#(it probably won't this time but boy howdy it's been a bad couple years)

[kirby-the-gorb]

[weird-writes]

Easy Mark (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Easy Mark (10k)

Series: Part two of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: The Mandalorian comes home drunk, desperate, and absolutely unwilling to admit anything to himself. So you do it for him.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Real, unbroken sleep on a planet with diurnal cycles will be nice, he thinks resolutely, even if he'd had other plans for that luxurious bed. And there are advantages to privacy. He unlatches his helmet with a hiss that sounds like a sigh, strips off his gloves, and then begins to unstrap his beskar, fingers taking him through the motions automatically. When he's done, and with his blaster in easy reach on the table beside the bed, he lays back into the enveloping softness and dims the already low lights. He wants to sleep but he knows it won't be possible yet. His body has started its own cycle, as inexorable as the spin of a galaxy, and he won't be able to rest until he completes it.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, sex work, masturbation (mutual if you squint), ruined orgasm but on accident, dry humping, dirty talk, hand kink kinda sort, oral sex, fingering, a pinch of D/s, alcohol use, hangover, canon what canon, no betas we die like men

Tropes: you know that thing where you're talking with someone and it turns out you're having two totally separate conversations, yeah like that but with sex, idiots with feelings, angst, the helmet stays on, boy HOWDY does that helmet stay on

Author's note: Writing the first one was an out-of-body experience and then it turned out Din and his distraction weren't done with me yet. A couple days later I woke up in the middle of the night and said to myself: "listen bitch i have two words for you - helmet riding." So here we are. Set before Distractions, in the bad but fun times before our idiots sorted out their feelings. Please note that this one does involve Mando visiting a sex worker while lusting for the main character, so if that's not your cup of tea no worries. Personally I like 'em hot, confused, and suffering.

***

This was probably a mistake.

The woman on her knees in front of him is beautiful in a generic sort of way. What Din can see of her face in this position is smooth and symmetrical, and she's groomed her brows into the fine expressive lines that are fashionable in the Core, or at least were fashionable several years ago when he was last there. She has high cheekbones and dark eyes and the rest of her is probably equally well-tended but he can't tell since she's got her mouth around him and is doing something with her teeth that is both precise and masterful. It feels like heaven, the clutch of her throat around the head of his cock a welcome respite after so many months of artificial substitute. She's been working him with lips and tongue for quite a while now, and though he's hard enough that she'd at first had trouble getting her jaw around his not-inconsiderable thickness, the sensation has not yet ticked beyond pleasant relief.

Okay, this was definitely a mistake.

It's not that Din's body isn't willing. He can tell from the dull throbbing in his balls that the purely mechanical parts of him would love nothing more than to empty quite a lot of pent-up frustration into this girl's talented mouth. No, the problem lies elsewhere, and not with anything as obvious as his mind either. He's not thinking about anything in particular, and when he closes his eyes no troublesome images burn themselves on the backs of his eyelids. It's a feeling in his chest instead, a nagging tightness when he breathes in, a sort of perpetually suspended flinch that reminds him of nothing so much as the infinitesimal time between watching someone pull a trigger and hearing the blaster bolt. He's keyed-up, jittery, waiting for an explosion that isn't coming, and he has no idea why.

It had all seemed like such a good idea at the time. He's no stranger to brothels. He has needs, and his mind is calmer and his work better if he attends to them. Not frequently, not enough to be an indulgence. Just enough to remind himself that the same physical facility that lets him shoot straight and fight hard has more demands than only food and rest. He's been distracted lately and the tidiest solution is to find someone who makes it their business to solve problems like his. It's really no different than bounty hunting, and unlike fellow hunters, none of them have ever objected to him keeping the helmet on.

He's learned the wisdom of seeking out professionals the hard way. There are plenty of beings of all species who'd jump at the chance to fuck a Mandalorian. In his youth, he'd sometimes indulged them. It had never gone as poorly as it might have, but eventually he'd understood the motivations every entanglement distilled to in the end - sex was just a clever way to keep him on a leash. Whether it was through intimidation or seduction, everyone was after the same thing: control. And if it worked they'd forever feel they'd won, that they'd somehow put one over on an untouchable Mandalorian. That smug surety had been a source of trouble more than once.

Damaging his public image will not be an issue here. Everything from the decor in the foyer of the tasteful building in the corporate district to how the woman currently servicing him is touching him with her slim fingers screams of discretion and professionalism. She's as practiced with him as he is with his weapons, although to her credit it comes off as attentive rather than perfunctory. When he'd first arrived and made his very specific wishes known she'd acquiesced without fuss, happy to provide what he needs within such clear boundaries. Then she'd used her mouth to release the buckle on his belt, one hand holding it steady while the other slid up his thigh. She'd even smiled up at him once she'd gotten him as undressed as the occasion called for. He suspects her enthusiasm isn't entirely feigned - if the reputation of his people sometimes comes with a cost, it also has benefits.

So now here they both are: her with one hand cupping his sack and the other curled around the base of his cock as she parts her tinted lips, him watching her slide her tongue along his slit with an appreciation that refuses to rise past tepid despite his best efforts to convince himself otherwise. He feels bad that he is not enjoying this more, ashamed of himself in the most absurd way. It seems horribly impolite, as though he is choosing to refuse to respond to her talent, one professional snubbing another. And the problem with someone like her, who makes her living by being perceptive about others' pleasure, is that of course she can tell.

