#sexy mando

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #9: Lucid Dreams [M]

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 6K (ninth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

A/N: this post is ~90% smut please proceed with caution

_______________________________

IX. “Who are they?” the Mandalorian asks.

You peer out from the gap under his arm. Up on the slope above, you spot the hazy outline of several figures making their way through the scattered huts and dwellings clinging to the mountainside. 

“Guards,” you say, recognizing the bright patches sewn over their breast pockets. “But I don’t think they’re on patrol.” 

The figures sway and meander as though too drunk to walk straight. They keep bunching up together to pass something around—a bottle, maybe?—only to break apart again to avoid tripping over each other. 

“Tagge Corp?”

“Not officially. Most are Lakarani, but they’re trained and outfitted by the Tagge’s to ensure…order.”

Mando unholsters his blaster.

“Don’t,” you whisper, placing a cautionary hand over his fist. “Please! If you’re seen—it could jeopardize everything.” 

He ignores your hushed warnings. “Can you confirm how many?”

“Three,” you mutter, growing more frustrated by the second. The Mandalorian might be accustomed to doing whatever he feels like without worrying about the consequences, but shooting his way through the entire camp, will put your whole operation in danger.

“Let’s not do anything rash, okay? They’re probably just making their way to the bonfire. That’s where everyone’s gathering for the solstice.”

“Weapons?”

Really? Okay. Yeah, stabbing him suddenly feels like a fantastic idea. 

“They usually take tasers on patrol. Some carry blasters.”

“Alright,” he says. “We hope they pass by. But if they make trouble for us…I’ll take care of the bodies.”

“Bodies?!” you groan.

“Leave the carcasses in the woods for predators. When the river washes up what’s left of them, it’ll look like an animal attack,” Mando shrugs. “An accident.”

You rub your hands over your face to prevent yourself from wrapping them around the Mandalorian’s throat. 

“Three missing guards is not going to look like an accident no matter what state they’re found in.” There’s a sharp edge to your words that only hinted at the rage building inside your chest. This isn’t some Outer Rim trading depot. Any sign of trouble would put the TaggeCo refinery on high alert. 

Sure, the Tagges liked to appear uninterested in the settlement right outside their gate. When it suited them. When they could claim ignorance about the appalling living conditions and environmental contamination. But they were, in fact, very interested in any signs of disorder. And three dead guards would certainly raise some eyebrows.   

Did they make the camp guards wear trackers? The guard Humia’s been sleeping with is the one who showed her how to block the signal. That didn’t necessarily mean—kriffing hell! If Mando leaves behind a bloody path that leads right back to your doorstep? Humia, Davik, and Serenio will all be fucked.

“Keep your head down,” the Mandalorian urges, angling his shoulders so the cloak hides you from view.

“Dammit, would you listen to me!” and you’re not the only one surprised to hear the fury in your voice. Mando’s head snaps up at attention. “Look,” you whisper softly, trying to regain some composure. “I know we haven’t spoken in weeks—”

“That was for your protection,” he says defensively. “You think I wanted—”

“That’s as may be,” you cut him off. “But my point is that you have no fucking clue how things work around here, or how close I am to—for you to just—you can’t just show up and—”

Mando’s hand closes firmly over your mouth, “They’re coming.” 

Light from the guard’s lantern splutters overhead, flickering against the steel and tin as it hovers aloft, illuminating their path down the slope.  

The Mandalorian’s hand slides up the back of your neck to press your forehead against his chest, completely obscuring your view of the approaching guards. You can only hear your breath and his, and the sound of footsteps coming closer.

While the criss-cross of shadows underneath the hut helps to conceal you, you aren’t totally hidden from sight. If they happen to look in your direction when they follow the path between the houses, the guards will see you under the lantern light. 

Or maybe the gods will be merciful? Most people never look further than the next foot in front of them, and these three are so drunk, they need all their concentration to stay upright. They might simply walk past and—   

But you hear from the crunch of gravel that they’ve already noticed the two indistinct figures huddled together amidst the pilings.  

They slow down. Suspicion? Voyeurism? You can’t be sure. 

But that last thought gives you sudden inspiration. “Grab me,” you whisper, looking into the Mandalorian’s viewplate. When he pauses to stare down at you in confusion, you explain, “Like you’re taking me up against the pylon.” 

There’s no time to run and even less time to think. You need to hide. Only there’s nowhere to hide—except exactly where you’re standing.

Mando catches on quick. He tucks the blaster into the bandolier strapped across his chest, and with two strong hands, grabs your ass in his wide palms and hauls you against his hips. The hard press of his body sends a trill of panic coursing through you. He has you pushed up against the steel beam now. You hadn’t really thought this through. Yet, despite your anger and frustration from moments ago, instead of pulling back, you lean closer. Lean into him. 

Leather fingers glide down your thigh to grip your knee, before he hoists your leg up, wrapping it around his back. He moves so fast and with such force, you have to throw your hands out behind you to brace yourself against the piling. The hem of your robe tugs open, the fabric falling aside to expose your leg from toe to hip, and the Beskar tasset scrapes against your bare skin. 

But the thrill of sensation when he presses his hips between your thighs, pinning you against the steel and concrete, is so good that you hardly notice. Suddenly you don’t care about him ignoring you, or the thoughtlessness of his actions. Pleasure arcs through you, and you gasp. 

The sound draws the guards’ attention. 

“Take a look at these two,” one of them guffaws. 

The beam from the lantern droid turns, casting a thin fluorescent glow over the pilings underneath your hut. With the Mandalorian’s hood draped over him, the cloak is just long enough to cover the Beskar, and his armor remains hidden. Hopefully, they won’t see the disintegration rounds strapped to his shin.  

“Remember,” Mando growls through clenched teeth. “This was your idea.” 

“I—” you have no idea what you planned to say in response—sorry?—but it doesn’t matter. 

Because that’s when his leather hand slips under the crease of your knee, lifting your leg up so high you have to wrap an arm around his shoulder to keep from falling. You barely regain your balance, when his hips buck, shoving you back against the rigid steel so hard you feel the pressure of his straining erection rub against you through the flight suit.

Oh?! Oh. Interesting! 

Is one gasp of pleasure in the Mandalorian’s ear all it takes to get that kind of reaction? Knowing that Mando is just as aroused, just as helpless to resist the force of attraction between you, is such an exhilarating rush. 

You feel ungodly smug right now. Still got it, you think to yourself. 

Then his hips buck again, and you lose the ability to think about anything else at all. It only lasts a moment, but that’s long enough to send a surge of pleasure ricocheting through you. A jolt of aching desire throbs between your thighs, and the cry that escapes your lips isn’t performance. 

“Whoa-ho, brother!” another of the guards chuckles. “Careful not to break her.”

They all laugh at this, and one of them calls out, adding, “Your queen deserves a bed, brother.” 

“A bed of blossoms for Ehki’s daughter!”  

“It’s Honatoka, brother! Where are her flowers?” 

“A crown of flowers for your queen!”

They are very loud and very drunk. Yet, some part of your brain vaguely acknowledges the harmless nature of their taunting. You sense no ill will from any of them. They had slowed down to jeer but made no attempt to approach. 

“Come on, you perverts! He doesn’t need you shouting suggestions.”

“Ah, you’re right, ha ha! At that rate, he won’t last much longer.” 

“My back hurts just watching.”

They howl in a chorus of raucous laughter as the slow tread of their footsteps continues to carry them down the rocky path.

Which should come as a relief. However, most of your brain is consumed by whether you might actually orgasm from the stimulation of the Mandalorian rutting between your thighs. This might be an act, but the way he pretends to fuck you is merciless. The rhythm of his hips is slow and brutal. 

You feel precariously weightless. The rigid strength of Mando’s arms is the only thing bearing you upright. He’d slid a hand behind your back, bracing his elbow against the pylon next to your face to conceal you from view as the guards pass by. But, his other hand remains cinched around your thigh, knee nearly pressed against your chin, using the leverage to hold you in place. Beneath the robe, you only have on a thin pair of shorts you were wearing when you fell asleep, and with each thrust, you feel the hard press of his cock rubbing the fabric against your clit.

By now, the sensation is almost overwhelming. Each time, you have to gasp for breath, caught between the bursts of pleasure—reeling on the edge of climax. All the blood in your body rushes to your cunt, pulsing with his every thrust, over and over. 

