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Mando’s got a softer heart than he lets on, you think, judging by the four observable things you’ve noted during your short co-travelling stint.
First, he’s got a penchant for strays.
The kid, the poor, stranded frog-lady, you. Lost and alone? You’re learning you can expect Mando to haul your ass up and get you back home. It’s not often he gets asked to do so—and most times it comes with a great deal of grumbling, something about not being a taxi-service—but one, watery look and his resolve folds faster than a well-worn sabacc card in Kamino.
Second, he accepts a lot of cheap work.
There are clients who, in flagging hopes that he can solve their problems, scrounge up their entire life’s savings, usually amounting to nothing more than a palmful of Imp credits (useless, you think), a priceless family heirloom (even more useless), and unbridled hope in their eyes (the most useless of all).
For someone of his status, you personally think hiring him should exorbitant. He’s underworld, he’s professional, he’s decked head-to-toe in some damn-near indestructible, preciously rare metal that costs more than anyone in the galaxy could ever hope to afford, and that should warrant a level of prestige that allows him to be indulgent about being choosy. Especially with jobs like these.
But he isn’t.
Maybe he’s just full of shit and is truly weak to tears. Whatever the case, whatever his rationale, you watch all-too frequently as he accepts jobs with barely the pay to cover the effort, sometimes, outright rejecting the money with nothing more than a gentle nudge and a pat on the shoulder.
Third, he’s a good dad.
The kid’s crying? Mando’s scooping him up, holding him so snug in the strong crook of his arm. The kid’s hungry? Mando’s priority mission becomes securing food, everything else be damned. He likes to deny it, claiming it’s just good childcare—and conviction to the Creed— until he can find the Jedi, but there’s no other explanation for why he tries to teach the kid, why he scolds him when he’s rude, why he purposefully barrels the ship in tight, looping circles if not to see the kid laugh.
You’ve made the mistake of bringing it up once; it resulted in such defensive embarrassment evident in his awkward fumbling with the kid, lasting for days, that you decided to keep your observations to yourself from then on.
And lastly, he’s, uh.
Simply put, he’s a giving lover.
Yeah. That’s it. A shiver rolls lazily down your spine at the thought and you glance side-long at him.
“Hey,” Mando says, suddenly, when he feels your attention on him, and you turn to look at him fully from the co-pilot’s seat. The cabin’s so dim you can barely see him besides the reflective glint of his armor, the Razor Crest floating sublight behind some massive moon to conserve fuel and lay low until Karga’s next ping. “I want to try something, if you’re willing.”
A fondness blooms in your chest at the consideration. “Sure. What’s up, Mando?”
He stares out the transparisteel windows, breathing once, twice, then checks for the kid with a quick visual sweep of the cockpit, and you sit patiently for his response. Rushing him never works in anyone’s favor, honestly, especially when he seems as uncertain as he does now; plus, you always like it when he takes his time. It gives you a totally valid excuse to watch him, to take a deep, long look at his armor and his body language, something typically measured out in caution.
Mando sighs with defeat, like he’s over debating with himself, and you perk in your seat.
“I want to eat you out.” He finally declares, then, gentler, “If you’d let me.”
Your brain short-circuits, abruptly rerouting all functions straight to your pussy, flooding wet with need. Where the fuck did this come from?
Even though he taken his time with you before, pulling you apart with skilled fingers and his cock, he’s never, ever taken off his helmet for something like… this, especially somewhere so visible. And he doesn’t need to—you prefer to keep this tryst going over losing it by overstaying your welcome—but right now? He’s fucking offering. Your stomach drops, a sinister but familiar heat crawling up your neck from your sternum, and you can only blink.
He waits for you to recover enough to whuff out a bewildered, “huh?”
“Your pussy,” he murmurs, and his warm voice casually rounding over the filthy words ignites a sharp spark in between your thighs, “I want to feel you come in my mouth. Been thinking about it for a while now.”
Mando pauses, picking absentmindedly at a stray thread on his pants, visor still pinned on you. Then, with a little more of a nervous-edge at your stunned silence, he explains, “Saw it on accident. Some holovid, on Coruscant, passing by the red-light district.”