His guilt is amplified when his companion lifts herself off his cock and gives the tip what feels like a genuinely sympathetic kiss. "You like this, but you don't love it," she says gently, and it's very much not a question. She stands and one hand tips his helmet up to meet her kohl-rimmed eyes. "I think you need something else. Something a little more... engaging." She feels him flinch, and her hand dips to smooth his cowl as she comes closer, the soft edges of her robe tickling his knees. "I'm not asking you to undress. There are all sorts of possibilities open to us." The word open is lightly emphasized, lingering on her tongue like a sweet, and oh she is good. There's a world of promise in that one sound. Perversely, it makes him feel worse.

"No," he says, and clears his throat. "I mean, no thank you. I don't think so. I appreciate... your work. I think it's better if we stop here."

"Are you sure?" she asks. Her fingers are skimming along his shoulder now, a touch that's both flirtatious and reassuring. "It doesn't cost more, you know. You have me booked for the whole night. It's my pleasure." This close to him, she smells wonderful even through the helmet, like refrigerated flowers and expensive cloth.

"Thank you," Din says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. "That– won't be necessary. I intend to pay in full, but I don’t think… I don't think I want company."

She hums a little in acknowledgement as she steps away. "Well, it's certainly up to you. If you need anything just touch the button by the door, that's the comm. And really--" she leans forward again, just enough to show the tempting swell of her breasts under the thin fabric, "-- if you get lonely, Mandalorian, don't hesitate." There's a warmth in her tone that sounds like she means it. She blows him a breezy kiss on her way out the door, the privacy panel sliding shut behind her.

Kriff. Kriff. She's gorgeous and she knows it and he likes that in a woman. She knows what she's doing, too, and he likes that as well. And even if he is paying her she clearly doesn't object to him, and he likes that best of all. And he'd just sent her away like an idiot. Leaving him with nothing but an uneasy feeling he can't name and a tight ache in his balls that promises real pain if he doesn't attend to them sooner rather than later.

Din toys with the idea of calling her back, telling her he'd changed his mind, but there's no reason to expect the outcome to be any different the second time around. It's late, and at least he'll be able to sleep as long as he wants. Real, unbroken sleep on a planet with diurnal cycles will be nice, he thinks resolutely, even if he'd had other plans for that luxurious bed. And there are advantages to privacy. He unlatches his helmet with a hiss that sounds like a sigh, strips off his gloves, and then begins to unstrap his beskar, fingers taking him through the motions automatically. When he's done, and with his blaster in easy reach on the table beside the bed, he lays back into the enveloping softness and dims the already low lights. He wants to sleep but he knows it won't be possible yet. His body has started its own cycle, as inexorable as the spin of a galaxy, and he won't be able to rest until he completes it.

It's nothing like the serene attentions he'd been receiving before he'd asked to be alone. He's flat on his back and completely undressed now as he would never be with another person in the room, and his callused hand is a poor substitute for her soft touch. He wraps his fist around his cock and brings himself back to fully erect with a few short strokes, uninterested in prolonging this experience beyond the necessary. At least he no longer feels the pressure to applaud an artist at work; he knows himself and knows exactly how to get this over with while still wringing out the pleasure he seems to periodically require. His hand speeds up as he replays the night in his mind: her fingers on his shoulder, her mouth on his cock. He's imagining her still and that's an appreciation of its own, assuaging the sting of guilt.

His eyes drift closed and his grip tightens, stroking over his length, rushing him toward the conclusion of this little farce. It's not what he wants, not really, but at least he'll feel better. He feels the pressure rising in his gut, the knot in his groin tightening, and there's a brief instant where he thinks about his hand - about his fingers - about a few nights ago and where his fingers have been and the slick wet heat he'd wanted to suck off them -

And that feeling of waiting for the blaster bolt crashes in again, knocking the building tension of his orgasm askew and ripping his touch away from himself to seize convulsively at the cool sheets.

Din opens his eyes and sits up so fast his helmet clatters to the floor. His chest is heaving and his palms are damp and there's a piercing pain around his temples that presages an exceptionally memorable headache. The moment of climax is gone as surely as the woman he'd sent away, and he knows himself well enough to know it's not coming back tonight. "Fucking-- kriffing-- fucking-- hell," he mutters and then descends into the most offensive Mando'a he knows, trailing off only when he runs out of rude words. He collapses back into the blankets, wrenching a pillow over his face. He needs to clear his head. He needs to sleep. He needs to come. One isn't happening without the other two, and at least one of the other two apparently isn't happening at all.

Well. If he already can't sleep, and his cock is not going to cooperate, he can at least do something else equally unwise. He'd paid for the room for the night and he intends to use it. He touches the built-in comm by the door and it clicks into life instantly, the concierge's smooth tones rendered only a little tinny by the size of the speaker. "Can we do something for you, sir?"

"Yes, I hope you can. Do you have a cantina on the premises?"

***

Something is wrong.

It's Mando's walk that gives him away. It's not that it's sloppy or loose; it's that it's tight. Normally the cadence of his boots sounds - relaxed. Ready, confident, easy in himself and his capabilities. You've become familiar with his long stride coming up the gangway, the slight hitch in his gait born from years of maneuvering in layers of armor and weapons. Right now it's too precise, too measured, as though he is concentrating entirely too much. You don't know what the problem is but you can hear that something is different, and by the time he's in the cargo bay that difference is blaring in your consciousness like a proximity alarm.

