your ankles underneath his cloak, locking his body in close. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, just inside the pauldrons, but don't attempt to slide under anything again.
Leather-clad fingers rake up your ribs, dragging up the sides of your body before they close over your breasts. Finally. You arc into him and let your eyes close, feeling the texture of his gloves across sensitive skin, the hungry twisting and tugging against your nipples.
"Open your eyes," he demands, voice breathy with as much arousal as you're feeling. "I want you to look at me, keep looking at me, let me see..."
He trails off, but you can guess what he means. Let him see what it feels like to be touched. You tip your chin down and lock your eyes on that T-shaped window in his helmet. His fingers pinch around both your nipples at once and your jaw drops. He tickles around the edges, then grabs up the full swell of your tits and squeezes. Your eyes try to flutter shut; it's already hard to remember his instruction.
He settles into an entirely delicious rhythm, kneading your peaks, watching every crease of your brow, reading every gasp and twitch of your lip so that he can tweak at your nipples just right, until the pleasure is almost unbearable. You don't even realize your eyes have fallen closed until his hand disappears from one of your tits and slaps at your cheek.
It's not hard, just a slight sting, the corrective swat of a playful alpha. "Eyes," he reminds you, then goes right back to his blissful torture.
Your core is warming almost unbearably. Every tug at your nipples is drawing a tingling line of pleasure right down between your thighs, taking the heat that had already awoken there during your spanking and fanning the flames, until the need for more is almost unbearable. "Mando," you moan, tilting your hips forward on the crate, "please..."
A pleased little sound comes out of the modulator. "Please what?"
"Urmmm," you moan at him, twisting your body, trying to scoot your hips a little closer to him. "I need more."
He responds by pinching your nipples harder, just enough pain to make you gasp and curl. You pout up toward his helmet. "That's not what I meant."
"But you like it." He does it again, and this time you cry out. A stabbing ache deep between your legs reminds you you're still not getting what you want.
Fingers tickle down your belly, brushing across your inner thighs. Then they slide around behind and pinch you hard on the ass. You wail in frustration.
Mando tips his helmet closer to your face. "Tell me again how I don't know how to be playful."
"Fuck!" you cry through gritted teeth.
"Fuck what?"
Your hands scramble down his armored chest, aiming for his belt to just reach down and show him what you want.
"Uh uh." He grabs your wrists before you can do more than pop the buckle on his utility belt. "Hands stay on my shoulders."
You immediately comply, too far gone now to be contradictory. "Fuck me, Mando."
"Oh yeah?" He straightens up a little, his posture cocky as he stands there wrapped in your naked legs. "You ready to say it?"
"I'm yours." You don't even hesitate. "Do whatever you want with me."
He takes his belt the rest of the way off with one hand, lets it drop to the floor. The other hand is busy squeezing your ass, then traveling around your hip. He pushes your legs open a little wider, then his thumbs come running down your inner thighs, pulling at your labia, spreading you even more. You lean back, curling your hips up, to give him a better view.
His breath hisses out from under the helmet. "You want me to fuck this little pussy?"
"Yes," you moan, as his thumbs stroke up and down, just around its edges.
He pulls you open wider. "You ready to be a good girl, and do exactly as I say?"
"Fuck, yes."
"Exactly," he repeats, and a ghost of a chill runs down your spine in the midst of all this heat. He takes one of your hands from his shoulder, and turns it palm up near your mouth. "Spit."
The thumb of his other hand is still sliding up and down next to your opening, not touching your wetness. You appreciate that he's not about to let his dirty gloves make things unsanitary. You gather up saliva to the front of your mouth and carefully coat your first two fingers.
Mando keeps his grip on your wrist, and pushes your hand down to your entrance as soon as he's done watching your lips and tongue work over your own fingers.
You smooth the spit over your slit, Mando's grip still guiding you, making sure you do a thorough job lubricating yourself. His other thumb creeps down over your clit, rocking across it carefully, steadily, his helmet angling back up to watch your face.
It's a struggle to keep your eyes open against the pleasure of that pressure, finally right where you need it. But you remember his rule. You keep your gaze locked on the beskar as your own fingers find a rhythm underneath his, the gloved hand locked around your wrist urging you to press into yourself deeper, faster, in coordination with his rolling thumb. You find yourself clutching at the back of his neck just to keep your balance as the needy pleasure explodes. "That's it," his voice soothes over the modulator, "get yourself ready for me."
You're doing more than getting ready. Even just this much touch from him is sending you straight toward a spiraling orgasm, now that all the wild pleasure built up by every slap and struggle and pinch finally has somewhere to go.
He sees it coming, the way your eyelids go tight at the effort to keep them open and looking at him. "Don't," he warns. "Save it."
He stops moving his thumb, though he doesn't release its pressure. He swirls your hand inside of yourself one last time before drawing it out, then setting it back onto his shoulder in line with the other one.