And, Blessed Mother, the sound of his breathing coming shallow and fast is enough to bring you to the brink already. You’re so close. 

Is this what he was like with other women? The women who came before, who fucked him in his armor and left afterward? Your time together had been so gentle and tender—Mando’s first time making love, being naked, sharing a bed in the aftermath. But you want this side of him, too. You want all of him. 

For some reason, the lantern droid had lingered to hover above the path, still casting its thin light overhead. You watch the undulation of his shadow while the Mandalorian rocks his hips against you. A jagged phantom looming over you, claiming you. You close your eyes and arch into his thrusts as the world goes black.

But even as you dance along the dizzying edge of orgasm, you can’t let go. Dammit, you can’t stop thinking about those faceless women. Ferocious mercenaries and cold-hearted bounty hunters, you imagine. Women of action, who did not sob under their blankets, wracked with indecision. 

Well, you may not be ruthless, but you can be shameless. Tonight, you want to erase everyone else who came before. Tonight, think only of me. 

The Mandalorian worships your tits, and from this angle, he must have a spectacular view of them bouncing with each clash of his hips. You know he must be watching, staring down at them, hypnotized and longing to touch them. So you reach for the hand on your thigh and press his palm over your breast.

Mando’s tenses in surprise. “Are they gone?” he asks in a low voice.

“Do you care?” you reply, letting all that urgency and desire fill your words. 

It takes him a minute to consider. Both the droid’s light and the guard’s boisterous laughter had finally faded away, leaving you behind in the quiet darkness. Still…maybe this was too reckless for him. Too impulsive. You don’t want to push his boundaries, but that’s exactly what makes it thrilling, right? That desire can make the rest of the world fade away, blurring out the periphery. 

Mando sighs, his fingers tracing the neckline of your robe, when he can’t find the words to answer.

The fabric is drapey enough for him to push aside, baring your breasts to the night air. The camisole you wore to bed is lace, so old and worn it's downy soft. And threadbare. Your nipples press against the gaping weave, visibly darkening with arousal. They pinch from the cold and anticipation. 

As his thumb brushes over your puckered skin, you suck in a sharp breath—“Mmph!”—then he squeezes. Hard. Then soft, then hard again. Arousal spirals through you, down to your core, as he kneads and caresses. The hand he had braced against the pylon, slips down to trail over the length of your neck, past your collarbone, and between your breasts until he presses them together tightly. The contrasting sensation of the soft leather and lace roughly teasing over your nipples is almost too much to bear. 

You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

“This is what you want?” Mando whispers. His hand lifts to cup your face, and you can feel his gaze boring into you, seeking out what’s hidden in the depths of your eyes. “Here? Now? In the armor?”

“Yes,” you moan. Sweet, merciful gods, yes! Your cunt is so tight and hot that it almost hurts. Tilting your hips at just the right angle, you rub yourself against his cock and feel the friction of the fabric glide across your clit again. You’re already soaking wet—so wet he must feel the dampness through his flight suit. 

“Hu-ungh,” the Mandalorian groans, before gripping you by the waist so he can meet the thrust of your hips and grind back against you. The hard press of his erection sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can make it if you keep doing that,” his voice is gruff and hoarse. “But you’re angry…what if you regret this?”

You feel a frantic bubble of laughter rising in your throat. How did you manage to fuck each other in the first place? You are both far too honorable!

Of course, Mando’s not wrong. But all that anger from before has, by now, transformed into lust—igniting the heat of passion, so hot it warms the hollow places in your heart. And you want to feel the full force of that heat. Burning through desperate emotions like hurt and despair, and, yes—jealously—to reclaim your confidence the best way you know how. With sex.

You want to feel powerful, the way you do when the Mandalorian gasps your name, as though it was his last dying breath.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” you lie, and maybe he is right about you being a terrible liar. Because when he continues to hesitate, you grow downright incensed. How dare he change his mind now, after you’ve decided this is what you want?

“Please, Mando,” you moan. “I need you.”

Those pleading words wrench something within him. “Maker, help me,” he says, jaw tight, as he reaches to hold your face in his leather palms. “But, I fucking love hearing you say please.” 

Now you’ve got him swearing? Your mouth curves into a triumphant grin. 

“You love hearing me beg,” you correct him with a sly wink. “Now let go, so I can get my hands around your cock.”

He breathes out sharply as though you’d struck him. Okay. So the Mandalorian likes it when you talk dirty? Or perhaps it’s your confidence he enjoys. He’s drawn to strong women, after all. 

His hands pull away as he stands up straighter and takes a step back. The night air rushes in to fill the sudden gap between your bodies, and for a terrifying second, you feel the dreadful weight of rejection ready to crush you. But the next second, Mando’s fingers close around your wrist, guiding your hand downward to place your palm over his straining erection. 

“It’s already so hard for you,” he says, his grip is as firm as his tone is soft. And you love it. That despite the gallantry, your boldness makes him bold. He needs this as much as you do.

By now, you feel dizzy—hazy with lust. The guttural moan he gives when you curl your fingers around his cock and slowly stroke your palm over its length is intoxicating, like a drug. You don’t care who might see, and you don’t care how shameless it is.

Tonight, think only of me. 

You bite your lip. “Last time we did this, you had me up against a wall,” you say, glancing at the closest pylon behind him, judging the distance. “Hmm, something something turnabout’s fair play?”

With that, you reach out to place your hands over his chest and push him back against the steel piling. Caught off-guard, he braces his hands wide behind him. As he stands there, mildly shocked, legs slightly spread, you kneel between his thighs and reach for his belt.

“What are you doing?” his voice is tight with strain.

You look up into the view plate, brow arched. “I should think it was obvious.”

It’s a strange logic that getting down on your knees can make you feel powerful, but there’s a thrill of satisfaction knowing the skills you’ve honed over years of practice will reduce this hardened warrior into a trembling state of incoherence. And you want to hear him shouting your name.

You aren’t especially flexible, nor are you totally free of inhibitions, but sucking dick is your one slutty superpower. 

“You don’t—haah,” his breath hitches when you open your mouth to trace your tongue over your lips, wetting them as you release the latch of his belt. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I want to. And so do you.” 

Your fingers fan wide, palms gliding up the inside of his thighs, trying to ease some of the nervous tension building in his muscles. “Relax,” you murmur teasingly. 

Your hands meet at his inseam, slipping beneath the vest to caress the outline of his stiff erection through the canvas. The purr of his zipper goes almost tooth by tooth. In the breathless, still silence, you can even hear the soft sound of your fingers reaching into his pants to take hold of his enormous cock. 

He’s already so hard that it slips free, jutting into your palm, supple and thick. No matter how many times you see it, it’s still ridiculous! 

Released from the confines of his pants, Mando throbs in your grip, swelling larger between your fingers. The base is a deep bronze, the head is pale pink, growing steadily darker as blood pumps through his veins. He feels feverishly hot against your cool skin, so full that he must ache.

And so caught up in the sight of you kneeling between his legs, that he’s breathless.

With one hand, you circle him in your grip, tightening and loosening your fist as you move up and down the length of his shaft, before brushing your thumb over the tip. You smile up at him when his hips jerk, and you feel the first beads of come slick over your fingers even as his muscles tense, trying to resist the pleasure of it. 

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. Your voice is almost a whisper, “I’ll take good care of you.” 

And with that, you lift the head of his cock to your mouth and lick away the salty droplets with the tip of your tongue. Finally, you feel his body yield to a different kind of tension. 

“Nnngh!” he groans, gripping your shoulders before gasping something that might have been your name or just a general obscenity. Dirty talk isn’t covered in your Mando’a phrasebook—but it really should be! You make a mental note to download a more comprehensive dictionary, a little shocked that you hadn’t thought of it sooner.

His salty come is warm against your tongue. You trace the tip of his cock over your wet lips, slowly circling the circumference of your open mouth before drawing in just the first few inches, pleased to hear a sharp intake of breath sizzling through the modulator.

“Fuck,” he whispers, winding a hand through your hair as you open your mouth to take him in. You start sucking—soft, slow little swallows at first. “Fuck, that feels so good.”

You don’t give him everything right away. Sometimes, anticipation is the best part. You want him to slow down and enjoy the wait. So you run your tongue along the length of his shaft, lick him, tease the ridges of his crown with your lips, kiss the taut band of tissue underneath, and caress him against your cheeks.

