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the-mandawhor1an · 6 months ago

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Two suns

Chapter 4 – Guided by the stars, connected by the force

Masterlist

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Chapter summary: Tatooine. The desert planet with the two suns is said to be the residence of a Mandalorian. Will they be able to help locate a Jedi for Grogu? Or will the search turn into another adventure to sidetrack the trio?

Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI! description of captivity, mention of scars, Peli “I don’t care about Tatooine’s water scarcity” Motto, not-so-realistic existence of a bathtub, first glimpse of fluff

Words: 3,6k

A/N: I will not apologize for any sins at the hands of Peli Motto. She is an unstoppable force. I hope anyone besides me and Zaddy enjoys her comments. We had too much fun with her.

Maia fell asleep quickly after the Razor Crest had taken off, the soft swaying of the ship rocking her to sleep. Luckily for her no dreams haunted her while she was peacefully resting in the little cot. It was surprisingly comfortable on the mattress, although she imagined Mando not agreeing, him being taller and significantly broader than her and definitely too large to curl up in the little sleeping space.

Mando was up in the cockpit, eyeing the little foundling that once again played with the little silver ball he’s grown to love. »Grogu?« again, the child responded with a noise and focusing on the helmet. Another chuckle rumbled through the armor, as he took the ball out of the child’s hands to screw it in place on the shifter. »Fascinating. You like our companion, huh?« Grogu just blinked. Mando took that as a yes and lifted him off the seat, standing up in the process. »She didn’t hesitate to protect you. Makes her good in my book. Let’s see if she’s awake.« Grogu just let out a noise that sounded like ‘patoo’, whatever that meant.

Maia woke up as she heard the stomps approach the ladder. Everything in the Razor Crest was metal, which had the great property of amplifying any sound that was made inside. She rose to sit on the little mattress when Mando arrived at the lower deck of his ship. »Morning. Is it morning?« Maia yawned. »Afternoon. I hope you could get some rest in there. It’s not much but –« »It was enough. Thank you,« Maia cut him off. No one had to apologize for anything. It wan’t a soft luxury bed, yes, but it was definitely enough for her to doze off for a while.

Mando’s gaze rested on her for a second too long. Before she could ask what the issue was, he said »You need something else to wear. Your tunic is cut open. Here,« he gave her the child before he checked one of his many storage containers for something to wear. She touched the child’s nose with her index and made a little noise, which made Grogu coo delightfully. He was such a cutie. Mando’s lips curled into a soft smile underneath the helmet.

Mando handed her a brown shirt. It was definitely too big for her but maybe loose-fitting was more practical in the desert heat. »I’ll give you some privacy.« He took Grogu and left the Crest so Maia could quickly undress and put on the shirt. She wondered where it came from. Was it clothing of one of his bounties, perhaps? Or was it his shirt?

When her head ascended from under the fabric she could make out a familiar scent. »Kriff.« It was definitely one of his shirts. She knew that smell because she got way too close to him on Nevarro.

She tried her best to cool off her cheeks that were surely blushing, when a noise distracted her from her embarrassment. A very loud and shrill voice echoed through the cargo hold. She didn’t bother to straighten out her hair after her little slumber, surely looking all kinds of messed up when she emerged from the ship.

»Aaaand who’s that?« the woman next to Mando asked him. Her hair was almost as messy as Maia’s although hers appeared to be normal that way. The woman in her dusty dark brown overall handed the child back to his caretaker before approaching the new arrival. »Another child you found on your adventures?« She poked around Maia’s body, taking her chin between her fingers just like Mando did, just a lot less gentle. »I’m Maia and I’m not a child,« the brunette protested. To be fair, Mando’s shirt was too big on her and made her look smaller. But it smelled so nice. What.

»I know you’re not but you’re dressed like one. Did you get dressed in the dark?« Well, kind of… but this wasn’t her choice of outfit. »Mando,« the strange woman turned around to address the Mandalorian again, »Get her something to wear, she can’t walk around like this. Mos Pelgo can wait! And you, come with me.« With a tug on her arm Maia followed the woman. It didn’t feel like she had any choice to come with her, anyway. For a second she felt the sting and instantly turned her head back to look at Mando, who watched the two women leave the hangar.

»What did you get into, child. All dirty and disheveled. And is that blood?« they entered a staircase, a very narrow one at that, and ascended. Probably into an apartment. »Well… most of that’s my blood if that’s any less concerning.« »Not in the slightest. Where did he find you?« They reached the top of the stairs and Maia was greeted with a small entry, leading to a kitchenette on the right, a small living space on the left. The windows were slender, horizontal slits close to the ceiling to grant some light while not allowing too much sunlight to accumulate to heat up the rooms. She was guided through another narrow hallway, a metal door on the right, a curtain opposite to the metal door. She could make out a bed behind the curtain, most likely a bedroom. »He saved me,« Maia finally confessed when the woman let go of her hand. »Saved?« she repeated and raised an eyebrow. At least that’s what Maia thought, a severe lack of eyebrow hair on the woman’s brow bone made interpreting the muscle movements difficult. »From an ex-boyfriend? A lover?« The young brunette didn’t even know how to reply to that. Why would Mando…?

»Oh well, doesn’t matter. You’re taking a bath, bathrooms to the right.« »A bath? Isn’t �� water scarce here?« The older woman waved her hand, scoffed. »Honey, you’re so dirty no ultrasonic shower will get all of that off.« Maia got pushed into the bathroom. »Thanks…?« She turned to see, in fact, there was a bathtub in this bathroom. The door behind her wasn’t shut yet. Apparently there was more to say. »Mando’s getting you some clothes. I’ll add the bath to his bill. Name’s Peli, by the way.« And finally, she left, the door sliding closed.

Without much hesitation, Maia undressed and hopped into the tub. And Peli was right, there was a lot of dirt on her. When was the last time she actually felt clean? At first she just showered off the most dirt, which was a struggle until she found the valve for the warm water. When she was clean enough that the thought of sitting in her bath water didn’t repulse her any more, she filled the tub about halfway with warm water, sitting in it and looking out the small window that allowed her to watch the droids work on the Razor Crest. Her hair was down, wet strands of brown hair sticking to her back, all the way down below the water line, ending somewhere just above her butt. In between the strands of her hair, her skin was showing, fair, soft, and with an alarming amount of scars, but given her history that was to be expected. She was alone, no one would see her back. No one would see the scars, faded over time and only really visible when you’re too close to her. What was, however, a lot more visible than the souvenirs of her mistreatment, was the large, black tattoo that decorated the middle of her back. The sigil of the Empire and her ID below it. She often forgot she even had that marking on her back. Getting tattooed against her will wasn’t something she thought about often. She repressed it.

