By your count, it had been roughly forty-eight hours since you last saw the Mandalorian.
It wasn’t your position to ask, and the hunter rarely told you much anyway. It was always the same commands: Stay here with the child. Don’t let him out of your sight. Keep him out of the cockpit or he’ll have you halfway to Sorgan before you can stop him.
Your job was to take care of the child. Stay out of the Mandalorian’s business.
You wouldn’t have minded his absence — he had been gone for longer bouts of time before — but there was something about the humid heat of this planet’s rainforests and the incessant croaking from the swamps that set you on edge. The heat was creeping into the ship and it was making both you and the child a little antsy. Your clothes stuck to your skin and the child fussed in his bundles of robes.
“Don’t worry, kid. I’m sure your dad will be home soon,” you murmured gently as you closed the doors of the Razor Crest for the night, eyes scanning the dense, blue-shadowed forest entrance for any sign of glimmering beskar. The child chittered worriedly in your arms as its ears twitched low.
You looked down at the little green baby and smiled slightly. Its eyes were shifting back and forth over the entrance of the forest too. Searching.
The child babbled lowly as the doors slid shut, casting its massive eyes up at you expectantly. He opened his mouth, his little teeth peeping out from under his lip, and yawned nice and big with a tiny coo as he smacked his mouth back together. You laughed quietly as he blinked tiredly at you, “C’mon, you little womp rat. Lets get you to bed.”
You massaged the tip of his ear between your fingers as you walked back into the main chamber of the ship.
It barely took any time at all between you setting him down in the little sleeping nook and turning out the main lights before the little guy had teetered backwards with a thump, closed those big ol’ bug eyes of his, and began snoozing.
“Thank the Maker there aren’t Jawas out here, huh, bud? I can’t imagine shooing those bastards away in this kind of heat.” You spoke to yourself as you dragged the back of your hand across your damp forehead.
You were worried. You always spoke to yourself when you were worried.
“Hope he’s okay, little guy,” you sighed under your breath as you pulled a thin cover over the child, leaning down to press a brief kiss to his forehead before pulling down the sheet metal that would keep him from waking up and wandering around.
Your hair was sticking to the back of your neck and you were more than grateful that the kid almost always slept through the entire night. It meant that you could take all the time you needed in the ship’s shower.
The water was icy cold and poured gently from the rusty overhead spray. For once, you didn’t complain. The space was cramped and you wondered how the Mandalorian even fit. Surely his head bumped the faucet and his arms knocked over the few toiletries he had.
You smiled to yourself at the thought. He was always so serious to you that you couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if he even liked you at all, or if he simply tolerated the additional body because he couldn’t keep dragging the child into life threatening situations.
Sighing, you pressed your forehead against the metal wall as the water dribbled coldly over your back and shoulders. Your eyes slipped shut as your thoughts returned to the Mandalorian. Out there, in the heat. The dark. You hoped he was okay. Partly because you didn’t know what the hell you’d do if he wasn’t.
Partly for other reasons that you refused to acknowledge because of professional reasons.
Still, the thoughts came, intruding and incessant, as they always were when two people spent too much time alone in space together. You dragged a hand through your hair and thought of Mando’s. Was his hair brown? You imagined so. Brown hair to match the dusky sound of his voice. Dark eyes too, to match his hair.
Your hand slipped over your neck and you thought of his skin. You knew it was tanned; honey gold and firm with lean muscles. He had come in once with his under-shirt ripped half to hell and you had to restrain the baby as he cauterized his own wounds, despite your offer to help.
You never wanted to admit it, but you had thought of that little patch of bronzed skin for about two weeks straight.
Your hand moved lower and you thought of his hands. He had grabbed your wrist once after you touched his shoulder to check if he was sleeping at the wheel. The force of it had left a faint bruise, and if the Mandalorian had ever noticed it, he never brought it up.
A small moan echoed in the tinny shower chamber at the thought of those hands leaving marks somewhere else.
Your little daydream was abruptly cut short by the sound of the the ship’s buzzing fluorescents going dead silent. Your eyes shot open but you swore you were still lost in the darkness behind your eyes.
“Fuck,” you cursed low, panic rising suddenly as the creeping disorientation set in. You dragged your hand over the wet stall, knocking aside the Mandalorian’s facial blades in the process.
You reached for where you thought the hatch to the shower chamber was.
Something grabbed your hand.
Panic shot through you; raw and piercing as you screamed loud. The hand that clamped down over your mouth and pushed you back into the shower chamber was bare, dry and rough and big enough that its fingers touched your jaw from edge-to-edge. The hand smelled like blaster residue and leather.
The body pressed into yours and by the maker, they were burning up. Your survival instincts kicked into hyperdrive as you blindly shoved one-handedly at whoever was in the stall with you. Their chest was bare and your hand smacked wetly against it as you shoved at the person’s shoulders.
“Stop that,” the voice huffed tightly; heavy and familiar and unmodulated — your breath caught in your throat and your struggles halted, “It’s— It’s me. Just me.”
The Mandalorian. A very naked Mandalorian.
