Furious Rogue Stuff

Okay – you couldn’t know for sure because you’d never seen his face, so you were strictly going by the other tells: his posture, the way his pauldron-clad shoulders had slumped minutely, and how even more reticent he’d become. 

But even though you’d only spent a short time with Mando, you had a heightened sense about these things. Still, you hadn’t pried, and returned to your ship with the supplies, and him in tow. A while later, though, you’d come down from the cockpit expecting to find him on that damnable crate he seemed to favor sitting on to polish his weapons and clean his blaster. Instead, his back was to you, and you could make out that he was staring down at something. So, you shifted enough around to feign like you were heading for the kitchenette to pour yourself a fresh cup of caf when really you were glancing at him from the corner of your eye. 

The shiny circular piece of metal looked like the top of a control’s joystick. He was rolling it pensively, strong digits tracing it around while perpetually encased in his well-worn orange-fingered gloves before he dropped it into the black-leather-clad palm of his right hand and tucked it out of sight in his belt when he finally sensed your gaze on him.

He was enigmatic, the Mandalorian. 

You’d found yourself thinking about what could’ve brought him to be on his own, so far out in the Outer Rim, with no ship. But you’d learned long ago to keep your curiosities to yourself. Best to not stir up the resentments or specters that men shackled themselves to, but something about this man had always tugged at your heartstring. Yes, the last solitary heartstring you got, and that you’d decided long ago you couldn’t spare for anyone else. Still, you found yourself feeling drawn to him in this moment, and couldn’t help let that intrepid, wily part of you seek to coax him out of his brooding silence.

Taking a sip of your caf, you loped around him and kicked one of the other supply crates to slide across the polished floor of your somewhat cargo-cluttered hull to park across from him so you could plop down onto it with a sigh and recline forward – propping your elbows onto your knees as you stare directly into his glossy black T-visor to where you think his eyes are.

His posture straightened, and his hands fidgeted to find perch onto his thighs, trying to seem unbothered, but you know better. He’s clearly wary to socialize much with you, no matter how many times you’ve given him signs that you would welcome it. But you’d quickly realized he was guarded, and seemed to be building up his walls all over again. From what? You didn’t know, but you also assumed it wasn’t all due to the strict Mandalorian Creed you’d heard so much about through the galactic grapevine of years loitering in cantinas and spaceports. 

For him? He just wasn’t sure about you.

It’d been a few weeks since he’d gotten dropped off by his ragtag compatriots onto that frigid mining hub on some moon between Bespin and Hoth. He’d declined all offers of joining up with them, and had set off to lose himself for a while. Eventually, when credits were running low, he’d strode into that seedy cantina at the end of the port and asked the barkeep for leads on jobs. All eyes were on him and his chrome-shine beskar, but he was used to it, and when the Weequay pointed him to the back booth around the corner of the bar, Din had made his way around the surreptitious patrons while keeping his gaze sharp and his gait imposing. Most would shift or avert their gazes when the sweep of his black T-visor scanned their direction, and if his height, imposing posture, and deliberate stride weren’t intimidating enough, the spear fixed at the back of his left shoulder and his right hand being not so far from the blaster strapped in the holster at his hip seemed to do the trick.

When a cheer went up in the opposite shadowy corner of the bar he was headed in, he couldn’t help glance over to see what had been the cause of it. That’s when he saw you boisterously grinning at the Trandoshian across from you as he hissed sourly at his losing hand of Sabacc while you fanned your palms across the center of the table to collect your winnings. 

“You cheated!” the reptilian behemoth had sniped, snarling to show you his row of razor-sharp teeth while he stood from his seat and glared balefully at you.

Unbothered by the accusation, you swept the bunch of credits into a leather pouch and stowed it inside your cropped two-toned leather jacket and leaned back in your chair to eye him snidely while the crowd around the table began to scuttle away to be at a much safer range. “Because I won?” you’d countered smoothly and picked up your cup to sip from it.

“Because there’s no way you had that hand! Three winning hands in a row, at that,” the angry Trandoshian hissed and slammed his clawed hands down raucously on the table before his buddies tried to calm him. “No, this little harpy is a cheat!”

“What did you call me?”

The clatter of voices died down at the cold, steely growl of your voice as you narrowed your eyes at the foe and slammed your cup down to slowly stand and challengingly square up at him from across the table to deride crossly, “Who’re you calling a harpy, you overgrown hatchling!”

“Hey! No fighting in here,” the Weequay barkeep shouted from behind the counter and gestured with exasperation as he warned, “You take it outside, or you’ll answer to Quent!”

“You wanna take this outside then, lizard lips?” you sneered tauntingly at the Trandoshian, and he hissed at you, nostrils flaring irately before his buddies yanked at his grubby flight-suit and beseeched him to back off. 

The entire time the impending brawl escalated, Din had watched from his vantage point, oddly intrigued by your moxie. After all, you looked petite enough for him to toss around easily, so a seven-foot Trandoshian could’ve easily made mincemeat out of you – albeit ripped your limbs from you with the ease of plucking the tail from a krill.

He spotted a slim blaster in a holster fastened to your left hip, and from the set of your shoulders he could tell you had a hidden knife strapped just beyond your jacket, and what he guessed to be a modified stunner tucked into the shaft of your shin-high boot. All the trappings of a scrappy and self-sufficient individual making their way through the galaxy, so he’d began to turn away to resume his approach to the back booth where he assumed a shadily-affiliated guild surveyor was waiting for someone like him with several pucks needing clearing when he heard another commotion kick up.

“—Let go, dammit!”

“He warned you, little scamp. No fighting, and no hustling in his establishments—”

“What’re you, slow on the uptake?! We’re not fighting—”

“But you’re hustling after he let you off with a warning.”

Din turns back to see a pale yellow-skinned Twi’lek gripping one of your forearms behind your back while he squeezes your other arm to shake out your jacket’s sleeve, as if trying to dislodge a hidden stash of cards, but nothing comes loose.

You’re fighting him – struggling to shake his hold on you loose while the crowd around the table is hastily shoved aside by goons dressed similarly as the Twi’lek. Security for whoever runs the syndicate around here.

“I want my creditsss!” The Trandoshian is snarling at one of the other men while the Twi’lek wrings your arm to be pinned backwards with the other.

“Get off me, you kriffin’ lunkhead—”

“You’re all out of chances now, little girl—”

“Let her go.”

Everyone pauses to finally notice the broad, tall, shiny-armored Mandalorian appear as if from the shadows to imposingly glare them down from his dark T-visor. You whip to face him and see him for the first time, and the way your eyes appraise him is something Din can’t quite describe, nor does he get a chance to when he directs his covert stare at the man holding you captive.

“Mind your business and step aside!” The Twi’lek shouts, signaling with the tip of his likku-swaying head for his partners to square up against the Mandalorian in their way.