It was weirdly peaceful here, although Mos Eisley was a busy city. Perhaps it was that Peli’s hangar war completely closed off, like a fortress in the city center. How was Mos Pelgo, Maia wondered. Would it be similar, a metropolis amidst the large abandoned desert that spanned the whole planet? Or was Mos Pelgo perhaps smaller, even more peaceful than sitting in a bathtub and being allowed to just breathe for a minute.

The door behind her opened with a hiss, Mando entering with a stack of clothes for her. He didn’t look at her, at least she didn’t feel the sting in her neck when he set the clothes down. »I got you some clothes and…« he stopped in his tracks. There it was, the sting. »Why is the symbol of the Empire on your back?« Fark. She pulled her hair to the side, uncovering the whole tattoo as well as all the scars that accompanied it.

»I told you I’ve heard worse than the comments of some criminals. Felt worse.« He inhaled sharply. Guess it’s time to tell him. »I was a captive of the Empire for a long time, basically all of my childhood. I mostly grew up in a research facility, somewhere in a secluded area on a small moon. I can’t remember where. I’ve forgotten where I come from originally. M-414 is my ID, Maia is just what my guardian called me. They tattooed me after I tried to escape when I was fifteen. A bounty hunter brought me back, which is why I generally don’t like bounty hunters.« She arranged her hair to her front to cover her breasts until she turned to Mando, feeling his gaze scan over her back all the while she was talking. She leaned forward against the inner wall of the tub, resting her forearms on the edge of the tub, her head on top of her arms. She was covered like that and felt safe from his looks. Or safer. Her eyes looked into the visor. What was he thinking right now? »Frankly, I’m not sure if there’s still a bounty on me, my second escape attempt was successful, after all. I still want to help you and Grogu find Jedi but I’m afraid I’ll do more harm than good if we run into a bounty hunter, and chances are unfortunately high if we’re looking for a Mandalorian. It’s my personal interest that Grogu doesn’t have to go through what I did, which is why I’ve offered to help you in the first place. If you think I’m too much of a risk, I will leave.«

»I see,« was all he said. You see? What? I mean I know what you see right now, which is me. There was the sting again. She changed her posture, raising one forearm upright to rest her head on her hand. »Mando?« »Hm?« his head dipped. Where was he looking? »Quit staring,« she said with a grin. There wasn’t much he could see, unless he used some of the tech in his helmet for deeper insights. The worst he had seen. The tattoo.

His back straightened and his shoulders tensed. Got you. He scoffed and turned around. »Get dressed. We have to get going.«

A few minutes after Mando, Maia came downstairs to the hangar. Her hair was still loose and mostly damp, but the dry and hot air would dry it in no time. She could put it up later. Peli acknowledged her presence first, whistling when the young brunette joined them, clean and in a more feminine outfit. Now the helmet also turned to look at her. Loose-fitting dark brown pants, a top in the same dark brown fabric, and a beige v-neck tunic on top. Even the cape was dark brown, albeit of a different fabric and therefore had a different tint. All of it was loose-fitting to allow for air circulation, but still – it showed a bit of the feminine figure hidden beneath. It looked suspiciously Jedi with the belt and her lightsabers and she wondered if that’s what Mando had planned or if it was coincidence. »Well, who would’ve guessed that there was quite the attractive person hiding underneath all the gunk and that hideous shirt.« Again. Peli wiggled her nonexistent eyebrows. The mechanic wasn’t done. »I can tell why Mando wants to take you with him.«

The insinuation alone made the poor Maia blush and Mando tensed again. Stars. If that made him uncomfortable, maybe it was true? No, he probably thought about ambushing her while in the bath.

Peli showed them a map of Mos Pelgo, a very small settlement in the middle of the desert. Mando asked for a speeder bike that Peli used to have, and they got ready to leave. Grogu had the honor of sitting in a carrier bag at the end of the speeder bike, enjoying the wind that blew over his face, making his comically large ears flutter. Maia was practically glued to Mando’s back, meaning the jetpack had to be strapped to the carrier rack in the back of the bike. It wasn’t uncomfortable to be so close to him, but the fact that he had been so quiet since he saw her tattoo made Maia uneasy. Did he suddenly not trust her? But then again if he didn’t he wouldn’t have taken her with him. She didn’t want to tap into his thoughts. She could, but it felt wrong now that she was next to him. She could just ask him. He felt so … conflicted, it was practically radiating off of him.

»The suns are setting soon. We’ll stay with Tuskens for the night,« he stated matter-of-factly. Tuskens? Of course this didn’t mean anything to her, never having encountered the natives of Tatooine before. When they approached the small village of tents, Maia got the first glance at one of the Tuskens. They looked… scary. But the way Mando talked to them, not understandable for her, made it seem like they were… quite friendly towards him and his companions. One of the Tuskens pointed a finger towards her. Mando didn’t bother to translate for her. Only when the Tusken led them to the campfire, the helmet faced her. »They’re letting us stay for the night.« »O-okay,« she said, setting Grogu in the warm sand beside her. They sat around a campfire, Maia quietly humming to herself while she braided her now dry hair. The little green gremlin got something to eat, smacking his lips loudly and looking generally happy. That was until Maia, with a grin on her face, stole some of the little one’s dinner, the green paws reaching for her to get his food back.

Again she felt Mando’s eyes burn on her skin. She ignored it until he got up. »Come with me,« he ordered. Her heart sank. Something inside her told her he’d leave her here. Or whatever. It sounded like he wanted to talk and based on their most recent interaction it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

She followed him through the shadows the tents cast on the red sand. The suns were setting, the whole settlement now in the shade. They walked to the edge of the camp. Maia anticipated any kind of confrontation and watched the helmet intently. »Have you ever seen anything like this?« he simply asked, the helmet looking to her, then nodding to where he had looked before. Her eyes followed the direction of the nod.

The suns were close to the horizon, painting the sky in the most vibrant shades of orange, red, pink and even purple. Her eyes widened, clearly taken aback by the view. »It’s… beautiful,« she whispered. She had seen sunsets before, but never with two suns and also never out in the open like this, an unfiltered view of the large glowing orbs descending and slowly disappearing underneath the horizon. »I’ve seen sunsets before but this,« she blinked a few times, her eyes sparkling as they filled with tears. Don’t get emotional. »Is breathtaking.«

Just for a second her eyes jumped to the side, looking at her companion, whose gaze was fixed to the sunset. At least that’s what the helmet suggested. What are you doing to me?