Then, you press your lips against the tip to give him one swirl of your tongue, before sliding them down the length of his shaft. You take a strong, hard pull, hallowing your cheeks.

Mando throws his head back and releases another guttural moan, “Mmn-nngh!” The hand in your hair tightens, until his grip borders on pain. 

With the leather gloves on, he probably can’t tell. But you don’t mind. You like knowing you have this effect on him. And gods divine, the noises he’s making—

Come wells between your legs, so wet it’s drenching your shorts and slicking down your thighs. The urge to touch yourself, to slip a finger inside the wet folds of your cunt, is so unbearable it makes you feel weak. Instead, you grip his rock-hard thighs with both hands and take him in deeper. 

His girth forces you to open your jaw all the way, so big that you can barely use your tongue. It’s all you can do to get the full length of him inside your mouth. The head is almost to the back of your throat, and you feel like you might choke. You have to keep swallowing, faster and faster, just to catch your breath. Come wells against your mouth, trickling from your lips, stretched thin around his thick cock. 

You remember how much he loved your teeth last time, so you tense your jaw a little tighter before lightly dragging them under his shaft, grazing the ridges of his crown as you draw back.

“Aaah! Fuck, yes! That’s...” his fingers clench in your hair. His other hand cups the back of your head, but he can’t find the words to describe exactly what you're doing to him. 

Mando’s huge, but you feel confident you can take more of him down your throat. The trick is to still your breathing and swallow him. Which is where the ability to control your body on a cellular level elevates your dick-sucking abilities into the stratosphere.

But he’s not ready for that yet. You remind yourself to take it slow and luxuriate in the feel of him against your tongue, the taste of salt flooding your mouth. You can feel the tightness in his balls against your chin and wonder just how long it’s been since he’s had head this good. 

Placing your thumb and forefinger around the base of his sac, you gently tug downward to release some of the pressure while continuing to draw him into your mouth, alternating shallow, repetitious strokes and long, languorous pulls. Your other hand closes around the base of his cock so you can pump him in time with your movements.

The sticky come trickling from the corners of your mouth tells you that he’s getting close. You can feel him throb with every stroke. If you want to give him everything you’ve got, it has to be now. 

So you relax any muscle or reflex that might resist, before taking all of him in. You feel every swollen vein of his thick shaft sliding between your slick lips until he fills you all the way to your throat, until your nose touches his warm belly under a coarse thicket of black hair surrounding the base of his cock.  

Cheeks glistening with saliva, come running down your chin, you swallow around him, and the contraction of your throat is enough to make him thrust even deeper. Your mind empties of any thought beyond the pressure of each inch he squeezes further down your throat. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” his hands resting on your head squeeze into fists—you didn’t think he could grip you any tighter, but they do. The very real pain brings tears to your eyes, but it only sharpens your desire. The desperate, aching need, clenching the muscles inside your cunt, is so insistent you could probably come by just pressing your thighs together. 

"Oh, fuck," he gasps.

With your hands braced on his hips, you encourage him to thrust deeper into your mouth and throat in rhythm with each bob of your head. The squelching sound is driving you wild. He’s so close to finishing—so close you can feel his cock pulsing against your lips. His breath becomes shorter and sharper, each one just short of a moan.

Then, suddenly, Mando pulls out of your mouth. He takes a step back and shakes his head, catching himself right on the brink. 

“Did I—” your voice quavers. 

“No,” he looks up at you sharply. “That was perfect…so perfect that…” the Mandalorian stumbles on his next step before leaning back against the pylon.  

Holy crap! The widest, most delightful shit-eating grin spreads across your face. He doesn’t trust himself to stand. Yep, still got it!

“I wasn’t finished,” you say, wiping your chin clean with the back of your hand.

“I know,” he manages between ragged breaths. “But, another minute—aah— fuck, another second—and I would have shouted your name loud enough for the entire parsec to hear.”

Really?! “Then I definitely shouldn’t stop.”

That makes him laugh. 

Mando regains his equilibrium and steps forward, feet steadier now. His cock is still hard, jutting out from his pants, and you nuzzle it against your cheeks as he comes closer.

“Look at me,” he gasps, tilting your chin up. You lift your eyes to meet the jet-black line of his helmet, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I dreamed of this so many times,” he says, using one hand to gently brush the hair from your cheeks while the other guides his cock back into your mouth. His hips roll so slowly you can tell he’s determined to regain some measure of control. “What does it say about me…that I think you look perfect like this?”

“Mmmm,” your moan of satisfaction is genuine. The praise and validation, the sound of his hitched sighs and groans of pleasure—your entire body reacts—growing flushed, getting impossibly wetter. Your cunt begins to pulse so hard that, for a moment, you think you might come from simply listening to the hunger in his voice. 

The vibration of your lips against his cock sends a jolt through his body, and you remind yourself to dial it down. He doesn’t want to come yet. 

Sometime soon, you’ll need to mention that your abilities can assist with his…longevity. And recovery time. But for now, you can respect his need to slow down.   

You run your tongue underneath the length of his shaft, tease the ridge with your lips, and suck the head once or twice before pulling back. He slips from your mouth, dark and glistening. “Was it this good in your dreams?”

“Nothing feels as good as this,” Mando murmurs.

You’re about to say something clever about that sounding like a challenge, but the words get lost in your throat when his hands slip under your arms, lifting you back onto your feet. One hand slides up your spine to grip the back of your neck, the other clings to your waist. You feel the length and hardness of his erection pressed against your soft belly.

“Mmmph,” he sighs. “Nothing, except maybe the feeling of you clenching around my cock when you come.”

Oh gods, if you could orgasm from just listening to the Mandalorian’s voice, that would have done it.

“How do I make you ready?” he asks.

“That, aaah, won’t be a problem,” and since you’re so determined to prove what a shameless slut you are, you slip your hand between your bodies, down past your stomach, and into your shorts, wetting your fingers before holding them out for him to see. You fix him with what you hope is a smoldering look and drop into your most sultry tone, “See how wet I got with your cock in my mouth.” 

Grabbing you by the wrist, he pulls your hand up toward his face, lifts the steel jaw of his helmet over his mouth, and sucks the come from your fingers. 

Your entire body flushes with heat.

"Haaah," you gasp. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth, the press of his tongue between your fingers, sends the most powerful tidal wave of arousal coursing through your fingertips and down to your cunt. “That was…” but you’ve lost the capacity to speak, let alone describe what may be the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.  

Then, the helmet falls into place, and Mando pushes you back against the pylon. “Turnabout—” he starts to say—

“Yes,” you groan, arching into him. “Exactly,” and you wriggle the silky fabric of your robe against the rough concrete until your shorts slip over your hips and down to your ankles. 

Reaching out for him, you wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts you by the backs of your thighs and guides your legs around his waist, under the tassets. 

The blaster is still tucked against his chest plate, and it's all conflicting sensations—cold steel, warm body, sharp edges, and soft skin—but you can’t think about any of that. There’s nothing beyond the feeling of him between your thighs and the anticipation of sliding onto his waiting cock. 

The head is penetrating you, just barely, but slightly more with every roll of his hips. Mando is working you open as slowly and deliciously as possible. 

“So, you did miss me,” you throw your head back, smiling and breathless.

“Yes, cyar'ika, ” he moans, rolling his hips until he sinks the rest of the way inside you, groaning with bliss. “I missed the way you taste. I missed holding you in my arms. I thought about you every day, and when Arasuum heard my prayers, you found me in my dreams.” 

Then he thrusts harder, filling you completely, making you cry out, “Aaangh!” 

Hearing you, he growls in satisfaction and rocks his hips back so he can thrust inside you again. Mando’s width and length stretches you—your cunt burns as he forces you wider to take him in. It’s a pain so sweet, it makes your mouth water, and so, you lick the only part of him that’s exposed, the rough, stubbled skin under his jaw all the way to the tip of his chin. 

The Mandalorian responds by gasping what is definitely your name this time, along with some incomprehensible words that sound a lot more like prayers than obscenities. His hands grip you tighter, and that’s the moment when the pleasure eclipses the pain. His cock feels so good inside you, blurring out everything else.

Every time, he pulls almost all the way out, then plunges in deep. You glance down to see if you can watch him sliding in and out between your thighs. But all the crumpled folds of fabric, quilted leather, and armor are in the way. You can’t see. All you can do is feel.

