Work Header


Work Text:

You've travelled your entire life, born on one ship, raised on another, never lingering in one system for more than a month at a time, spending years in the vast emptiness of space. But despite your nomadic lifestyle, despite how at home you feel, cradled by the silence and the're bored. 

You spin idly, kicking your bare feet against the cool metal of the console in front of you. 

"Stop that." His voice, deep, level and firm, stills your motion before you even have the chance to question it. 

You glance over at the Mandalorian. His visor faces out into the deep, velvety darkness, stars streaking past, reflections dancing over his armour as if they showered him in scorching sparks. He is unmoved — by the stars, by you. It's all one. 

"Not gonna damage anything with my bare feet, am I?" You twist slightly to wiggle your toes at him. He sighs, the sound of the harsh exhale clipping and crackling through the modulator. The Mandalorian often sighs. Just as often, he doesn't deign to give you a response. Your experience of the ship is overwhelmingly one of silence, with occasional lapses of short, spartan instructions. The sigh is a good sign, you've come to think. It's some form of acknowledgement. You're seen. You're heard. (You're frustrating.)

There have been moments in the course of your ever lengthening stay aboard the Razor Crest where you have thought he may be moved by you; have even dared to believe that the attraction you feel is reciprocated. A functional touch lingering for longer than the fraction of a second required. The prickling feeling of eyes on you. 

It's meaningless either way. You aren't the type of girl to pine over an unrequited attraction. You let your actions speak, rather than your words: you let him watch you. Either he catches on and his ascetic resolve crumbles, or you get to enjoy the thrill of performing for him. Putting yourself on show, as you will freely admit to yourself that you've been doing. Languid coils of arousal wind their way around your lower abdomen.

"Not your ship." You jump, startled by the response you presumed that this time, you hadn't earned. 

You summon up your acerbic wit to give a funny, flirty response. 

"What?" you ask.

Yeah, good one, you think, kicking yourself internally. 

"Not gonna do any damage." He inclines his head slightly, gesturing to where you've now planted your bare toes, grounding yourself in the vastness of the void. "But even so. Not your ship."

"True," you acknowledge. "But I've been sitting still for hours. I'm bored."

He tilts his head. If he could shrug in the restrictive armour, he would do so. You're sure of it. 

"I don't babysit." His words are harsh, austere. 

You let them wash over you as easily as breathing. It's another part of the armour. You've spent long enough in his company to know that, and you stretch your legs out in front of you, long and lithe, raising your arms above your head and arching your back. You hum as you ease out the tension in your muscles. You hadn't been lying about sitting still. 

He sighs again, this time, more frustrated. More impatient. "I said stop that ."

"Not kicking anymore," you point out sweetly. 

He turns in his chair to face you directly. You've noted that his range of motion in turning his head only goes so far. If he wants to look at you directly, he has to open up his body to you. It must be a bitch in a fight, a part of you remarks inanely. 

Another part of you purrs that you would open up your body to him in a way that has nothing to do with combat, and you acknowledge it for the truth, before carefully compartmentalising it for later. 

"Not. Your. Ship." the Mandalorian leans ever so slightly towards you as he stresses each individual word, and you meekly remove the offending limbs from the console. He nods, silent approval, before turning back to his usual position. 

You allow yourself a second to pout. You mouth his words derisively and roll your eyes, and the Mandalorian shocks you for a second time in as many minutes by giving a short, rasping laugh. You had presumed he had stopped watching you when he turned away. Clearly, you were wrong, and now your cheeks burn. 

The silence between you returns and you embrace it. 


The Mandalorian takes to spending more time with you. You aren't sure why. But either way, you aren't complaining. He's a solid, comforting presence and he seems equally satisfied with your company, whether you're chattering about one of the many, many planets you've been to, asking him questions (and occasionally getting responses) about where you are headed, and also, least surprisingly, when you sit together in silence.

You'd never expected to be on his ship for this long. You tend to hitchhike, pay your way and outgrow the company of others very quickly, parting as friends. The Mandalorian, however? He intrigues you enough to stick around for a while longer. And honestly, he seems to be glad of the company. Neither of you have mentioned parting ways yet. 