»I thought maybe you needed to see something pleasant for a change. Neither Nevarro nor the fighting arena were really … nice views.« His voice didn’t give off any tense or disgruntled undertone. His shoulders sank when he sighed audibly. »I wanted to thank you for protecting Grogu. I know I said I didn’t trust you, but you jumped to action without questions. Therefore… thank you.« Mando was thanking her? Was he perhaps warming up to her? She smiled softly. »Thank you for showing me the sunset.« She looked back to the suns, the first one below the horizon already and the blue night sky slowly creeping over the sky. The first stars started showing up.

»I guess it’s easy to forget that beauty still exists out here and not everything is… bad. Being able to take a breather isn’t something I take for granted. I guess you don’t either. You’re like a magnet for adventures.« »Yes. Moments like this are rare. Probably even more for you if you’ve been imprisoned for so long.« He nodded, then his body slowly rotated towards her. The visor tilted to fixate her eyes. Again, there was the sting. Would that feeling ever dull? »Don’t worry about the other Mandalorians. They will not touch you. You protected a foundling and that should deter them from attacking you. Even if you have a bounty.« A soothing thought. Really, actually. »I hope they share your sentiment. I know you didn’t trust me at first and I can understand that.« She rested her hand on his shoulder plate. He tensed and she regretted the decision to touch him. But neither did he move or comment on her approach, nor did she retreat the hand. »Even if you still are unsure about me. I don’t know what you and Grogu have been through. All I know is Grogu means a lot to you. If protecting him means that much to a Mandalorian, then I hope they see it the same way.«

Her hand slid down the beskar plate and she pulled back. That was awkward. »What will you do when Grogu is in the hands of the Jedi?« she asked. »Will he forget me?« He didn’t even answer her question. He really bonded with the child. »I … don’t know,« she responded. »If we find someone who still works by the old rules, then he won’t be allowed any relationship with you. Then it’s only his master, him, and the force.« Definitely not what he wanted to hear, but it was the truth.

»Maybe that’s what’s best for him. I will go back to bounty hunting. What about you?« She shrugged. It wasn’t like she knew what to do. All she ever wanted was to find ‘the guy’ – and now she was with him. »I guess I should find my place in the galaxy. Or figure out who I am… or was… or… originally was supposed to be before I got captured. Thing is, I don’t even know where to look. I can’t walk into an Imperial base and just ask.« Her brows furrowed. »Besides I still feel like I owe you. Bringing Grogu to a Jedi doesn’t feel like it’s enough to make up for you saving my life. You don’t need a medium-sized troublemaker to accompany you on your adventures, do you?«

»You want to stay with a bounty hunter while there might be an active bounty on you?« Yeah, putting it like that made it sound ridiculous. It was. But she couldn’t just leave. »Why not? Could always claim you got to me first if we run into another hunter. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Not that we are but…« I feel safer with you around.

»I’ve been with a small troublemaker for so long now… maybe I can live with a co-pilot for a while.« Her heart just about jumped. It definitely sounded like he was smiling underneath the helmet. Dank Farrik. And he did, but how would she know?

»I just hope the Mandalorian in Mos Pelgo can help us. They’re almost as hard to find as your kind,« he continued. »That’s probably the only thing we have in common. And I’m not a Jedi.« She looked back where the sunset had happened just a few minutes ago, the horizon still showing a glimpse of the colors but most of the sky now engulfed in dark blue. »We should probably go back. I don’t want to appear rude to our hosts,« she thought out loud. »Let’s go, then.« He nodded and walked back to the camp, her following him. Where would they even sleep? Not that she was particularly tired, she had just slept for quite a few hours in the Crest, but he needed some sleep.

»You can sleep in this tent over here,« Mando stated, pointing towards one. » You’re a woman so you get a bit more privacy. I’ll keep Grogu with me.« She almost stumbled over her own feet, thankful he didn’t see as she was behind him to the side. »I can’t communicate with them. Can you thank them for me?« He nodded. »Will do. We leave at sunrise. Good night.« He turned around as Maia approached the entry of her tent. »Mando?« she asked, waiting for him to turn around. He looked over his shoulder, back still turned to her. »Yes?« »Don’t feel like it’s your responsibility to right the wrongs of others.« Did he even understand what she meant? »I know I can’t. But you deserve better.« And with that he left to return to the campfire.

Maia retreated into the tent. Her thoughts were racing for a while until she finally fell asleep.

A/N: One thing I have to mention here. My stupid ass forgot Star Wars universe technically doesn’t use the latin alphabet. It just so happens that M414 and MAIA look similar enough in Aurebesh that it’s still plausible. I can delulu myself into thinking that Raymond saw that and thought “eh, close enough” Zaddy approves, eheh.

Another thing I'm adding in post: In the first version of the fic (aka Version 0 to 3) Maia's tattoo was actually a branding. Which was infinitely more cruel to do to a teenager but I have a few thougts about that. A burn probably causes more trauma, yes, but in theory should be easier to force-heal than a tattoo where a foreign body (ink) is involved; no matter if a teen Maia was able to force-heal at the time. the placement also has changed multiple times; Plus, with a tattoo I like the option that we could just have it removed (later...)

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin fanfiction #wolke schreibt #gbtscbtf #original female character #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fluff #mandalorian fluff #lovesick fools

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userdjarin · 4 years ago

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dusky visor (iii)

the mandalorian x f reader | ao3

↞ pt.2 | masterlist | pt.4 ↠

series rating: explicit

summary: mando had always worked alone. and then he found someone to trust.

injuries, accidents, and amends.

series warnings: domestic fluff, light angst, hurt/comfort, smut, porn with plot, ofc touch-starved din, is it obvious i’m writing for a universe idrk

chapter warnings: descriptions of a wound + blood + injection, mando briefly and accidentally hurts you, uhhh filth, blindfolds, fat meat mando :-), oral sex (m + f receiving), facial, cum-eating, multiple orgasms + overstimulation, mando is insatiable!!

wc: 7.1k

a/n: christ i am so bad at gauging the word count LOL maybe this is too long and winded bc half of this is just one (1) smut sequence :-//

Alright, so, you didn’t get to taste him after all. Having two orgasms meticulously rip through you from head to toe, one after the other, had you spent. Sleep might had even taken you before your head hit the pillow too.

