Chapter Text
Maker, why is this even a thing?
You don’t know his name. You’ve never seen his face. He barely says a word, doesn’t even move much unless he needs to. If he didn’t have such an obvious complex about droids, you would’ve thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years. You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you’ve heard about his culture—most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense. Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his “poof gun” or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.
But that doesn’t stop you. Nope, the fact that you’ve never even seen a strip of his skin doesn’t stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter. Stars, it’s ridiculous. The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall—
He terrifies you. You’re absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive. You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot’s seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about. The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn’t accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.
So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way. You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there’s nothing else to occupy your time. You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works. With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.
Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet. He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.
You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.
“Isn’t… isn’t he still conscious in there?” You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man’s shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, “Yes,” before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.
You had to bite down on the back of your hand to keep from whimpering when you touched yourself later that night.
Maker, you want him. You want to help him relax, give him something soft and warm to come back to after exhausting days spent in the elements, after not sleeping for who knows how long and toting elusive criminals behind him. Sometimes you can’t think about anything else besides how hard he’d fuck, how much he desperately needs it, how sexy his voice would sound raggedly gasping your name through the modulator in his helmet. You want to get on your knees and give him the reward he deserves for putting himself in danger for a living, risking his life time and time again for mere credits. If he even returns your feelings by ten percent, it’d be gracious and far more than you deserve.
But then one day he comes back limping, dragging a dead body on the ground behind him by the hem of its ankle. The baby is already fast asleep in the cockpit so you thankfully have nothing better to do but watch as he silently hauls the dead weight into the hull, heaves it upright into the carbonite chamber. He’s slow—too slow in pressing the button. He looks at it for too long. It’s like he has to double-check it’s the right one, adjust his vision until it fully focuses and registers. Breath coming out stunted and shallow through his helmet, every movement somehow looks like it’s increasingly more difficult for him, limbs heavy and weighed down with iron braces and pure exhaustion.
His silhouette slowly approaches through the thick haze of freezing gas, and you blink rather stupidly down at your hand when an emergency cauterizer is suddenly pushed into it. Without a word, he turns around and starts working at his chest plate.
You’re… you’re actually kind of worried now. He usually takes care of these things himself, shuts himself away and tends to his own wounds after capturing unexpectedly difficult quarry. How serious must his injury be to not bother getting into hyperspace before treating it, much less even closing the door to the ship?
Finally managing to find some sense of urgency, you quickly reach up to fiddle with the complex magnetics below either of his pauldrons. Once the beskar, utility belt, and underplates are all removed, the Mandalorian abruptly drops to his knees with a loud clang and curls over, reaching behind his gleaming helmet to pull weakly at his cape and tunic. You lower yourself to the floor and help him, hands trying not to shake as the warm, tan skin of his spine gradually reveals itself from under the dark fabric.
Your heart somehow leaps and contorts simultaneously, soon catching sight of the ugly tear of a knife wound steadily dripping crimson down his side. “Shit,” you whisper, fumbling with the unfamiliar piece of medical equipment in your hands. “Shit, Mando, are—are you sure this’ll be enough?”
“Not deep,” he punches out through the modulator. “Just need… close it. Be alright. Sleep. Set coordinates…”
The cauterizer zaps red and reflects against the gradually dissipating fog in the air, its threatening buzz echoing throughout the quiet hull with impending pain.
“Try not to move,” you warn, swallowing thickly and reaching your hand out to rest along the smoothness of his bared skin. He noticeably flinches.
Your fingers squeeze gently, reassuringly as you bring the laser down and start at the very edge of the wound. The Mandalorian manages to stay remarkably still for being in what you can only imagine must be incredible pain, the skin of his back feverishly warm under your palm as it periodically flickers and illuminates a glowing red.
You have to bite down on your lip when he suddenly shoots a hand back to firmly grab hold of the bend in your knee, taking slow, deep breaths through the modulator and trying to relax the tensing muscles wrapping around his spine.
Maker, this is like a fever dream. His skin is so smooth, firm and lovely and bronze under your gentle touch, muscles pulsing with life as you slowly work to stop the bleeding by scarring over the tissue. It’s so… intimate. The silence broken only by the zapping cauterizer and his tight breaths, the way you’re both holding onto each other for entirely different reasons.