Fuck, seriously, what?
You can picture it—disconcertingly quick, in disturbing clarity. Big, hulking, relentless Mando, pristine armor dyed a bloody-red under the neon lights, momentarily and uncharacteristically distracted from his hunt by porn. Not because he’s unprofessional, not because he fell to the temptation of the beautiful solicitors of the streets, not because of any other reason than a sudden desire to try it on you. And it must have imprinted something fierce on him, enough that even three standard days later, two of which he’s spent floating with you in dead-space, he’s still thinking about it.
“Fuck,” you breathe, gripping the arms of the seat so tight you might leave half-mooned indents into the leather from your fingernails. “Mando, what the fuck.”
You don’t mean it to come out as stiff as it does, and he’s quickly backtracking, turning his body counterclockwise to face the dashboard. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. I know it’s—”
“No,” you interrupt before any more damage can be done. You fucking want it, can feel your core throb with the craving, the press of your thighs doing fuckall for the pressure and you swallow down your nerves. Maker, how soft would his mouth be? Would it fit perfectly over your pussy? Would he hold you down and have it his way, or would he let you grind your clit against his tongue? Fuck, would he even take his helmet off, fully, and let you coil your fingers through his hair? Or will he just tilt the chin of it up just shy of his lips?
Mando just stares. You swallow and croak, “No, no, I—shit, Mando, that sounds—yes.”
“Yes?” He repeats, unsure. You nod, frantically, and he slumps against his chair in relief and stars, it’s so fucking hot the way his thick thighs spread, the way he sighs with it like some huge weight’s come off his chest, like he’s the one being serviced instead of doing the servicing. “Yes.”
“Wh-where?” Your voice cracks and you clear your throat. “Where should we—um. Where do you want to…?”
Mando sounds excited as he stands, taking the two, clambering steps to you before he grabs the arms of the chair and spins it to face him. Oh, oh fuck, he’s downright deadly, and you feel tiny in the way his breadth and presence crowds you simply by standing in your space. And you still fucking feel it, even with your eyes slammed shut—a broken habit born out of pure uncertainty of how much seeing would be breaching the delicate nature of his Creed.
It almost makes you believe in the existence of the Force, every nerve primed and focused in his direction, feeling him to the point you can map his form so clearly in your mind’s eye without even so much as a glance. The atmosphere warps; your head feels cottony and full with thick desire. And it’s not just because he spun you so quick, or that your arousal peaked to hypersensitive levels at such breakneck speed just at the mere thought of him—no.
It’s the fact that he’s just as desperate for it, too. He’s fucking rushing, for the first time, rather than savoring the languid pace he normally sets when he pulls you apart with his fingers, his cock, anything with terrifying precision. It’s so, unbelievably sexy—thrilling to feel his excitement and impatience damn-near vibrate the stagnant air around you—and you imagine this is what it’s like to be on the business end of his hunts. Focused, swift, devastating.
You hear two thumps—two knees hitting the floor, and you almost miss what he says next. “Here’s fine.”
“Here?” You squawk, though your body betrays your incredulity by instinctively spreading your thighs to accommodate his bulk. “Like, here here? In the cabin, here?”
His answer is to simply lift one of your legs, swiftly undoing the laces of each of your boots, sliding them off with hurried inconsideration so below his typical restraint, and oh. Yeah. Here, you guess. You mold into his touch, just… fucking going with it, though you do try to make it easier on him by offering each foot with atypical shyness. It isn’t until he pauses and sighs—buzzy and frazzled, modulated—that you look back down.
“W—what?” You whisper, clutching at your shirt, feeling distinctly exposed. “What’s wrong? Is it—not okay here? I can get up—”
Mando pins you with nothing but a flat palm against your pelvis and a growly, “Don’t. Move. Here’s fine.”
And maybe the fucking Force is real and he fucking uses it, because he cuts off any confused protest before you could even formulate what you’re feeling into tangible thought. He sighs again, brusquely, thumb running a semi-circle against the soft flesh above your cunt. “Just—just let me take care of you. Please.”
Your brain really short-circuits, then.