He's funny, you've come to learn. Dry and sharp, with a sarcastic streak a mile wide. He respects your privacy, as you respect his — a trait that cannot be undervalued on a vessel as cosy as the Crest. He's fastidiously tidy. He's a good cook. He eats quickly, showers quickly. He only takes the armour off for these things, and you have never seen him do either of them (more's the pity). You joked with him once that he probably sleeps with it on, and he'd responded "only when I have company."

And damn, if you hadn’t gotten stuck on what exactly company entails. 

Which is what you're doing right now, actually, in the quiet of your bunk, alone on the ship. You'd originally come in to snuggle up under the blankets you had bought on some godforsaken snowy planet and wait for the Mandalorian to return, so you could get off this godforsaken snowy planet. And then, unbidden, his words floated into your head, and here you are. Your fingers tease along the silky wetness of your slit, circling your sensitive clit, already firm beneath your touch. 

You work two fingers inside yourself and sigh needily. On a small ship like this one, it's rare to be able to really make noise, and you indulge yourself in the dirty, wet little sounds your body makes as you work your fingers in and out of your pussy. You bring your other hand down to pinch your clit, squeezing and rubbing hard as you draw a wavering gasp from yourself. 

You fantasise. A thought you've had before but never dared to act upon in these quiet moments, snatched while the Mandalorian is planetside. You imagine accidentally knocking the control panel and the door to your bunk hissing open, being so lost to sensation that you don't notice. You imagine throwing back your head, arching your back, fingering yourself hard and fast, the wetness between your thighs sticky and cool on your skin in the cold air of the Crest. The Mandalorian boarding the ship, silently, all intimidation and strength and appraising silence as he stands at the entrance of your bunk and watches you fuck yourself on your own fingers. You let out a tight, high moan as you work harder, the slick, wet sounds loud in the tiny space, as you imagine the possibilities of what he would do, faced with your open legs and wanton moaning. 

You sigh the only name you have for him, and imagine the way that he would groan, quiet, deep, appreciative. He curses softly in your imagination, enjoying the way you gasp for air as you climb ever higher towards the dizzying precipice of your climax, pleasure rolling out in warm waves through your body as finally, finally you come with a keening moan. 

The dull roar of the ship's engines seems louder than before as you ride out the lingering high of your orgasm, your body covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

Oh, no.

It seems louder than before, because the ship was silent before. 

He's on the ship. And as you are well aware, sound travels. 

The question isn't whether he heard — it's how much. 

You clap your hands to your face and allow yourself one precise minute to cringe your humiliation into your pillow, before dressing and heading up to the cockpit to face your fate. 

The Mandalorian doesn't acknowledge you as you ease yourself into the chair next to him, but you swear that his usual dour demeanour is tinged with amusement. 


You creep around the ship avoiding him for a day or so, wallowing in your shame. The Mandalorian clearly decides that this will not do, however, and he sneaks up on you while you’re cooking.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, stern and authoritative, and you shriek, dropping the knife on the counter.

Stars , there would have been, if I’d have dropped that on my foot!” If he had been anyone else, you would have called him by name. If he had been anyone else, he would have called you by name. You're not convinced he knows it. You're certain you never know what to call him. 'Hey' usually suffices. 

“You’re always barefoot.” He tilts his head. “Your own fault.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me for being comfortable,” you sniff haughtily, picking up the knife and continuing to chop. You focus on the movements of the blade under your hand, the firm feel of it dividing the vegetable. Again. Again.

You turn and are shocked to discover the Mandalorian standing closer to you than you expected. You look up into his visor, give him what you hope looks like a friendly smile. "Uh, hi."

He steps closer. You feel your pulse rise, your heart fluttering in your chest and a pull from further south. “I asked you. If there was a problem.”

“A problem?” You congratulate yourself on how levelly your voice comes out as your blood surges around your body.

“You’re — You haven’t been. Around.”

“Have you missed me?” You lean back to look at him again, bat your eyes, bewildered by where your bravery is coming from. Maybe the knowledge that he absolutely, undeniably heard your performance yesterday has somehow simultaneously mortified and emboldened you. 