This had to be a dream.
Maybe a heat-stroke illusion.
Your cheeks flared red and you were grateful for the drowning blackness because you thought you might implode if you actually had visual confirmation of what was happening right now.
You whimpered his name against the palm of his hand, your eyes searching the darkness in front of you for any indication of a face.
You had never felt so much of him before. Not skin-wise. Not even contact-wise. What was going on? Where had this come from all of a sudden?
He lowered his palm from your mouth before silencing whatever question or rejection that you might have voiced by pressing a hard kiss to your lips. You didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed but you swore you saw stars when he dragged his tongue over the roof of your mouth.
Maker, he tasted exactly as you had imagined.
“‘m sorry, it’s just— I don’t…” he grunted against your mouth, his words jagged and slurred as his hand dragged down the curve of your throat, squeezing there for a moment before sinking down to the trembling curve of your damp breasts. He squeezed hard, unrestrained and nearly unhinged as he pinched the wet peak of your taut nipple. It fucking hurt. “Just… fuck—, need you— need this—”
He wasn’t making much sense but you couldn’t exactly ask for clarification when he made his point by shoving his hand between the wet flesh of your thighs.
Something about this feels off.
Something about the slur of his voice and the radiating heat that’s surrounding him. The hunter barely ever looked in your direction, rarely even spoke more than he needed to — hell, sometimes you wondered if he even remembered your name — and now here he was, cornering you naked in the shower, sans-helmet and hard as the beskar steel he wore.
Something was wrong.
“M-mando, wait—! Maker, what’s going on?”
Your head falls back against the chamber wall and the ragged gasp that interrupts when he circles your aching clit with the rough pad of his finger is almost unbecoming of a lady.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you get wet for him. Even more so when he buries his fingers to the knuckle within your walls and you cry out like you’ve never been touched by a man before. You’re hot and wet on his fingers as he thrusts them deeper, curling them hard against your clenching cunt until every logical thought turns into gibberish in your head.
“I just… please, fuck—, stop talking.”
You comply, but only because he locks his mouth over your breast and rubs his thumb over your swollen clit and you swear to every god in the galaxy whatever’s possessing the Mandalorian is rubbing off on you.
Your thighs shake hard as he wraps his arm around your waist, forcing you up onto your toes in an attempt to match his height. His cock is trapped between your bodies, hard and thick and your cheeks blush dark as he shifts his hips against you, all but fucking himself against your stomach. It’s vulgar, maybe a little demeaning, but the heat that’s pooling against the Mandalorian’s fingers tells a different story.
“You’re so… tight,” He growls, shoving you harder into the chamber wall, “How are you so tight? I can’t— fuck, can’t wait—” He trails off as you card your fingers into his hair. You feel him shudder against you as he bites down on your flesh hard enough that you pull at his hair in protest.
He moans against you; low and deep in his chest as he rolls your nipple over his tongue. His entire mouth is hot; fever hot.
All you have is your sense of touch but something about the way he shoves his fingers into you just a little harder and sucks a fresh bruise into your collarbone when you drag your nails against his scalp tells you that you’re testing the fine line of his restraint.
You know the Mandalorian would never hurt you. He’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. But something tells you that if you push him tonight, you’ll be regretting it by morning.
“Turn around,” he orders and you hear the slurred strain of his voice. It almost sounds like he’s wounded but you can’t tell if he’s bleeding with the way the water’s flowing against your bodies. His cock pulses against your stomach as he drags his fingers from your heat, drawing your slickness over your clit until his fingers glide easily over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You take too long to do as you’re told.
He’s pushing you out of his arms again, his grip bruising as he grabs your hips and flips you towards the wall. The movement of it in such tiny quarters knocks more things from the small shelves of the shower. Your hands fly up to cushion your fall as he shoves you up against the biting steel. The metal is freezing on your breasts, icy compared to the warmth of your hunter’s mouth, and your nipples harden painfully upon contact.
You yelp with surprise as he brings a hand down over your ass. His palm lands slightly awkwardly and it hurts more than you think he intended, “Ow! Fuck, Mando, not so hard—!”
He hears you, but you don’t think he hears you, because he does it again. Your body jolts and it stings even worse because of the water. This time, he gropes at the plump curve of your backside with one rough palm while the other roams over the exposed flesh of your back that he can hardly see in the darkness.
There’s so much of you. So much. His thoughts are foggy, sluggish and pinwheeling solely to the body trembling before him in the dark and all the things he wants to do to it. To you.
He doesn’t realize he’s saying half of these things out loud, brokenly and stuttering on his tongue. They’re filthy and they make you blush all the way down to your breasts.
He knows something’s wrong. Knows he shouldn’t. But when he takes his cock into his hand and drags the bulbous head over your soaked entrance, the Mandalorian realizes that he doesn’t care bout the morality of it. There’s only you. Soaking wet and blushed pink for him.
You gasp wordlessly, stunned to silence, as he circles your hips with his battle-hardened grip and buries himself deep into your body with a single decisive thrust. Your cry of pleasure comes late, catching on your exhale as your walls flutter tight around him.