Fuck it, you relent. You can give him total control, blindly devout to whatever brand of religious experience he’s about to bestow upon you, and yeah. There’s nothing you want more. It’d be a damn pleasure, thank you very much, and at the tension dissipating from your muscles punctuated by the soft whump of your head against the seatback, Mando’s firm palm slinks up; first, following the length and contours of your leg, then up to the seam of your thigh, and you follow the solid touch back to the present.
“Okay,” You sink with a dreamy sigh, lifting your hips over the edge of the seat when he hooks both your legs over his broad shoulders in between the gaps of his armor. He just hums in approval, rucking your slacks down over your ass with one, impatient hand—just enough he has unimpeded access, but not long enough he wastes any more time on any more pleasantries. “Yeah—alright, here’s fine, this is fi—ine!”
Your voice, embarrassingly, crests to an uncontrollable yelp at the first feel of his tongue laving up your cunt. When did he even—?
You know what? It doesn’t matter, not anymore. Not when he’s got your hips cradled in the crook of his elbows, hands reaching up and over to grip firmly at the juncture of your knees, folding you in half. Not when you feel him sigh with relief, shoulders heaving and laxing with the supreme satisfaction that licking your pussy provides him, like a salve to some tender wound. You can’t move, held so still and all you can do it helplessly whimper against the onslaught, fingers fisting into your shirt if only to ground yourself. It’s been so fucking long, and yeah, his mouth is just as soft and yielding and perfect as you imagined.
“M-mando,” you whimper, punching out an animal groan when he hums inquisitively against the seal of his mouth on your clit, “Oh fuck—”
“Good?” he gruffs, muffled by the fact he’s still unwilling to pull his mouth entirely off you, and oh, his voice feels better than it sounds, “You taste so—fuck— so good.”
Fuck, you believe it, the way he presses praise into your pussy. His thumbs stroke absentmindedly at the seams of your legs while his jaw works, tongue lapping wickedly at your clit, and your grip tightens so desperately you genuinely think you’re going to tear your fucking shirt off.
You imagine your hands in his hair instead, a sudden desire to hold, instead of coming like this—connected only at the filthy annex of his mouth and your pussy.
Is… his helmet still on though? Could you? You’d never just look, never cross that razor-thin edge of uneasy trust between the two of you, but you… stars, you want to touch him, too, feel his hair, root his mouth flush against your folds and hold him steady like he’s holding you. Anything, honestly.
When you move, though, your clumsy hands meet metal, bonking it straight off his head.
You freeze. He freezes. You’re waffling between the overwhelming realization that he was eating you out just under his helmet and the fact you’ve effectively just de-helmed him.
“I—,” you gasp, stumbling over your words, tongue thick in your mouth, eyes miraculously still firmly screwed shut. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mando, I—I didn’t—I just wanted to hold onto you.”
The irony isn’t lost on you that you’re most likely never going to touch him again over this, if not outright ejected from the damn airlock. There’s a terse silence on his end and you assume he’s furious until you realize his mouth is still plastered to your fucking clit. You feel him speak before the words permeate in your dumb-horny brain, prefaced by a low, contemplative hum. “Did you see?”
“No,” you wheeze, curling your toes against the sensation of it. Not fucking now. “I—I didn’t look, my eyes were shut, I’d never—”
“Then stop talking.” He breathes, voice all gravel and punching low in your tummy with insidious heat. It somehow feels fucking… better? Now that his helmet’s all the way off? “’S fine.”
“Isn’t—isn’t that some, like, super sin or something, though?” You whine, forcing yourself to stay grounded through the electric jolt when Mando licks a fat, vengeful swipe up in between your folds, chased by the rough nudge of his thumb against your opening. It’s a valiant attempt at distraction, but you won’t—you can’t— be dissuaded from this. The man didn’t just ruin his whole life’s-worth of conviction for some pussy, right? Right??
“Wouldn’t be sitting here if it was,” he replies, so loose and unbothered in comparison to you, “I know you won’t look. That’s what matters.”
You don’t know if it’s the sentiment of implicit trust that shoots molten want down your thighs, or if it’s the way he thumbs at your clit with the same breezy way he’s talking.
“Never,” you croak, scrunching your eyes shut tighter as if it were to prove your innocence, “I—wouldn’t ever.”