“I’m making it my business,” the Mandalorian ground out smoothly, modulated voice unwavering and deep with promise of violence if they tried him. “Let her go.”

You’d stared at him, confused by him interceding on your behalf at all, but grateful for the distraction, because you were able to swing your head back and reverse-headbutt your captor so the blunt curve of your skull smashed into his nose with a sick crack before the man screamed and let you go to cup his injured face. The melee that ensued was a full-on bar brawl with you scampering about from the bigger, clumsier foes by diving under tables while the Mandalorian pummeled and thrashed Quent’s men in hand-to-hand. He threw jabs that connected with precision, and uppercut body blows that had men folding in on themselves. You were impressed that he’d yet to reach for his blaster, or use the long javelin-looking spear, but then you noticed the goons getting organized in going at him all together. Even then he was holding his own, but it was one on five, though, so you gritted your teeth and reached for the stunner hidden in your boot, pulling out the modified rod and switching it on to bash a couple of kneecaps with baton-like swings that had men wailing as they hit the ground. You tased them in the torso before agilely sprinting over them to try and head for the exit into the chilly evening while the Mandalorian seamlessly picked up one of the tables and swung it to batter into the flank of men before following your lead.

“Hey!” You’d shouted when you felt him run up and lasso an arm around your waist to redirect your retreat down another alley. “What’re you—?!”

“Not that way. More men are coming,” he groused through his helm’s steely vocoder.

You’d nodded and with even more moxie than he’d expected, grabbed him by the front of his bandolier and hauled him along to follow your path down a few more tight alleys and alcoves while you whispered to him about getting to your ship.

That’s how he’d ended up here, in this unlikely and not-really-fleshed-out-partnership with you – for the time being. 

But right now? While he’s sat across from you and trying lamely to decipher your motives, Din can’t help wonder why you’re looking at him so – with your exacting, albeit brazen stare and the musing smile on your soft, curvy lips. 

“…What?” he finally asks, vocoder smoothening out his cagey tone. 

“I’m just curious, which I know is bad, and I tend to smother all my curiosities about people, but right now? I don’t care to, and want to know: What’s up with you, Mando,” you chime in that repartee inclined way of yours. When he just hums noncommittally in response, you set your caf down between your booted feet and cross your arms. “Credit for your thoughts, then?”

He grunts at that before crossing his own arms across his plated chest. “Curiosity is bad?” he queries laconically.

You crack a smile. He tends to evade and obfuscate as a default whenever you both have had conversation lasting longer than a giving of coordinates or detailing of a plan for him to come and go after a bounty. “It tends to kill the Lothcat, chrome-dome—”

He grumbles before deadpanning, “It’s not chrome—”

“It’s a figure of speech, Mando!” you tease, shaking your head before drawling, “Now quit being evasive! What’s up? Was it something about the job? I thought it went well, so I don’t get your sulky mood—”

“I’m not sulking,” he contradicts and tilts his helm beratingly at you. “The job was fine. There’s nothing wrong—”

“Listen, I know we don’t know each other all that much, but I’m going out on a limb here. I owe you for tag-team helping me out of that jam with Quent’s men, and being your chauffeur has been fun—”

“I cut you in on the credits I get from the bounties,” Mando interjects a bit standoffishly, but you huff and wave him off, so he sighs, “Fine. Continue.”

With a wry tip of your head forward, you continue. “I appreciate that, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting soft on you now,” you remark without umbrage or bashfulness, enjoying how his shoulders tense and his helmet cocks to the side curiously at you. “Look. It’s been a while since I worked with a partner. So, blame it on that if you want, but right now? I want to make sure that…well, that you’re alright. That’s all,” you find yourself remarking a bit more musingly than you’d intended, so you clear your throat and lean forward to add, “We both have to put in for this thing to work. I’ve trusted you on my ship, with my time, dealt with your judgment—”

“When have I done that?” he inquires in that raspy way his modulator manages to smoothen into a molten tone. “Judge you?”

“Really? That first night! We got onto my ship and hauled ass off-planet, and you talked crap about my ship—” 

Din hums, musing, “Well, it was in impound…”

“And? When we busted it out and took the jump to lightspeed you literally shouldered me out of the way and took over flying my ship—”

“We came out into an asteroid field!”

“So?! Then, when I magnanimously let you have my quarters, you made a judgmental comment about me—”

Din has to wrack his recollections for that one, and then remembers how when you’d ambled through the open hatch of your narrow and austere sleeping berth, he’d watched as you stripped your jacket off to just be in the snug sleeveless top underneath. Aside from the hidden vibroblade strapped to you, being sans jacket revealed the discreet armband fastened to your forearm housing a cache of choice Sabacc cards for sleight of hand. You’d been collecting your satchel of the few belongings you had to give him the space for privacy. Frowning, he remembers that he’d rumbled, “You are a cheat.”

Arms uncrossing grumpily, he yields and assures, “Yeah, fine. I did, and that was uncalled for.”

Smirking triumphantly, you lean cheekily forward into his personal space and purr, “You were right, though.”

A bit taken aback, he shifts his shoulders and dismisses, “A partnership has boundaries too—”

You brazenly scoff and throw your hands up before slapping them down onto the tops of your thighs. “And I respect yours. The Creed? Having to eat all on my lonesomes—never getting to see your face? Kriff – I don’t even know your name, chrome-dome—”

“All right. What are you asking me, then?” he grumbles and crosses his arms again, mannerisms becoming surly.

Sobering, you lean back and perch your hands onto the edges of the crate at your sides. “Just, this once? Tell me what got you so…faraway?” you ask with genuine interest, eyes softening as you tilt your head curiously at him. “And…if there’s anything I can do to help?”

Din is bemused, but then something weary beckons for him to relent, for the sake of his tired will needing a break and to have a moment of respite. 

After all, while the bounty had been easy, and he’d turned the forger over to the bounty collector working out of the sheriff’s office and had collected his credits to then go to the port and gather supplies with you, he’d been left reeling with longing and guilt. Because, on the way down the crowded thoroughfare, he’d frozen in his spot at sighting a man in a black cloak with a bundled child in his arms. His heart had wrung, hopeful, but then the man had turned, revealing him to be a brown-haired Mirialan father holding his green son – a toddler with big brown eyes that cuddled into the man’s shoulder. His heart had sunk, and only when you’d backtracked to his side and nudged his pauldron-covered shoulder – the one with the Mudhorn signet emblazoned in beskar on it, did he snap out of his melancholic daze and avoided your gaze as he strode ahead.

Looking into your warm, gentle gaze now? He found himself aching to unburden himself, but was reluctant. 