“And what did you do to me in these dreams?” you whisper.

“Everything,” he sighs, the modulator vibrating next to your ear. “Slowing down to take my time, and I last forever. Speeding up until I’m fucking you senseless.”

Then he thrusts, so hard you have to clutch at his neck, your fingernails digging into the thick canvas. “We can go slow and hard like this. Or do you want me to fuck you faster? Tell me what you want.”

Merely hearing those words brings you back to the brink. You’re dizzy and flushed, entirely helpless to the feeling of him moving inside you. Your voice is hardly more than a whisper as you say, “Please...please, Mando, just fuck me as hard as you can.”

His hands go to your waist and grip you tightly as he starts to pump into you, each stroke more fierce as the last. You feel his powerful abdominals flexing against you, the muscles in his thighs tensing with each brutal thrust. He speeds up, and then the only sounds are his heavy breaths, grunting, and the whimper you release with each clash of his hips.

This angle makes it harder for you to get fully stimulated, but his cock feels so good inside you, filling you completely. You cry out—one long cry you can’t control—as the blood rushes to your cunt. The sensation spirals. Soars. Desire sharpens inside you. Peaks. You feel weightless in the rush of pure ecstasy, hips circling against him as every muscle of your body surrenders to the intensity of your orgasm.

Gravity turns upside down as you clench around Mando’s cock. The climax hits you so hard that, for a moment, you worry you might pass out.

“Nnngh, yes,” he grits his teeth, "just like that," and then he’s there with you. The Mandalorian reaches down, tilting your pelvis to thrust even deeper. How is that even possible? You feel him everywhere. Then he slides in slower, once, twice—then goes totally still, as a shudder of pleasure goes through him. "Haah, haah, aah."

His head collapses against your shoulder as you both struggle to catch your breath.

“Careful,” you murmur, barely able to hear yourself over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. “You’re the only thing keeping me from collapsing and tumbling down the side of a mountain.”

Mando chuckles, the vibration of his laughter resonating against your ribs. “Was that what you wanted?” he asks, slipping a hand behind your back so you feel more secure.

“That was perfect,” you sigh. “You?”

“Perfect,” he agrees. “But next time, I’m tearing that robe off you.” 

You look down to see the neckline hanging open, with a solitary knot at your waist, holding on for dear life as the fabric gapes open over your thighs.

“I’m not sure there’s much left to do.”

Mando laughs, pinching one of the sleeves to rub the fabric between his leather fingers. “I’m glad you like it. It suits you.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say appreciatively. “Thank you.”

“It’s a piece of fabric. You make it beautiful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and your heart begins to race again. His cock is still half hard inside you. If you moved your hips—

“I missed seeing that look in your eyes,” he says.

“What look?”

“When you flirt, you usually have this…sort of smug look on your face.” You immediately roll your eyes, which just makes him laugh. “But one compliment and you blush, and your eyes go wide with this look of…something,” he breathes out sharply. “Need, maybe. I can see in your eyes how much you want me.”

Damn, he is observant. “I’m usually the one making people blush.”

“I know, that's why it’s so satisfying.”

You place a hand lightly over his helmet, relieved when he doesn’t flinch or pull away. “Feels like an unfair advantage. How am I supposed to know how bad you want me?”

Mando cocks his head.

“Alright, fine. The hard on is a reliable indicator. But—”

“Never worry about that,” he says wryly, and you feel his cock throb, flexing inside you. “I always want you.”

The flush in your cheeks gets even hotter, and you laugh to dispel the fluster of embarrassment.

“When you were gone, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. When you’re near, all I want to do is touch you. All I ever want to do is touch you and kiss—"

He stops himself, "I—”

“It’s okay,” you sigh. “I know you can’t take off the helmet. You don’t remove your armor on the job.”

You uncross your ankles and return both feet to the ground. Mando finally slips out, and you feel warm wetness sliding down your thighs.

The Mandalorian can sense your disappointment, but you have no intention of being thwarted so easily. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck, threading your fingers so he won’t pull away. Your head rests against his chest—the Beskar plate feels cool against your flushed cheek.  

“We have time,” he says. “We haven’t even made it inside yet.”

“Actually,” you look up at him. “There's something I want to show you that's going to make you very excited.”

*********

Continue reading - Volume 4 - Post #10: Never Knew I Needed You

Back to all posts for Volume 4

[4ever-feral]

DAMN why he got to be so slutty with it and please never stop 😏

[valar-did-me-wrong]

I love you Gil-galad writers but I am craving for an OC smut that is not his betrothed & I can't seem to find any 👀

(please help)

I need that huge ass man to get down & dirty with a random person.. no marital bond, no royal status (no immortality? even better!!) just absolute debauchery!

I think he deserves some dirty dirty fun & we deserve to read him having it 🙊👀🫶🏽

[shutupineedtothink]

Love that they put the space helmet back on jude law for no longer than like 5 minutes before they took it off again because really if we can't see his face whats the point

[coulsons-fullmetal-cellist]

Grogu's Top Five Reasons for using The Force

Get food

Protect dad

Get food

Have lot of fun

Get food

[garotadomeio]

I'm so horny , anyone want to trade pics with me?

[aanteater-nose]

Woof 🫣

[dragonbe-laggin]

no one is talking about Din’s cowboy walk. Every time he moves he sways his hips. If he had a hat he would tip it, and grip his belt buckle. DINS. COWBOY. WALK.

[netherfeildren]

Dearest Vic, i cant believe we get to read your work for free like, seriously? Im currently reading At the restaurant after having it in my tbr list for a long time (cause i havent watched the mandalorian) and OMFG!!! reading it felt like this (in a good way) the whole time:

that’s literally exactly what I was going for !! THANK YOU !!!!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #4: Margin of Error

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 6.5K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

__________________________________________

IV. You knew it was absurd for the Mandalorian to worry that you would draw unwanted attention.

Walking down the grimy streets of Daiyu City, everyone you pass either stares with terrified awe or performatively averts their gaze at the sight of him. And despite his professed desire for discretion, the bounty hunter doesn’t stick to the alleyways or sidestreets but steers you down a wide, busy thorofare lined with carts, stalls, and kiosks.

You have to step carefully to avoid tripping over vendors hawking their goods on the walkway.

As you pass, many of the merchants stop mid-sentence to nudge their nearest customer and nod in Mando’s direction. You can feel the news ripple through the crowd, shifting like a current as the night market patrons realize who’s among them. Because a Mandalorian in Daiyu City could only mean one thing—that serious shit was about to go down between powerful people with deep pockets. 

You’d like to reassure everyone that your presence isn’t a harbinger of some impending gang war if for no other reason than all the anxious whispering is setting your teeth on edge. But who would believe you? Look at him. Who in their right mind is gonna believe this man is anything other than a walking magnet for trouble?

“They give you combat training in the Medical Corps?” the Mandalorian asks, perhaps sensing your growing unease. His voice is barely audible over the droids weaving in and out of the crowd gathered in front of Daiyu’s transit terminal, announcing gates and berths, departure and arrival times. 

“Ten weeks of basic,” you manage over the din. 

“Better than nothing.” 

His Beskar reflects and amplifies the loud, lurid colors radiating from neon signs framing every shop window and marquee. Entire buildings are covered in bright flashing advertisements that, without your visor, would probably induce a stroke. The night sky looms over the city, but the stars are shrouded in an impenetrable haze of artificial light.

“Just stay close and keep your head down,” Mando adds in a low rumble, which seems like odd advice since no one is looking at you. 

Your long mane of moondust hair remains hidden under your hood, and the black bodysuit camouflages your silhouette in shadow. But, despite his criticism, your original outfit would not have been out of place given the elaborate fashions you see on the passing females. All of whom slow down to give Mando an appraising once over.

Hardly the jealous type, you’re grateful not to be the only poor fool to fall for him in that armor. One or two promise him the 'night of his life,' a quick fuck down a dark alley...but as usual, he doesn't even bother looking in their direction.

The port is much quieter as you near the private docking bays, isolated but not neglected. Your stomach does a terrified little somersault when you realize where you're headed. Mando strides confidently toward an elegant Nau'ur-class yacht so immense it could probably house the population of a small moon. 

Except there appears to be only one way in or out—which has got to be some kind of fire code violation—and it’s guarded by HK sentinel droids. 

