fanfiction bookclub 18+

Just Donnie stretched out long and loose across his bed waiting for you. His muscles still tense, a pinch in his brows that wouldn't fade.

You really didn't have the energy to ride him for real. The thought alone made your hips ache. FUck he was just so big. The size difference was sexy a lot of the time but it was still something that had to be compensated for. Fitting together took a little work. And you were tired.

He could tell by the wince when you climbed up beside him. Tank top strap already slipping off one shoulder. Panties not even damp yet, even at the sight of your man all laid out like one of your French girls.

He huffed once, a insistent tired noise he usually made at one of his brothers when they were mishandling gear.

His hands came to wrap around your hips pulling, like actually pulling, you up to his face. A little more manhandling than he usually took the liberty of.

"Are you sure-" You begin to ask as he grips your knee and spreads you over his head.

"Can I just play with you please?"

It doesn't sound like a question. The exhaustion in his voice made him sound petulant and demanding.

You sigh, tired and honestly not really minding much either way. "Yeah, do what you want."

Was that the wrong thing to say? Too bitchy, too uncaring?

Donnie doesn't hesitate. Big hands smoothing over your hips, pulling your pelvis back and spreading your thighs over his face. You can feel the curve of your spine, the stretch of muscles. The waft of his hot breathe over your still dry cunt.

His nose presses in. Slightly warm and a little rough in texture. His hand pulling your panties over one ass cheek, not removing them entirely just removing them from the nonexistent space between his face and your sex.

There's a rumble deep in his chest. Pleased.

And condensation building up in the creases of your knees and the curve of your lower lips from his breathing. You are warming at his touches. Heat building up between your bodies, goosebumps springing up in the trails his hands wear against your skin. Exploring over your hips, up your stomach down your thighs. Gripping here and there worrying the softness of your flesh between his fingers

You can hear the moment he opens his mouth wide. The wet pop of it. the rush of hot concentrated breath a prelude to the wide hot tongue that presses up flat against you with considerable strength.

Donnie's a lingerer. Wanting to take his time with your cunt. Familiarize himself with the smell and the texture. Fall into the pattern of the wet glide. Loose himself in the sensation of having you on his tongue. Nuzzling. Sniffing. Nipping at your thighs.

That's why it takes you so off guard when he doesn't.

Sure you don't have him on his knees this time. But you don't expect the way his tongue flexes. Hard like the muscles in his forearms. Sweeping over your clit before it's stood up for him. He isn't coaxing or massaging. This is a demand. An insistent impatient pressure rolling over your nerves again and again. Pulling the blood from your brain so it pools on his tongue. Softening your lips into plush swelling. Forcing your clit to attention. Making your cunt slick with his saliva.

Just rolling over again and again.

And before you can settle into the sensation, it's changed. His wide tongue lapping hard at your entrance. Trying to force it's way in. Too big. the wrong shape. Square peg to round hole. But it passes over again and again. Awaking every nerve in your thinnest skin. Making you shudder every time his chin tilts into it, dragging his bottom lip over your clit. One hand hard on your hip. The other spread wide over your breast. Fingers flexing carefully, not squeezing too hard.

It's harder, faster, rougher than your used to. But soo slick and hot and your so pent up. Wishing so badly that you could hammer that square peg in. More than just the tip that sweeps over sensitive walls pulling pulling pulling like he's trying to drag something out.

The edge of his plastron digs a line into your palm as you lean forward. Angling your cunt over his mouth. Spreading wide as you can. The sounds of your panting bouncing off of the hard plains of his chest while his own groans and gasps are absorbed into the soft meat of your thighs.

You think about rocking into him. Test the give in his grip. But there is none. His hand is iron on your hip. His face buried so far into you there really isn't any farther you can push against it. But you want to. That curling writhing feeling that's gathering at the bottom of your spine is begging you to thrust onto his tongue. To chase his mouth and grind against it.

He doesn't say it with words. There is no break in his movement to speak to you. But you can read it in the way his hands move. The way he grips hard at one thigh pulling you open and down as far as you go. His other hand spreading over the curve of your hip, thumb digging into your belly, pressing in. His mouth is demanding, working your inflamed cunt. Forcing you to cum as surely as if he had voiced the order.

You hear the rip of your moan yanked out of your chest, something deep and a bit embarrassing but you can't think about it through every other sensation that's bombarding you. It's an impact like a getting the wind knocked out of you. The air flees from your lungs. Mouth falling open in a gasp. There's a stretch in the tendons of your neck when your head falls back. Spit cooling on your thighs and up the cleft of your ass. The hard line of his plastron still digging into your palm, nails failing to find purchase as your fingers curl. The blood rushes out of your head in a small bout of vertigo. Stars swimming round your head like a cartoon character that's been knocked out. A deep deep pressure that starts where his hand presses into your stomach and ends somewhere in your throat.

You come to slumped forward. Down on your elbows on his chest. Gasping for air while his hands slide up under your shirt and caress your back.

Your head is still swimming but at least you can tell up from down now.

"I'd ask for a performance review but it sounds like you're having trouble breathing." Even through the higher than normal bite of wit there's tenderness.

His soothing hands urge you up to sitting on his chest before he's sitting up himself and your forced to slide down to his lap.

He arranges a few things behind him and leans back into a reclined position. Enough that you can lay out on his chest but he still has a great view.

"How do you want me?" It's breathless.

Instead of answering he just shifts you. Now you were laid out on his chest. Low enough that your ass was down in his lap and your head was laid against the solid keratin of his chest. He'd propped himself up a bit so he could gaze down at you from an angle.