You could see it from how his shoulders shifted, and how his helm dipped a fraction. So, with a sigh, you give up. Collecting your cup of caf, you stand and begin to round the crate to skirt by him as you remark, “Forget it, then. I didn’t mean to pry—”

“I lost someone.”

You pause, stilling even your breathing in hopes to not miss another soft, modulated murmur.

“Today, I saw someone that reminded me…I just, for a moment, I thought it was him, but it wasn’t, and it’s had me thinking about…” Mando is parceling out in a hushed tone, and you turn, feeling a pang in your chest for him. “I just can’t stop wishing that I could see him again. To get to make sure he’s safe, but I don’t—it wouldn’t be right, so I just need to stop hoping—”

You place the cup down on the kitchenette and whirl to be at his side, dropping onto one knee so you can rest a hand on his thigh-guard and the other on his pauldron. Din’s so disarmed that he doesn’t even flinch from how close you are to him now. Instead he just stares wide-eyed at you from behind his helm while you gaze up at the black visor.

“I’m sorry I badgered you, but…I’m glad you told me,” you murmur in a soft lilting timbre that reminds him not for the first time how lovely and sultry your voice could be when you’re not being goading or teeming with bravado. “And I don’t think you should stop hoping. I – I won’t ask you to tell me more, so don’t worry, but I do think you shouldn’t begrudge yourself for wishing for anything. It’s the one thing we have that no one can take away from us…” is your sage remark, and when you don’t feel it conveys enough, you find yourself moving your hand from his pauldron to the side of his helm, where you think his cheek would be if he was bare-faced to you. “Just—just don’t be so tough all the time, chrome-dome,” you say with affection, smile softening as your eyes crinkle and your dark lashes fan coquettishly at him.

You expect him to hum in displeasure, or to scoff dismissively, like he has the few times you’ve lightly ribbed him prior. But instead, he reaches his hand up, and pets a lock of hair away from your face before his gloved palm cups your cheek. It makes your breath catch and your pupils dilate under the keen sight provided by his helm, and he can tell your pulse quickened as much as his own.

“I’m not just being tough,” he husks glibly, and traces the angle of your cheekbone with his orange-tip-gloved thumb before muttering, “Maybe take your own advice, mir'sheb.”

You’re titillated by him razzing you back, having to submerge the impulse to ask what the Mando’a term means, so you graze your teeth over the plump swell of your bottom lip absently before you instead ask in a smoky tone, “Oh? Which part?”

“The not being so tough all the time,” he counters in a velvety drawl and glides his fingertips along your jawline, enjoying how heat rises to your cheeks. His eyes catch how you distractedly dampen your lips with the swipe of your tongue before you snicker dismissively. “What? Too much to ask?” he jibes amusedly.

There’s a part of you tingling with intrigue – and yes, heated desire – for this mysterious bounty hunter, warrior and snarky man hidden behind Mandalorian steel, so you decide to be daring and move your hand from the side of his helm to the soft spot hidden by his cloak and cowl, pinching a cheeky squeeze there and earning a stutter of breath from him to rasp through the vocoder of his helm. 

“Yes, actually, that’s much too much for you to ask of me, Mando. You got your armor, and I’ve got mine,” is your sardonic musing as you glance at his retreating fingers moving to curl into a fist he places against his armored thigh. You think you see the shadowed outline of his arousal pressing against the confines of his flight-suit, but dismiss the hopeful conclusion when your eyes flick back up to his visor at his musing huff when his other hand lightly encircles your wrist and removes your touch from the sloping juncture that connects neck to shoulder hidden by his cowl.

“Fair enough,” he rumbles, steel back in his tone as he shifts back enough for you to stand so you can put some distance between you two now that the flirtatious bubble popped. 

You nod and turn to retrieve your caf and try to exit back up to the cockpit with some dignity while you feel your blush radiate in the apples of your cheeks and the pulse of arousal tingle down into the seat of your core. 

“…Thank you. For, uh…for listening,” Din finds himself muttering as he turns his helm away from your back to busy himself with his left arm’s vambrace.

You glance at him sidelong, feeling a tickle of delight skitter down your spine. “You know, it’s times like these when I could just kiss you, chrome-dome,” you snicker irreverently and watch his shoulders wind back before he tilts his helm to peer at you over his shoulder. “Right on the lips,” is your parting lilt as you wink at him and then strut out of the cargo area towards the hatch leading to the ladder up into the cockpit. 

Din huffs, aggravated with himself for feeling pent-up and enticed by the teasing prospect you lobbed his way. “Dank farrik,” he grumbles under his breath as he shifts his hand from being balled up against his thigh to cup himself, feeling his arousal throb in frustration at him. 

Truthfully, he’d been harboring some kind of attraction to you for a while now. At first he’d chalked it up to being hard-up – to not being able to remember the last time he got physical gratification from anyone other than his own hand, so the proximity of traveling with a beautiful woman? Of being surrounded by your appealing scent laced in the threadbare sheets of your cot in the sleeping berth? Let alone the wayward warm press of your confident touch every so often? It had left him yearning for more, but stubbornly incapable of broaching that threshold with you. Not with how off-kilter he still felt after having to relinquish custody of his foundling to some nameless Jedi master.

The pang of sadness cooled his arousal and made him think clearly about you. A fierce, independent, wily and brazen woman who was as fearless as you were scrappy. Is it a wonder he’d spent many a night lying on his back in the dark of the narrow berth, fantasizing about you? Wondering what you would do if he pulled you against his chest like he wanted to? How you would look naked and writhing under him? If your voice would be that sultry, smoky lilt when you moaned for him to give you pleasure?

Fuck. Din was annoyed with himself as the specter of the sensual, delectably alluring version of you he’d been conjuring in his mind stuck with him the rest of the time you both busied yourselves with tasks on the intrepid ship while still in hyperspace. Was it a coping mechanism for missing Grogu? This need to fixate on baser urges?

You’re acting like a horny foundling again. Thinking filth to pass the time. And just like countless nights in the covert, Din was lying on his back now, in the dark, warring with his lust, cock aching for him to take the edge off. He thankfully had much more privacy now than he’d had then. Sure, that had never stopped him from jerking off like a fiend, with his teeth baring down on his bottom lip to stifle his sounds of pleasure, all the while feeling insatiable and eventually learning he needed to channel the energy into something else. 

