Chapter Text
You’re alone, curled in the soft blankets in the half darkness of the Mandalorians ship, hazy yellow light sines from the spotlights above the bedroom compartments under the deck of the ship. You’ve been bored, waiting and waiting for the return of the Mandalorian, who was up a dawn, walking out of the ship with a quick word to stay there and he’d be back soon.
When asked where he was off to, he gave you no answer.
It’s been hours. You’re bored to tears.
You lay on your back, stretched over the worn sheets and stripped down to thin underclothes, an oversized shirt covering the rest of you, though it hangs from the curve your shoulder and only reaches the tops of your thighs, sensual, soft.
You’ve never worn this around the Mandalorian, only have slept in it.
The air on the ship is compact with warmth, and the temperature outside is no better, your hair sticks to your skin and the rest of your body is dabbled in perspiration. You huff, turn to your side and stare out the small window, an arm reaching out to pull back the thick covering. It’s nearly dark, you roll your eyes and turn back to stare at the ceiling, it’s dust and odd colours.
As always, your thoughts as if lost at sea, drift leisurely to the Mandalorian.
Companions on a job, hired through the Guild you were sent along with him — much to his own displeasure. A rookie, fast and a smart learner, you still annoyed him. You admired the stony and, seemingly, emotionless soldier. He was rough, gun slinging and didn’t have trouble killing who stood in his way.
And that was the problem, a turned secret locked away. You have found yourself desperately attracted to him.
Shoved down under the name of professionalism and under the orders of his culture, isolated and kept of warmth, of human contact, touch, of distraction and all else that the Way the Mandalorians live by. So you’ve kept quiet, hiding the secret in the back of your mind. Only to have it brought up every time he speaks, deep and smooth voice, you swear his tone gets softer around you, and maybe he looks at you for a second too long — clique, but you’re a hopeless romantic.
Maybe it’s the way he presents himself, a threat, merciless, tough and cruel and stars he’s everything your own mother warned you to stay away from.
Thinking of him, how his hands curl around the gun, fingertips on the trigger and how they had gripped your own hand, pulling you up into the ship as the two bounty hunters escape a planet. He’d always looked out for you. It’s of fantasy and fiction, a mess created in your own mind — of him, so close to you.
It’s getting darker out, the red half crescent sun is setting over the orange sanded planet, it’s grey mountains shaded in the distance.
You wonder what he looks like. Based off his mannerisms, controlled movements and preciseness, he’s agile and fast — you’ve come to imagine he’s ruggedly attractive. To put a face to a mask you see every day is proving difficult. You know he’s strong, muscled and rigid, he’s built like a soldier. You like to imagine he can easily convey emotion through the halmet, but is that just another work of your longing?
Cloaking yourself in darkness, eyes closed, you slip into the warmth of imagination. Your own hands sliding down your chest, tugging at the ties that rest at the centre, they brush over your smooth [skin colour] skin — in place of him. He’d touch you so softly. Your hands span over your chest, slide up past your ribs and push up the thin covering over your breasts, automatically arching up into your hands, you sigh — slowly massaging over and brush your thumb over your nipple.
A slow and steady flutter erupts within you, warm flames lick up the seams of your core and just like that — to the thought of him you’re slowly burning up. His lips would ghost over your breast, warm breath fanning over you’d have your hands tangled in his hair, was is light or dark? Curled or wavy? It didn’t matter, your mind runs wild with the idea of his lips and tongue and teeth dragging over your tits, sucking wet and red marks into the skin and biting into the ridges of your collarbones. You inhale sharply, hands filled with your breasts you squeeze, so close to the feeling of what he’d do to you.
Sliding your hand lower you shiver — imagining his voice, raw and filling your ears, thick in his throat and teasing. Goosebumps follow your fingertips as they brush past your hipbones, jumping at the contact, you’re alight with warmth. Lip caught under your teeth you slip your hand beneath your underclothes, following the fantasy.
-
He’s late. After a long and wasted journey through the mountains he’s back, chased by the coming nightfall — the Mandalorian is exhausted, dust soaked and heavy footed he walks into the ship, nearly silent, for he’s sure she must be sleeping. It’s been hours and the suns have set.