You wouldn't have noticed with anyone else. You've never attended to the messages of another's body as closely as you do his. You're not sure precisely why you feel the need to catalogue every variation of his mood through the tip of his helmet and the semaphore of his hands. Maybe it's to do with the fact you don't know his face, so you cling to every other detail. Nevertheless, your careful scrutiny reaps a reward: you can't see him, tucked into your own bunk folded down from the wall, but you can tell something has changed just from the sound of his steps.

Your first assumption is the obvious one. He'd left you last night, saying something about meeting a contact, and the life of a bounty hunter is risky even when not chasing quarry. Old marks hold grudges and old friends can turn into old enemies. A blaster graze or a stab wound, neither of them catastrophic, could easily be the cause. But he's back, clearly well enough to return to the ship under his own power, and he hadn't commed you to ask for entry which means he retained his vambrace and his ability to remotely disarm the ground protocols. It can't be anything too serious. He knows where the medkit is. He can patch himself. There's no need for you to get out of bed.

You've drawn the curtain to your bunk closed behind you and your bare feet are touching the floor before you have time to invoke your better instincts. Despite how your - whatever this is - has evolved recently, the Mandalorian often remains closed off to you, withdrawn behind the remote shine of his armor. Finding out exactly what's going on is at least a way to participate, to gain some level of understanding about his person and the kind of life he leads when you're not trapped together in the forced proximity of hyperspace. And if he refuses you - well, it's morning, and the thought of caf is enough of a consolation.

It's early still and the breeze through the open gangway brings with it pale dawn and the smell of growing things. The heat is already oppressive, promising another stifling equatorial day. Mando is leaning against a bulkhead, hip hitched casually on a crate, visor tilted to the floor. One pauldron is in the square of sunshine from the hatch and the tiny imperfections on its surface bounce pinpoints of light through the hold as his chestplate rises and falls with his breathing. It's the only movement you can see, and your stomach flips uneasily. You can tell he's holding himself back somehow, every line of him composed. You've seen him go still like this when he's angry with you. Maybe his meeting went sideways after all, but there's no blood or any of the other telltale signs of violence.

You're already regretting your curiosity. Whatever this is, it doesn't look as simple as a wound.

Mando must know you're there, his instincts too sharp for anything else, but he doesn't greet you. So you don't bother with the niceties either, saying "Are you all right?" in a voice still thick with sleep as you move towards the small galley and the plasma heater and the battered pot that serves as a makeshift kettle.

"What?" His head comes up too fast, as if he's only now remembering your existence, that the public areas of his ship are no longer places for himself alone. "Oh. Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

He doesn't offer more than that, and you resist the urge to pry further. Your - your what, exactly? Your traveling companion? Your erstwhile employer? Your occasional fuck? Better to stick with the obvious, you suppose - the Mandalorian - is hardly expressive at the best of times, but standing silent in the cargo bay this early in the morning with a stillness that implies nothing so much as intense concentration, as he would focus his attention on a difficult target or a mark in a crowded street, is unusual even for him. He's not blocking your path to the galley though, so you occupy yourself with the business of hotplate and kettle instead. You'd found your favorite brand of instant caf at the last trading post and somewhere in a drawer there are still a few packets of dehydrated milk.

You're distracted by the familiar routine, which is probably why you ask. "Would you like some caf?"

A stupid question, and one that makes you cringe as soon as it's out of your mouth. Of course Mando doesn't want caf. And even if he did, he couldn't drink it anyway - not with you there, your presence restricting him as surely as a pair of magcuffs. You've managed to avoid offering him anything that would require the removal of his helmet so far in your time together, but it's so early, and just for a minute you... forgot. Forgot he's Mandalorian, offered him something you would literally any other sentient creature who was awake with you at such an atrocious hour of the day.

His response surprises you. "That seems like a good idea," he says, which is a weird as hell way to put it but whatever. And what about the helmet? Maybe he'll take it to his rack and drink it there. Not your business. You open two pouches and rummage in the cabinet that holds the cheap tin cups. You chase the caf with hot water from the pot, watching the brown grains bleed into something that nearly passes for drinkable, then add milk in one cup and hesitate over the other. You don't know how he likes it and it seems strangely invasive to ask about his eating habits again. After a second’s indecision you tip two of the milk packets in and stir, same as yours. If he doesn't like it he can make his own.

When you're done you take both cups in hand and turn. At some point he must have changed positions, although you hadn't heard him. How he moves so quietly in all that metal is a mystery that continues to elude you even though you see it happen regularly. Now he's sitting down, leaning back against the wall, folded in on himself in a way you haven't seen before and that immediately makes you question whether or not he is, in fact, all right. Maybe you were wrong, and the injury just doesn't show under all his layers of cloth and steel. His posture mutes the inertia you'd sensed and he looks... if you're being honest he looks just a little pathetic, or as pathetic as a man wearing so many weapons can look, which is not very. It's oddly affecting. You don't know him well enough to judge with any level of precision but if it were you against the wall  looking like that, you'd say you'd just lost a fight.

Impossible. Mandalorians don't lose fights. At least, this Mandalorian doesn't.

"Would you like some company?" you ask before you can stop yourself. It's apparently a day for firsts. You've never inquired if he wants your presence before, except as a matter of expediency on a hunt or going into a settlement. It's something in this morning's particular tableau that pulls it out of you, memories of your own bad nights echoing in sympathy with the set of his shoulders. It's easier when he's sitting down, too, the level of his helmet well below your eyeline. You wouldn't have dared if you were facing the wall of beskar that comprises a Mando upright.

His response is direct as he is always direct, and polite, as he is nearly always polite with you. "That would be... acceptable. Thank you."