But right now? His mind could wander and encourage his hand to do the same. He thought of the first time he noticed you – truly saw you as an attractive woman. It’d been sometime that first week. You’d been in the cockpit wedged on all fours underneath the hyperdrive panel fiddling away trying to patch some frayed wires that had overheated. When underway, you opted out of wearing your durable two-toned leather jacket and slim-fit thick-weave stretch trousers, favoring the comfort of a thin dark legging that sculpted with sinful detail to your supple curves and made your ass look even firmer and rounder to his leering eyes. Heat had zinged down into his apex at the sight, and he’d feigned distraction by checking the ship’s fuel reserves when you wiggled backwards and wiped your hands on your thighs and glanced over at him. Seeing you on your knees with that long-sleeved umber top clinging to your ample bust, craning your neck back to ask him for the spanner you’d left on the console closest to him? It had made him think of something lewd, and he gritted his jaw at himself as he passed you the tool and then left the confined space before he started thinking about acting on said lewd fantasies.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed then, but he was sure you’d discerned his unease in being so cooped up with you at times when he’d exited the berth once in route to the ‘fresher, and found the hatch open while the remnants of steam condensed about from your recent hot shower. You were in a lighter weave legging, fastening your hair up into a messy bun while the ruddy halter-top undergarment you wore molded to your perky tits and kept them snug, the padding concealing your studded nipples…for the most part. Blinking in the mirror when you looked up in the reflection and saw his looming shadow, you’d jumped and whirled, before letting out a breath and deriding that for such a bulky sentinel, he was insanely good at sneaking up on you. Din had grumbled an apology and you’d given him a crooked smile before grabbing your olive-green knit top and yanking it on, padding barefoot by him with an easy-going, “No worries! It’s all yours.”

He'd jerked off to you in the shower. Not his finest moment, but the fragrance of your soap and the lingering scent of you had made his urges wanton, and he started thinking of how you’d taste – if you’d smell just as lovely covered in sweat while getting fucked senseless by him.

It’s what he was thinking about now, and that primal urge clawed up his insides and burrowed filthy want in his gut. So, he gave into the need for gratification – letting his captivation free to lustfully fixate on you. 

Just like the secret weapon you hid in your boot, you were a stunner – gorgeous and fearless. He found himself thinking you were the kind of woman that if he’d still been part of the covert, and came across a version of you that followed The Way? That you’d surely be out of his league. The clansmen – the ones from ancient houses that could be traced back to Mandalore, would vie for your attention. Maybe even brawl for the chance to meet you in a spar that would lead to the feral couplings Din spent the lonely nights in the corp thinking longingly about. But, in this warped alternate timeline he's conjured, if the likes of Paz Viszla ever tried to square up against him in competition for you? He didn’t give a damn if the hulking man was flanked by his allies – he’d fight him for the chance to get even a musing chuckle from you.

If he knew you’d had more than fleeting thoughts about him as well, Din would likely weigh the pros and cons of pushing you up against the nearest sturdy surface and doing the raunchy things he’d been spinning around in his mind for weeks. 

You wondered if he picked up on your light ribbing being more than just cheeky and acerbic – that it was flirty banter you’d hoped he’d play into so it could become sexy repartee and clue you into whether he was interested. Alas, outside of a few hours ago, your usually broody, reticent companion hadn’t played into your attempts. Really, you wondered if he just tolerated you most of the time, but sometimes he’d indulge listening to your chatter, and he was effortlessly chivalrous, even when you’d insist you could manage. But he’d shoulder things – setting them where you’d intended to hoist them onto for you. Or he’d put himself in front of you when he was unsure of your surroundings within a hostile scene, but he didn’t do so because he thought you incapable, you’d noticed. When he would suggest a different route, and you insisted on the flight you’d tracked, he’d defer to you. Or when you needed to suss out intel on a bounty, and he needed recognizance, he’d allowed you to go into locations prior, trusting you to ask around and confirm his target was onsite before he swaggered in. He thought you competent. You especially think so from the way he used your name with that firm, baritone intonation that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Yet he was guarded, and you knew virtually nothing about him other than his conviction to his Creed. It was a tantalizing level of contradictions that had you thinking about him more and more.

So, yeah – you’d been left for weeks pining. Scratch that – you’d been lusting after him in ways you’d find yourself blushing, or that got you hot and bothered. 

Sure, you had no kriffing idea what he looked like under all the armor or that blank helm, but wasn’t that part of the allure? What made it more titillating and thrilling to fantasize about him bending you over the console in the cockpit and railing you while the fluid glow of hyperspace danced in your mystified eyes? Or when you’d catch a whiff of his masculine-musk scent in the ‘fresher after he’d showered, and long to bury your face in his bare neck just so you can get lost in his enticing smell, and feel the heat of his skin? Maker – you didn’t even know his name, so when you fantasized about him, you had to call out ‘Mando!’ when you touched yourself and muffled your mewls of pleasure against the back of your hand while curled up in the snug alcove you’d converted into a makeshift sleeping cubby for yourself in the cockpit. 

It was ridiculous. But then again…he was sexy. Enigmatic, with a tantalizing broadness of frame and physical strength that made you tingle whenever he got close – that made you want to pounce on him and see what he’d do. Someone with that much electric, effortless appeal had to be a damned stud under all that damned beskar, right? You often passed the quiet and boring time in the cockpit like this – wondering what he looked like under the helm. You knew he was a human male from the sliver of skin you’d seen when he’d adjusted a hand back into a glove one afternoon when you’d come back from getting a scanner for the nav-computer diagnostics you’d been putting off doing. He’d been working on a delicate part of his blaster that required nimble dexterity he couldn’t totally achieve with his glove still on, and it’d taken all your willpower to yank your avid stare away from him before he could notice. His hand had been tan flesh, with long thick fingers and trim, clean fingernails; it’d helped your mind conjure a suntan hunk from the neck down, with talented hands able to disassemble you with pleasure, but still – you couldn’t picture his face. 

Now, though, your mind wandered to the things you replayed about him the most. One of which you really gravitated to, was his voice. A warm, steely-coated baritone that made you wonder if he had a more earthy, huskier pitch, or a honeyed timbre without the modulation of the vocoder. 

“I lost someone.”

Frowning, you recall the way his voice had sounded so hushed, yet full of untold regret and loss when he’d confided that. It makes you want to know more about him, and wish you could comfort him. Then, you wonder about what triggered such melancholy in him. 

You picture the market from earlier in the day, and do recollect seeing a man with a child. Really, you only recall it in your mind’s eye because when Mando had strode off ahead, you’d looked back in the direction he’d been staring at and saw the little boy wave a chubby little green hand your way before scrubbing at his cheek and curling further into his father’s shoulder while he haggled with a vendor. 

Did he have a family? The way he spoke, it was as if he missed a little one…

You suddenly picture him holding a child. Mando, the strong, inscrutable sentinel in beskar, with a little bundle tucked in the crook of his arm that he cradles with tender fondness while effortlessly shooting at foes who dare bother him and his kiddo. Huffing wryly, you let yourself pine for him until you’re longing with whimsical thoughts that’re leap-frogging through your mind. Said thoughts make you smile, and fawn a little thanks to the fantasy Mando in your mind playing out all the delectable things you wish the real Mando would make reality.