“Not as such,” he answers easily, taking another half a step forward. He’s close behind you now, absolutely violating the unspoken agreements you’d made about personal space when you first boarded the ship. He’s flirting , you realise, delighted. “Was quiet.”

“That’s as close as I’m going to get to you admitting that you enjoy my company, right?” you tease, smirking. He sighs. It’s a put upon sound, frustration, and that defiant little part of you thrills again at being the focus of his attention.

He changes the subject. “What are you making?”

You look down at the vegetable in front of you that you have chopped into tiny, unusable pieces. You sigh. “A mess, mostly.” You turn to face him — he’s taller than you by a not insignificant margin, however, and you end up craning your neck to make eye contact. Or, what you have to presume is eye contact. “What about you? What are you making?”

“I’m not —”

“A nuisance of yourself, I think,” you say, deliberately pitching your voice low, looking up from underneath your lashes at him. You could reach out to him, you think. But you wait, instead, to see if he will play along.

“Me? Nah.” He’s so close to you that your body thrums with arousal, your skin fizzing with his proximity. “Just passing through.” Except for the fact that he is undeniably lingering, standing so close he can probably feel the heat radiating from your skin. You stand frozen, dizzy, pressed against the counter behind you. He has crowded you into it without laying a finger on you. If you leaned forward the barest fraction — if you breathed too deeply — you could touch him.

You don’t touch him.

The helmet is a barrier, both literally and metaphorically. You would have kissed him by now, were that an option. But with that decidedly out of the question, you find yourself at a loss for how to bridge the divide, as narrow as it is. So you wait for him to make the move, looking up at him, expectant.

He leans away from a little and makes a thoughtful sound, his head tilting. He is regarding you, closely, and for a split second you picture yourself through his eyes. Trembling, eyes wide, pupils blown large with desire. Lips parted, a searing blush staining your cheeks. The thin tunic you’re wearing today does little to disguise the soft swell of your breasts, the tight peaks of your nipples showing through the fabric. You wonder what he thinks, to see you so undone without ever having been touched by him.

He doesn’t leave you to wonder for long. “Pretty,” he breathes, admiration lacing his tones, evident even through the modulator. 

And just at that moment, an ominous warning alarm chimes from up in the cockpit and he growls wordlessly, the electrical charge of the moment between you deadened in an instant. “Clear up,” he instructs, not unkindly. “Come and buckle up.” He turns to ascend the ladder, but you swear you catch him furtively adjusting himself before he climbs.

A helpless, irrepressible laugh burbles up from deep within your chest, and you do as you’re told. 


Days pass, and the moment in the galley fades as if it had never happened, much to your dismay. The Mandalorian (who called you pretty, just as a point of note) is back to his usual self. Curt, short, distant. This will not do, you think, as you rinse the suds from your hair and shut off the shower. 

After your, er… Little performance a few days ago, you haven't been tempted to touch yourself. The risk has felt too high. Besides, getting caught once is sexy, fun. Getting caught again, so soon afterwards? You'll start to look like a creep. It's a shame, though, when your encounter in the galley had been so rich with inspiration. You've been biding your time for something to happen, to change the status quo that you'd so readily fallen back into, but as of yet, nothing. 

You're getting pretty bored of waiting. 

Enough. You dry yourself off roughly and set to work on scrubbing the towel across your head, wringing the excess water from your long, dark hair. 

The Mandalorian's voice, urgent and panting, cuts through your musings as it rattles out of the commlink. "Be ready to take off in two minutes," he says, and cuts the link before you have the chance to reply. 

Well, stars and Maker both. You wrap the towel around yourself and snatch your clothes up as you dart into the cockpit, leaving droplets of water in your wake. You hope that he's not going to be too particular about that, but there are more pressing issues right now. In the time you've been travelling with him, he's never come aboard in such a hurry. 

Your cursory pre flight checks complete, you ready the Razor Crest for immediate takeoff, and the moment you hear the thunking of the gate sealing and pressurising, you send the machine hurtling into the sky. There's a commotion in the belly of the ship. You're sure the Mandalorian can handle it, but it would be typical that the one time he needs back up, you'd be in a towel. 

Someone climbs the ladder and the door to the cockpit opens. He heaves himself into the other chair, panting.

"Close your eyes," he commands. "I just — Do it. Please."