So you slide down the wall next to him, probably graceless and noisy in comparison, still holding both cups. As you do the wind outside shifts, stirring the heat and bringing with it the inevitable warm damp of impending summer rain. It brushes past your strangely moody Mandalorian, pushing steam from the caf before it and tapping your hair against your cheek, and as it does you're hit by a wave of the familiar. A scent everyone who's ever worked a bar or relaxed after a long day in any town in the galaxy knows.

It takes you no time at all to recognize it, and only a beat longer to locate the source. Mando smells - and not subtly - like alcohol. The sting is unmistakable, announcing itself in the air between you. You can't even contemplate how much worse it would be without the intermediary of his helmet. A sequence of events clicks into place, as tidy as a relay switching shut. That's why he's so still, why his walk up the gangway was so careful. He's hungover. Or maybe still drunk. The Mandalorian is drunk.

You don't even know how he got drunk, considering the constraints of his helmet. You can't imagine him sitting in a cantina all night shoving a hydration tube under the faceplate and sucking in spotchka. The thought is so undignified that you almost laugh out loud. You choke down the impulse but it must show on your face somewhere because Mando says, in a tone that even through the modulator veers close to petulant, "What?"

Now you are laughing, the image of the feared warrior staggering - well, as close as he'll ever get to staggering, which is basically the exact opposite - into his own ship and half-collapsing, felled by something as mundane as alcohol, too ridiculous to ignore. "Oh, I see. Leaving late, coming in early, needing caf. What did you get up to last night, Mando?"

It's a sing-song question, meant as a tease, but that glacial quiet comes over him again and you swear the temperature between you drops several degrees. He's silent for a long while, contemplating an answer that seems weighty for him in a way you didn't intend. Did you upset him? Was intoxication forbidden to Mandalorians? Are you witnessing something as simple as a temporary lapse in judgment - and Maker knows you've had plenty of those yourself - or as serious as a violation of his Creed?

"I made some bad decisions," he says finally. "I thought it would... make things a little easier. It didn't."

And you have no idea how to interpret that, if he's talking about the job that went sideways that brought you to this planet in the first place or the drinking or something else. Or if you could be classified as a bad decision, one that he might need the escape of alcohol to make a little easier. Your brief moment of levity twists in your mouth, turning sour, and you shove the second cup toward him across the bay floor with unnecessary force, sloshing milky caf over the rim to puddle on the metal.

Mando doesn't comment on your lack of tact. He doesn't say anything at all, picking up the cup and contemplating it as though it holds the secrets of the universe. You'd slumped back against the crate after your little outburst but you're still watching him in your periphery. Not a single atom of you believes that he's going to remove his helmet. Not for something as banal as this, not with the hatch open for anyone to see, certainly not in front of you. But he might have some trick you haven't seen yet. A port somewhere, some way of getting sustenance in public when necessary. Maybe that's how he'd made last night's bad decisions.

He doesn't quite bring the caf to where his mouth would be but it's close. You don't see anything about the faceplate change, but the Mandalorian next to you inhales deeply and makes a quiet, satisfied noise. Then he does it again and you realize what's happening - if the visor weren't in the way he'd be burying his nose in the cup to breathe the bitter, scented steam. It's a mundane thing to do, nothing you haven't seen a thousand times before, and you want to be irritated by it. He makes another sound, the modulator obscuring its finer details. You hear it anyway, casually warm and appreciative, and your own mouth goes dry instead.

You are suddenly extremely aware of your body in proximity to his: your shoulders a few long inches from each other, your crossed knees so close to his strong thighs. You didn't mean to but you've turned your head to face him now, lips parting, and you can feel the rush of blood rising up your neck and creeping along your collarbones. You've caught his attention too, your reaction to his enjoyment nowhere near as subtle as you'd like. He doesn't put down the cup, doesn't do anything as predictable as reaching for you. Instead he slides across the floor and presses one long leg against yours, hip to knee, not touching you with intent but just... letting you feel him, solid as granite and twice as unmoving. Then he raises the cup again, slower this time, draws the steam toward himself, and makes the same noise again, deliberately.

Sweat springs up on your skin, the warmth of his nearness combining with your flush and the hot breeze still fluttering through the gangway. The helmet is pointed straight ahead but you can feel him considering you, the stalemate of shared desire spreading between you like ink in water. He seems to be waiting for something but you'll be damned if you're going to start coming out of your clothes just because you like the way he drinks - no, not even drinks - his caf. So you wait too, expecting him to call your bluff, or at least wordlessly take charge as he has taken charge of things between you before.

Nothing happens. You drop your gaze, fixing it on the way he cradles the cup, the tips of his gloves flaring orange against the dull alloy. It's precisely because you have expended so much attention on his hands as a substitute for his face that you notice it: a tiny motion on the surface of the liquid, a gentle waver like the very beginnings of a boil. It's not that the cup is trembling, not really, it's just... not entirely steady. You've already seen his grip around a blaster more times than you can count and you've sure it's always been reliable as a sun. This is new. Is he really that far gone?

"Would you do me a favor?" Mando's voice is carefully neutral, as if he's noticed your scrutiny.

"Sure," you say, not really listening. You could tell him no, discourage whatever drunken whim this is, but you're still watching the minute quiver of his hands, visible only through the ripples in his caf.

"Take off my gloves."