After all, something about the way he takes charge – how he can command his surroundings and make you feel worthy when he herds you close to him when he seemingly wants to make clear that you’re with him and everyone else should tread lightly? It inspires your daydreaming of him now, where he saunters over to you and cups his large hand into the small of your back and pins you to his side. Then it jumps to him in protective stud mode, swaggering up to you and looping his arms around your waist to hitch you against him before he takes flight with that real wizard jetpack of his. Yes, your mind keeps spinning off scenarios where you’re more than associates who’re trying to make your ways through the galaxy, and it starts to fluster you. Especially when you fixate on your blossoming enthrallment for the ruggedly sexy warrior that you sense to be capable of melting you down with his sweetness just as much as with his badassery. Would you quit lusting after him?!

Annoyed with yourself, you huffed at your empty caf cup and decided to take a trip down to the ‘fresher to splash some water on your face in order to cool your heated features. Once down the ladder, you loped across towards the open hatch when you noticed the berth’s hatch was shut. Straining your hearing, you picked up the sound of the air scrubbers and the ambient noises of the ship’s engines, but no Mando. Hmm, odd. He usually putters around until we’re out of hyperspace and can find a spot to idle…

You soundlessly move to the hatch and press your ear to it, picking up what sounds like clothes rustling. Thinking he’s finally taking a much-needed rest free of his heavy armor, you’re about to move away towards the ‘fresher when you catch a muffled, modulated sound that makes heat bloom between your thighs. 

Din’s in the dark, with his helm still on, but the rest of his armor is removed and stowed to the side. He’d peeled his flight-jacket down so he was just in his undershirt while stretched out on the narrow cot that barely accommodated his height. His hand was down the front of his semi-open trousers, touching himself while he muffled a frustrated groan. He’d been at it for a while, and just couldn’t get himself off, and now his cock throbbed beseechingly while his balls ached with needed release. His mind couldn’t settle on one fantasy, so he couldn’t ground himself in one desire before something else skittered across his mind’s eye for consideration. It was only distracting him and making him burn with exasperated need.

With a snarl, he shifted completely flat on his back and flopped his bare hand out from the layers of his clothes to idly twist his fingers into the collar of his undershirt to tug it down from his heated skin. Dank farrik… He’s surly with himself as he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the hum of the ship, and before he knows it, his sexually charged mind crackles with fantasy after fantasy that manages to tire him out into a state of half-slumber, one where his body relaxes enough to doze while his thoughts slog through the fog of desire.

Said desire drafts a fantasy in which you’re standing in the open hatch, merely a silhouette in the darkness as you appear and crawl over him. His skin tingles where he feels your weight settle over him, and his loins throb from the wanton urge stoked by the heat of your velvet-wet mouth wrapping around his cock. Oh fuck…fuck this is more like it. Maker, could it feel as good as this in reality?

You hum around him, and Din groans, coming out a bass-pitched rasp through his vocoder as he slowly wakes from his doze to reach down his body with clumsy fingers to wrap around his pulsing cock, but instead jolts when his bare hand brushes your soft, lush hair. 

“W-What—? Mmmph,” he stammers before his voice cracks and dissolves into a throaty groan when you hollow out your cheeks around him and the hand propping you above him shifts to glide up his bare apex to caress his muscled abs and grope his warm skin beneath his undershirt. “What’re—y-you’re…” is his broken croak as he cards his fingers through the back of your hair before gripping the strands and bucking up into your mouth when you take his throbbing length deep. 

The feel of his pulsing, smooth flesh-wrapped-steel cock against your tongue is better than anything you’d fantasized about, and the taste of his skin? It was making you dizzy. He was thick and velvet-smooth in your hand as you stroked his length and pursed your mouth around the girth of him, tasting the salty beads of pre-cum that had gathered on his delectable tip as you laved your tongue over it. The sounds he’s groaning have lewd delight revving your arousal while you press your thighs together to clench and assuage the throbbing of your clit as you suck Mando’s dick like you’ll never get the chance to again. Because – well, this could be the end of whatever partnership you’d managed to cobble together between you both! 

His reactions are the only thing keeping the hope alive that he won’t recede from you and go his own way after this, and when the rush of your pulse subsides in your ears, you can hear Mando swearing in a guttural growl, “Fuck, g-gonna come—oh fuck, fuck—!” just as his cock swells and twitches against your tongue before jerking with surge after surge of his climax. He moans through it and fists his hand in the back of your hair as he loses himself to the bliss of spilling his seed in the warm heaven of your mouth. 

When he finishes and starts to tremble from the aftershocks of pleasure coursing across his charged nerve endings, you let his softening length pop free from the clutch of your ravenous mouth with an airy sigh of accomplishment before nuzzling into his hip and catching your breath while delighting in his warm, heady, masculine scent. Din can only muster to gulp air while his buzzing senses stabilize to realize this was real – you coming to him in the dark and going down on him with gusto was absolutely reality while he tried to reconcile how his fantasy could’ve been conjured into being for him.

You’re brushing soft kisses over his apex and nosing into the trail of hair dusting below his navel when he lets out a frazzled breath and husks your name. When you pause and hum innocently, Mando mumbles huskily, “—What…what made you come in here?”

“Hm, well, it sounded like you needed a hand, so…I figured I’d help,” you murmur in the dark up at him before smiling against his warm, bare palm when he cups your cheek reverently. “And in all honesty, I’ve been hoping to have my way with you, just a little, Mando,” is your sultry chuckle before nuzzling into his calloused-yet-gentle hand with affection.

“Din.”

“Hmm?”

“My name.”

“Oh,” you sit up more, awed and a bit taken aback. “I like it,” you blurt with genuine warmth before wryly smiling when he chuckles and caresses the pad of his thumb along your bottom lip. “What made you want me to know it?”

“The fact that I want you to say it,” he retorts with an assured smoothness to his modulated tone before it dips an octave as he adds, “I want you to take your clothes off, and say it while I touch you. And I want you to keep saying it while I fuck you. And when you come? I want you to know who made you come.”

With his hand cupping your face, Din can feel your little excited breath and relishes how your lips plush out when he drags his thumb over them before gripping your chin in a firm gesture and guiding you up to lie fully on top of him so he can press his cool and smooth beskar-clad forehead to yours. 

You sigh and murmur, “After telling me something that naughty? I really wish I could kiss you, Din.”

He chuckles, hands caressing down your body as he rumbles, “You just did.” Snickering, you curl into him so you can nose into his neck and press a kiss there, reveling in how he hums approvingly. “So…just a little?”

“Hm?” you dreamily query as you get lost in his musk and warm skin.

“You wanted to have your way with me just a little?”