So, you’re regretting it now, after you’ve been left alone all day with nothing to accompany you but your untiring thoughts. You have the kid with you too, of course, but you can only pretend for so long that the two of you are having intelligible conversations when you’re faking all of your comprehension of his huu’s and patoo’s.

After Mando had landed the Razor Crest on some industrial planet this morning, he left to put the newfound credits – courtesy of the departed Calican – to use with some new supplies and munitions. Given the less than amicable reputation of the raiders and pirates that litter this city, he instructed you and the child to stay in the safe seal of the ship while he goes on the search for it alone. So, you’ve taken an occupation in doing some maintenance and cleaning around the Crest, so thoroughly to pass the time that by now, you find yourself methodically polishing between the insignificant crevices of the flight board’s controls.

But even that wasn’t enough to distract you from asking yourself if it—last night—will ever happen again. It couldn’t have been anything more than just two people satiating the starved nature that organically breeds from living in close quarters with no one else but each other.

Right?

But Maker, did you make it so blatant just how starved you were – coming twice, one right after the other. You’re shameless. Maybe it’s good you didn’t have to face Mando today.

The thoughts flee you when you feel the vibrations under your feet that tell you the ramp is lowering. You’ve had all day to prepare on how you’ll act around him once he returns. But now you’re forgetting left from right, let alone whether you decided if it is safer to pretend like nothing happened or to address the bantha in the room right out of the gates.

You spin to find the kid’s betrayal, having fallen asleep in his pram that rests on the copilot’s chair. This kriffing green toad was supposed to be your conversation buffer, but a nap must’ve been more stimulating than watching you clean the console like it was a surgery. A defeated sigh deflates your shoulders as you reach to close the pod and let the kid rest, before grudgingly leaving to face the tribulation yourself. You’ll see if Mando needs help putting things away, and to remind him of the leftover nut loaves and meat bricks if he hasn’t eaten yet.

You start with deliberate steps down the ladder. But your landing onto the hull’s bottom is much less so – brash and panicked when you hear the disjointed, modulated breathing and the hefty clunk onto the deck that sounded like the same weight as an armoured Mandalorian.

Composure is held at a great length away when you find him slumped on the floor against the far wall with the cast of net slinging back the mount of storage boxes. The lag in his movement as he removes a pauldron reads like he’s expended, and you suspect he didn’t do himself any favours when he probably forced himself to stock away his purchases before he’d tolerate a collapse.

“Sh-Shit, Mando, are you—what happened?” A gale of flustered words sputters from your lips while you dive to your knees beside him. You’re following suit in helping him rid his other pauldron, unsure exactly why, until your fingers hit a deep-seated feeling of viscid moisture that drains the rest of your extremities of sense and acuity. The dread rears when a reluctant retrieval finds you generous ribbons of red dyeing the length of your fingers and the lustre of the shoulder plate.

“Bounty hu—unters. Group of them. Ambushed m—” A dry pant steals his voice, the blanched tone of it sounding like it hurt to shape each word. “Managed t-to take them all down but—got… one got me.”

Paying caution but wavered by a haste, you wedge a palm behind his back to bunch up a corner of his cape and press it to the general area of the bleeding. “Fuck, h-how bad is it?”

His chest is heaving but he narrowly strains out a word. “Th-the—the…”

“The medpac!” You gasp, adjacent to a tenor of apology for not thinking of it sooner. You clamber over his outstretched legs to bring you closer to the wall of storage, where you plunge an arm into an opening of the mesh to rummage for the kit.

“—the Crest looks spotless,” he rasps to finish, and it didn’t sound comfortable. “Good job.”

You’ve got no capacity to assemble a response, hoping that his apparent indifference means there’s optimism to his situation. But, you’re more grounded in your suspicion otherwise, glimpsing at the exhaustion that dims his movement and renders him near unfamiliar when he works to loosen his cuirass until the plates fall down his frame.

“You were gone all day, but I just thought—” your lumbering clutch retreats from the net with the pack, ungainly with frustration. “—Shit, I should’ve known. Sh-should’ve checked in on you on the commlink.” You don’t waste as you’re hurdling back over to the side of his injury and throwing open the contents of the kit onto the floor. “Why didn’t you say something?”

A broken but amused scoff shudders his chest. “And what—hah, what would you have done? S-s-set out, blaster in hand, to help me face them?”

Mando’s mild taunt brings you to empty a small huff from your throat, not insulted, but staggered he could find any facility to make light of his state right now. While you, on the other hand, have limbs that want to shake like a guarantee that it’s the only thing you know how to do. But you refuse it. Because right now, you need to promise yourself and Mando that you can be of trust and reliance. So, you play along to ground you to that promise.

“Save your breath, Mando.” You’re able to find a jeering edge through the char in your mouth and it nearly startles you. “I’m gonna take a look, okay?”

Mando lets you flatten a hand across his unarmored chest for him to lean forward on so you can inspect his wound. Slowed by a tire, he loosens his neck wrap to undo his cape and free them from obstructing you.

“And—yeah, so what if I showed up, blaster in hand?” you lean into the gentle mischief to comfort you while you’re straightening on your knees to arch over his shoulder and peer down his back. “How hard is it to—to aim and shoot? I bet all that beskar is just to look pretty anyway. F-For show. And—and the kid c-could’ve done his magic hand wave-y thing you’ve told me about.”

You feel Mando’s entertained reply in the scarce humming in his chest on your palm, but you don’t hear it because you’re instead barraged by the acid building behind your airway when you find the slash in his flight suit, the frayed seams of it speckled with a quality of mahogany. The tunic is fucking soaked, you feel, when quivering fingers reach to pull back the teared fabric. And then your stomach is hollowing out at the sight of the thick trickles spilling from the gouge that breaks his skin. It’s tucked under his shoulder blade, like a vibroblade must’ve just missed the armour and dug into his side. It doesn’t look like it got too deep, but the damage made as the dagger shredded its way out in the retrieval is certainly worse. You’re biting your tongue to kill the startled curse from leaving your lips, because you’ll give your fear the power to grow if you speak of it aloud.

You draw back on top of your calves, occupying your hands with the medpac contents so he doesn’t see you shake. “S-sorry, I’ve never administered bacta as an injection before, but—” your breath hitches when you palm the fucking huge syringe, “—but I’ll be careful.”

“No.” Mando doesn’t need more than a single, neat syllable to deliver a weight of finality. His hand overlaps yours that holds the E-bacta shot and urges it back down into the kit. “It’s for—I got that for you and the kid. Maker forbid we’ll ever have to use it. But—save it in case… in case something happens to either of you. Patches—bacta patches will do.” He heaves a low grunt when he reaches for the bandages instead.