A random shiver crawls down your spine that makes your walls grip him even tighter. Your broken whimper echoes in the shower chamber as you slap a hand weakly against the wall beside your head, your body struggling to acclimatize to the stretch of him.
“Fu-uck, Mando,” You choke out out, “Fuck.”
He lets out a shuddered breath behind you and you realize he hasn’t moved an inch yet. Instead, he presses you flat between the wall and his body and grinds into you. Hits you in a place so deep that you swear to the galaxy’s edge that you can feel the ridge of his cock’s head inside of your walls with distinct clarity. Your toes curl and a muscle begins to knot itself in your thigh from the strain of being on your tip toes.
The noise that leaves you is fucking primal.
He drops his head against the back of your shoulder and lets out a sharp breath, “Good— you feel so good. So soft, everywhere. Everywhere.”
He begins to move. There’s nothing slow or deliberate about it. It’s messy, the way he fucks into you like he’s halfway forgotten that you’re a person and not a rag doll.
His hands grab handfuls of your curves, dips between your thighs just to feel the obscene way your pussy stretches around his cock. His mouth is sucking purple bruises over your shoulder blades, ones you won’t even notice once the lights come back on. You smell like his soaps and taste of the distilled water of the shower. He runs his tongue over your flesh and bites down.
He knows he’s being too rough; knows you’re biting down the pain when he digs his fingers into your breasts and drags your back flush against his chest. You’re wincing slightly when he hits you too deep but you’re sobbing for him when he sinks his fingers between your legs and begins working your clit beneath a rough finger.
You’re making the most beautiful sounds while you’re taking him and when he wraps his hand around the delicate curve of your throat and pins your head back against his chest, you reach up and grab his arm with urgency, nails biting into the exposed skin of him. Your pussy clamps down hard around his girth and he pushes against the resistance until he’s as deep as your body would allow him.
It’s so dark and you’re lost in it and all you know is him and the earth shattering pleasure when his fingers press down on your clit. You’re coming and you think you’re screaming but you only know for sure when he squeezes your neck hard enough that the sound catches in your voice box.
You cling to him as your walls pulse around his cock. You only realize he had cum too when you feel the liquid fullness of it as he continued to fuck himself into your spent body.
Now you’re a little concerned for your pussy’s wellbeing.
You wake up the next morning disoriented. The ship is bright and you can hear the birds outside loud and clear. A warm humid breeze blows in and it carries the babble of the baby.
You jolt upright and almost knock yourself out on the utility compartment above the spare cot.
“Easy. I’ve got him.” The voice comes from the ramp of the ship, crackling gently through the modulator of a shiny beskar helmet. He’s standing at the open entrance, dressed in his armors with the little green child bundled in his arms. You notice the fresh scuff marks on his cuirass, tokens from whatever battle had brought him to this jungle planet for so long.
Your chest catches with a sudden sharp inhale as the knowledge of the night before hung heavily in the air between you.
For a moment, you don’t know what to say. You wonder if to say anything at all.
It wasn’t like you could both ignore the fact that he had fucked you from sundown to sunrise in every spot you could fathom on the ship. You certainly couldn’t ignore the fact that you could still feel the remnants of him between your thighs.
“I understand if you want to leave.”
The Mandalorian’s abrupt words catch you off guard, but it’s what he said that stuns you to silence.
“What we did— What I did, I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have done that to you,” the Mandalorian was stumbling on his words but the shame that hung in the air between them felt like a punch to the gut, “I was tracking a mercenary in the marshland. She tagged me with something. Some kind of amatory agent.”
It was both hazy and vivid in his mind — putting the quarry in the carbonite chamber, shutting down the lights because he thought you had already retired with the child and to avoid the risk of you finding him without his helmet in his disoriented state, then stumbling out of his armor and into the shower to quell the burning heat that had crept over his body and blurred his mind to one physical singularity.
He remembered finding you in the shower chamber. Naked. Wet.
And he remembered every single thing he did to you afterwards.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said softly, and you knew that he fully meant it. You tried to ignore the growing pang of dejection that settled sourly in your stomach. The Mandalorian averted his gaze then as the child peered between you and his somewhat-father, gurgling contently. The hunter turned towards the cockpit hatch. “I’ll set the co-ordinates back to take you back to Nevarro.”
“… Do you want me to leave?”
Your words made him pause. The sound of hurt in your voice made his heart ache at the wonder of what he might have broken between you. His breaths echoed in soft static through the helmet as he stood silently.
“No. I don’t.”
You slipped out of the bunk despite the protest of your thighs. The Mandalorian felt his heart jump in his throat at the sound of your bare feet padding over and for a moment he wondered if he had truly worked all of that poison out of his system. He didn’t fight as the child lifted his arms for you to take him.
You itched the back of the baby’s head and he exclaimed happily. The Mandalorian was looking at you now, just the slightest tilt of his helmet to indicate as much. You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, sugar sweet and endlessly forgiving, as you kissed the child’s head.
“Then I won’t,” you said softly, jokingly lifting the child slightly, “For his sake.”