The pitch of his tone sends tingling heat into the clutch of your pussy and rushes a new wave of arousal he can feel through your clothed crotch against his thigh. “Y-Yeah—”

“That’s a possibility – but not tonight,” he purrs and presses his thigh up into you. An exhilarated gasp catches in your chest as you rut down and seek the delectable friction he’s allowing you to have. You’re so turned on and focused on how strong and firm his muscular thigh is under the layers of clothes between you that you don’t sense him reach a hand up to the side of his helm while the other gropes up your hip to fondle your breast over your knit top. He cups it and zeroes in on swirling his thumb around your studding nipple before he growls, “Now…take off your clothes and let me see how wet you are for me.”

Oh Maker. Of course, you completely flaked on the notion that while it’s pitch black in the berth and you’re seeing strictly by touch here, that he could easily see everything he wanted with the help of his helm. 

Din was enjoying seeing you coming to that conclusion plainly written on your face, and when his hand encouraged you to grind down on him, he could see you riding his thigh and looking sexily down to where you sensed his gaze. And when you smiled and stuck your tongue out at him cheekily, he chuckled, confirming your suspicions. 

So, you coquettishly got up from straddling him and scampered to stand over his form before slowly working your top up your torso and off to be discarded to the floor. He could see you in a kind of sepia-relief, thanks to the setting on his helm, and was able to appreciate the smooth expanse of your skin as you unbuttoned your trousers and shimmied them off your legs. And when you stripped your bodycon undershirt to free your breasts, Din could feel blood zing into his cock. But he got rock-hard when you took your skimpy underwear off to reveal the soft curls of your mons and the dewy heat slickening your cunt.

“Just for the record, while I respect it, it’s totally unfair that I don’t get to see you naked,” you jibe and pose for him, even doing a silly little spin so he can take a real gander at your voluptuous, bodacious form while you toss your hair back over your shoulders. 

Din chuckles a smug, honeyed purr before rumbling, “Play your cards right, and you just might.”

You snicker at him, about to scathe something naughty when you sense him shift up on the cot and then hear his clothes rustling. He tosses his undershirt at your feet, and you hear the clank of his heavy boots getting discarded aside before the thick material of his flight-suit gets shed and shirked towards the corner where the piled armor sits. 

“You look surprised,” he drawls, amused.

“I am. Pleasantly,” you chime, and smile when his hand cups your hip and tows you closer.

“You might not see me, but you can settle for feeling me, can’t you, mir'sheb?” he goadingly intones, the smirk clear in his delectably modulated timbre.

“Ugh, well, I suppose I’ll just have to take what I can get,” you faux-chide before letting him pull you down to straddle his lap. “You better not be a virgin—” is your teasing jibe.

“I’m not, flygirl,” he laconically drones and pinches your nipple lightly, earning a squeak from you before you swat his bare shoulder.

“You’ll just have to prove it, chrome-dome,” you challenge and undulate yourself against the hard throbbing length of him.

Din growls and pivots you down onto the cot, earning a gasp of surprise that dissolves into a mewl of heated want when he starts to touch you with possessive, deliberate strokes of his fingers through your drenched folds before playing with your pulsing clit and pinching your nipples.

“You touch yourself like this and think of me?” he asks in a smooth, modulated purr as he seats his thumb to grind over your clit while he starts plunging two fingers into you. You moan and arch, gripping the sides of the cot, aching for him to be on top of you. “Hmm?” he hums when you don’t answer, then stills his hand between your thighs as he props himself over you with the other to husk, “You got a silver tongue, you wily little tooka, so use your words. Do you touch this sweet, wet pussy and think of me?”

“Y-Yes—yes, I have. I do, Din. Please, don’t stop,” you gasp and plead, angling your pelvis up for more and whimpering, “Never as good as this. It feels so good. Want more of you, Din.”

He wishes he could put his mouth on you, but settles for taking you apart with his talented digits and watching you come hard with his name recited over and over again in varying cries of pleasure as you ride out the orgasm while he finger-fucks you through the aftershocks. Din marvels at how your cunt is a silken vise around his thick fingers while your climax soaks his hand, and admires how you sigh wistfully and stare unseeingly up at him, looking the most serene he’s ever seen you. 

When his fingers recede from your fluttering pussy, you mewl and reach blindly for him, but then you hear a telltale hiss before the unmistakable sound of a muffled unmodulated hum rakes delight across your aroused senses. Just as Din finishes sucking your heady, tangy slick from his drenched fingers, he secures his helm back over his mouth and it seals in place with another hiss.

“Oh, c’mon, that’s totally not fair!” you whine breathlessly and sit up on your elbows to pout at him in the dark. “You’re such a karkin’ tease, Din—”

With a smug chuckle, Din derides gruffly, “You’re cute when you’re surly.” The goading smirk is evident in his modulated baritone as he wraps his still-sullied hand around his ramrod cock to stroke himself with your remaining climax, making sure to let the slick friction obscenely carry so you can hear what he’s doing before he rumbles provocatively, “And, you’ve proven to be the one that’s nothing but a brazen little tease.” He can see the deviant thrill quirk your features as you take an excited breath when he moves to crowd between your waiting thighs and guides himself to your slick heat. As he starts to breach into your molten, rippling sheath and punches a gasp to skitter into a mewl of pleasure, he groans and looks up from where he was watching his cock disappear into your cunt to stare at your ravishing features as you moan at the stretch of him. “Mmm, so tight. Taking me so good,” Din grouses before thrusting to the hilt into you and relishing how you arch and wrap your legs around his hips. “Tell me you want this—”

“Yes! Oh Stars, Din, please don’t pretend you don’t know I’ve wanted to jump your bones, dammit. Or else you’re gonna drive me crazy,” you scathe with needy feistiness and reach up to encircle his broad shoulders so you can rest your forehead to the cool beskar of his helm’s brow. He grunts a velvety sound, so you scoff airily, “You better quit teasing me—”

Din’s chuckle rakes lewd delight in your belly. “I’m not, you little stunner. Just making sure—”

“I’m naked under you after having sucked your cock, you nerfherder! Of course I want this! Do you??? Hmm? How ‘bout you open that trap of yours and tell me what got you so horny and wound up, eh?” is your sassy counter as you pivot to cling your lower half to him so you can lean up and lick the defined tendon in his corded neck.

He rumbles an enticed sound through the vocoder and grips his arms around you to pin you against him as he starts fucking you with hard, deep thrusts that steal your breath. “You. Was thinking about you and all the things I’ve thought about doing to you. How fucking stunning you are even when you’re trying to get me riled up—” Din grits huskily through his clenched jaw as he sets a possessive pace, reveling in how you’re lighting up with exhilarated delight and clinging to him as he fucks you, with the cot protesting from the furtive movements and limber jostling.