You’re rattled by a disbelief that he could even think to debate this. “Mando, it’s a stab wound. Bacta patches a-are for temporary—it won’t be enough!”

“Looks… worse than it is.”

Your face contorts with distress and urgency as you gasp your plea. “Fuck, Mando, you—you’re bleeding out! No time to—” Panicked fingers clasp onto his sleeve to prove your desperation, while you’re thinking about just how much more blood he’s poured by now. “—to argue, so pl-please just let me do this!”

Your heart is pumping so brashly, it drives a pulsing to your furthest extremities, and you could’ve sworn it was drumming a rhythm against the floor underneath you. A cold sweat swamps your skin enough that you feel yourself clammy and nearly sliding atop the metal panels. It drags on for seemingly eternities even more so when Mando’s visor holds on you, so rigid and covert to keep you from knowing if he is steadfast in his decision or if his defence is withering.

And then he grants you the reprieve you so anxiously need. “Don’t… use it all. Just—just a quarter dose.”

The sigh of relief that you let out is the largest give your lungs have felt this entire time and it’s almost blissful. You’ll give him a half dose since he hasn’t seen just how nasty the wound is himself, and you’re not willing to take bets. But you won’t tell him that.

Your grip is strong with an eagerness now as you’re prudently gliding the kit’s pair of shears along his suit, from the hem at his neck into a trail down his chest and another down his back. You peel the trimmed strip back to access his wound and his arm, where you’ll decide on a fleshy area for the jab. You’re bringing the needle there while the adamant need to stop his bleeding, to hear colour return to his voice, to watch verve return to his movements, tunnels your vision. Until the cave of Mando’s palm drapes your hovering wrist.

You peer up at him with a vivid reassurance that displaces the nervous glisten in your eyes. “Qu-quarter dose. I’ll be careful,” you repeat back to him.

“I know.” His calm cadence tells a story of trust where you imagine his gaze couldn’t. It is another concern that he is instead reminding you of. “But… breathe.”

With all of your senses bound to a certain resolve, you hadn’t realized your breaths were at a standstill. But Mando noticed.

He always notices.

You’re nodding as you take his advice, attentively inflating your chest in the same tempo you sink the syringe into his skin. The exhale that grinds out from his modulator sounds even more ragged, like it had sieved through clenched teeth first. And then Mando tips his helmet back against the wall as the tension extinguishes from his muscles when you’re drawing the bacta shot away, half empty. You’re mirroring the same ease as a solace starts a slow bleed throughout your body, ejecting the fretful shivers from your bones.

“Sneaky. That was more than a quarter.”

Stars. Nothing you do ever evades him. You’re quick to move on before your trickery dwells in the air for too long.

“Gonna clean you up now, Mando.”

Still, you find contentment in the fact that his senses must not have been startlingly eroded if he was able to catch your fib. Before the high of the bacta sets in and possibly lures him into a lethargy that will work to your detriment when you alone can’t move his heavy frame around, you carefully help him shift for you to better face the arch of his back. He turns away from you, leaning his uninjured side against the wall instead.

You’re more than vaguely intimidated by the vibrant gash that stares back at you while you’re cleansing it with a basin of water and some towels. But, you try to find soothe in the reminder that in a few hours, it’ll close to a dull ridge of a scar, maybe even more insignificant a few hours after that. E-bacta shots are potent, which is why they’re so rare to come across and why Mando was so insistent on saving it.

You let him recover in the quiet, feeling the delicacy of his uninterrupted breathing under your hand, flattened across his ribs to steady him while another watchfully dabs a cloth at the swaths of red over his skin. You’ve mopped most of the blood off him, and it lets you see him better, feel him deeper.

Mando is hot to the touch. His skin is honey in both sight and texture. Uncovered are the gentle hills and valleys that carve his sturdy arm, leading to the sculpted expanse of his shoulder. Cascading from it are inviting crevices that delectably map out the strong of his back. And just as spellbinding is the climb, where the solid column of his neck boasts as a perfect canvas for the brush of your tongue. You almost hate that it’s an overtaking thought in your mind while he’s tired and weak and hunched over with injury in front of you. But it’s innate when this is the most of him you’ve ever seen – you haven’t even seen his cock yet even though he was filling you with it to the hilt last night. Still, you’re rising to leave and rinse the soiled cloths, and to starve out the thought with distance before the indecent opinions continue.

While dumping the basin of polluted water into the fresher’s sink, you’re reminded that although you’ve cleared the area of his wound, his clothes remain generously stained. “Mando, your flight suit—i-it’s soaked,” you speak over the running stream of the faucet. “Do… d-do you want me to help you out of it?”

You’ve tried your best to strip most of the colour from your voice so that your offer rings as nothing more than medical and aiding, but you’re resenting the reveal in the stutters that splinters your words. And then, it’s something else that worries you instead, when nothing breaks the quiet, still air in reply. A pause this long wasn’t normal for even your reserved Mandalorian shipmate.

“Mando?” you call again to stir his rest, in case he was snoozing, while finding him exactly where you had left him. But then, you’re looking back at the blood-saturated towels that pool in the sink and… he’s bled a lot. Your peer returns to him when this known light-sleeper once again fails to respond. And still has yet to move. Actually, you don’t remember a single shift in his position since you first touched a damp towel to his skin.

Shit. A winded breath is held captive in your throat as you’re hastening back over to him. Maker, you hope he is just resting. But the fear is incessant – were you too late with the bacta injection? Had he bled out beyond repair at that point? Fuck, you should’ve just slammed that shot into him without waiting to argue about it!

You’re kneeling behind him now but you’re quaking too much, unable to steady yourself in order to compare for a rise or fall in his frame that’ll tell you he’s breathing. So, you’re desperate for a more immediate and firm confirmation, and you decide you’ll find it in the dive of two fingers under the bottom ridge of his helmet that’ll comb for a pulse. Your digits are wiggling under the tight hug of beskar, but before you could catch a rhythm, everything spins and a struck to the back of your head rips the air from your lungs.

Doubling vision keeps your sights from settling, but you make out the abyssally black visor that hovers above you and the weight that crushes your chest to keep you fastened to the floor.

This act is foreign. Far from the light touches and soft voices he normally uses towards you. But it’s because your act on him had been just as foreign.

“—t’s me! Mando, i-it’s me!” you cough, you pant, your lungs pulling up and tight as they’re desperate for a breath that seemingly exists an impossible reach away. What you had managed to push out your throat was only a scarce ghost of your voice, but without the time for recovery, you used anything that would’ve been enough to sober him.