Now that your blood has circled mostly back to your brain and the air has returned to your lungs you can speak more coherently. Though with the exhaustion eating at the edges of your mind you're not sure for how much longer.

"You did drop right?"

He scoffs. "Never not dropped with you on my tongue."

Your hands wrapped around either side of his plastron for stability though it wasn't necessary with gravity and the ache of your heavy body holding you down firmly. Not as firmly as his big hand wrapped around your hips.

You could probably take him from this angle if you pulled your knees up, but the thought of holding them there made a whine build up in the back of your throat.

you were so tired.

He shushes you. hands smoothing down your hips, fingers curling over your knees and spreading your legs. Tugging hard enough that he shifts your ass a bit lower a long exhale, bordering on a sigh, leaving him as his thighs flex up.

Instead of planting your feet on his thighs and spreading you open from this angle like you expect, he pushes your thighs closed.

You jolt in surprise as something hot and damp intrudes on the space between your thighs. You summon enough energy to get an elbow up behind you so you can sit up enough to look down.

And fuck if it isn't a sight. The dim LED lights casting interesting neon highlights and strange shadows over your bodies.

His thick cock spreading the wet flesh of your thighs apart. Standing tall and intimidating even from the plush flesh of your thighs. You can feel the flex in his fingers as he presses your legs tighter together. A flex you can mirror in the long muscles of your legs.

He groans like something wounded and not quite human. A shift in his hips that nearly jostles you as he pulls back Inhaling deeply and then thrusting forward again. The dryer skin catching and pulling against him with a sticky sort of friction. Making the flesh there jiggle with the slow rhythm of it.

It feels wrong to not participate. To lie there and hold your legs closed while he does all the work. But even if you had the energy to get up and ride him, the grip he has on your thighs won't allow you to move an inch.

Maybe you should reach down and play with his tip?

Your fingers barely brush over the heated skin before there's a growl echoing through your skull where it lays on his chest.

"Would you just let me?" There's noticeable aggravation in his voice.

"I want to help." you whine back.

"No you don't. Your exhausted. Just let me do it."

your lip juts out in uncharacteristic poutiness.

"Stop worrying and just relax."

His words are almost kind, almost consoling, but his hand is far rougher as it tangles in the waistband of your panties. Yanking the fabric up until it's pulled tight against your cunt. Blunt unyielding pressure shifting with every thrust. Stimulating your already primed clit. But not enough.

The more he thrust up between you the more that slick spread until you are dripping wet from your damp cunt to a point on your thighs that could be considered a school appropriate skirt length.

the soft give of your flesh, tight but yielding to the intrusion of his cock, big and hot and thrusting. Agitating that slick until it turns white. Marking your skin with the most vulgar display of sex the two of you may have ever made.

"Want you to take it. Just like this." He's breathy now too. You can't quite tell if it was pleasure or exhaustion he was loosing himself in. Or maybe some kind of mind melting mixture of the two.

Maybe his brain is only half online too. Maybe his head is swimming too, everything out of focus but the places where you touch. The tingle of overstimulation under your skin at odds with the numbness in your finger clenched so hard on the edges of his plastron.

"Can't you at least rub it on my-"

"Can't you practice some patience?" The fist in your waistband pulls harder, the fabric creaking in protest. But he lets up soon after, blood slowly returning to your clit as the pressure eases off.

Still he only gets a few thrust farther before he's pulling your knees up, panties yanked halfway down your thighs, that throbbing cock shifting higher until it presses up against your lips. It's a momentary brush. An obscene sticking of wet flesh slowly pulling apart as he shifts, positioning you both. His hand closing over the head, holding it in place so he can thrust up against his palm.

The drag over every wet sensitive swollen inch is torturous. It drags a pornographic whine out of you. Everything is drying a little, more sticky than slick. The friction ramping up making your tenderest flesh cling hard to him. Dragging and squelching and groaning. Animalistic hisses half bitten off as his palm twists and his thighs flex.

His other hand releases your hip, apparently confident enough in your ability to hold still, instead he shucks your shirt up. Palm closing over a tit and groaning. You feel him lean a bit foreword, watching.

Taking in the sight of it all. The way your head is leaned back, lips parted in helpless pants. The way your hips twitch to follow his movement even while just the strength of his wrist against your pubic bone is enough to pin you down.

The way your thighs already look like he's cum all over them.

There's a deep exhale of air through his nostrils. An aggressive territorial sound that tells you exactly how blown his pupils are right now. Animal hindbrain taking over. Chasing that edge faster than you could keep up with. Tipping tipping and falling right over, Chuffing noises as the slicker and slicker sound of his thrusts as precum leaks down his shaft.

It's too much. Ever slick glide over your hypersensitive clit throws your makes you pulse. The knowledge that he's right there with you, slipping right off that edge sends you over so fast it's blinding. Everything goes white and hot and too much too much.

You can't feel anything through the waves of static that rush through you. can't hear anything but the pounding of your own heart. Feel it in your temples. It shakes your whole body. Dragging out too long with the constant stimulation he continues to drag you through. And when it finally starts to ease there's still so much oversensitivity left behind.

Your skin is all static everywhere he's touching. And you can feel tears cooling in the edge of your feverish eyes.

But he hasn't cum yet. Close so close but not over that edge yet. All words have melted out of him. Arms flexing in rhythmic twists trying to avoid flexing his hands at all. Being very careful not to handle you too roughly when his hind brain is screaming at him to pin you down and hold on tight.

Theres one two three more agonizing thrusts before he's crying out. Throaty and whiny and broken. Hot cum splattering over your stomach.