His grip on your knee suddenly turns to steel and he huffs out a ragged gasp in wordless caution, giving you just enough time to pull your thumb off the button before his body jerks a few inches in pain. His tunic falls down your wrist with the abrupt movement and nearly touches the sizzling wound before you can catch it, quickly yanking the fabric up his curled back as far as you can and readjusting your hold on him.
You give him a beat to recover like that before softly reassuring under your breath, “Halfway done,” and brushing the knuckles of your other hand down his spine in a small gesture of comfort.
His muted grunt of acknowledgement follows a minuscule little tremor under your palm, the way his body seems to be responding to your touch filling you with some new, radical kind of bravery. You quietly shuffle closer to him and turn the cauterizer back on, carefully framing his hips with your open legs.
“That little green thing up there is a monster, you know,” you suddenly say, wanting to distract him by filling the void but not wanting to overwhelm him with conversation. Even small talk is considered uncharted territory here, but you figure it’s better than letting him suffer in silence. “I saw it eat a live fish today. A fish. Grabbed it out of the pond over there like it was nothing and just swallowed the damn thing whole, fins and all. Most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You don’t hear him or see him move, but you do feel a subtle shake of his ribcage under your hand. It fills your heart with air.
“Was twice as big as the little hairball,” you continue on. “Surprised he’s not still flailing around in there right now, throwing him off balance.”
“Not with…those ears,” a modulated voice returns quietly, his gloved thumb barely brushing a half inch across your kneecap when you suddenly breathe out a laugh in surprised delight.
“Maker, it’s worse than I thought.” Your hand soothes gently along his back, trailing over the hills and valleys of each individual rib while you work. “A Mandalorian just told a joke.”
“S-symptom of… of impend—ing death.”
“Yes, well. At least the dramatics are consistent,” you remark. “I deserve a raise, by the way. Holding that little gremlin over the toilet and having him stare up at me while he does his business is getting real old real quick, tell you that much.”
“Reason…” he breathes out, trying not to wince, “…hired you.”
“Jerk,” you accuse with a smile. “He’s healing you next time.”
There’s a small huff through the modulator, and his helmet tinks against the metal floor when he abruptly drops his head to rest there.
“Almost done,” you tell him, curling your fingers and softly dragging your nails down his side in hopes of distracting him from the pain. It works like a charm, his whole body instantly going boneless at the sensation. “Finish this up, close the door, set coordinates. Get you clean, then you can rest for a few days. You work too hard.”
“Mand—lorean…” he barely croaks out in response, as if the almost inaudible word counts as a valid explanation.
“Hadn’t noticed,” you say, finally reaching the other end of the wound. You turn the cauterizer off and double check your work, hating the deformed scar for marring his beautiful skin but reasonably satisfied it won’t accidentally reopen. “Alright. Done.”
He doesn’t move.
“… Mando?”
His body stays completely still, unresponsive to your inquiry and his breaths no longer immediately audible. Your blood instantly turns to ice in your veins as you drop the silver contraption to reach around his body and shove two fingers under his helmet, pressing them up against his lower jaw as best you can. Only, the thick fabric of his cape wraps around his neck in layers like a shawl, blocking you from feeling his pulse.
“Shit,” you hiss, your other hand quickly rounding his side under the tunic to travel up the front of his bare torso instead. Pointedly ignoring the way his chest hair tickles your fingers as you wiggle them up firm pectorals and a prominent collar bone, you eventually find and push against a scruffy jawline.
The quick, steady beating under the tips of your fingers allows you to relax just slightly, but then the Mandalorian suddenly grunts and shifts, trapping your elbow under his arm and bringing his hand up to cradle the back of yours over his shirt.
You freeze with your body nearly folded over him on the floor like that, praying you haven’t overstepped somehow. This is an emergency, surely he wouldn’t think you’re—
Slowly, so achingly slowly, he starts to pull your hand down the strong lines of his neck. You gasp, fingers trembling under his as he gradually leads you lower, letting you trace the dip in his collar bone, spread out across the solid curve of his chest and feel his heart beat unexpectedly rapidly under your palm.
Maker, this is real—he’s real. Warm, sturdy, clearly too delirious and lost in the same exact euphoria you are to snap himself out of it. Touch. Skin-to-skin contact after so much isolation, so many years spent by yourself. In other circumstances, you might be worried that you’re taking advantage of him in his clearly exhausted state, but his grip on the back of your hand is so strong—his path so steady and clear as you both travel across the hard ridges of his sternum and abdominal muscles. If anything, he’s not giving you much of a choice in the matter, and for some reason that fact alone serves to make you incredibly bold.