“Sh—” he doesn’t waste when he lets the recognition of you wrench himself off your figure, “—Shit.” His reach starts for your shoulder to help you off the ground but recoils away just as quick, averse to startling you further with any more of his sudden movements. “Th-the shot—! It—! It…” The turbulence that filters through his vocoder speaks of unrest and worry and blame – too rattled to find the finishing words.

In his dark, quiet, foggy, drug-induced doze that had muted all concepts of where and when, all he had perceived was the uninvited fidget of his helmet, like it was lifting off his neck. Bacta shots have been known to cloud senses and stimulate a bit of a high, so he perceived a threat before he perceived you. His bounty hunter instincts stole the reins and he reacted how he would to any adversary that had welcomed themselves to the trespass of exposing his face. Except, it was you, not an enemy, that he had forcefully thrown back and pinned to the ground.

“Are you hurt? D-do you need—”

Huffs still erupting from your chest, you instead try to speak with the reach of your hand, urgent to dispel his apprehension and relieved to find that vitality has returned to him. Mando receives you by offering the hook of his elbow for you to latch on, another delving behind your back as they together draw you up into a sit. “Stars, your—” you try to let words fall between each cough until you’ve gathered enough of an unbroken voice, “—your strength is back. Th-that’s go—od.”

“Are you hurt?” he repeats again, his speech low and compacted by the gravity of concern now. The fabric of his gloves scratches your face when his palms swallow the margins of your jaw. He holds you like this for him to study the life in your eyes.

“No—no! Fine! I’m fine!” Having fully caught your breath, you add a vibrancy to your tenor in case your gaze wasn’t convincing enough, and because this intimate act spikes your heartbeat in a way that disarranges your pitch. “Just—just surprised me is all. But I’m fine.” You’re uninclined to mention the muffled panging at the back of your head, but you figure it will subside shortly.

Still, the black of his visor fixing on you tells you he is immeasurably far away from letting go of his blame. “Sorry doesn’t—sorry doesn’t even begin to—”

“It’s okay,” you wrap around his wrists and squeeeze to help your plea, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

The fever that starts in your chest from interlocking like this is threatening to travel like wildfire. Your eyes catch the trimmed strip of his flight suit that wilts from his arm, before you’re following the contours that shape the unveiled length of it. And then an appetite to see more derails all other thoughts.

Your hands move to scarcely lift one of his palms off your face, only for your fingers to gingerly arch under the hem of his glove before you lag there and glance back at him in request. He wordlessly responds with permission when his hand draws backwards to make the stripping of his glove mutual. You don’t let a second to exist before you’re replacing the naked cave of his grasp with the curve of your cheek. Your face sinks into the delicate hills of it that convince you it’s where you belong.

“You… could never hurt me.” The bleed of his bared warmth across your skin empties a quiet, idyllic sigh from your chest. You have to bite back the purr that nearly falls from the seam of your lips when his fingers curl tighter along your jaw. “I’m glad you’re alright,” your voice dips with soft honey to reassure him.

You’re losing yourself in his rich scent that mutes the border where he ends and you start. It hikes your need for more, and your body acts on its own when it searches for it by abbreviating the gap between your face and his chest. When he doesn’t move away, you allow yourself to close the distance with a bury into the place under his collarbones.

Stars, your self-serving desire certainly erodes any idea of reservation. Though, your face is fitting beautifully in the firm of his chest. But Maker, you’re greedy. You don’t want to stop there. You want skin to skin. You want to taste.

“Mando, I… I want to—”

You don’t finish with words but with action when your fingers clasp around the clipped edge of his tunic that loosely still clings to him. But then his hands are binding both your wrists and you freeze like a caught criminal. The gravel in his next words, though, reads like an invitation.

“Tell me what you want, precious girl.”

Only wisps sieve from your lips, “F-fuck, Mando, I—” The peaking of your appetite puts a fluster in your grapple for words. “I want to—to have you in m-my mouth.”

A ragged breath drones out from his modulator as he releases you, hands dropping into a grasp of your thighs instead like he needs to catch his balance after such lurid verses. It tells you he’s crippled by a craving just as laden. So you take it as permission for your digits to continue its peel of the fabric down his torso, revealing the hills of his clavicle that you trace with delicate kisses. The gorgeous way your lips cushion against his skin is enough to string together a shameless hum from the depths of your throat.

You’re fucking brash, ravenous, because you don’t even realize how low your hands have travelled on their own until his chest puffs and a gritted sigh rips out his voice filter. Only then do you finally feel the friction you yourself put between the wrap of your palm and the length below his abdomen.

Mando has surely found his strength back, given just how quick he stiffens and grows in your grip. You leave no time for deliberation or calculation when you’re tearing his waistband just low enough for you to take him into your hand. Maker, you’re purring when you finally feel the naked heat of his cock. You’re eager to spiral your thumb around the tip while you feverishly size him against your palm.

“F-Fuck.” His daunting girth spills a curse from your lips before you’re able to catch it.

How did he fit all that inside you last night? You’re startled, but more than that, you’re eager to find out for yourself again. The sheer length of him makes your mouth crave to taste him, to stretch around him, to abrade the cap of your throat. And you’ll indulge yourself with just that when you stable yourself on your knees before dipping your head to touch a thick lather of your tongue from the base to the velvet head. His length leans against the flat of your hand as you do so, and feeling him respond with a twitch in your hold swells your craving to take all of him into your mouth. But his ached panting out the vocoder reminds you of another spoil that you’re absolutely yearning for, and it delays you from continuing.

“Mando,” you resurface almost with an impatient gasp, “will you take off your helmet?”

Just so your audacity isn’t dwelling in the air for too long, you show him what you mean when you throw your shirt over your head. A few swift movements has you smoothly trimming across the waist with the heavy-duty shears from the medpac, still nearby and still unpacked. Then, you’re taking the long strip you’ve made yourself and blanketing your eyes with it, taking the dangling ends into a wrap that meets at the back of your head, where you’ll secure the threads with a tight knot. You hope he won’t also make you pathetically explain with words just how needy you are in your wish to hear his raw cadence and unfiltered pleasure when you later push his cock the deepest it’ll go in your mouth.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he is tender in both his timbre and his gesture when he meets you by a delicate touch on your cheek, just under the fabric of the blindfold.

“Y-Yes.” A conservative syllable, yet without your sight, you’re able to hear just how graceless it was in tenfold. “Will—will you take it off?”