You clench your thighs hard. Holding steady as he rides the waves. His hands laid flat over your stomach and sternum, trembling so hard your can feel it in your bones. More hot liquid pools in your belly button and drips down the creases between your legs.

There's rumbling vibrating through the back of your skull.

The way it echoes out of the wet clench of his throat as he gasps is obscene. He bites down on those noises with clenched teeth and a groan.

Part of your own animal hind brain is waiting for the praise to be showered down on you. If you were less exhausted it would have occurred to you earlier that he literally can't speak right now. He can't praise you with anything more than the way his fingertips are digging in just a little bit.

Instead you speak, pushing past the croaky fucked out sound of your voice to tell him, "Good job baby, thank you."

He groans again in response, breathy and almost whiny.

"I-" your throat is so dry, "I have no idea how we're gonna clean up." Your eyes are already getting harder to keep open. Exhaustion dragging you down. But you absolutely cannot sleep covered in this much cum.

Leo may be the most streight forward of his brothers at least when it comes to the psychology of his sexual prefrences. That is to say, he took the most streight forward approach.

Leo longs for the simple promise of the American dream lifestyle. Something that has been systematically denied from him in his allienation from society. Boy meets girl gets married has 2.5 kids. When he pictures himself with a woman he's having the full 1950s white picket fence fantasy.

Leo, at least in his sexual fantasies, is the marrying type. Forget the girlfriend expirience he's dreaming about housewives. He's got a thing for hyper femininity. He likes his girls dainty(not necessarily small), light on their feet and poised. Soft spoken and with a gentle but firm air to them. Polite, controlled. Its really all in the body language the way they move, sit, stand. For lack of a better word he wants them demure.

He dreams about coming home from a hard day to find his girl setting the table. He isn't full into being served by any means, he's way too chivalrous for that but little acts of service get him going so fast. Fixing him a plate, pouring his tea, setting his things out for him, passing him things he needs or any act of setting up somthing he's going to use just before he needs it. Ughgh he can hardly contain himself. She won't get much farther than that before he's on her.

Somewhere in that brain of his, the proper japanese bride and the kitten heels and pearls aesthetic of the american 50s converge into pornagrphic collages. This man is really into visuals. Long pretty skirts and soft luxurious matterials. White stockings that clip into garter belts. Kitten heels and soft floral patterns and the way earings dangle from soft lobes. Long silky hair being let down. Red lips and blush and toeing off shoes until its just white socks touching the floor.

Did i mention the foot fetish? Cuz seriously wow. I can't explain this one. Why this part of the human anatomy? Why is this what entrances him? Maybe its how small and dainty they are or maybe its all the accessories he can dress them up in. All the ultra feminine clothing he can play with. He loves feet in an aesthetic way. He wants to see collections of socks in all different materials and colors. He wants to watch fashion shows where it's just shoes. He likes heels and sandals and anything that has a grip between the toes. Also straps that wrap around the ankle. He's really into just holding and massaging feet. Feeing toes curl down under his big hands. He likes ancklets especially ones that make noise. He also loves painting toenails there is deffinitly more than 1 magazine clipping of blue painted toes in his porn collection. He loves it when girls stetch up on their tiptoes to reach something up high. He loves it when they stretch out on the couch and let their feet dangle of the end. He dreams about white cotton stretched between toes stained with his cum.

Leo actually does like to be in charge in the bedroom. Maybe thats his controlling nature dug so truely bone deep that he can't let it go even in the bedroom, but he likes to think it's more about the ease of it. With his brothers he has to constantly fight for respect. Assert his authority. Maintain. Its exhausting. But in his bedroom, that's easy authority.

He wants it given freely, easily, without question or thought. Just compliance is so fuckin hot to him. The trust behind it. The satisfaction in the ease of it. The fulfillment in knowing he's earned it, that everything he is makes it easy to trust him. He wants someone that follows directions easily, that sits pretty and waits for instruction. That whines and pants and doesn't beg. Just waits. He dreams about soft limp limbs and the freedom to put his hands whereever he wants. To move and manipulate. To hold and position and clutch at.

And when the compliance isn't enough. When he really really needs control. The space and time to meditate on his girl. To let her consume his thoughts, thats when he breaks out the rope and the shibari begins. There's nothing better than losing himself in the trance of tying her up. Of dressing her up how he wants, positioning her how he wants, and wrapping that pretty blue rope over her again and again, tying intricate knots over her body, carefully taking into account every muscle every joint and weaving his net over it all. Just snug enough to hold. No marks left. Just the long action of it. The time he gets to spend analyzing, memorizing, exploring, claiming.

Maybe it's his possessiveness or maybe it's his awkwardness but he likes a girl thats more reserved. Someone who doesn't feel the need to fill the silence. Someone who'd rather sit in silence with him than chase his brothers' chaos. And maybe its his self loathing or the fact that some part of him lives a fantasy vicariously through his girl but he's the only one that doesn't want to leave marks. The only one that wants his girl all tied up just for him to take a step back and admire from a distance. Leo's the only one that doesn't want her in his clothes. That doesn't want to mark his girl up. Because deep down leo's fantasies aren't fulfilled so long as he's in them. Because the real fantasy is being someone else. Someone that can come home after a long day at the office and hang his hat on the peg and set his breifcase down and kiss his wife. Someone simpler than who he is.