You can't help but roll your hips against his thumb while Mando starts loosening his own clothing. You want to call him cruel when he removes that hand too, bringing it up to caress your neck, but you have no ability to talk back anymore. Especially when his fingers curl up underneath your jaw. "Now. The most important thing." You can feel him pulling himself out of his pants, though he's brought his body in closer and you can't see that far with your head tilted up in his hand like this. "Don't look down." His fingers squeeze tighter around your jaw, the heel of his hand pressing into the top of your throat. "If you look, I'll have to kill you."
He could be exaggerating, just to make this hotter for you, more intense, but you remember what he said to some over-curious bitch at Karga's tavern once. No living thing has seen me without my helmet. Apparently The Way is preserved if violators quickly become only the formerly living.
"Yes," you say quickly, voicebox buzzing against his wrist, words mumbling together against the unrelenting pressure in his fingers, "I understand."
A few more quick movements down where you can't see, and then you feel something warm and thick pressing up against your core. You both moan together as he slides his head up and down your slick folds, only fumbling a little before he finds his aim. Fuck. This is what you've been craving. You brace yourself against the cargo crate as best you can, squeezing your legs around him to invite him in.
You think you're ready to take him, but you're not. He crushes in bigger and wider than you're used to, and you wail up into that impassive beskar face and try in vain to remember how to relax and take a dick like this one.
His breath is catching in little straining grunts; apparently this is pretty overwhelming for him, too. When he's halfway in he removes his guiding hand from his own shaft and returns his thumb to your clit; that helps. The more familiar pleasure of his pressure helps melt your walls into the stretch of him. "You're so. Fucking. Tight." His hand never wavers on your jaw as he starts to pump, in and out, getting a little bit deeper into you with every thrust, groaning a little louder with every inch he gains.
Fuck. This position has every muscle in your body straining, which is probably why it's so hard for him to fit in, but you don't even care because the intensity of it is everything that you've been craving. "Fuck—" he adjusts his grip just a fraction, so you can talk a little easier, "fuck me just how you want, Mando, I can take it."
He groans and takes his thumb off your clit, bringing that big hand around to grab onto your hip and brace you for a wilder pace. You only bemoan the loss of his thumb for a second, because the new angle slides his cock against a wicked spot deeper inside you.
"Ahh!" you wail, and wrap your arms tighter around his neck, needing him to hold you up as he fucks up into you at an angle that destroys the precarious balance you had been maintaining on the edge of this cargo crate. His controlling grip on your neck is choking you just a little, a sensation so erotic that you can feel your impending orgasm sizzle and tighten all around his cock the more you focus on it. "Mando, I—Can I?" you pant, your face so close that your breath is fogging up the beskar.
"Yes, fucking come for me," he orders, then presses into you harder, his grip momentarily cutting off your airway completely. A second later your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, spasming every muscle in your core, your thighs, in your silent, breathless chest, and Mando just keeps fucking you through it all.
As soon as the heel of his hand slides off your throat you're screaming through your teeth, the sound bouncing along with his thrusts. His pace is relentless until your orgasm finally peaks, and the stiffness of your body starts to melt against him. You realize that you've wrapped your arms fully around his helmet, getting as close as his controlling grip on your jaw would allow.
His pace slows, but it does not stop. From the aching deep inside your belly, you know that he's still fully hard, just giving you a brief moment to recover yourself.
You sigh into the side of his head, a long, lovely sound. Your body shivers with aftershocks around his solid shaft, keeping your pleasure brimming, not letting it fade. That hand controlling your jaw pushes you back, gently, until he can see your face again.
His grip spasms on your ass. He must like what he sees. "Close your eyes." You do, and he starts to pull away. "Keep them closed. I'm turning you over."
You unlock your ankles from behind his back as he draws his length out of your body, both of you gasping and shuddering as he withdraws. Your legs come down to the ground rather stiffly, and you're glad of the way he manhandles you along, until you're bending over the crate with your thighs pressed into its edge. You're not sure your legs would have held you up without his help.
Mando wastes no time lining his cock back up again. You hold onto the edges of the cargo crate as he presses in eagerly. A gasp rips from your throat as your head lifts up in an involuntary bend of your back; this position lets him drive in deeper, forcing you to adjust to his size all over again.
A split second after your head comes up, Mando's fingers squeeze through your hair at the base of your skull, using that grip to hold you steady and facing forward. You really weren't trying to turn and look, but you suppose he can't risk it. He keeps control of your head, pulling your hair a little in time to his thrusts, as he groans out a deep, pleasured sound. You give voice to how you're feeling, too, letting little sobbing moans spill out in time to his insistent thrusts. He can't see your face anymore, and you barely have the leverage to move your hips against him, so this is the only way to keep the connection.
"Oh, keep making those sounds," Mando pants, then the modulator keeps crackling with more of his soft grunts as he plumbs your depths. "You take me so good." When he flattens his hips against your ass it definitely hurts; he's reached the end of you, and is trying to stretch past it, deep inside. But even that pain is erotic; you wail and submit under his praise and his smothering need.
His grunts and his thrusts both start coming faster, and just as you fear that you're hitting your limit, that you can't take any more, some new dimension of release and submission open up inside you, and all that suffering transforms into a pleasure so fierce that your walls are clenching and your mind is wiped by an orgasm that turns the rest of your body to jelly.