***

It's an insane request, and most of Din is having trouble believing he just said it. The words came out of his mouth unbidden with no direction from anything as capable of higher functioning as his brain. The rest of him - the part he’s forced to admit is housed mostly in his cock and in the bottom of a bottle discarded several hours ago - can't believe he's waited this long to ask. He saw the way you looked at him, the tip of your tongue suspended over your bottom lip. He's painfully aware of the soft skin of your thigh pressing against his, even if he can't feel it through his armor as more than a light pressure, a ghostly kiss of heat. He wants your touch somewhere, anywhere, ideally on the rock-hard erection that's straining against the buckles of his belt, but even as he thinks it he holds back, knowing it would be too much. The gloves instead then. The feeling he thought he'd drowned in revnog is back, the tightness in his chest ratcheting to life, making him shake with anticipation for something he doesn't even know the shape of.

Suddenly he's worried that he's overplayed his hand. You've allowed him to take liberties for your benefit before, but this feels different. This is you touching him for no reason other than he's asked you to and that's dangerously close to crossing the line he's drawn for himself. He sets down the caf and is about to say something sensible like "Never mind," but you're already reaching toward him.

***

Mando doesn't raise his arms for you, doesn't do anything at all to make his demand easier to meet except for putting down the cup. The hand closest retreats to rest on his hip and you chase it without thinking, picking it up like you would any other piece of equipment he’d tasked you to maintain. You can feel a faint tremor all through the capable muscles of palm and wrist. You yourself are sober as a Jedi but that doesn't stop you from fumbling at first, trying to understand how to get around the knuckle guard and loosen the magnetic tab cinching it tight just over the point of his pulse. You pull the glove over his fingers as efficiently as you can.

It's the closest you've ever come to the Mandalorian, which is an absurd thing to say considering what you've been doing, or rather what he's been doing to you, intermittently these past weeks. It's also true, and you feel your breath fraying as you reach for his other side. Undressing him even just this inconsequential amount seems unbearably domestic, an intimacy you haven't earned and probably never will. You remove this glove the same way, running your fingertips over the leather to find the catch, working the fingers loose in a movement that can't help but feel obscene as your smaller hand encloses his bigger one. Then you draw it off, still holding him, and stop. Because you have no idea what to do next.

There's a halting moment where you think he's looking at you and you're definitely looking at him and the tension is enough that you snag your lower lip between your teeth -

"Let go," Mando says softly. You drop his wrist like a thief caught in the act. You expect him to stand up, escaping from your proximity as he often does. You unwisely hope this might be one of those occasions where he turns you around instead, pushing your sleeping shorts down and plunging his fingers between your thighs where a needy hum has just hopefully kicked to life. An even more unwise part of you, a part you try very hard to ignore, wants him to pull you closer, face-to-face.

No such luck. The only sound is your own breathing buzzing in your ears. At this angle you can see the cowl around his neck has shifted, revealing a glimpse of his throat. His pulse shows through the thin skin, tripping steadily but fast. You can't drag your eyes away from it, a warm and traitorous bit of humanity amidst hard metal. There's only been one other time you've seen him like this and on that occasion his reserve, when it finally broke, heralded a storm you’d swear parts of you were still recovering from.

You're kneeling beside him, frozen in the same position you'd used to remove his gloves, and it's easy to notice how much lower and richer his tone is, even through the modulator, when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, mesh'la. I'm not trying to be rude. I just-- I can't."

"Can't what?" you probe, bewildered by the combination of his denial and the unmistakable heat threading through his voice.

"Can't... this." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses himself, you, and the narrow space between you.

"Okay," you say. "Okay. You can't." Fuck whatever this is anyway, you're tired of him being the one to decide all the rules of engagement, where and when and how and if you are even in a position to look at him during. You start to move away but his bare hand briefly finds your knee, pinning you in place with no effort on his part. Even with that feather-light touch you can feel the rough texture of his palm. It raises the fine hairs on your neck with how much you want more of him.

"I can't," Mando says again, as though you'd asked him something, and you realize what he's telling you. He can't.

You can.

Something ignites in your blood, racing down your spine to pool between your legs. He's not refusing you, he's making you an offer, a chance to decide for yourself how this encounter will go. You wonder why now. Is this a misguided attempt at chivalry, a way of making sure that he doesn't push past your limits while he’s under the influence? More importantly - are you going to take him up on it?

You feel your heartbeat accelerating as you reel through the possibilities. You could touch him like he's been touching you. Would he let you? Could you remove more of the layers between you, finally chase your pleasure on his cock like you've spent so many furtive hours thinking about? Or you could deny him, get up and take your leftover caf and leave him to face his biochemical consequences alone. He wouldn't stop you, would accept your choice without protest, and somehow that feels most powerful of all.

The helmet is still watching you. Mando's gloveless hands are quiet in his lap, his chest under the armor rising and falling evenly as though he hadn't just implied you might want to use him like a toy. You meet the eyeless gaze of the visor, seeing only stark lines and your own warped, unrecognizable reflection. Just for an instant you let yourself pretend, wishing he had a face you could read anything in at all. Then you lean forward and grasp his hands in yours and stand up, putting one bare foot on either side of him, taking his hands with you. You hook his fingers into the drawstring at your waist, your meaning clear. Take them off.

You know exactly what you want. And you're almost sure Mando will give it to you.

Your shorts slide easily over the curve of your ass, puddling to the floor as you step out of them. You're wearing nothing underneath and his skin against yours is excruciating as he traces the hard bones of your shins, the backs of your knees - and stops, making it wordlessly clear that he's leaving you to dictate what happens next. You shrug out of your shirt and trail up your body to cup your tits, tossing your hair over your shoulder. Then you look at the Mandalorian under you and give your first order: "Touch me."