Leo wants to set the scene and observe. Wants to admire. Wants to see. Watch. Notice. Leo wants to be a voyeur. And as far as his honor is concerned, that can only be with consent. So he likes someone thats a little bold too. Someone not afraid to go about her day and let him stew in himself. Let him get worked up over something small like her socks and the way she steeps tea and the way she glides with a purposeful elegance through her tasks. Someone who can take directions from afar and isn't afraid to put on a show. To let him watch the fantasy. Direct it. To let him test his control and stretch it until it breaks and he's got her over a counter.

He chafes past the expectations of his own creed. He stands besides the Nightowl and unites their people under an elected leadership.

The exact rules of his creed have not left his mind for days. His faction has the most rules, the owls claim. They are the most conservative, the strictest. Their ceremonies are things left in echoes from the race before humans walked this twice dead, twice reborn planet.

The basics of the creed are something they all agree on. Loyalty and honor to your clan. Adherence to rank. To be honest and trustworthy. To always offer aid to another in Beskar. To honor, protect, and provide for your clan. To protect and adhere to the code of finding. To be responsible in all things. And to train others.

It was the finer rules that varied. The helmet and adherence to it was the most obvious. Most factions no longer followed this rule. Only two other than Din's own. Many had differing ranking systems, putting elders and trophy hunters above armorers, Or determined rank through challenge.

Some were loose in their definitions of a clan, they collected members more like a fire team. Not taking any oath or public acknowledgment of their clan. They bore no marks of their clans. They coupled and uncoupled freely without the bonds of marriage. They raised no young but their own.

Din could not imagine growing up without others training beside him. The fighting core had not been a clan. Their version of the creed had also been looser than the watch's, but he was surrounded by others, his own age to spar with, to fight and hate and respect as they were changed.

He thinks that was the last time he was surrounded by so many others. The solitude of his adulthood so different than standing among the ranks. That was the first time he loosed his grip on his identity. Being a cadet instead of Din Djarin. That was before his ceremony. Before he took the creed.

It had been difficult to give those parts up. First his home, then his name, his future, his body, eventually his life.

The other cadets had indulged here and there, drinking in all they could of life until they would be sent back to their clans. Made new under their helmets. The creeds they would take were different then too. The similarities were in the preservation of their fighting spirit.

Some cadets had bragged about the things they would get to keep. Their exposed faces, their families, their homes, lives, their short lived teen romances, freedoms Din knew he wouldn't know.

There was a group of them, the more conservative children. Seven in his grade. They gathered only to avoid the others. To call each other by their names while they still had them. To touch their faces and breath fresh air while they could.

Din doesn't remember any of it. Names or faces, such unimportant details.

He does remember a long black braid and green skin. Mirialans were rare all through the galaxy. They rarely left their home planet and certainly never colonized other planets. To see one with their head uncovered was even more of a shock.

He never knew what color their hair was until he saw her long braid swaying against the movement of her body.

Even among the outsiders like himself she was isolated. Her founder was from an aggressive and strict clan. According to the gossip, he'd found her in a slaver's cage. Normally a Mirialan would be returned to their people, after all the closed borders planet would always welcome a member of their own species back. But her founded was also Mirialan and had wanted an heir. Most clans would consider this a breach of the finder's code, to keep a child that could be returned. Her clan was different.

More than her skin convinced the others that she did not belong.

Din had too much of his own business to mind to reach out to the girl. He was never much of a savior. But he could offer her a tension-less silence whenever they were in proximity.

For as little as he offered her, he can't imagine why she noticed him at all.

She spent most of her time like he did, quiet, alone. training or eating she focused on the task and moved along when it was finished. The model of the perfect student. Not breaking a single rule with the others.

No one even knew her name.

They couldn't tell what she was giving up, maybe nothing. Maybe she already had everything taken from her and there was nothing left to mourn.

Din knew though. He knew because of every other cadet in their grade she had chosen to share it with him.

Not in words.

The girl who had nothing to loose had everything to gain. anything at all.

Some cheeky cadets managed to snag kisses and other scandalous moments together. Some bragged about the ones they would return to when they finished their training. Sometimes arranged pairs and sometimes not. Some bragged of their clans lax rules around such matters.

Din did not. The watch had strict rules of pairing. Outside of the Riduurok. When he was officially a Mandalorian, after he took the creed, they would decide when and if he was eligible to be paired.

And anything before would be risky beyond logic for little reward. The instructors were vigilant in their watch of the cadets, having so many of them housed in such proximity.

running into the Mirialan girl had been nothing more than coincidence. He'd gotten in an altercation with another cadet, cut his face open on the other boys fist. He'd been patched up and sent to the laundry to wash the blood out of his shirt.

She was already there, sheets bunched in her arms, smelling of the blood removing cleaner even from where he stood uncertain in the doorway.

They did not speak. She stepped to the side, facing the table to reapply the solution to the fabric and scrub at the blood. He hesitated before he pulled his shirt over his head and stepped to the table, leaving a respectable distance between them. Silently she passed him the solution and moved to the basin to scrub the sheets with cold water.

Her sheets went in the washer and she held the door open for him to throw his shirt in as well.

He expected her to close the door, start the wash. Instead her hands moved with only a moment of hesitance to her waist and then her pants were off as well, slightly bloody, they went into the wash.

Din was frozen, all the swirling pubescent hormones Waring with the standard he'd held himself to before now.

She turned back to the table and hauled herself to the damp surface, her knees parting and affording him a view of her glistening red slit. He is too young and too far into puberty to resist such an invitation.

outside of sparring she rarely made the effort to look any of them in the eye, but in that moment she looked right through him. Her dark eyes more hypnotizing than any temptation he's ever faced.