"Sure, of course," you say, quickly doing as you're told and covering your face with your hands for good measure. You angle yourself away from him in the chair and try to even avoid listening to pneumatic hiss as he removes his helmet. You're wearing a fucking towel and you're not sure which of the two of you feels more naked. You hear him scrub at his face, and he makes a low, guttural ugh sound that hooks deep in your abdomen and pulls. 

He puts the helmet back on before speaking again. "Good. You can, uh. Yeah."

"What was that about?" you ask, your voice airy, as if something profoundly significant hadn't passed between you. Oh, and as if you aren't just wearing a towel. 

"Blood in my eyes," he says wryly. You twist in the chair to face him. 

"Blood?" you squeak. "Are you — you haven't got a head wound under there, have you?" 

He huffs and shakes his head. "Unlikely. Not my blood."

You pause to consider the implications of this, before frowning and cocking your head. "How?" 

He shakes his head again. "Don't ask. The answer involves the words 'blood pressure' and 'spray.'"

You shudder. "That's unpleasant."

He says nothing. Instead, he leans back and rests his head on the back of the seat, exposing a thin line of golden flesh at his throat. You swallow, a sound that seems loud in the small space. 

You're still just wearing a towel. Your mind keeps helpfully volunteering that information, and yet you can't drag your eyes away from that strip of skin where the Mandalorian's pulse races in his neck. You want to touch the skin with your fingertips, to confirm to yourself that it's real. You want to kiss it. To taste the sweat beaded on it. Your mouth goes dry. 

"Hey, uh…" You don't have a name for him, you remember belatedly. "Hey," you offer instead, when he seems to have come back to himself. "Are you okay to take over? Because…" you trail off, unwilling to offer the obvious. 

"Yes. Why?" He raises his head, and you feel the familiar wash of non-sensation as his eyes focus on you properly. He sees you for the first time since boarding the ship. He hadn't noticed. You wonder how long it would have taken for him to catch on, if you hadn't said anything. 

You laugh. You laugh with a hint of hysteria, and to your surprise, he joins you. It's a nice laugh, one you have heard only a handful of times since you met him, and never as unbridled as this. 

Eventually your laughter abates. You try again. "Seriously, though," you say. "Do you mind taking over? There's a tricky asteroid field coming up and I have to. You know." You gesture to the towel. 

He rests his hands on his knees. "I'm covered in blood."

"And I'm wearing a towel," you counter, gamely. 

"I'd like to clean up. Not dirty both seats."

"It's pretty cold up here," you reply. 

"Yes. I can see that." His helmet tips down minutely. You flush, crossing your arms across your chest, a low thrill fluttering through you. He gestures expansively with one gauntleted hand. "So dress."

Your flush deepens. But you have never let it be said you're not up to the challenge before, and you're not about to start now. You step out of the chair and take a moment to pick up your clothes from the floor, laying them out carefully over the back of the pilot's seat. There's time for this, you think. The asteroid field is still about ten minutes out. 

You look him dead on and drop the towel. He makes no noise, forms no words, but the fingers of one hand grip the arm of the chair a fraction tighter. 

First, you step into your panties, one foot at a time, and ease them up slowly. You face him as you do this — no sense in giving away the game right away — and you pass them up over your calves, up over your thighs, before making a show of smoothing out the fabric across your ass and levelling out the waistband.

Next come your trousers. They're loose, ill fitting, but you step into them and work them up over your skin in much the same way as you did with your underwear, tying them at your waist with slow, deliberate movements. Still he watches, silent, but coiled ever so tightly, a tautness radiating from his body, a searing heat in his gaze. 

You think you experience a moment of delirium as you draw the straps of your bra up and over each shoulder, adjusting the cups to support each breast. You turn your back to him and cast a glance back over your shoulder. "Would you mind?" you ask, biting your lip. If he wants to watch, you'll make it worth watching. 

His inhale is shaky. "I'm — I can't. Blood."

"You could take the gloves off. Your hands aren't dirty. Please?" You elongate the word just a little, enough to sound needy, demanding, and you can see the moment he relents, a minute change in the way he holds himself. He beckons to you. 