Your meaning is obvious even though technically, he's already touching you - hasn't stopped since you began your little show. His hands resume their wandering course, running up the dip of your waist and chastely smoothing sweat across your spine. You use the warmth of his touch as fuel for your own fire, pinching your nipples to greedy points and letting your back arch. It's beyond bizarre to expose yourself like this, presenting to the impenetrable wall of his armor in nothing but your own unassailable nakedness. Mando might deaf and blind for all the reaction the blank faceplate gives you. It's as dislocating as losing one of your own senses, giving everything a surreal, hallucinatory quality. 

It's also indescribably arousing.

Mando is getting bolder, touching you with more purpose. One big hand ghosts up your thigh but you stop it before it reaches its goal. You've had his talented fingers in you plenty and you have other plans. "Hold my hips," you say, and though you meant it as a command it comes out more like a plea. He obliges you instantly, thumbs settling against the swell of your pelvic bones. You want him to participate in this, even if he won't take the initiative, and you want him to feel the same sting of desire you do, even if you can't see the results.

Your excitement is growing more acute now. You drop one hand from your breast and part your folds easily, slipping your fingertips up to tease your clit before dipping them just inside yourself. You moan a little at the feeling of it, so much better than when you do the same alone in the 'fresher, and when you pull out and move back to circle your clit again, spreading your slick over your lips, you feel his grip on you convulse. You follow that theme for a while, aimlessly chasing sensation for no reason other than you want to and it makes him wait. It isn't until you slide two fingers into your aching sex, pressing up and in to fuck yourself slowly in front of him, that you hear Mando make a noise.

It's nothing at all like how he sounded over the caf. It's rough and urgent even through the modulator, and it lights a shameless fuse in the cradle of your thighs. Time to find out exactly how far he wants you to go.

"Hold still." You advance on him, still straddling his lap, tilting his head to where you need it. He doesn't let go of your hips, and if he has any idea what you're about to do, he doesn't show it. He's perfectly capable of stopping you, you remind yourself, could probably throw you across the cargo bay if he wanted. He’d invited you to be the one in control. The knowledge gives you courage to come closer still, close enough to cant your hips forward...

And push your wet cunt directly into his helmet, right against where his mouth would be.

The sounds you both make as your warm flesh hits the beskar mirror each other in their desperation. You can't help but keen as the softest parts of you feel metal, cool even in the hot morning air. The Mandalorian under you jolts at the contact, letting out a broken, bitten-off growl. He's still holding you, could easily push you away, but he does just the opposite, adjusting the angle to bring more of his helmet flush against you. Even that small action makes some deep part of you seize with empty frustration, desire roaring through your veins. It's exactly the way a lover would part your legs to give themselves better access, but all you can feel is the smooth plane of the visor and you need more.

You close your eyes, put your hands on the crest of his helmet, and give an experimental thrust. Your thighs slot easily into the curves of his faceplate and what the beskar lacks in texture is made up for by the knowledge that you are a scant inch away from riding his face. You squirm a little, opening space to shove two fingers crudely back into yourself, already past the point of trying to provoke with anything more subtle. The movement brings your clit into contact with the low ridge over his faceplate and you hiss out a word that sounds very much like yes. You squirm again, fucking yourself down onto your hand at the same time the ridge pushes into your folds.

Mando understood your purpose as soon as your cunt touched metal, the eerie ability for reading others you've seen in combat brought to bear on you. His callused hands are working your hips in earnest now, grinding you against him. It's half fuck and half shared fantasy, the helmet providing only the meanest friction against your clit while the idea of Mando's mouth - his mouth, even in the privacy of your bunk you've never dared to imagine the details of his mouth - on you stimulates you far more. The thought of all his skill and focus narrowing to pleasing you has already gotten you wetter than you imagined possible, but it's more than that. If you just could feel him that way, close the loop on the circuit between you, know he's there with you, as desperate as you are - you aren't sure you'd ever be able to stop.

The tide between your legs is rising, orgasm kindling in the nerves of your sex. His bare skin against yours, your own fingers nudging something humming and electric inside you, the hard press of the helmet: it all adds up to an obvious conclusion, your body racing to finish the equation. The closer you get the more noise you make, until you finally realize you're talking, words spilling out of you with no intention from your brain. Words like Mando and more and please. Words like feel so good and I want you, which makes your heart stop for a moment with fear, but his only response is to your hips as he holds you tighter, grip pressing hard enough to bruise.

You're teetering on the edge when you tell him what you really mean, reveal the thing you've wanted since he told you he couldn't and then tempted you with the merest brush of his hand over your skin. You would never have said it otherwise, but it's there now, the truth pushing insistently behind your teeth. You wait until the last possible moment; until you feel your climax catch and flare, pulling you into a whirlpool of mindless pleasure.

"Fuck, I-- I wish I could see you like this. I've thought about it-- about you," you confess. It feels like you're baring the filthiest, worst part of your soul, admitting that you've imagined what it would be like with his naked face buried in your cunt. The concession is equal parts humiliating and exhilarating, a glimpse into something so private that you've barely examined it yourself, a breach of your painstaking respect for his way of life. "I want to feel your mouth on me."

You can feel the shudder that runs through him when you say it and there's an indescribable sound from under the helmet, something like a groan but hungry, full of desire and frustration - the noise of a man who sees a feast in his dreams after years of famine. It goes right to your core, a bolt of lust beyond what you knew was possible sparking from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, and your eyes fly open. You look down. It's his face, the face of his helmet, the only face you know him by, framed by your thighs as you rub your slick against the transparisteel that tips you past the point of no return, your cunt clenching and your knees buckling as you come.