You pause before crossing the gangway and turn to the Mandalorian. “So—um—how confident are we that Vos will let us off the ship once this is over?” 

“Not particularly,” he sighs, sounding resigned.

“Do you just navigate life expecting everything to be a trap?”

“That surprises you?” Mando asks incredulous. “You fought in the Rebellion.”

“On the battlefield, where our enemies were very straightforwardly trying to kill us. Plus, they all wore these super distinctive uniforms. Made it easy to know who to shoot at.” 

Somehow, you can hear his eyes rolling. 

“I’m sorry.” You stop yourself from reaching for him, knowing someone onboard Vos’s yacht must be watching your every move over the security feed. “I don’t mean to make everything a joke. I’m just nervous.”

He starts to raise a hand to your shoulder but thinks better of it.

“You’re right to be cautious. Even if Vos agrees to help, he’s always searching for leverage. Best not to give him any.”

“Okay,” you nod in understanding. 

“Just keep a low profile and do as I say. Please.”  

A voice inside your head urges you to make a run for it, but another voice reminds you to have some faith in the Mandalorian. Kriffing hell, there’s nothing left to do except roll the dice and step inside.

“State your business.” 

You jump a little when the sentinel droids activate. Mando’s helmet turns to glance in your direction, and you can only imagine his regret at bringing you with him.

“I’m here to see Ryun Vos. He’s expecting me.”

“You’ll need to check your weapons.” 

When you enter the foyer, more HK sentinels wait for you inside, guarding a second set of closed doors. Another smaller droid rolls forward, holding out a metal case and opening the lid for Mando. The bounty hunter begins disarming, and you realize he’s got several weapons hidden on his person that you swear you’ve never seen before, including a micro pistol (?) secured inside the lining of his utility belt.  

Another droid approaches, holding aloft an empty case for you.

Unlike the small armory the bounty hunter is packing, you only have the knife at your waist and his two blasters holstered over each thigh. Mando leans closer to look at the Westars, sighing roughly through his nostrils when he sees that you’ve set them both to stun.

“You’re not the only one sworn to live by a creed,” you mutter under your breath.

Your words are lost in the soft whoosh of the interior doors sliding open. A woman clad in black leather armor and a gleaming cybernetic jaw steps into the foyer. 

“Not just yet,” she raises a hand and purses her black-stained lips. “I believe there’s a knife in your boot, Mandalorian.”

Wordlessly, he crouches down to remove the vibro-blade tucked into his left boot. In an added gesture of contrition, Mando shakes loose the whistling birds from his vambrace—but not the whipcord you notice. Which is a clever bit of misdirection. 

“Since when do you work with a partner?” the guard asks, finally acknowledging your presence with a disgusted sneer. 

While she scrutinizes your inexplicable appearance at the Mandalorian’s side, you think back to the toughest, most badass bitch you knew from infantry and try to remember her posture and the way she would stand with her knees straight, hips tilted. 

“Since now,” is the extent of Mando's explanation.

Some silent test of wills plays out between the two warriors before the guard relents. “I’ll let Vos know you’ve arrived," she drolls. "He’s busy at the moment. Not sure when he’ll find the time to meet with you, but you’re welcome to wait for him on level seventeen with the rest of the miscreants.” 

She—the Anzati woman—is absolutely terrifying. With skin so pale it looked ashen gray. The intricate facial markings carved into her cheeks are blood red. Her yellow eyes had slit-like, reptilian pupils. Jet black hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders and down her bare muscular back. A portrait of lethal beauty. 

It's scary and arousing at the same time. Also distracting. What was the significance of that look she shared with the Mandalorian?

“Does this mean we’re officially partners now?” Alone inside the lift, you can’t stop yourself from saying something—anything—to shake the tension. The nerves bubbling up in your stomach have gotten the better of you already. 

“Why?” Mando's helmet tilts to look at you askance. “You hoping I’ll introduce you to Vos?”

Wow. Okay. Guess you’re not sharing the elevator with the tenderhearted Mandalorian who'd stolen your heart. At some point, that man had transformed into this callous bounty hunter who did not appreciate collegial banter.

But as Mando so astutely observed, you’re no longer afraid of his cranky stoicism. Someone’s got to lighten the mood. “We did sort of team up for that job on Danvar,” you shrug. 

He clears his throat, “You think so?”

“Do you know what happens when bone marrow enters the bloodstream? If I didn’t amputate, that guy would have died of an embolism, rendering him literally worthless.”

“I believe you were compensated for your services.” 

“Would you be more comfortable if I used the term 'subcontractor'?”

“I'd be more comfortable if you stopped talking so much,” the Mandalorian snaps. "But as I doubt that’s possible, can you at least keep your voice down?”

Good thing he wears that helmet cause otherwise, you might be tempted to break his nose.

“And I hope I don’t have to remind you that we’re not here to make friends,” he adds sternly. “These are Vos’s paid assassins and enforcers. They’re not your friends, and they never will be, so don’t talk to them.”

Oh yeah, you’d love to wind back a real sucker punch. Instead, you say, “Aye-aye, captain,” and give him a little mock two-finger salute. 

When the lift arrives on level seventeen, you step out into a pretty unremarkable mess hall, given the yacht’s extravagance. Lounge would be a more generous description since there are some gaming tables where people gather to play cards or dejarick. But the scene is closer to a military barrack, with a heated contest of arm wrestling drawing most of the room’s attention.

There are about twenty of them in all, a mix of species and genders, with a few droids amongst their ranks. Most pretend not to notice your arrival, but a few glare in the Mandalorian’s direction or exchange meaningful looks.

If Mando knew any of them, he didn’t seem to care. He stalks over to an empty corner of the room and takes root with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 

Is this what he's like on the job? All business? Not that it's a huge departure from his normally standoffish behavior, but...what? Did you expect drinking buddies?

No, he saved his warmth and humor for the kids. With maybe a little left over for you, too.

Unfortunately, you aren't as skilled in compartmentalizing your emotions. There’s no way you’ll be able to sit still waiting on Vos indefinitely, not with this much tension circulating, so you take a seat at a nearby table and activate the holo-board. Nadu Chaal, a Huttese game testing memory and calculation, is an ideal pastime to divert your attention.

Keep your head down and eyes on the board. Maybe you’ll leave without humiliating yourself. Or the Mandalorian.

“Hello, there.”

Ugh, kriffing ... You look up from your discard pile to see one of the mercenaries, a male Togruta, approaching your table. He walks over with a tankard, but without a shirt, his well-muscled body glistening with sweat. Perhaps he’d been sparring with the group over by the bar. 

“Don’t think I’ve met you before,” he says, handing you a drink. You take it because it seems rude not to, and you don’t know what merits retaliation around here. “My name’s Talsala. And you?”

You twist your head reflexively to look at the Mandalorian standing still as a statue behind you.

“Ha!” Talsala barks with laughter. “Well done, Mando. She’s very obedient.”

It chafes your pride hearing him say that, but ‘very obedient’ has got to count for something with the Mandalorian.  

The Togruta leans one of his powerful shoulders against the wall next to him, “I’d offer you one, too, Mando, but then you might loosen up a little, and I know how you hate that.”

“Talsala,” the bounty hunter says in an irritated tone. “This is Thulani Vildar.” 

Fortunately, your visor hides the look of shock sweeping over your eyes. What did he mean by giving you Tigran’s name, especially given how much he seemed to hate the man?

“Always thought you worked alone,” the Togruta says, speaking to Mando. “Certain advantages to bringing in a partner, eh?” He shoots you a lewd glance, making it clear what these perceived benefits might be. “She looks…eager to prove herself.” 

And then, to your horror, Talsala takes the seat opposite you. “I’m trying to get a game of Bako going. You know it?”

Your nod is more wary than eager. “I’ve seen it played.”

He waves over two others—a Rattataki female and a human male—to join you around the table. You sense Mando’s looming presence behind you, but you don’t dare to look back at him and reveal your misgivings. There’s nothing hostile or threatening about their behavior, yet you can’t help feeling outnumbered. 

“Valine,” the Togruta smiles as she takes the empty seat on your right. “This is Thulani. And this brute is Kasper.” On your left is a stout, round fellow with short blonde hair, a bushy beard, and thick eyebrows, whose nose had been broken in several places. He grunts by way of greeting.

Talsala leans across the table. “Do not mind Kasper. He's not much of a talker.”