When your fingers eventually bump into the hem of his trousers, you cautiously lean forward and press your lips to the Mandalorian’s exposed shoulder blade.
He instantly goes rigid at the gentle kiss. And then his entire back quakes with a shudder.
“Fuck,” comes that dark, gritted baritone through the modulator, losing all sense of composure and frantically shoving your hand beneath the fabric hugging his waistline.
“Maker,” you whisper against his skin, equally as fervent, letting him spread his legs slightly in his hunched-over position and maneuver your palm to wrap around a warm, thick cock. He groans and gives them both a good, rough squeeze over the thick layers of fabric.
“Fuck—you’re—“ he moans hoarsely, moving to brace an arm above his head on the floor with a metallic clatter so he can slowly start to thrust his hips into your clenched fist, “fuck—soft. How’re you so f-fucking—sof—oft. ‘N pr-pretty.”
Your body fills with wildfire, ladling heat into your lower tummy. “Softer somewhere else,” you admit quietly, brushing your thumb along the tip of his cock and humming when his body jerks with it.
“I—fuck—be-believe you,” he gasps, growing harder and harder in your hand. “Bet you feel—per-perfect. S’perfect. H-home. Rough—” his breathing stutters, helmet rolling to the side on the floor with a dull scrape, “Ngh, fuck—ro—ough day.”
“Let me handle it,” you murmur, beginning to stroke his throbbing length up and down in time with his cramped, stunted thrusts. It’s not ideal, of course; it’s dry, probably too dry but for some reason you think he might like it more this way. He gets to feel every ridge and crevice your fingers catch, gets to use his hand to tighten your grip around him even more and desperately start dry fucking your fist like he’ll never get enough of the sensation.
“Let you do anything,” he agrees mindlessly, the words sounding slurred and distorted as he groans them deliriously into the floor. “Give you—give you anything. Fuck. Sw-sweet girl. Helpful. Always—always taking care of things. The k-kid. L-look so—look so pretty.”
You press soft, open-mouthed kisses along the heaving curve of his spine, letting your warm tongue come out to taste the thin sheen of moisture glistening there. He growls low in his throat and freezes, holding himself perfectly still and clenching his hand into a fist on the floor as you flutter your tongue against his skin.
“I like taking care of other things, too,” you say softly into the dip in his shoulder blade.
“Ah—fucking, stars—like it—like it, too,” he grits, his cock pulsing between his legs. “T-too much.”
“Relax,” you encourage, reaching your other hand down to gently cup his balls. “Relax. You need rest. Just cum like this, I’ll go down on you later if you want.”
And then quite suddenly—so suddenly that you think it might actually surprise him more than you—he does.
The Mandalorian cums. Hard. In your hand, right there on the floor, dark clothes bloody and prestigious armor halfway ripped off his body.
A ragged gasp tears through the modulator and his back straightens, the chin of his helmet lifting off the ground a few inches with it and his balls pulling up deliciously tight under your palm. Warmth immediately begins to coat your fingers in throbbing spurts as he clangs a clenched fist against the hull, growling the first part of your name before it turns into a savage, wordless snarl.
You bite down on his back and moan with him, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses spectacularly in your hand. His orgasm is long and achingly slow, draining his body of its dwindling energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him. He gasps and swears his whole way through it, until he finally exhausts every last reserve he has and collapses weakly to the floor.
With careful precision, you’re eventually able to remove your hands from his crotch. His back continues to rise and fall with quiet, steady breaths, clearly passed out from overexertion, but it does give you the opportunity and privacy to lick your fingers clean without feeling embarrassed for doing so in front of him.
Nope, no embarrassment, just so fucking turned on that you might actually die. He tastes absolutely divine—warm and masculine and gorgeously thick coating the shallow hills and shores of your knuckles. Following your own advice, you manage to stand on shaky legs and close the hatch of the ship, deciding you should probably plot a course for… somewhere, before trying to clean Mando up or dress his wound.
You take a second to look back at him, laying there in a gorgeously disheveled pile on the floor, dead asleep. It fills you with a surge of pride, being able to reduce such an untouchable, reputable bounty hunter to the level of any other man. You already want him again, you’re already addicted to the glorious power trip of feeling him let go and fall apart under your touch.
Later, you silently promise yourself, climbing the ladder to the cockpit. Later.