***

He’d been doing so well holding himself in check. He’d even managed to tell you that he couldn’t provide what you were looking for, the service he’s done for you with great regularity lately. Din is mostly sober, or thinks he is, but he doesn’t trust himself after yesterday. His interrupted lust is still seething just under the habitual discipline. He’s not afraid that he wouldn’t stop if you asked him - there’s no world in which he’d ever be inebriated enough for that - but he’s afraid of what you might say yes to. What you might eagerly permit him. He’s clinging to his Creed like a lifeline but that’s the problem with the Way: it rarely tells him what to do, only that he must do it honorably and with intention. He doesn’t feel especially honorable right now. It would be so much easier if he were outright forbidden this, your rapid breathing and your erratic heartbeat and the convincing wetness of your cunt.

What’s happening right now couldn't be more different than the practiced passion of last night. Unlike last night, however, the chaotic tangle between you occupies all his senses. His already-interested cock has swollen to impossible hardness, somehow more sensitive to the uncomfortable bite of his own clothing than it was to any of the clever tricks that had been used to coax his enthusiasm twelve hours ago. He can't see you, but he can smell you, your musk and the scent of the regulation soap he always buys mixed with sweat. The perfume of your sex, warm and more than willing for him, is one of the things fueling his nearly painful hard-on but for some reason it's the soap that gets to him, replacing every coherent thought with wild, driving need. It's a smell he associates with himself, with his ship, it's the same soap that he's bought for years at every surplus depot in the galaxy and he's never thought about it for even a second but suddenly it’s all over you. It's him, he can smell himself when you push into him, and it makes him feel like he's going insane, like he'll never be able to get inside you deep enough or make you come hard enough to stop himself wanting more of you.

Now you're talking to him and he can hear that just fine, your breathless admission that you want this too, that you've thought about him beyond those times where he's behind you and you're begging for release, imploring him with a name that isn't even a name, just a category. He can hear when you urge more, more, and short on sleep and still half-drunk he can pretend you mean more than more pressure, more than right now, more than Mando.

And then you say the thing that ruins him, making his cock jump and his throat dry and his heart a triphammer in his chest. You tell him you want him - not the armor, not the Mandalorian, but him; his naked face, his naked self - his hips buck, driving upward against nothing, every bit of his carefully won control in pieces around him -

And the explosion he’s been waiting for rips through him, the suspended moment between trigger and blast slamming shut at last. He makes a noise he can’t even try to stop, loud and feral and animal, and comes, his orgasm taking him as hard as a fist to the gut.

***

You’re still partially on top of Mando when your breathing begins to normalize. Once the aftershocks had faded and your knees were no longer shaking quite so hard, you’d stepped off him and gently collapsed, your back against the crates and your legs draped across his cuisses. You know how debauched you must look, still naked and covered in sweat. Absurdly, it makes you feel shy, girlish in your need to conceal your soft and affectionate smile from the helmet next to you. “Holy shit, Mando,” you say instead, hoping your voice doesn’t give you away. “You should get drunk more often.”

That seems to take him by surprise, what sounds like a genuine laugh huffing through the moderator. He doesn’t respond but a hand moves up to your ankle and rests there, filling your chest with hazy satisfaction. You could probably spend forever like that, bonelessly content, but your post-coital bliss is reminding you what he missed while you were busy using him for your own pleasure. 

"Do you want--" you say, reaching tentatively for his belt, but what you mean is please let me, which makes it worse when he jerks away from your touch like it’s a soldering iron, pushing you off his thighs and letting your legs slide to the floor. You hadn’t meant to offend but clearly you have somehow, breaking the rules of your little game without even knowing what they are. You open your mouth to apologize but Mando is getting to his feet and his silence is already somehow back into place between you, impregnable as a fortress. You watch him walk away from you towards the ‘fresher, sealing the door behind him with a thud that lands heavy in your ears, and all you can do is stare after him.

In a kinder version of your world, you'd get off lightly from this. The man whose armor you'd just ruined would be drunk enough to forget, or at least drunk enough to forget details. He'd wake in eight or ten hours with a pounding head and a helmet that needed polish, but he wouldn't remember exactly why, and you'd be spared the self-inflicted invasion of your privacy. But you knew there was no chance of that, no chance that your Mandalorian's mind, even clouded with alcohol, was any less reflexively capable than the rest of him. He would remember what he'd done, and what you'd done, and what he hadn't even had to ask you for. You could have kept quiet. You could have stayed in your bunk. You could have declined to imagine, or at least to declined to share, what his mouth would feel like on you.

Too late for that now.

***

Din can’t regret his choices, not if they brought him here, with you warm and sated on top of him and his own body still coming down from the stupendous high of climax. Still, he’s forced to admit to himself that he’s struggling, the bill for his past abuses rapidly coming due. A truly monumental hangover is stalking through his synapses and he can't tell if the nauseous twist in his stomach is from the alcohol or all the things he wants to say and can't. He'd thought it would fade with the last haze of orgasm, but the urge to tell you how much he wants you remains overwhelming.

He tamps it down. All social creatures have a psychological urge to reciprocate the sharing of a secret. That's all this is: the reciprocal urge. He's used it himself when tracking bounties, a false confession from him eliciting a true one from his mark. It doesn't seem like you're lying to him, not exactly, but he thinks maybe it's not quite real either. You didn't mean it the way it sounded. You like what he can do for you, that's clear, and that liking is enough to earn your tolerance of his company the rest of the time. There was no way you could be conversant with all the complex overtones that imbue something like telling a Mandalorian you want his face between your thighs. Maker, he has to stop thinking about it.