He is not a mandalorian yet, and he is breaking no creed yet. He thinks as he swells hard in his pants, the air suddenly too cool on his shirtless chest.

---

It had been a youthful rebellion. He wasn't proud of it. And in his lowest spiritual moments, he was even ashamed.

But it wasn't a memory he could fully cast from his mind. His first encounter with sex was a scene more salivating than many that came later. It wasn't his only rebellious period. A few years after he'd been appointed beroya for the covert he'd become lonely and bitter. He'd allowed himself to become associated with honorless criminals. He fell to a handful of temptations in that time.

But he hadn't enjoyed it. Most acts of rebellion were not dissimilar to intoxicants. Sex, violence, and reckless stunts. There was a certain thrill to it. A temptation to try, but often in the throws of it all Din felt was dissatisfaction.

It was all an outlet for unpleasant emotions, but when they were all drained away there was nothing else to fill the space. He only felt empty.

Moving forward he'd dedicated himself to truly being a pious man. He performed his labor for the covert. Dedicated his efforts to the care and raising of the next generation.

All he had to sustain himself in the quiet moments were his memories. Though sometimes he would use memories of Xi'an and the other woman to get where he needed to go, they were not exactly pleasant memories.

As juvenile as it was, her prefers the older memory. Worn with use and faded around the edges. It holds more than the quick rutting did. It holds sensations. Strong hands on his arms. A smell like strong tea and leather. The softness of skin beneath his bare palms.

He's thought of it so many times, constructed her piece by piece. Green skin flushed dark. A long black braid draped over one shoulder. A heel pulling at his shin. Hands holding his pants by the waistband. A glistening red slit breaking open on his cock.

It's all just fragments. But they're familiar and so deeply ingrained in him now. Even the sway of a dark braid can get him hard. Too many days spent amongst the night owls with their helmets off and he has to close himself into his ship. Fuck his fist until he can behave like a man again.

-

She's made of fragments he's sure of it. The woman in the purple armor. She's the founder of one his students. She isn't of the watch, but she keeps her helmet on. She observes his training, sometimes participates. When her long braid isn't tucked under the strap over her shoulder for combat, it's loose and long behind her back.

Black as night and swaying with her movements. Every inch of her skin is covered and he does not recognize her clan symbol. She is not recognizable. She's just blurry around the edges, unknowable in the same way the girl from his memories is. She adheres to the code. Well enough that he knows nothing about her. As well he shouldn't.

But he can't help himself when she creeps into his memories. The worn out picture of the girl so faded and conceptual in his mind filling out into her shape. It's shameful how he moans at the thought. A tangible women a better fantasy.

He will behave like a man he promises himself. Refusing to let his sight wonder in her direction as she instruct the younger group on blaster safety. He will not leer like some drunkard in the streets. He minds his own group. Keeps his mind on the task.

She does not socialize with him anyway. Preferring to retire to her own room like him. She only speaks to him when necessary. Approaching him the first day to make introductions. "You're Din right?"

He hadn't asked for her name then, but she'd offered it anyways.

He refuses to think about it. Won't let the fantasy become solid all the way through. Won't let himself think the name as he cums all over his lap.

It's just bits and pieces. The way that the girl's braid over her shoulder had become wrapped around his hand like Xi'an's head tail had been. He imagines a boot digging into his shin. Instead of a bare heel.

But he won't let it become the woman. Not fully. Not clearly.

-

The kid would not settle down tonight. It was late now and he still had things to do. His clothes were filthy from the training grounds and there were dishes piling up. He needed to tidy up and have his diner. There were others drinking and socializing in the hall. Some private rooms filled with friends and clan members still loud at this time of night.

Din passed by them discreetly, hoping not to be caught by a friendly drunk. He dropped a bag of garbage down the shoot to the incinerator. Freeing up a hand to palm the sensory for the laundry room door. It slid open revealing an empty room. He shuffled his things into one of the machines checking the pockets as he went. Not wanting anything to damage the machine. He was closing the thing and thumbing the settings when the door slid open behind him.

Boots passed by him, stopping at another machine and stuffing a load in. There was enough blood rushing in his ears that they felt warm.

This wasn't one of his memories. He needed to get a hold of himself. Feeling caught, even though he was only standing there, he continued to start the machine. standing straight when he was finished.

He turned back to the door, not looking to see who else had entered when he noticed it. The red light on the side of the scanner panel. The door had been locked. Din stopped abruptly.

His hand reaching for a blaster that wasn't there. But there was a knife in his boot if it came to it. He did turn now, to assess the danger.

It was the woman in purple. But the edges of the heated fantasy were not blurry and comforting now. They were sharp. She'd locked the door. Locked both of them in here together. It was a petty move really. He could just as easily hit the switch and unlock it. It wouldn't take a second. But he was cautious now.

She finished starting her machine and turned to him now, the table still between them. She rested her hands on the table, tilting her visor at him. "You are Din Djarin aren't you?"

He nodded once.

"Do you remember me?"

He said nothing. Not sure what there was to say in a situation like this. He had no idea what her intentions were. His mind running through so many sinister and sexy possibilities.

She didn't continue. Waiting and watching him. Looking for any tells.

After a moment she stood straighter and backed up until she reached the bit of counter meant for folding clothes, then she braced both her hands on the edge and climbed up on it. Her knees spread open in front of him.

"Do you remember?" she asks again. Breathlessness apparent through the vocoder.

He is a man. He will act like one. But this is better than his memories. This is a real woman. And he is a real man.

He approaches.