“Shit, D-Din, want you all the time—” you confess on a mewl, ecstasy blooming inside you as he moans in response and quickens his pounding thrusts, which only makes the lewd sounds bouncing around the durasteel walls echo raunchily in your ears as his cock squelches through the molten heat of your yearning cunt. When he cants his hips and angles his thrusts up, you writhe and trill, “—Ah, mmph, r-right there, fuck, Din—please don’t stop!”

Din has you precariously arched over the cot while he holds you at your waist and hip, weight balanced backwards onto his haunches as he slams you over and over onto his cock while you grip his forearms and fall apart, crying out his name and wailing euphoric sobs of pleasure as you come. He growls at the sight of you arching and giving yourself over to the scintillating rapture, and the heat of your cunt clamping greedily around him has Din wanting to make you come again and again.

So, when you feel him lay you out onto your back, and feel his still-erect cock ease out of your heat, you whimper, dimly confused and reaching for him. “D-Din?”

His hand caresses up the outside of your thigh before affectionately squeezing your hip as he rumbles hoarsely, “Get on your hands and knees for me, stunner.”

You shiver, joints feeling like jelly and making you clumsy as you scurry to flip over and do as you’re told, breathy and quivering with the thrill of being dominated by him. 

Din doesn’t prolong the anticipation this time. He hitches up against you and hauls your hips back for him to spear his cock into you from behind, making you see stars in the dark. You moan and reach a hand backwards to grip his wrist, anchoring to him as he starts to piston his thrusts in and out of you like he’d fantasized doing for weeks. Snapping his hips in a pounding pace and gripping your waist tight in his strong hands, he revels in how you arch and squeeze his wrist encouragingly while you rock back to meet every thrust, mewling his name in breathy adulations and basking in being possessed so completely like this by him. 

You’re wrecked by how decadent it feels to have him rail his cock into you with zeal, and even though he’s so big and thick that you know you’re going to be aching and sore for days, you undulate your hips backwards, cock-drunk and mewling fervently from the effort of matching his ferocious pace. 

It lights a primal fuse in him – seeing you so feral with need to be dicked down by him like this, that he crowds you and fucks you with abandon now, side of his helm pressed in a show of dominance to the back of your head as he thunders his pounding thrusts into you. Overcome by the passionate blitz of being fucked so roughly and thoroughly, you wail and bow under the onslaught down into the cot as you cry Din’s name like it’s the only thing you know how to say. He growls at the feel of you strangling his straining shaft before pulsing with the molten rush of your pleasure cresting through you.

Fiercely, you come undone completely by the primordial way Din envelops you with his body while he roots into the most tremulous part of you that shudders incandescently with igneous ecstasy that fans up into your womb and makes you climax with a hearty shout of wordless bliss. 

He’d intended to hold out for one more go, but the way you curl up and cling to his arms bracketed on either side of you while you mindlessly rock back against him is too much for his crumbling resolve and disintegrating control.

Pace becoming frenetic with impending release, Din swears something in Mando’a before grousing in a gruff pitch, “W-Where, fuck, where do you want me to—”

“Inside, oh please—come inside me, Din!” you gasp out in a harried, needy tone as you feel yourself about to fall apart all over again, as the pounding pressure and weight of him has you quaking – clit throbbing with another impending orgasm. “I wanna feel you fill me—”

That’s what cracks him apart and has him barreling into you until his hips stutter as the molten sensation of his pleasure scintillating through him surges forth to swell and strain his cock to fuck his cum deep inside your fluttering, hungry sheath. Din’s mouth falls open on a guttural moan as he nestles home in you and bows his head against the back of your shoulder while the aftershocks of his climax tremor through him. 

You let out a triumphant, melodious sound of delight at feeling him curl over you and hold still against the bone-rattling exhaustion threatening to collapse him on top of you. For a fleeting blink of time, you both just remain like that, panting and coming down from the high before the post-coital serenity beseeches him to shift you both before he ends up just flopping over you like a selfish, teenaged conscript after reaching true manhood. 

Blissed out, you feel him pull out and maneuver you both on the narrow, creaking cot until you’re somehow tucked against him on your side while he lies sprawled out on his back. His arm is bracing the small of your back and pinning you to his hip while his other hand hooks your leg to be draped over him. Your head is pillowed by his muscled pectoral, and you finally feel the sheen of sweat clinging to his warm skin while it beads your hairline and dews your own body. 

His seed is seeping from you, but you’re unbothered, heated features sublime while you recover from the phenomenal hookup. A sense of debauched elation that makes you feel contentment when the whole reality of things should give you some pause fills you up in this sultry post-coital calm – making delight settle in your bones. After all, you’re so thoroughly fucked out that there’s no way you’re going to let anything make you fret. Especially when you feel Din relax while keeping you protectively tucked against him.

Din’s sated and sedated by the intense, lascivious gratification he reached with you after being so pent up with need. Truly, he hadn’t had it that good in a very long time, and he feels like a glutton for wanting to go again. His release had been sheer bliss – a moment of ecstasy he wanted to revel in. To bask in the exhilarating thrill of fulfilling his insatiable desires with you over and over until you both were exhausted heaps of satiated sinew against each other.

He wanted to be like this with you as much as he could while he still had the chance. Hazily, he licks the perspiration off of his upper lip, and wonders if you’d want the same – as well as hoping you’ll want to go again once you’re both recovered, when you loop your arm around his broad torso and nuzzle his collarbone.

“Din?”

“Hmm?”

“What’d that mean?” When he grunts questioningly, you mumble, “What does ‘Gar cuyir mar'eyce’ mean?”

Din blushes under his helmet. Not having realized he’d said that while in the throes of his pleasure. He clears his throat and answers as stoically as he can muster, even with the help of his vocoder modulating, “It, uh, roughly translates to, ‘You are heaven’…”

Your heavy-lidded eyes blink open at that, and a slow, sly smile pulls at your plush lips. “Oh, am I?”

He grunts wordlessly before muttering in a deadpan, “You were when you were all nice and submissive—”

You swat his bicep and snicker, “Hah! Oh, really? Well then, I’ll play the doe-eyed kitten for you more often—”

“I like how you are.”

You pause your silly heckling at his guileless, blurted remark, and feel an odd little tingle behind your breastbone.

A comfortable silence reins, where you idly trace the contour of his shoulder while he caresses your hip in slow strokes of his fingertips.

“Din?”

“Hmmph?”

“What’s ‘mir'sheb’ mean?” you pipe dreamily, wondering if it’s some romantic, Mandalorian term of devout love and profound reverence for one’s mate.

He chuckles in that gravelly way even the modulator can’t smoothen out completely. “It means ‘smartass.’”

You scoff in outrage and pinch his nipple in retaliation, causing him to jolt and grunt a comical sound before he swats your ass with the hand that’d been holding your leg hooked in place over him. You yelp and nip him with a cheeky love-bite on his pec, and he hisses a mixture of enticed umbrage before you nimbly maneuver to climb him and press your hands flat against his chest while you straddle his hips salaciously.