He's still in control of himself enough to push the subject away for now, bury it for later when he can examine it later with a clearer head. What he doesn't know is how to stop the feeling that flares when you’re close to him like this, the sensation of hurtling towards something he can't stop, dogged as a footrace toward the edge of a cliff. He's dizzy and sweating and suddenly everything feels too hot. You've been on his ship twelve weeks and he's had you a dozen times by now, coming so hard around his fingers so hard he can feel the clench, choking on the pleasure he tells himself only he can give you. Today he can add another entry into that catalogue, your words searing through him as you fucked yourself against his visor, and he already knows it's not going to be enough. He's going to need it again. He might need even more. He might - with the sudden taste of bile rising in his throat - he might need to go be sick in private.

At least you didn't realize how far gone he is for this, the thing that stretches between you as powerful as a riptide. Your offer to accommodate his own needs made it quite clear you had no idea what you'd done to him, even if Din’s treasonous body had made sure he wouldn't be tempted by beating you to the punch. He wants to say something to soothe the hurt he’s inflicted, something that might help the new and giddy warmth between you linger, but he has no idea what - except the truth, which would be catastrophic.

He leaves the cargo bay with no ceremony whatsoever instead, shoving you off his lap and surging to his feet. He makes his way to the 'fresher, shuts the door behind him with more emphasis than he means to, and urgently fumbles his armor off. Then he half-collapses onto the lid of the vac tube, leaning over the tiny sink, and closes his eyes.

It's only when he feels the cool bite of beskar on his lips that he realizes he's resting his face against his helmet.

***

“I’m heading to town. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

It's late, the triune suns of this world long since dipped past the horizon. The heat is still suffocating. The landing site is bathed in purple shadows, the endless violet lightning of distant summer storms flickering across the sky. You've taken your schematics outside to work, sitting cross-legged on one of the antigrav loading lifts as it rests quiescent in the mud. You're dressed in clean clothes, having already done penance in the 'fresher with the temperature dial cranked all the way to a punishing cold and the plain white soap washing away any trace of beskar and leather. You are doing your best to fill your head with wiring diagrams, ignoring the way you can't seem to control your hands as they alternately brace and rub at the back of your datapad.

Mando is clearly back to being his sober, achingly polite self, making sure he doesn't leave without informing you, which for some reason is infuriating. You don't want to ignore him entirely but you can't find anything to say that won't meet his courtesy with childish irritation. You make a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement instead. He must not have heard you, because a gloved finger drops into your line of sight and taps the top of the datapad: once, twice.

Unwillingly, you drag your gaze up, fixing it on his left shoulder. You know you're a coward but even in the semi-dark you can't meet the cool line of his visor. Not yet. You wonder if you'll ever be able to look at him again, and then - a stray thought welling up from somewhere dangerously close to hysteria - you wonder if all Mandalorian helmets are the same. You've never noticed, never had reason to pay that much attention before. What if it's not just him, what if you'll never be able to see a beskar-clad bounty hunter without blushing? Maybe it's time to find a new line of work.

"Hey," the Mandalorian in front of you says, his inflection very neutral. You still won't look at him and you know your cheek is twitching and Maker, you must look insane. "Did you hear me?"

You wave him off. "Yeah, I'm fine. Go get... whatever it is you need."

It's not a double-entente, not really, and you didn't mean it that way anyway, you just hadn't been paying attention when he'd announced where he was headed, but the shoulder you've locked your eyes on flinches and there's a slightly choked noise though the modulator. It should be funny, that your slip of phrasing could have that much effect, when you half-naked and begging for him didn't.

It isn't. It kills any shred of humor you've found in the situation instead, slamming your teetering smile to a halt abruptly as a bounty in carbonite for the second time today. You suddenly feel exhausted, the empty space yawning in your chest a poor exchange for the satisfied purr of the space between your legs. Fuck but you wish it was your turn to get drunk. Anything to get away from this for a while. Whatever this is.

But Mando is solving that problem for you, at least temporarily. He nods, already turning away to collect the speeder and head back to the city, and you wonder if he's as eager to flee the awkward interaction as you are. You wonder if you'll ever have any other kind of interaction with him ever again. Is this it for you now, prolonged silences and painful courtesy and the occasional white-hot orgasm as he spurs you - or you goad him, you aren't even sure - to acts more depraved than you've ever dreamed of?

You're still looking down when he leaves, which means you see his booted feet cross the clearing, noting that his stride is once again relaxed and elastic in all the ways that are now painstakingly familiar. Undeniable evidence that he is back to his aloof, controlled self, as though this morning had never happened, as though you hadn’t used the thought of his mouth to take yourself apart.

Now he is no longer looking directly at you, you can lift your eyes to watch him with less embarrassment. It's dark enough you can't make out more than shaded contours and straight lines as he checks over the speeder, kicking the throttle to life with a roar. Then another flash of the ever-present lightning, light cracking across his armored form, every inch of beskar gleaming as clean and precise as his practiced hands as he slings his rifle slant-wise and releases the brake. A following moment of shadow after and your Mandalorian gone, vanishing in the twilight, but you don't need him there to know what you saw. The ubiquitous helmet, shining as if newly minted, every trace of you wiped and buffed and polished from its surface. 

You turn your head to follow the progress of the speeder bike across the plains into the night and wonder if you ever left a mark at all.

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