His hands pulled to the plates over her thighs. He doesn't even look at them, doesn't know what they look like. The very identity of a Mandalorian is crafted into the angles of their armor. Does she wear knee guards for heavy artilery? Does she have trauma plating? Are there colors or designs there that speak about her life?

He can't tear his gaze away from the tilt of her helmet. The way the visor narrows in the corners like a coy look. The way the braid hangs loose over her shoulder.

Her knees slide around his hips like they were made to fit there. So different than any memory of knobby knees. Everything is being over written now. Cloudy half sensations falling from his mind at this new stimuli.

The heat of her seeps through the fabric of her pants, even under the armor. Her hands slide up his chest plate. Spreading leather covered fingers over his shoulders.

"Do you remember me?" she asks again. Her voice crackling in a strained way.

His hand rises from her thigh and gently curls over the long braid running his thumb down the center of it reverently.

"The laundry room, when we were in training?" he asks, unsure despite everything.

He feels her helmet nod once while his gaze falls to his hand wrapped around her hair.

Does he remember? it seems like such a stupid question. He remembers it every time he wraps his hand around his cock. But maybe...maybe he doesn't. Maybe he only remembers a version he made up, added to over the years as all the real details were lost to time. He doesn't remember her being so warm.

He doesn't remember thighs around his waist like this. Doesn't remember the arch of her throat the way it stretches out before him now.

Her hand slides down his abdomen, muted by the layers he was wearing. But when the heel of her palm presses hard against the line of his cock he can't help the shudder that rattles him.

His hand tugging her braid absently.

"Didn't think you'd remember me." He confesses.

"Never, stopped thinking about you." She hisses.

Din shudders a laugh grabbing her wrist and pulling it away from his bulge before she tries to rub him to completion through his pants. "Couldn't have been that good for you."

She tilts her helmet at him. "The rutting? no. You were good though."

Din is too distracted by the glint of her visor, the bareness of her words, the feeling of her wrist in his hand. That's why her second hand surprises him when it tugs him closer, pressing him tight to the space between her legs.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, "Me?"

She nods. "So quiet and well behaved. Used to slam me into the dirt and offer me a hand up. Eat our lunch together in perfect silence. Never asked stupid questions. Never tried to kiss me behind the climbing wall."

His next laugh is confused. "That does it for you?'

"Respect? Honor, manners, skill? Principles, dedication? Din you treated me like a Mandalorian before I was one. Then I went and gave you my virginity." She shrugs. "It's hard to forget that."

"Why? I never understood that."

She tilts her helmet forward into his shoulder. Not a keldabe but close enough. "Because you didn't ask. Never asked for anything. Never acted like you deserved anything."

"I-I didn't"

Her head raises and Din lets go of her wrist as she leans back on her hands. "Do you now?"

"Do I-?"

"Deserve it? Do you deserve it?"

"No one deserves it."

she hums leaning towards him again, her voice pitched lower this time. "Then, do you want it?"

Din has to swallow around the clog of words that rush up his throat. He manages to squeak out an undignified "yes" as her boot knocks into his calf.

He can feel her grin. Feel it the same way he can feel his own grin behind his helmet. The way he can feel Boba's or even Paz's sarcastic grins.

He feels it like the grind of her heel into his leg as she tilts her helmet back to look him right in the visor. "I'll bet you've learned a thing or two since then. Why don't you show me?"

Din can feel the determination in his hands. In the way that they curl against the metal washing machine. He wants to get his hands on her- in her as quickly as possible.

But there's one more thing in the way. A mandalorian's armor is made to be hard to remove by anyone but themselves. The magnetic mounts were placed in such a way that it was difficult to remove. And their under clothings were similarly unique. A mess of layers and straps. Flack vests and belts and clasps that made it difficult to get underneath. It was a protective measure. And a matter of respect. Only a spouse every knew how to really undress another.

"Will you- will you let me, Mesh'la?"

Her hands find their way to his waist again urging him back far enough that she can slip down from the machine. Her hands are practiced in their movements, only a few tugs until the bottom half of her clothing falls slack. The fabric sagging down. Her Beskar stays in place though and it isnt until he slips his hands over her hips that he realises why.

She's using a magnetic mounting system reinforced by harnesses. The straps of the harness wrap around her waist, resting the weight of the armor against her hips. He runs his thumbs along the straps. Taking a shuddering breath as he wedges a finger beneath, feeling the weight of it.

"Do I need to remove my armor for you, vod?" she teases.

Din shakes his head. "No. don't." He swiped his thumbs along her hip bones again before his hands become suddenly firm. Her boots scuff the floor as he turns her around, facing her towards the machine now.

She may have been about to say something. Or maybe just make another one of those commenting humming noises she keeps using on him. But she's silenced by the thwack of a glove plopping down on the machine beside her. His warm hand finding her hip before it traces its way down to cup her sex.

He takes a minute to press against her. To feel the flesh and learn it. The course hair, the plush give of tender flesh. The silky texture of her innermost fold as his index nudges against it.

He doesn't move. Just feels. Lets his hand warm her. Waits for the heat between their bodies to build up until she feels hot against his palm.

"You just gonna hold it?" Her voice isn't as unaffected as she tries to make it.

DIn lets his helmet rest on her shoulder. "Yes." His hand presses firmer, but not by much. His fingers shifting just enough to feel a hint of moisture cooling in the space between them.

She shifts at the heels. Her hips tilting back at him. "Din." she says firmly.

And he can feel the way her lips slide over his palm, damp but not wet yet. He grunts in frustration but spreads his fingers out on either side of her lips, dragging them gently up and pressing against the junction at the top.