“Oh, just for that, I’m going to have my way with you now, chrome-dome. Just a little,” you growl at him and rub your puffy, dripping pussy along his hardening shaft for emphasis. 

Din has no rebuttal, and simply allows you to have your way, which includes luscious kisses along his bare skin while you ride his cock and murmur filthy praise at him while he watches you in the sepia-heightened visual display provided by his visor’s HUD-augmented sight preset. 

After you both reach climax together, you are absolutely tuckered out and fall asleep curled against his side, lulled into exhausted slumber by his rhythmic heartbeat.

Din spends the serene repose in the darkness punch-drunk, relishing the novel moment of calm and contentment that’s so alien to him. Still, he wants to bask in it more, so he carefully shifts up, mindful not to stir you, and delights in how you seek his warmth. Guiding you to lie on your back in the warm spot he’s just vacated, Din watches you stretch out and murmur sleepily. He’s beguiled by how pleased he is to see you like this, looking beautiful and dreamy – hair tousled, countenance tranquil, and supple curves still exuding the sensual allure that first got him yearning for you in the first place, even while knocked out. 

Fitting, seeing as she’s a knockout. He realizes now his wariness towards you was because he’d been intrigued, let alone attracted to you from the moment he saw you unflinchingly stand your ground and square up against a foe twice your size. And he wasn’t sure about you because he suspected you’d be a liability – that you’d become someone he didn’t want to part with. 

As he looks down at you now, Din decides those are concerns for another day.

Reaching for the rim of his helm, he watches as the hermetic seal’s hiss doesn’t stir you, and lifts the heavy helmet off to be soundlessly set down on the floor by the cot. He can’t see you in stark relief anymore, but when he leans down to brush his nose along your temple, he can smell your hair, and savor the heat of your skin as his lips caress the ridge of your cheek. You sigh, but don’t wake, so Din continues his cataloguing of these new delights by tracing his mouth down to kiss the swell of your breast before he lightly flicks the tip of his tongue to lick at your nipple. He wants to purse his lips around it, but decides to move on to instead curl down your body and nuzzle his face in the soft, lithe skin of your womb before nosing into the soft curls over your mound and groaning reverently at the heady and divine scent of you. 

But by the time he delicately shifts your askew legs up and apart so he can settle between your thighs, Din can’t deny himself any longer, so he suckles soft kisses along your inner thigh before brushing his thumb over the seam of your pussy to part your puffy folds and drag through the commingled mess of his cum leaking out of your slit with the honeyed arousal his touch is conjuring. 

Your breathing is getting shallow, and without his helmet, Din can’t tell that you’re awake and playing docile, too eager to see what he’ll do – to give him this comfort.

And when his tongue swipes through your folds, the unmodulated rumble that hums in his chest has you yearning, especially when he nuzzles into your cunt and sighs an enraptured sound before he licks at your clit. 

You moan and don’t say a thing or give into your baser urges, not wanting to break this compromised treatise he’s made with himself that’s allowed him to go without his helmet. Even when you’re spun up into a hearty orgasm and desperately want to bury your hands in his hair you can feel wispily brushing your skin. And when he laps hungrily into your molten core and moans at the tangy taste of your climax, you manage to curb the impulse of riding his tongue greedily to instead revel in the voracious way he devours you.

No, you let him give you pleasure and control what happens, without a saucy musing or flirty quip. So, when Din climbs back over you and presses his straining cock into you before he buries his heated features into the crook of your neck, you wrap your arms around him, clutch his powerful and broad shoulders, and hitch your legs to his waist as he gets lost in this feeling – of being completely bare and engulfed with how safe and worthy he feels. 

When you reach bliss, you bite your lip and mewl, not wanting to shatter the moment or pull him back to reality – to the fact he’s bending the rules of his Creed. 

But, when Din stifles his moan into your neck when he climaxes, you feel him pant against your skin and drowsily collect his wits. As he does so, you can feel his nose brush along the side of your neck before his lips drag covetously over your pulse point. From the way he nuzzles you and mouths languidly along the erogenous spot below your ear, you can almost sketch a picture of his features in your mind’s eye, albeit fuzzily. 

You can tell he has scruff on his features by the soft, not-so-coarse tickle of his beard and moustache, and you’re just able to deduce his lips are nice, full, possibly pillowy morsels you yearn to claim with your own. When he sighs into your skin, you can almost trace that his nose has a strong bridge crafted below a set of distinguished-and-possibly-expressive brows. You’re silently longing to conjure what his eyes must look like in your mind’s eye when Din lets out a long exhale that ends in a husky hum.

“Thank you, kandosii'la dala…and, it means ‘amazing,’ or ‘stunning woman.’”

You smile at his delectable and smooth unfiltered baritone rumble, and turn your cheek to kiss the side of his head before running your tapered fingers through the curls of hair tufting damply at his nape. You’re welcome, smartass.

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He is not the kind of man who says “I love you” easily. For him, love is quieter. It is a fresh cup of coffee waiting for you. It is him checking the locks twice. It is his hand resting on your lower back in a crowded room.

He would pretend not to be jealous, but the moment someone gets too close to you, his jaw tightens and his eyes go dark.

“You done flirting?” he would mutter later, lighting a cigarette like he is not absolutely losing his mind.

Javier would be terrible at talking about his feelings at first. He would avoid the conversation, change the subject, kiss you instead. But when he finally opens up, it would be honest and raw.

He would call you nena without thinking, especially when he is tired.

After a long day, he would come home quiet, shoulders tense, tie loose around his neck. He would not ask for comfort, but he would melt the second your fingers touched his hair.

Javier loves when you sit beside him while he works. He would complain that you are distracting him, but his hand would stay on your thigh the whole time.

He would remember tiny details about you: how you take your coffee, what makes you anxious, which songs you hum when you are happy.

He is protective, but not controlling. He respects your independence, even if it scares him sometimes.

Arguments with him would be intense because he is stubborn as hell. But he would never let you go to sleep thinking he does not care.

“I’m bad at this,” he would admit, voice low. “But I’m trying. For you.”

Javier would kiss like he has been holding himself back all day.

In public, he would keep things subtle: a hand at your waist, his fingers brushing yours, his eyes finding you across the room.

In private, he would be softer than anyone expects.

He would love lazy mornings with you, even if he refuses to admit it. Sunlight through the curtains, your body curled into his, his voice rough with sleep.

“Five more minutes,” he would mumble, pulling you back against him.

Javier would not believe he deserves peace, but with you, he would start to want it.

Loving you would scare him because he has lost too much already.

But once he chooses you, he chooses you completely.

No games. No half measures.