"Alright. Come here." You step closer, until you are standing between the spread of his thighs. "Kneel." Oh, Maker. You obey. You hear the soft sound of him shucking his gloves from behind you, and you feel the hard, callused tips of his fingers on your skin. He smoothes the palms of his hands across the planes of your shoulder blades, trails a finger down the curvature of your spine. He fastens your bra, and works his fingers underneath the fabric, mirroring your action from moments before with your underwear. His hands come around, and he is so close behind you as he leans over you in the chair, the tips of his fingers an infinitesimal distance from the soft, pliant flesh of your breasts, when he heaves a shuddering exhale and withdraws. "Up."

You comply. "Thanks," you say, breathless. He nods. 

Finally, you work your arms into the sleeves of your shirt, slip the garment down over your head and smooth it down over your stomach. You don't prolong the game, as tempting as it may be. As hideously, outrageously turned on as you may be. And you are. Never before have you found putting clothes on so erotic. 

You smile at him, affecting a casual manner. As if you could ever be casual about anything ever again. Stars, he'd touched you and you didn't know if you could ever go back to a time before you knew that his hands were so warm. 

He stands just as you lower yourself back down into the pilot's seat. He rests a warm palm against your face for a moment, and your eyes flutter closed of their own volition. 

"Good," the Mandalorian says, his voice dark with desire. "Very good."

With that, he disappears off into the shower and you try your very hardest not to listen. 


Things change after that. The Mandalorian touches you, in fleeting, almost shy little brushes over your skin. He places his hand at the small of your back as he moves past you in the hold. He grazes his thumb over the bare skin of your fucking ankle as you ascend the ladder to the cockpit ahead of him and you nearly fall. He's enjoying the chase, you realise. Prolonging this part where you dance around one another, driving you to distraction on purpose. 

Two can play at that game, you think. 

You stop wearing bras, for one. You had only worn them about half of the time anyway, but you forego them entirely now and he notices. He looks, but never touches. Not the places you want him to touch you, anyway. He restricts all his deliberate, tiny points of contact to distinctly non-erogenous zones. You were beginning to respond in strange ways. Last night, he'd squeezed your shoulder in the galley and you'd made an undignified noise that could probably only be described as a whine. 

You take every opportunity to even the score. You notice the way that he stills when you touch him in return, the way that he watches you descend the ladder into the hold without a hint of self consciousness. So you make those moments count. You ensure he gets a good view of your ass as you come down, moving more deliberately, more slowly. You 'stumble' as you pass him and steady yourself on his arm. 

The pair of you trade off on these moments for days. Like for like, measure for measure. The tension between you mounts until the air is thick with it. It's all you can think of, and you're frustrated to discover that while practice and observation has helped you to learn the Mandalorian's body language, it has not equipped you with anywhere near the levels of self possession and patience that he has. 

You come to the conclusion, as you are sat in the cockpit next to him, watching him pilot his ship, that you will break first. And honestly, you're pretty sure that's what he's banking on. 

The realisation that he is waiting expectantly for you to give in fills you with a giddy thrill. It's a strange sort of power, you think. To know that all you have to do is throw in the towel and he will give you what you want. He will take care of you. 

You sneak a glance at him. He doesn't move; statuesque, intimidating. 

"Yeah?" he asks, the single word dryly amused. He's economical with everything. His movements, his speech, his touch. 

You take a deep breath, close your eyes. "I can't play this game anymore," you say, the words coming out all at once. 

His voice is level, unreadable. "Then consider it finished."

A strange response, you think. "It's been driving me crazy," you confess, "I give up. You win."

He nods, but makes no move. Forms no words. 

Now you wait, but you are far less patient in your expectancy than he ever was. You press your thighs together and shift in your seat. 

You wait while he makes the jump into hyperspace and he finally, finally turns in his chair to face you. He sighs. "What."

You're confused. "What?" 

"You're staring. What do you want?" 

You frown, feeling your cheeks darken. "I thought I made myself clear a moment ago."

He leans forward, and he's irritated, you realise. That knowledge does nothing to dull the flare of arousal within you as he moves closer. "Nothing about that was clear. You said you can't play anymore. That could mean a lot of things." He folds his arms, composes himself. The amount of words he says speak his frustration with far more eloquence than the relative mildness of his words. "Be clear: what. Do. You. Want."