And you get your answer when you hear the rim of beskar lightly clunk against the ground. Thrill surfaces on your face as a foolish smile before you’re able to extinguish it. But you’ll make a spectacle of yourself in another way, pumping the length of him as you dip the connect of your lips back down to the tip, now glossed by a film of precum.

You’re thorough in flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock as you slowly take him into the hot bind of your mouth. The slight hop in Mando’s tone tells you he’s rolled his head back, before his lips billow a hiss that is an octave away from an unreserved groan. Indulging in the undressed sound of it urges your thighs to squeeze together, creating a bit of a stammer in your kneel atop the floor panels.

The tease of his taste excites you, so you invite him into a deeper glide along untouched depths of your tongue. You only reach the midpoint of his size before an introduced ache forces your lips to clasp down harder. You gently suck to tauten the wrap of your mouth around him.

"You feel incre—ah—credible. Do—doing s-s-so well," his breath scarcely survives long enough to punctuate his grunt with your name. “Keep g-going.”

Reveling in your earned praise, your lips open again for him to watch when you drag his length back down to the front of your tongue, your mouth coated by the precum trickling from his swollen tip. Your appetite for grinding the edge of your airway overpowers all other sophisticated thoughts, so you’re keen to close right back in. You feel his hand gather your hair to expose the nape of your neck, where he dances two fingers of his other hand along in encouragement.

“S-so beautiful. Y-you’re so beautiful like this, sweet girl.”

Mando’s panting swells and plunges with every slip against your tongue. The stammering lips that spout gruff curses linked by desperate praises make his taste and the accompanying burn at the border of your throat all the more gratifying. You’re addicted to his strangled breaths every time your mouth nearly sheaths him whole. So your bobbing quickens as you’re greedy to hear more of his bliss vocally translate.

Looking at you was a dangerous game – the view of your flushed cheeks that cave to the precise curve of his cock, contorted brows that tremor in rhythm with every dive, and your swollen mouth that brims with an immodest cocktail of your spit and his slickness – all threatening of a climax that would happen too soon.

And you sense it coming too, in both sounds and touch. A primeval grunt slackens his jaw and reels out his throat. A series of twitches course his limbs under the grapple of your palms. It summits your delight and drives your mouth to an unreserved tempo.

But then he pulls you away. Except, you still find yourself lacking the thick taste of his cum. You realize he hadn’t finished in your mouth, hearing him pump his cock with his own fist to release himself elsewhere, so to not smother you with it. And it’s a plot that you refuse.

You rush to join the sleek head of his length with the flat of your outstretched tongue, just in time for one last lurch of his hips to jet out the hot white threads across your mouth. It connects to the peak of your nose and extends as far as speckles in your hair. You can’t help but whine when your tongue swipes to collect the ribbons on your lips, elated that you’ve finally caught his taste. The edge of your finger pushes the rest that dribbles from your chin before you close your mouth to drench the entire cave with it. An indulgent smirk stretches across your face as you eagerly swallow his cum like it’s a meal you’re thankful for.

He sighs with a searing fever at the lurid sight of your saliva mixing with his cum and threading from the blushing pillows of your lips. The expanse of his palm hugs the side of your face to straighten you in your kneel and bring you closer for him to admire. His thumb blots at the light traces that smear a corner of the blindfold.

In case the two of you ever want to use it again.

Mando hums with a low voice that’s thoroughly broken in by the lingers of a turbulent high, “Hmm, pretty thing.” He inches forward and brings nearer the husk of his voice to your ear. “How’s that taste?”

Stars, he’s brash this time.

He lets the pleased grin on your expression answer for you, before he finds out for himself when he closes the distance with a soft kiss that catches some of the sheen on your lips.

Fuck. He just kissed you. He’s been inside you and you’ve just sucked him off like tomorrow wasn’t coming, and all of that had already surged you with an exhaustive elation. But this. Maker, this will stay with you till kingdom come.

“You… treat me so well, precious girl,” his gentle volume fogs along your skin. And you must be so lulled by it, your wits completely surrendered to it, because it escapes your register entirely how he’s already moved you onto your back. You feel a fabric underneath you, which must’ve been the gathering of his discarded cape for you to lie down on it comfortably. He must’ve also stripped off the remaining tatters of his flight suit, because you feel his bare torso stretch against your own when he leans into you from above. His lips delicately ornate your face with butterflies – and it starts a summer in your chest – as he takes a clean cloth from the medpac to dab the rest of the stains on your face.

“I can…” you draw in a breath to hearten your next words, “…treat y-you well when—whenever you want, Mando.”

The tickle of his facial hair hovers in the valley of your neck, and the light rumble you feel vibrate against your skin must’ve been his quiet chuckle.

Fuck, it must be a gorgeous sight. The two of you, half naked and melded together as his unbared face cushions against your most sensitive parts. A sight you can’t see for yourself, but it’s a sacrifice you’re more than willing to make if you can feel and hear the amplified intensity of the rest of it.

You hold a breath captive in your chest as you’re compliant in stretching your arms above your head when Mando glides off your bandeau. You’re shivering against his relished sigh, blushing when he lets himself see you fully now. Quickly, he finds home in your soft mounds with the nip of his tongue and teeth. He loses himself in a gluttonous exchange of hefty breaths and the swift rakes of teeth that teases the peak of your nipple, tugging to lightly swell before soothing over with the lush sweep of his tongue. Frail whimpers rolling from your tongue tells him of how surrendered you are to his sway.

He is uncharacteristically less than coherent when he speaks on how the salt of your skin is an intoxicating flavour for him. And fucking stars, his face and his hands are moving lower. And they’re moving quick. The drifting smell of the slick desire between your thighs enthrals him to an irreversible degree – he’s unable to wait for you to lift your hips when he moves back to tug away every remaining layer that separates you from him.

As soon as your wet cunt is chilled by the cool air kissing it, a pant shivers from your lips. He is eager to feel the thick gloss for himself, the pads of his fingers running a thorough trail that spreads the sheen for you to feel what an indecent mess you’ve made of yourself. “Shi—t, pretty girl, is this—is this all for me?”

You’re unarmed against the hunger in his baritone as a heated rouge unfurls across your face. The reactions torrenting through you makes him realize that his mouth also begs to taste you until you come. So then his hands are meticulous in their need to feel you as he parts your thighs, allowing him to marvel at the sodden anticipation that glistens in between. It draws a gruff hum of greed from the depths of his throat.