It's a gentle pressure and a subtle gyrating motion. Less focused on the nerves and more on moving all the flesh with it.

"Well you're close. I'll give you than. Why don't I just-"

Din presses his body closer to her hooking his helmet over her shoulder. "Will you just be patient?" He growls. He has her more bent over now, his chest against her back, her body resting on her elbows.

He slides his fingers down again feeling for the spreading wetness that clings to the hair. Dragging is back up with a gentle pressure over and over until he can get her slick all the way up to her clit.

The flesh swole hot and slick under his. Softer than anything against his fingertips. He presses down in a gentle stroke, again and again until her nerves swell to and stand stiff under his attention. Then he circles and slides his fingers down again to keep them slick while he plays with her.

There's a tension in her shoulders as she lets her neck hang. The weight of the helmet a strain from this position.

The wetness is spreading all around where his fingers touch and further still, dripping through the cleft of her cheeks. "So impatient." he admonishes. "Can't wait for me to get my feel."

She huffs a breath, hips shifting against his hands. He can feel the wet trail she leaves all the way up to his wrist. Din tenses his hand grasping her firmly by the cunt. He waits for her to still before he slides a finger into her heat.

She makes no sound loud enough to be picked up by the modulator but this close he can feel it vibrating through her.

"Let me show you." he insists, sliding the finger free and sliding two in together. The angle grinds the heel of his hand against her clit as he pumps his fingers.

"Wish you'd show me something- something else." She's baiting him. He can tell by the way her voice wavers. But he doesn't want to resist her. He wants to fuck her with his hand until it's dripping down her thighs. Show her exactly how much better he's gotten at sex since his first time.

But she wants his cock and he isn't strong enough to deny her. He takes a moment to press it against her for a moment. Her thigh hot even through the fabric of his flight suit. The pressure is so good he's worried for a moment that he might blow this all too soon.

Instead his hand retreats from her cunt, traveling up her body to clutch at her breast plate, dragging her to stand close as he frees his cock.

He wants to slide it between her thighs. Rut there until he can paint his load all over those puffy lips. But he will prove himself. Even if the effort makes him bite down on his tongue.

He grasps it instead. Firmly. The pressure grounding him as he slides just the head through her slick once, twice. Just enough to coat it, then he bends at the knees, positioning the head at the entrance, feeling the swollen flesh give as he presses in. Feeling muscle spread. Hot and wet and so soft.

He can't remember what it was like before. The hot clutch of her. His fist has worn against the memory of that sensation until only his hand remained. But this, he wants to remember this for the rest of his life. The way he has to work past the clench of muscle as she lets him in.

Another noise passes under the lip of her helmet. High and wanting. "You're certainly bigger now."

He wants to laugh. Wants to come up with something sly to say. But Din isn't a man of words. He lets his body respond for him. His hand pressing flat against her stomach while he pulls her back by the breast plate. Making her body arch against him. Their bodies pressed together from top to bottom. Perfectly aligned as he pressed his hips harder into hers.

She's taken most of him. Her legs spread wide enough to make space for him even as he pulls her body to the edge of her balance. Letting him twist her body into position for him. Letting him spread her open on his cock like this. Her helmet leant back against him.

"Better?"

The sounds she makes is half choked off as he pulls her down on him harder. Shoving fully into her for just a moment. Still too much resistance in her muscles to make him believe that's very pleasant.

"hmm?"

"Am I better than last time?"

It takes her a moment to put her words back together. DIn doesn't Stop the subtle thrusts that bully her muscles open for him as he waits for her response.

"Make me cum, then I'll tell you."

He likes the challenge, more than he thought he would. He releases her from the angle, slow enough that she regains her balance on her own. He lets her sag for a moment before repositioning her. Pulling her hips back against him and pressing her down against the machine.

It's much easier to swing his hips into her now. The angle letting her loosen up enough to take him easily. The slick glide too easy, too perfect.

She groans, pressing back into his thrusts. The rhythm messy and desperate as they both work off each other. Meeting in uneven places. Gasps shuddering through her every time he's buried it deep.

"Touch-me."

He has to shift forward. spread his feet and lay across her back. Brace himself with one hand as he fumbles for her clit again. His fingers sliding too smooth through the slick that's gathered there. Just above where his cock is plunging in and out, her clit stands tall. The movement of their bodies alone rubbing her against his hand.

She's dripped down her thighs now. His thighs too. The slick gathering between his fingers and dripping down his knuckle.

That spot behind her helmet where her neck is long and almost exposed without the beskar. The place where she's vulnerable is stretched just ahead of his visor. Her braid snaking out from the fabric.

He wishes he wasn't wearing his now. Wishes he could burry his face into that space and smell her. He settles for nuzzling his helmet there instead. Hoping the hard press of his armor to her vulnerable neck will mean to her what it means to him.

She cries out. sudden and loud and her body shakes as she clenches hard around him. He nearly bites his tongue off trying not to blow his load. Waiting through several more thrusts as her body clutches at him. Sucking him deeper.

It's too much. Too good. Din is only a man.

He pulls out gripping his hot cock in his bare hand as he tugs it. His fist familiar. He cums hard, covered in her slick. Covered in her. Drippin with her as he shoots into the fabric gathered between her thighs.

Every hot twitch of his cock makes white spread behind his eyes but he pulls back anyways, watching as his cum soaks into the dark fabric. Marks up her clothes.

He's unsteady on his feet now. Nearly swaying back as he runs his thumb over the harness on her hips again. Watching the dark fabric drink up the fluid from his hand. The curve of her ass cheeks glistening with their fluids.