“I know, pretty girl. I know,” he drawls, lazily, crooning low with false sympathy. It’s made especially true when he slides a thick finger in, testing your warmth, “Doesn’t matter anyways. Applies only to battle, and if this were a battle, I’d say I’m winning.”
“Never— had a chance, an-anyways.” You whimper, goosebumps skittering across your skin. There’s no lie there, particularly in the moment that his finger crooks up, just the way you like it, against the spongy nerve-endings that has your core seizing and your will shattered.
Mando fucking purrs in approval, reaching up blindly to search for one of your hands before placing it gently on the top of his head. The motion of it momentarily knocks you back into the present, but you grip (his hair is soft), and with a broken, little moan, he leans forward to press an open-mouthed kiss against your clit.
His mouth is going to be your demise, hot and wicked, like hell. Maker.
You keen when his tongue slides flatter over your clit, lips closed while he works in a tight, consistent circle. Stars, you nearly fucking pass out, absolutely annihilated when he deftly slides another finger inside and up, beckoning your orgasm closer to the edge.
Not to mention the vicious feedback loop— you reward him with a soft, yielding moan that triggers his own—and it’s one that’s starting to destroy you the longer he’s down there. You’re gonna lose your fucking mind—you’re already tottering over the edge of oblivion, tensing and lengthening and crumpling all at once.
“Oh, fuck,” you grit, leg twitching frantically, and you bunch up in a half-crunch at the feeling. “Fuck, fuck, stars, Mando—”
“So wet.” He moans, unabashed now, “Gonna come for me, pretty girl?”
And you are. You fucking are. Your fingers dig into his scalp, mashing his mouth into the seam of your pussy as your legs tremble, and fuck, he does something with his fingers—fast and precise—that makes your whole core clench down in anticipation, gush with your own juices.
Mando, ever the fucking perceptive one, keeps doing... whatever it is.
And then he pauses. For just the briefest second before he decides in what is probably the galaxy’s worst (or best) decision, to unfold and stretch his back to a more strategic position. It’s jarring, at first, but then he presses one, devastating palm into the soft flesh juuust above your bladder and no.
It shifts the sensation—intensifies in tenfold, refines the broad, swelling feeling into one, distinct pinpoint of heat hidden under his palm, and your eyes fucking roll behind your eyelids. Vaguely, you think you can hear him whisper, a mantra of praise and encouragement against your aching clit that falls deaf on your muffled hearing, swelling abruptly into an unexpected crescendo that stills your legs, stills you entirely except for your floor muscles clenching and bearing down.
“Mando, I-” you gasp, ragged and weak, “Wha—”
You don’t even finish the thought. You can’t. Your orgasm drops, ripping through you with such a ferocity you’re certain you’re fucking screaming, and it isn’t until your hearing comes back with a tinny whine that you realize the seat under you is wet.
Actually, nix that. Everything is wet. Mando’s got his (wet) cheek against your inner thigh, both palms now supporting either side of your ass, and you blink dumbly.
“What…” You gasp, “The fuck was that?”
There’s a stunned quiet, then… he laughs.
It’s soft, but so warm and contagious that you can’t help but laugh too, and he presses a soft kiss to a patch of skin near his mouth and murmurs, “Me taking care of you.”
Then, a pinch more reverent, “Thank you.”
You stroke his hair, laughing breathlessly in response and he nuzzles his nose into your skin, just the barest touch. Admittedly, you don’t remember how this part of your relationship(?) even started—probably in the span of some mindlessly long hyperspace journey—but you’re not complaining.
Seriously though, why would you? He fucks like he hunts—single-mindedly pursuing his goal, determined and dogged and raw. It’s actually hilarious to think about, how a man feared across the galaxy solely by legend and the skill to back it up is arguably the most selfless man you’ve ever fucked, but it’s truth. The most staggering truth of them all, too: The Mandalorian prefers to give. Fuck’s sake, the man gives you the most mind-blowing orgasms each time, but thanks you for it.
It’s not like you expected him to be greedy (let’s be real, you didn’t expect anything at all), but you certainly couldn’t predict this. And really, that’s on you.
Oh well.