Shock rushes you before anything else when his mouth closes in. You’re twitching at the raw and naked contact you’re so desperate for, irrepressible as if to confess to him that he’s robbed your body of autonomy. He is blatant in his muttered praises about your slickness and taste while his lips cycle the capture and release of your folds. Your hands desperately search for something to grasp, and you find it in the tangles of his hair, another on top of his own hand that curls around the swell of your thigh. Then he moves to lap your clit, savouring all of the trickling desire he presses out of you. Your hips become untameable as it grinds along with the thorough pushes and strokes of his wet muscle.

“Fu—Fu—uck, Mando, I—” The barrier of your teeth drives down on your lips to curb the voice that begs to break the still air with a brazen volume. “—So good, it—it’s—too good. I’m—shit, you’re—” An unyielding fever robs you of concrete language and puts a scramble in your thoughts. The floor panels start to take the assault of your hands that are frantic for purchase.

“Sweet thing,” he doesn’t withdraw the slightest, doesn’t interrupt the friction or pace when he hums words into your skin. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And you can feel it too – the way his mouth moves against you is telling of his gladness that he’s only able to enjoy you like he is right now because of how you’ve helped. Though, you hope the chances of needing to help another wounded Mando again is closer to… never.

A quavering sigh departs you. “—W-worried. You had me s-so worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You can’t see it, but you sense the heat of his unwavering stare on you, like he’s drinking in how your core writhes to meet each of his strokes. “Never again.”

You’re at a lost, air stolen by the shapes he traces against your throbbing clit. He hisses of approval at the painting of pleasure you leave on his tongue, illustrating how much of a pleasured mess he is unraveling you to. He’s still gluttonous in his wish to see how you finish, and it mirrors in the heightening of his rhythm.

Spurs of ecstasy start to unfold between your thighs before it expands like fireworks in a blinding hot scale to the rest of your body. Your hips are rocking and your legs are thrashing, hysterical in your chase for release. And he is holding forfeit far away as he continues with his lapping that doesn’t stray. Shuddering gasps are desperate to soothe your pumping lungs, yet somehow, your speech still fights to cry the most shameless and indecent dialect.

The pressure of something like a stretched coil released into a wild springing begins so slowly evaporate. The drumming settles into a quietly pulsing trance as delight bleeds into your bones and your limbs submit to a wilt.

He is unwasteful, murmuring with satisfaction as he leaves no inch of your cunt unattended. “Look how fucking good you taste,” he gravelly rumbles as he moves off your thighs, only to climb and meet you with the push of his tongue past your lips. Both the taste of him and the taste of your saturation floods your mouth. You’re obsessed with the tender pillows of his kiss, so it feels too soon when he pulls away. Until he brings his lips to the shell of your ear for you to hear the full, rich appetite in his voice. “I’m not done with you yet, pretty girl.”

Your eyes pop open under the blindfold. He wants more? He can keep going? Just how strong was that E-bacta shot?

You’re disoriented, but your hazy figure makes it easy to yield when he nestles his hips deeper between the wedge of your thighs. “St-stars, Mando, you’re insatiable.”

He stops all movement immediately. “S-Sorry, are you—are you tired?” Concern displaces the blaze in his tone.

The apprehension in his words brings you to a breathless laugh. “No, but—”

Well, you were. But you’d be unconvincing even to yourself if you said you weren’t just as needy.

Your hands blindly reach up to find that his chest hovers above yours, propped up by the two palms planted on either side of your head. “Y-your shoulder. Shouldn’t you rest?”

And then he drops to his elbows, his chest dipping to meld against yours as he fixes a gentle kiss on your collarbone. “I don’t even feel it,” his lips are close enough that the sighs in his utterances tickle your neck.

“But I don’t think you should—”

“Quit.” And he’s awfully persuasive when he plunges his thumb into your mouth to shut you up. “Hush, sweet thing. I only want to hear you moaning.” His palm delves between your pelvis and his, showing you how ready he is when he holds his hard length at the breach of your folds. “Do you want that too?”

The pulsing that so quickly swallows you at the tease of it boasts of just how far you exist from declining. You nod, as your mouth is occupied when you suck on his finger to prove of your plea.

“Good.” His hand then moves to land on your waist, possessive as he digs into your skin to steady you there. "Relax, precious girl.” He eases into you. “Just relax.” The delicious stretch stifles you for a second. Then, your fever climbs just as tall as his and your hips push back to meet his forward jolt. "Keep being good for me, hm?" he grunts brokenly.

He lunges into you with an unacquainted vigour, prying your jaw open with a gasp that reels from your throat. His palm travels again into a hook under your thigh for him to throw your leg over his shoulder. He then huffs greedily at the depth he gains and the sounds he earns.

The sheer girth elicits whimpers from you as if you can’t handle it, but it thrills you that he doesn’t refrain from sheathing his entire cock with your walls. His hips drill into you while he drenches your ear in the visceral tremors of his pleased groans, a craving plaguing his every tenor.

But then a raw throbbing drives a soreness to even your furthest extremities when he starts thumbing your swollen clit above his heavying thrusts. Maker, you feel another ferocious high coming again. And it’s going to be thoroughly aching.

You’re frantic as you grapple onto the wrist of his offending hand. “T-too much, M-Mando,” your voice leaves you in fragments.

“You can handle it, can’t you, pretty girl?” He doesn’t interrupt his pushes and his strokes, and you only breathlessly mewl with a jaw that stutters at every meet of his unrelenting lunges. Your legs ache from his durable rhythm. “Come on, let me hear you,” he rasps, and the primal quality of it convinces you.

So euphoria slams down on you and inundates your senses like never before. A sore quality floods you, but you invite it.

His thrusts straying from a familiar tempo and leaning into a disorder tells you he’s veering right into his own unbridled climax. Husky grunts erupt from his chest while he pumps into you as if to chastise your pretty cunt. And your whines soar madly.

He empties into you, and it relaxes and parts your lips with a delirious grin when you feel the warmth in his thick load drenching your quivering walls. Blissful whispers of how you’ll never ever know a cock as good as his falls from the plump of your lips.

You’re both exhausted. You’ve both exhausted each other out. A drowsy haze is quickly diminishing any consciousness that still exists between the two of you. He drops his full weight into a rest on your chest, while your limbs are lazy in their wrap around his frame.

He’s muttering something about sleep, but you’re already beating him to it, surrendering to a slumber that builds upon the darkness already existing behind the blindfold. The last ghost of a thought that grazes your dying awareness is something along the lines of a tease about his behaviour tonight, and its relationship with the half dose you gave him. But you’re completely adrift before you’re able to refine it any further.

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