“No, we save all the talking for you,” Valine says dryly, motioning a droid over to refill her tankard. She slaps the Togruta’s arms off the table so she can reset the game. “I’ll take red.”

“Green,” you say evenly. 

When the game commences, they’re careful not to pepper you with too many questions, curbing their curiosity to match the flow of gameplay.

“Where are you from Thulani?” Talsala asks with a politeness that doesn’t match his arrogant swagger. “Can’t quite place your accent.”

The Togruta is committed to sending you a flirtatious smile every time he looks up from his hand, performatively biting his lower lip in concentration.

Years ago, you might have blushed, but thankfully, you're too well-seasoned for that now. “I’ve called many places home,” you reply impassively. “I’m sure it’s a mix of them all.”

“How do you know the Mandalorian?” Valine inquires moments later.

“Mutual acquaintance,” you tell her. 

All the while, Mando keeps his silent watch. Was he furious with you for letting yourself be drawn into their net? For certain, this was a fishing expedition. But whether one motivated by malice or boredom, you can’t be sure. 

“You two making the jump with us to Coruscant?" asks Talsala. "Or are you looking for work after your business with Vos?” 

“Not really my place to say,” you insist, nodding towards the Mandalorian. 

Valine snorts, stretching her legs under the table, “She is well-trained.” 

Then, Kapser calls out, “What you paying her for, Mando?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since sitting down at the table an hour ago. The question is weighted with some significance you can sense but not fully discern.

Ultimately, the Mandalorian is saved from having to answer when Vos’s personal guard steps into view. “Lord Vos is ready to see you now.” She turns on her heels, leaving you to follow in her wake, her presence deeply unsettling.

As you pull away from your seat, Talsala places a chip card in your hand. “Come find me when you tire of this old monk. I’ll put you to work.” 

Arching an eyebrow, you point at the guy and mouth “I told you so,” to Mando.

While the bounty hunter was right to make you change out of your clubwear, you are fairly sure you could be brain dead, wearing a gunnysack, and Talsala would still have offered to poach you out from under the Mandalorian just for sport.

You expect him to make some sarcastic reply, but instead, he exits the room in silence. Shit! Is he really that pissed at you?

Vos’s guard waits in front of the lift. She steps aside, letting you enter the elevator car, before leaning inside the cabin to enter a code into the operating panel. “There’ll be someone to escort you upstairs,” she says, ducking back out. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mando.” 

You don’t have time to read something more into her words or the predatory look she throws the Mandalorian. The jolt of the ascending elevator forces you to take a step back to avoid falling into him.

Traveling up the ship's spine, you look out onto an aerial view of Daiyu City, choked in smog and radiant light. There’s a grim splendor to it. In the silence, Mando steps toward the glass to get a better look.  

Is it a seething silence? You can’t be sure.

Maybe he’s waiting until you’re both off Vos’s yacht to start yelling at you, afraid to open his mouth lest he fly off the handle. It was foolish to let yourself be caught in their game. If they had wanted to overpower you, they easily could have with only the Mandalorian there to save you. Yet nothing so dire had happened, and you were cautious not to give anything away. 

Curse that fucking helmet. You have no idea what he’s thinking. The job on Berchest had been a trial run, but this felt like the real test. 

"Why did you tell Talsala my name is Vildar?"

The question escapes your lips before you can swallow it back. It isn't the time or place to have this conversation.

He shakes his head absentmindedly. "It ... it's the first thing that came to mind."

Your stomach lurches. "Mando, I know you think there's—"

Erenada! The credits you’ve been fidgeting with fall to the floor, and you crouch down hurriedly to stuff them back into the pocket of your belt.

“You made that much on a hologame?”

“What?” The casualness of his tone catches you by surprise. He didn’t sound angry. “Oh, yeah. Well, they never catch on,” you smirk. 

“Catch on to what?”

“Bako is all about betting against the draw. It's pure probability.” 

When he says nothing in response, you clarify. “I can count cards, Mando,” you say before adding in an even lower voice, “Plus, it helps that I can tell if someone’s bluffing. Or excited about a good hand.”

“Don’t you need skin contact?” he asks. “Isn’t that why you wear the gloves?”

“It’s more about proximity. Touch makes for a stronger connection. But I can pick up on a lot just sitting next to someone. You ordinarily don’t sense it because the Beskar shields you from my influence.” 

“And this is what you use your abilities for? Gambling.” 

Ugh, there’s just no winning with him. “Did you never wonder where I get the money? You don’t pay me enough to afford these boots.”

While not as glamorous as your thigh-high red lace ups, the dragon leather boots you're wearing are both practical and spectacular. 

“Is that what you meant when you said we could get the money for repairs ‘another way’?”

“It would have taken me a few days, but yes.”

He pauses, once again dumbstruck by the revelation that you don’t simply go into stasis every time he leaves the ship. “Do you bring the kids with you?”

“No, I do not bring children with me to gamble!” You say immediately, which is not a lie since you never go looking for gambling tables. They just happen to be a common occurrence in most Outer Rim taverns. “Nito takes a turn watching the baby. Just like he is right now.”

If Mando has further concerns about your childcare responsibilities, they’ll have to wait. The elevator doors open onto a waiting circle of uniformed guards. Every one of them, except the Cathar standing in the middle, are HK droids. 

Or, at least, Cathar is what he started out as—he was more machine now than organic.

The HKs scan you for any remaining weapons, and once again, Mando’s whipcord goes unremarked.

Nevertheless, the Cathar steps directly in front of Mando, barring his path inside Vos’s private rooms. He's built like a brick wall and is at least a foot taller than the Mandalorian.

“You know the rules,” he growls between feline teeth. “No one sees Vos without showing their face.”

You can almost feel Mando’s hackles rising. Clearly, this was a frequent point of tension between them.

“I have worked for Ryun Vos many times, and he has never seen my face.” 

A tense silence unfurls. Then, like the coiled strike of a snake, the bodyguard’s metallic hand shoots forward, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet.

Mando catches him by the forearm, stopping his hand mere inches from the Beskar helm. The bodyguard snarls, bearing his teeth before striking out with the heel of his other hand. Mando ducks his blows—once, twice—an elbow catches him in the ribs, but he uses the proximity to hook an arm around the Cathar's shoulder and throw him bodily down the hallway. 

Both men turn to face each other, planting their feet and taking up fighting stances.

“Chirgar!” Vos shouts into the hallway. “I admire your loyalty, but must you harass the Mandalorian every time we conduct business?” 

The bodyguard reluctantly stands down. “No point in rules if you don’t enforce them,” he snarls, running his tongue over a row of pointed teeth and tilting his shaggy chin at a belligerent angle.

The shadowy figure of Ryun Vos had preyed upon your mind like a specter. Mando was never forthcoming about what happened on the job, but with Vos, he didn't have to. The work for Vos always left him visibly shaken. He's so wary of the man that he refused to dock the Razor Crest on the same fucking planet. You'd taken a ship from a nearby moon to Daiyu City.

Which is all to say that it felt incongruous to see an elegant, effete man smiling at you in a well-tailored suit.

“Come, Chirgar,” Vos says from behind his lacquered desk. “You know Mando and I are old friends.” 

With a wave, he motions you inside the handsomely appointed offices, supplying a panoramic view of the city below. Ryun Vos was quite an avid collector with an evident penchant for ancient weaponry. Displays of swords, daggers, and armor feature prominently on every wall of his study.

“Mando,” the crimelord calls out in greeting. “I can never seem to find you when I need you. Yet, I never doubt you'll show up at my door again like a stray dog.”

Vos chuckles genially, but the hairs along the back of your neck tingle. You sneak a glance at the bounty hunter to see how he reacts to being called a mongrel, but his posture gives nothing away.

“Are you in need of sanctuary? As I've said before, if you came to work for me exclusively, I could smooth over all this unpleasantness with the Guild.” 

“I’m honored by your offer, Lord Vos, but I've no need of your generosity.” 

Mando’s words are carefully spoken, his tone firm but respectful. Yet something dark crosses your host’s face, replaced so quickly by a jocular grin that you can’t be sure whether you imagined it.

“Then what, pray tell, brings you all the way to Daiyu just to meet with me?” Vos asks, pulling a hand over his cleanly shaven jaw.

“I hoped to redeem the favor you owe me.”

The word hope is doing a lot of work to demonstrate Mando’s deference.