He sighs, powering down the ship he unloads the weapons from his holsters, the blaster, the long rifle, string of bullets and then a few blades, he’ll clean them later. Right now he just wants to collapse into his bunk and sleep for the next five hours. He steals down the stairs, then quietly climbs down the ladder, mind preoccupied with the thought of her. What did she do all day? He noticed her bag of weapons was reorganized and the ship was relatively tidier — he’d have to thank her in the morning.
The Mandalorian feels a tug of guilt, leaving her most of the afternoon, trapped inside the ship. He should have brought her along, overly eager and annoying as she is – no. Mando sighs, she’s not personally an annoyance, she’s never been; the girl is her own bounty hunter in the making, strong and willing… he’s only slowly accepting the fact that he’s easily… distracted by her.
Passing her enclosed room, the grated metal floor clinking under Mando’s boots he’s walking past and the doors halfway open he thinks nothing of it, it’s dark and she’s sleeping — he’s paused, was she awake? A soft movement catches his attention, and before he’s stopped himself the Mandalorian peers through the half closed door.
Soft sounds escape her parted lips, her shirts discarded on the floor, hairs a mess on the pillow and her eyes are closed, through the hazy light her skin shines, and under the shadow of her arm the curve of her breast is visible. She’s beautiful and very much awake, not yet noticing him, caught in her imagination she’s whimpering soflty, forcing herself to keep quiet — at any moment the Mandalorian could be back at the ship.
Its dirty and fun to think of, what would he do? You feel the hotness seep futher into you, its dug its short claws into your gut, pulling the waves of arousal though your body, it’s sliding over your nerves, soaking up every thought of the Mandalorian, his voice in your ears and hands on you skin.
The Mandalorians in shock, for a moment the lurching feelings of panic swell, his mind races and he steps backwards quietly as possible, the worlds in slow motion and everything’s fading out. She hasn’t noticed him. Her hand slides past her hips and his breath hitches, she’s pushing her hand over her centre, wrist arched and twisting in time to her breathing, she’s lost in a daze of self pleasure. Fuck. Mando’s lungs have stopped working, his breaths caught in his throat and he’s hot under the mask, heart pounding steadily. He’s cursing himself and the stars for putting himself into this situation.
How did she not notice him? He’s too entrapped by her body, curved against the soft bed she’s an arch of threatening beauty, raw and real, she’s trembling by her own hand, his dark eyes follow the lines and soft edges of her, pulling from her the details he’s never noticed.
Its so wrong.
So deliciously wrong. Fire looms within him and he nearly utters a soft groan as his own body reacts, he squeezes his hands into fists, curling and uncurling them he’s trying to look away. But her hands between her thighs and she’s chewing on her bottom lip, seductive and all alone she’s an artpiece. He’s hot, uncertian of his emotions, of shame and desire, cooling passions and such an attraction he didn’t know he had — she’s uttering a soft moan and lets her hand travel up to her breast.
The Mandalorians filled with conflict, he’s following your movements, curiosity and the building desire, pathetic and longing are mounted within him. He’s never felt the insistence, to calling to just look.
You bite down on your lip, you’ve got one hand push up and squeezing your breast, as the others between your thighs, slicked and fulfilling the fantasy of someone else touching you. “Gods,” your fingers slip lower to gather the wetness, warm and slippery against your fingertips, you return to circling, the softness of your sex under your fingertips you’re conjuring an image of the Mandalorian between your thighs.
You’d have your hands on his head, a leg thrown over his shoulder, his mouth against your sweet cunt, taking all you’ve got under his tounge.
“Mhhm, gods Mando,” you’re choked voice fills the room. You’re keeping a sly smile from sliding over your lips as you are dragging an orgasm closer, you can almost feel it, his tounge on your slick cunt, kissing and licking in place of your fingertips its all you want. You know whats happening, you’ve known all along, felt the certian presence but its not stopped you. If anything, the idea behind the sinful acts are only pulling you closer. You gasp, fingers twirling faster you’ve arched, thighs trembling in waves its all too much and you’re dropping back to the bed.
Your heart beats in your ears, muscles relaxed you’re rapidly fading, spent nearly to exhaustion by just the ideas, the controlled desires of fantasy.
You stretch, softness sliding over the thin sheets, curling around the blankets you’re still smiling softly, the curve of your lips turned into a smirk. “Enjoy the show?” You ask the figure outside the door.