When your mind clears you find your cheek flush to the surface of the cargo crate. Mando's hand is pressing it there, with his fingers wrapped across your eyes, and he's groaning through his teeth as he smashes himself as deep into your body as he can get. He shudders and bucks, roaring through his orgasm, the modulator translating the sound with an almost musical edge.
When he's done he sags partially on top of you, his belly resting on your hips while his arms keep his chestplate from digging into your back. His cock is keeping you plugged, a thick presence that makes you feel stretched even when it's going soft. One of his hands is still resting over your eyes, but all the tension has gone out of it. You wonder if he'd feel the flicker of your eyelashes against his glove if your lids accidentally parted. You keep them closed.
He hums, fingertips running softly up your back. You wonder if he's looking down, admiring your bare skin once again. Your entire body is thrumming, the satisfaction spreading to every muscle fiber. You know things will feel awkward soon, but for now you really don't want to move.
Eventually Mando pulls himself gently out of you. A spurt of warm liquid follows, running thickly down your leg. Fuck, how backed up was he?
"Don't move," he warns, lifting his body up off of yours.
You give him a contented little murmur and stay perfectly relaxed. "Eyes still shut," you reassure him. You're not even annoyed at the lack of trust these constant reminders might convey. This is something he has to control strictly. Certainly it's a great privilege that he even took the risk with you. You listen to his footsteps retreat and return, as you lay draped over the cargo crate and enjoy the bliss that is only just beginning to fade.
"You can open them now," he says softly once he's standing over you again. One hand slides over your ass, pausing at a spot that feels surprisingly sensitive. "I've given you a welt or two here."
"Souvenir," you grin up at him, twisting your spine while keeping your hips relaxed under his hand. "Thanks."
Mando nods his helmet back at you. He's got a cloth in his other hand, dampened from the fresher, and he wipes up the mess he's left between your legs with careful, steady dabs. "I should be the one thanking you," he says softly, maybe even a little awkwardly. "That was..."
"Overdue?" you quip, as he's wiping all the way down to your ankle to clean up the enormous load he had for you.
"Maybe just a little." He steps away to trade the towel for a thin, precisely-folded blanket, which he shakes out and spreads over you. You stand up in his arms as he does, guiding him to wrap it around your shoulders. You hold it tight and lean in toward him for a snug embrace. The blanket makes pressing your bare body against his armored plating much more comfortable. "Come here," he mutters, and draws you to sit on the floor with him, leaning up against the cargo crate and each other. Even the afterglow of wild sex with the Mandalorian doesn't make his spare ship any less uncomfortable, but you focus on the way his arm holds you tucked in tight against his body, the way you can feel him breathing against your ribs.
"That was good," you breathe.
"Yeah."
You lean your head tentatively against his shoulder, wondering how much intimacy he's going to allow now. His arm shifts, helping you get more comfortable, and his thumb is dragging back and forth, idly, along the top of your thigh.
There's one question you have to ask.
"Would you really have had to kill me, if I looked?"
He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it blow out with a soft glottal sound. "Most Mandalorians would. But honestly? To me, that wouldn't have made a difference. Even if you didn't live to tell the tale, my honor would still be smirched. I'd know I'd failed a central tenet, and from every day after I'd be living a lie."
Your brow creases, and you turn to look up at him even though you can't read his face. That was kriffing serious. "So it's not just about the helmet."
His beskar mask nods. "Not the way I was raised."
You turn your gaze away, idly looking across the cargo bay. "Wow." You'd never seen him not covered head to toe, and you never would.
"But I think..." he trails off as his hands burrow under your blanket, coming around to meet each other in front of your belly and fumbling with something. "I think this is acceptable." His hand finds one of yours, and air rushes into your chest in a silent, measured gasp as you realize the fingers winding between yours are his, warm skin, completely bared to the wrist.
You sit together in silence for a long time, feeling the twin pulses of living palms pressed together, the small twitches of muscle and the sparkle of nerve endings when a finger softly strokes across the back of a hand. The more you imagine how much this must mean to him, the more it means to you, until your head is spinning and you can barely handle the intimacy of the kind of touch you've always taken simply for granted.
You're afraid to ask what this means. This whole encounter was so unplanned; you don't even know what you want from the Mandalorian, much less what he wants from you. Is he doing this just because of the afterglow rush of soft hormones, or does he think you and he could be something more?
And when you feel awkward, you talk. People skills, remember? You squeeze his hand and restart an old conversation. "Told you we make a good team."
He grunts.
Maybe you should just shut up and enjoy the cuddle. But his non-answer does not help your racing mind to still. The urge to tease him starts taking over again. "You know, we're still not done negotiating that split."
Mando groans softly. "The only split I want to think about is how far I can split open your legs."
A new thrill runs up your spine, but you stay on track with only a small giggle escaping your throat. "How about we round it back up to sixty percent for me, and as soon as that big dick can get hard again, I'll throw on a blindfold and give you the best head you ever had in your life."
Mando's fingers card through yours, and his other hand comes up to play with your hair. "Tempting." There's a rumble deep in his throat that makes your aching cunt tighten. "But let's just call it 50-50, and fuck all the way to Nevarro."