“Oho! A dog in search of food then…” Vos nods his head smugly and shifts his gaze in your direction. “And what about your lovely companion? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Thulani Vildar, this is Ry—

“She knows who I am,” Vos says, waving a hand airily and leaning back in his sumptuous chair. “This favor. Name it, and it’s yours. Within reason, obviously.”

Mando pauses for a breath before launching into the pitch you devised. “While working a recent job—”

“Ah, working as a hunter? Warrior? ... Assassin?”

Has Mando worked as an assassin?

Alright, there's no need to be quite so naive. What else could the threat of bringing them in 'cold' mean? He's not referring to the carbon freezer, Thuli.

“My business is my own.” And the challenge in the Mandalorian’s voice is unmistakable.

Vos’s face tightens. “Careful,” he says softly. "I would hate to have to teach you manners, especially in front of the girl.”

At his words, Chirgar eases a hand down over one of the knives at his belt. In the tense silence that follows, you wonder if Mando really means to take down Vos and his bodyguard, armed only with his whipcord. He was a skilled fighter, but how would he withstand the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs, which could pulverize his bones to dust.

Finally, Vos breaks the quiet with a hearty stream of laughter. “I’ve forgotten that Mandalorians are not known for their decorum. My mistake. Please continue.”

The bounty hunter lets his gaze fall back to Vos. “I’ve come into possession of a wanted man whose contract I cannot collect on.”

“Being a wanted man yourself must make it difficult to navigate official, legal channels, I imagine.” 

“It’s not the Guild or New Republic I’m trying to avoid. But he was taken by mistake, and I would like to return him.”

“And you want me to arrange for his delivery?” 

Mando nods.

“Seems to me it would be easier for everyone involved to kill this man and be done with it.”

“It would,” the Mandalorian agrees. “But I think his safe return might be of value to you.”

Vos’s steepled fingers point toward the bounty hunter. “Now you have my attention.”

“This man is an engineer for House Galantis, one of the Nine Houses now ruling the Berchest system. With New Republic bureaucracy, it’ll be years before they obtain permission to sell their hyperfuel through official, legal channels.”

“I see. So, you are handing me a gift, which I may use to make an advantageous introduction. Very thoughtful of you. And what do you gain from this, Mando? My gratitude?”

“I need money.”

“Shocking how it always comes back to that. How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“Anything else? Perhaps you’d like my ship?”

Vos's tone is so egregious it's a struggle to keep from laughing. The sale of this yacht could finance a star fleet. Hell, he probably owned this yacht and a star fleet.

“You have the money,” Mando persists. “You have money and power because I freed you from prison where you were left to die.”

“Then you should have negotiated back in that cell. I’m not a bank, Mandalorian. And even if I were, given your current situation, I’d say your credit is a risky investment.”

“I’m not asking for a loan.”

“You want me to give you—" Vos paused. "Seventy thousand credits for some nameless nobody who might open a door for me?”

Mando looks at you questioningly. You shake your head. “A hundred thousand is the deal,” the bounty hunter says again.

It’s the first time since you walked into his office that you have Ryun Vos’s full attention. “And what makes you think you deserve anything more than what I dain to offer?”

“My Lord Vos,” you say, trying to match the reverence he so clearly felt entitled to. “We can sell this man only once. The political connections he provides will reward you many times over.”

“A brilliant assessment but, as I said, one that weighs connections he might provide.”

“House Galantis is offering a bounty of one hundred fifty thousand for his safe return. If his delivery doesn’t yield any business opportunities, there's still a profit to be made.”

Vos’s eyes darken as he considers his options.

“I will give you the one hundred thousand credits. But in exchange for my generosity, I would like a favor. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

Mando shifts his stance. “What favor do you ask?”

“I would like to borrow the services of your Miralukan crew member here—with the offer of an additional fifty thousand for you, my dear. Your talents are so rare; I would not wish to take them for granted.”

A lump the size of your fist lodges in your throat. 

Sure, you’re disguised as Miraluka. And here was confirmation that the disguise had worked. Because if Ryun Vos knew that you’re a wanted fugitive facing a death sentence back on Hapes, he’d have no reason to ask for your help.

No, it’s the creeping feeling that this entire encounter has been orchestrated to catch you in this moment that fills you with dread. 

Mando steps closer to you in a few quick strides, shielding you from Chirgar’s view. “She’s not part—”

“She can speak for herself,” Vos asserts, raising a hand to silence the Mandalorian. “The man whose life you saved on Danvar II has since made some accusations that I must verify.” 

“How would I—?”

“Don’t be coy,” Ryun Vos drolls. “The Mandalorian may rely on your services as a healer, but we both know the Miraluka can do much more than that.” 

Fuck! Fuck, shit, fuck. Hadn’t you just told Mando that you could sense when the other players were bluffing? Is that why Vos had left you to sit there for hours until a spot at the card table conveniently freed up? Had it all been a trap just to test you?

“I’m not asking you to tell me how you know…but you would know if someone was lying?”

“Yes,” you say in barely more than a whisper. Beside you, Mando’s body stiffens.

This is why he cautioned you against using your powers unless it was absolutely necessary. The quarry Mando captured on Danvar II had told Ryun Vos about his crimes and conspirators...but also about the young woman who'd healed him.

“Good,” Vos says cheerfully, clapping both hands together. “There are a few associates I’d like you to question.”

That he has them ready and waiting in the next room is confirmation of your worst fears, that this plan was set in motion the minute you stepped on board. 

“And what happens once I’ve found the person who’s been lying to you?”

Mando stands even closer, his broad shoulders enveloping you like a cloak. He was readying himself to defend you from attack. 

“I thought questioning a client’s intentions went against your professional code?”

You stare up into the Mandalorian’s viewplate, hoping that he understands—that he might be the only man in the galaxy to understand your conviction. “I’m not a hunter,” you tell Vos. “I’m a healer. And I took an oath to do no harm.”

Vos laughs with delighted surprise, smiling at you like the adorable idiot he believes you to be. “Very well. You have my word; I will not kill them.”

You scoff, “I’m sure it’s been some time since you bothered with wet work, Lord Vos.”

Next to you, Mando lets out a hushed curse in warning.

“Do no harm,” you repeat. “I need you to promise that this person will not be harmed. Evidence of their betrayal is what’s valuable.” A little taken aback at your own courage, you add, “These are my terms.”

Ryun Vos’s smile grows wider but doesn’t reach his eyes. “All right,” he says jovially. “Why not?” And he turns to a bristling Chirgar, “Bring in Pia'vak.”

The woman wears a tattered nightdress, a fine layer of grime, and several ugly burn scars. You shoot Vos a reproachful look. She'd obviously been snatched from her bed in the middle of the night to be tortured.

When she sits down at the table opposite you, your instincts have you reaching out for her. "Pia, give me your hand."

Pia’vak's spirit had been broken. You might have asked her to jump up and down on one leg, and she would have leapt onto the table to oblige. Subservient, she gives you both her hands so you quickly remove your gloves and hold them together between your bare palms. You can't remove the filth from her skin, but you do manage to clear up all the cuts and bruises.

She reaches up a hand to feel her mended nose. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Pia sobs. "Does...does this mean I get to leave?"

"Perhaps," Vos rests his chin on his knuckles. "You claim to have overheard Ivan say his information came directly from one of my lieutenants?"

Tears run down Pia's face as she nods frantically.

"Do you know who?"

"No! I swear! I never met him or saw his face or heard his voice or knew his name or —"

"She's telling the truth." You decide to save the woman from her helpless babbling. "Pia," you ask, staring into her wide amber eyes wet with tears. "You said you've never met him...if you didn't hear their voice, why do you think this person is a man?"

"That's what he said! Ivan said," she pleads hysterically. "That he knew where to find the weapons."

"Does Ivan know who this man is?"

"I don't know..." Pia'vak chokes, hiccuping as more tears spilled down her face, cutting trails through the grime on her cheeks. "I don't know...Ivan didn't tell me anything! I was out on the balcony, and I...he didn't know I could still hear him."

At that, she collapses into a fit of sobs.

You turn to glare at Vos. "Can we get Pia some clothes and a meal before she's on her way?"

He throws back his head to laugh. "You are a condolatory influence, my dear. I'll give you that. I can see why the Mandalorian is so...protective of you."

Mando's deep voice rumbles from over your shoulder, "Let's get on with it."