"Mesh'la." he murmurs deliriously as the endorphins cloud his brain.

She stretches. No doubt stiff in her lower back from the position, but the stretch just spreads her out in front of him. Her cunt fucked out and still open from his cock. White cum clinging to the hair around the hole.

Her joints pop as she straightens up. Her hands going to pull her clothes back into order. His cum now pressed up against her as she redresses.

His brain is still thick. And his cock is still out. He should do something about that. He winces against the sensitivity but stuffs it back into his pants.

She turns around, Still more disheveled than she should be. Something off about the way her clothes sit now.

She looks him over before shaking her head. "We better hope we don't run into anyone on the way out. We won't fool them."

Din glances down at himself noticing the dark spots where she dripped all over his thighs, something even shining over his beskar. His cock gives a weak twitch that makes him wince.

Her hand is on his shoulder and he looks back up at her, trying to think of anything but her pussy weeping all over him.

"We'll have to pick one room to keep the kids in, if we're going to do that again. can't always meet in the laundry room."

"If?" he says pathetically.

His arm raised again to point his blaster up to the ledge above and your eye followed as your arm pulled back in rhythm with his sighting the man kneeled there, ducking to avoid Din's aim. But from your position you had a clear sight and you released another bolt not bothering to wait and watch the body fall.

Eyes back on Din. You Watched the angle of his shoulders, trying to guess which way he'd swing his aim next. Watching the space over his head, the path in front of him. Another enemy appeared, they could have been anyone, they were tucked behind a pillar, unseen. Din was still dealing with the enemy in front of him and you didn't have the time to wait for the enemy to pop their head out. You aimed for the light glinting off their blaster and blew their hand right off.

Din's sight flew to the explosion moving to get the wounded enemy in his sights and blasting a hole through them, a spray or blue blood from the other side the only confirmation you'd needed.

It was over before you knew it, climbing down from your perch to join the others as they cleared the structure. The Nightowls crawling over the brick like sand beetles.

You hold your bow low but don't holster it. Not until the rest of the mandalorians are regrouping and discussing the next move. Din appears at your side a hand unexpectedly firm around your wrist.

There are still bodies and blood on the ground as he leads you away, the whole place reeking of a fight. You struggle not to pinch your nose closed against the smell, unsure why he's even acting like this.

"Din?" you question as you turn down an empty alley between the building and the garage.

You catch sight of his shoulders again, tense even under the armor. His stride faster than it was before.

"Where are we-?" You're cut off as he turns on you so suddenly, gripping your bow where it's strung over your shoulder and using it to drag you to him.

"You told me you could shoot a bow." his voice is accusatory, dark and heavy. "You didn't tell me you could shoot a man's hand off at thirty yards."

You try to laugh it off, the sound of it uncomfortable even to your own ears. "I don't make it a habit of bragging about my marksman skills to Mandalorians, Din be serious."

He is serious, you know it. The line of his shoulders, the ones you'd been observing so carefully before is curved into you now. All of his attention focused only on you.

"What will it take to make you brag?" he demands.

"I don't- understand the question." Where exactly is he going with this?"

"What will it take to make you brag? Taking my kill? Covering my ass? Disarming a man from a sniper's perch?" He shudders, a full bodied thing that runs from his body into yours.

Is this some kind of post battle killing fetish? Would you be a bad person if you decided you could be into that? Would you be a bad partner if you decided you weren't?

"Din, what are you trying to say?"

His hand gripped your bow harder worrying it as he kept you close. "You have skill you used to kill my enemies and avenge my people. If I had armed you sooner-"

Your brows furrow. "Hey, it's ok, plasma bows aren't easy to find. There's only like three systems in the galaxy that even make them, and on of them is Dathomiir. It took some time to find one."

He shakes his head, a breath crackling from the modulator in what sounds like a annoyed grunt. "If I had armed you sooner, I would have known, when we were alone, that you were so competent."

The way he says compentant sounds like an insult. He said it the way you'd heard men say slut. You have to not grimace. He sounds so serious, really digging for his words here. "I'm sorry? did you think I wasn't- uh- competent?"

Done with struggling for his words Din uses his grip on your bow to turn you around, suddenly your back was pressed to his chest, his armor and your bow between in you in a way that wasn't at all comfortable.

Still he crowds around you until your leaning against the wall. "If I had known, I could have fucked you somewhere that wasn't full of bodies and nosey mandalrians with heat vision."

His hands are on your hips now pulling you in until your ass was pressed to one of the few parts of his body that wasn't covered in armor, but it was hard all the same.

"I could pull your fucking pants down and fuck you right here. Make you cum on my cock. Reward you for every clean shot." There's another shudder that goes through both of your bodies.

"Want to smack my cock against that spot on your cheek where you pull your bow back."

It's filthy. Insidious in a way that you know is going to invade your thoughts every time you feel your hand brush against your cheek.

His hands tighten once more around your hips, not grinding you back against him, just holding you there. The pressure no doubt crushing his cock.

"Damn it." He hisses, fingers manually loosening one at a time. He pulls back from your body like your covered in a thick layer of glue, like its a physical struggle.

You could cry. "I- don't. Aren't we-?"

Din's breath crackles hard. "I'm not going to fuck you in a puddle of a strange blood." He hisses. More pissed with himself but it doesn't change the way it makes you shrink.

"But-"

"Come on. I want to finish this."

He won't walk away from you. Won't take more than three steps in any direction your not heading in. He'd glued to your side. Hard in every line of his body. Like he's turned to metal all over.