"For you to fuck me," you say, the vehemence of your feelings on the matter making your voice louder than you intended. You clap your hands to your mouth, embarrassed. "Please," you add, at a more reasonable volume. 

He is silent for a long moment, and you almost begin to think that you have gravely misjudged the situation, when he speaks again. "You only had to ask," he says, and you can hear from his voice that he's smiling now. You wonder what that smile looks like. You don't ask. You know the rules. 

"I know," you admit, your voice barely raising above a whisper. "I was being stubborn."

"I know," he says, teasing. "Come here."

You rise from your seat and cross the narrow space towards him, hovering in the same space as before, wondering if he would ask you again to kneel before him, this time with a different purpose. 

He surprises you, instead rising from his chair to crowd you against the control panel behind you. He is gentle as he eases your shirt up and over your head, and you raise your arms obediently, without instruction, to make the task easier. "This will change things," he says solemnly, and you whine. "Is that what you want?" 

"Oh, please ," you say, embarrassed to hear the pleading tone in your own voice. "Please, yes!" 

"Alright," he soothes, running a gloved hand down your back. "Alright. I've got you."

You shudder and press yourself against him - against the cool metal of his breastplate - and you realise that yes, this is exactly what you want from him. For him to take care of you, to look after your needs and desires. You want him, fiercely, and you tell him so, in typical ineloquent fashion. 

"Baby," he murmurs, and you whimper. 

Something lands behind you on the console and you realise that he's taken his gloves off. He works the rest of your clothes down over your hips and you assist eagerly, shimmying out of your trousers and panties in one, kicking them away, relishing in the knowledge that you stand before him, entirely nude. He sees all of you, and you feel so small and vulnerable before him. 

He palms one of your breasts experimentally. You watch, your breath ripping from you in hitching gasps. He squeezes you, a firm, unrelenting grasp, and you twist, conflicted as to whether to lean into his touch or shrink back from its intensity, and he releases you, to gently pinch your nipple instead, rolling it between forefinger and thumb. His other hand comes up to mirror the motion, and you sigh, the delicious sensation almost overwhelming, when combined with nothing else. 

Without warning, he reaches around and hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You rest your head on his pauldron, goose flesh rising on your skin where it meets his beskar, and he sinks back down into the chair behind him, settling you carefully in his lap. He reaches between you and brings one hand to rest at the juncture of your thighs, covering your sex: no pressure, no intrusion. "What do you want," he asks again, his words softer and more encouraging, and you tell him again that you want him to fuck you, looking straight into his visor, wondering what his expression would do at your words. 

He laughs, a rich, warm sound. "Good." His fingers ease between your folds, and while you're marvelling at how outrageously wet you already are, you realise that you have missed him asking you a question. 

"Huh?" you say, and he presses his fingers down more insistently on your clit. You writhe, the sensation too intense, too quickly. 

"Are you paying attention?" he chides, and you nod fervently. "I asked you if you want to come first."

"Yes," you hiss, letting your head roll back. He begins an agonisingly slow, soft circle with the pad of one finger, and you moan, low and quiet. 

"Just ask," he says, making no move to speed up. 

You happily comply, the thrill of saying the words to him sending a new flare of arousal shivering through your body. "Will you make me come? Please?" 

The Mandalorian makes a little appreciative sound, and the circles he is rubbing around your clit come faster, firmer, as he slips two fingers inside of you and crooks them against your g-spot. You cry out, bracing yourself on the back of the chair behind him as he fingers you, alternating between watching his own ministrations on you and intently studying the way you respond. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers and he gives a deep, rumbling hum of satisfaction. "Yes," he says, his voice ragged, "c'mon, let me see," he urges, as you reach the peak of your orgasm and it crashes over you, too much and not enough all at once. You dimly register the sounds of cursing, the words "do that again," and just when you think you're past the point where his touch feels good and almost to the point of discomfort you crest that wave again, your second orgasm taking you completely by surprise as it surges through you, and you cry out and bat at his hands, his fingers on you and inside you instantly overwhelming. He relents this time, and you bury your head in the crook of his neck, struggling to catch your breath. 