Chirgar hisses, but Ryun Vos merely gestures impatiently, "Bring in Ivan."

Ivan's appearance confirms your suspicion that these two were taken in some sort of pre-dawn raid. He wore a thin, ratty tunic over his briefs, and that was it. They hadn't even let him put shoes on.

Ivan also showed signs of torture. His face was a mess, with one eye completely swollen shut, his zygomatic bone likely floating around in several pieces.

"I need your hand, Ivan," you say calmly, reaching across the table.

"Stay away from me, witch!"

He draws himself back, looking both terrified and disgusted. The Miraluka were primarily known as healers and diplomats, but being able to see the world without eyes can make some folks superstitious. He was probably imagining grotesque, empty eye sockets behind your visor.

"Hold him down," Vos commands.

Chirgar shoves Ivan forward, pinning his chest against the table's edge. When you grip his wrist, the man tosses his head with a hateful sneer. Should you attempt to heal his wounds, or would he prefer not to be tainted by your witchcraft?

"Pia's safe now," you say, trying to garner some goodwill.

"What?" his brows furrow.

You don't pick up on any sense of relief, and no remorse either for endangering her life. Ivan could give a shit about what happened to Pia'vak.

Well, that made you feel less conflicted about incriminating him. You might have saved Pia, but you doubt Ivan will get out of this alive, whatever promises Ryun Vos had given.

"I know you've been stealing from me, Ivan. That much we've established," the crimelord drones. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I need to know how deep this rot reaches. Who gave you the stockpile locations?"

"I don't know! I never knew who he was. He didn't reveal anything about his identity!" Ivan yells desperately.

"So you say..."

You close your eyes to avoid watching Ivan's hysteric meltdown. The tangle of his emotions is a frustrating knot to unravel. His skill—like all good liars—was to weave in certain truths, along with things he told himself were true, to create the falsehoods.

"Is he lying?" Ryun Vos asks.

"No. He's telling the truth that his source never revealed themselves," you explain, and Ivan's shoulders sag with reprieve. "But he does know who it is."

"Fuck you, witch!" The man howls, but the shocked horror on his face is another kind of truth. One he can't hide.

"Give me a name," Vos demands, slamming a fist onto his desk, shaking loose his perfectly coiffed hair.

"He'll kill me," Ivan splutters, his one good eye darting around the room. "I'm fucking dead. I'm a dead man."

"Tell me his name, and I just might let you live," Vos growls. You throw him another glaring look. Could he not wait until you left the room to make a mockery of your principles?

Ivan turns his head back and forth, over both shoulders, hissing, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" and dissolves into unbridled weeping.

"Tell me his name," Vos roars, his voice full of cold fury.

The man raises his head, taking a deep breath. Then, a look of astonishment flashes across his face. Ivan gurgles, choking down the blood spilling from the knife protruding from his throat.

You sense, rather than see the second knife—the one that's meant for you.

It plunges down in a shining arc, ready to tear open your chest. You turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut in terror, but as you do, you glimpse the Mandalorian, his arm slashing through the air. There's a twang of colliding metal, and then…nothing.

Until you're knocked from your seat, landing with your face buried in the soft carpet, Mando's body shielding you.

“Stay down!” he yells.

You twist your head and open an eye to see the bounty hunter reaching for a gilded axe mounted onto the wall behind you. His fingers barely close over the handle before Chirgar upends the table and lunges forward.

Mando blocks the first swing of claws with the axe, but the next catches him in the ribs. Chirgar's bionic hand closes over the ancient weapon, and the wooden shaft splinters into pieces.

Grunting, Mando drops his elbow to launch a solid uppercut at the organic underside of the Cathar’s jaw. But Chirgar sees the blow coming and throws his head back to lessen the impact, blindly gripping the Mandalorian by both shoulders.

Mando’s body shoots upward to the ceiling, slamming into the crystal chandelier and crashing back to the floor with bone-rattling force. Chirgar lands kick after kick over the Mandalorian's prone body until he raises his knee high, intending to stomp the life out of the bounty hunter.

But at the last second before impact, Mando rolls between the Cathar's legs, launching to his feet with surprising speed.

Chirgar lets out a loud oof as Mando wraps his arms around him, pinning the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs to his side to neutralize their advantage.  He snarls, muscles straining, teeth bared as he tries to break Mando’s hold.

In answer, the Mandalorian drives his helmet into Chirgar’s nose with a nauseating crunch. Before you can blink, he releases the Cathar and lands a solid, well aimed punch to the solar plexus.

Chirgar hunches over, struggling for breath as blood gushes over his open mouth. Mando pivots on the balls of his feet to deliver a brutal kick to the back of the Cathar’s legs. Chirgar falls to his knees, swaying but somehow still upright. Mando lashes the whipcord around his throat and dives for the floor, using his body as an anchor to drag the Cathar to the ground.

Chirgar makes a series of frantic choking sounds, slashing at the Mandalorian’s fists. But the Beskar gauntlets safeguard his relentless grip. Steadily, the grunting fades, and the flailing limbs still, until finally, the Cathar's body goes limp.

Staggering to your feet, the Mandalorian's arms surround you, holding you to his chest in a crushing grip. He looks down at you, raising a gloved hand to cup your face. You feel his gaze searching for yours to make sure you're okay. When you nod in answer, you can tell he doesn't believe you.

Despite the blood splattered across your face, you're unhurt. The shock of violence had turned your guts into jelly, but rugburn is the extent of your physical injuries. As long as you don't faint.

With Mando’s gasping breaths and your thundering heartbeat, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind you.

You whirl around to find Ryun Vos leaning back in his chair, applauding. The Mandalorian had said the man would search for any source of leverage, and the look in Vos’s eyes, broadcast in his steadfast gaze, affirms what you know to be true. That Mando had betrayed his weakness with a single gesture, that comforting hand holding your face.

It had all been a trap. Or a series of traps that Vos had laid just to see what he could catch. Now he understood that a Miraluka and Mandalorian were within his grasp, and he only needed to catch one to get at the other.

Heeding none of this, Mando furiously demands an answer. “Why let him in here—armed—if you suspected him?” 

Vos shrugs. “Something’s different about you, Mando. I needed to see if you’d lost your edge or just gone soft,” he shoots you another glance. “Now I know.”

The crimelord looked bemused. “This prisoner of yours, how will I find him?”

Mando places a communicator down on the desk. “Once we’re off the ship, I’ll let him know it's safe to contact you.”

“Mando! This paranoia of yours is unfounded. Can’t you see, if you simply worked for me, there would be no need for all this worry? You’d both be highly rewarded for your talents as members of an organization that could protect you. And as you can see,” he nodded toward Chirgar’s lifeless body. “I have an unexpected vacancy.”

“My 'prisoner' will be in touch. Send Morrigan to collect him.”

Vos looks between you and the Mandalorian in surprise. “I’ll let her know she has your endorsement.” Sensing that there would be no further discussion of employment, Vos stands and places a hand over his heart. “You have my word, that I will return him safely to Berchest.”

With that, the office doors open.

“Is he really going to let us leave?” You mumble once you're back on the gangway. By the time you step onto the dock, your entire body is drenched in nervous sweat.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

***********************

Continue reading Volume 3- Post #5: What did the wall ever do to you?

Back to Volume 3 - all posts

[g0th4m]

GUYS.......

[mensuited]

[pedroswhispers]

Imagine you getting knocked down in a bar....only to come to seeing him hovering over you...

[coulsons-fullmetal-cellist]

You know what I realised?

Din Djarin is totally the clumsy female character in a romantic comedy: always accidentally falling into crazy situations just to be rescued and everyone falls in love with them.

[nonnunquam]

Interviewer asks Michael his thoughts about bringing Tony into the show. Michael talks about good writing and Lalo's character, and then he says:

It was important to me that anybody that would come in on the show would be welcomed. So when Tony came in the first thing I wanted him to feel was totally welcomed, I open my house to him and have him over as many times as he wanted, and go for hikes and go to restaurants, and immediately introduced to everybody, and have that family camaraderie, because our philosophy is really simple: you're as good as everyone else, so you want everybody to shine, it's mentality that we approached with everybody who joins the show.

And that's such a funny speech, because words are sweet and kind, but somehow it's sounds pretty arrogant and patronizing.

[nickk987]

It was a good day playing softball at work.