His arms come around to cradle you, and his roughened words of praise make you weak. You reach between you to undo the fastenings of his trousers, but you can't resist sliding a hand along the hard line of his cock, trapped beneath the fabric, and you palm him with one hand as you work to free him with the other, encircling him and stroking him slowly, before sliding your thumb up and over the crown, smoothing the sticky bead of precome that you find there over the head of his dick. He groans, his hands dropping to your ass and squeezing, coaxing you up to position yourself over him. The temptation to sink straight down onto him is powerful, but you resist, and instead you angle your hips so that his length slides between your folds, and he rolls his hips to grind against your clit, your slickness making the friction between you feel electrifying. 

"Want to feel you," he gasps, and you kiss at his throat, chanting yes es into the fabric there. "I've got —" he snatches up one of your hands and guides you to the inside of one of his biceps, and you catch his meaning. You laugh breathlessly, take one of his hands in your own, and do exactly the same thing. You lean forward and plant a kiss on his helmet, where you imagine his cheek would be. He rests his head against yours for a fraction of a moment, before easing you up just enough to align himself and with your entrance. He plunges his cock into you in one smooth motion, and you cry out as you feel him bottom out inside you. He makes a choked sound and squeezes your thighs, his fingertips pressing hard into your flesh. You gasp, breathless, as his grip on you loosens and he strokes the little reddening marks by way of apology, gliding his fingertips up over your body and coming to rest at your hips, his hands splayed possessively across your skin. "Pretty all over," he says, as his gaze travels up your body. "Show me what you like, pretty girl." His voice is rough and indulgent all at once, and you ride him slowly, luxuriantly, dropping one hand to pluck at a nipple, and the other to the place where his body meets yours, to feel the stretch of your entrance to accommodate his girth, before drawing that wetness up to the swollen little bud of your clit, letting your head slowly fall back as you rise almost to the point of withdrawal only to sink down onto his dick, seating him deep inside you, over and over again. He watches your movements, drinking you in. His hands on you, his eyes on you behind the helmet, it's intoxicating, it's overwhelming, and you feel your pulse quickening as you find yourself riding him faster, the soft, wet noises your bodies make in meeting only spurring you on, little airy moans escaping from you on every downward stroke. He moans and some resolve within him seems to crumble, his hands replacing yours on your own body and his hips snapping up into you. 

"Let me," he pants, gathering you close to him. You rest your head against the cool metal of his pauldron again and cry out. "Let me take care of you, want to — ah, yes, do that again — want to make you feel good —" 

You are painfully close, and his words in your ear are almost too much, and they are, absurdly, above all else, the things that send you tumbling over the edge alongside him. He clutches at you, buries a hand in your hair and presses his visor into the curve of your neck, fucking you at an unforgiving pace as he stutters through curses and praise all at once. His rhythm stutters and he thrusts up into you once, twice more, the words baby girl on his lips as he pulses inside you, and you almost sob with the intensity of it as you cling to him. 

You catch your breath, and he runs a hand down your back, tracing a line up and down your spine, catching beads of perspiration with the tip of one finger. You wriggle against him and grumble. "I'm somehow hot and cold at the same time." He huffs a laugh and squeezes you closer. 

You think for a moment. "Uh. Not to be weird or anything, but I don't think I can keep calling you the Mandalorian in my head now." You scramble to add the next part, noting the way he tenses underneath you. "Whoa, I'm not asking you for your name or a declaration of any sort, calm down. Just, people must call you something , right?" 

He is silent. You wonder if you've somehow overstepped a line here, until you realise that he's suppressing a laugh. He shakes beneath you, and isn't that an interesting sensation. "Mando," he says, only barely repressing his mirth. "That's what people call me."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Any reason you haven't let me in on that big secret before?" You are outraged. "Months! Months you've been letting me call you 'hey, you' and there was an easy solution there the entire time?" You groan. 

He tugs a lock of your hair playfully, and you glower at him. "I don't, either," he volunteers, and you roll you eyes.

"Don't what?" 

"Use your name."

"Do you even know it?" 

He leans back to look at you appraisingly. "Baby girl," he says, all self assurance and authority. 

Oh, you are in big trouble.