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Your first time on a speeder bike comes pretty early in your travels, and you’re very very excited to get to zip through the desert on something that’s much faster than by foot.
What you don’t expect is just how much even having your hands on his waist while you race through the dunes does to him.
It’s entirely platonic, reasonable even, but the second his body feels your arms settles on his sides barely circling his waist, it’s like he’s being seared by the twin suns. His hairs stand on edge as goosebumps flood his skin, and suddenly his skin feels flush and cold all at the same time.
He’s never been more thankful to hide behind the shield of his helmet, or surely you’d see the rose tinted pigment of his cheeks and the flutter of his eyes when your back tires and you lay your cheek to his back.
The wind rushes over your skin, and disguises the shutter the rushes through his muscles. You’re so small, so helpless, and dependent on him to keep you safe, and no matter how grumpy or silent he is you blabber away with whatever knowledge or story you’re sharing but he can’t seem to ask you to stop. Or kick you off his ship. Or even dare to leave you and the child alone for longer than a few days.
It hurts him. He’s attached. He wondered if keeping the kid around would change his outlook, and his decision making, and of course it did. The safety of a child is something that would change the actions of a renowned bounty hunter, but he didn’t expect it to change how he felt about you.
Each time you climb a dune your hands tighten on his flight suit, and when you descend your thighs squeeze together securing yourself tighter to him so you don’t face plant into the blunt metal on his back.
For the first hour he does his best to stave off his urges, but as he gets more comfortable with having you so close, more comfortable with the route and feel of this particular speeders control, he grows more brave.
First, he lets one hand fall from the throttle, letting his other steer confidently, and it settles on his hip, brushing against your knee. If you notice or react, he isn’t able to tell, but the connection is enough to cause his cock to twitch against his leg. He’d be lying if he wasn’t turned on by being this close to you from the get go.
Then, after a while of that, everytime your legs tighten around him he reaches down and runs his gloved hand down the back of your calf, caressing it in a soothing and gentle gesture. Your muscles flex into the surprise but welcome embrace, and you smother a smile into his cape.
For a moment he thinks he can feel your heart pounding against the armor, strong and steady if not a bit faster than he’d expect, but he’s embarrassed to realize it’s his own. Maker, he’s so pathetic.
Finally, he just leave his hand there, occasionally switching to your other leg when he needs to steer but never leaving you unconnected for long.
As the twin suns set over the sandy hills of Mos Pelgo, you pull into town. Wordlessly the bike is parked and turned off, you both sit for a moment, what is only a single breath feels like a lifetime as his other hand reaches to touch you at the same time.
Privately and both without knowing it, you share the same sad smile, wondering what’s to come of this, and weighing the chance of it never happening again against the risks of rejection.
“Cyare.” You feel the rumble of his chest against your cheek, the deep guttural tone of his voice in his native tongue, you’ve only heard him speak it a few times but the feeling in your chest is only warmer this time.
You both start your sentence at the same time, but rather colliding in the air, they compliment each other, harmonizing in the opposite ways that your cadences go when breaking ice, yours high his low.
Your blush deepens, “You first.” Keeping still you try and calm the rapid beating of your heart and the electricity passing through his touch.
“I’m going to find Marshall Cobb, he should be able to find board.” His thumb is still mindlessly sliding over your smooth skin, “Will you stay with the bike?”
You look through the one main strip of land between a dozen or so buildings, “I don’t think there’s many places to look.” You laugh, half surprised no one has welcomed you with a blaster aimed at you yet.
“What we’re you going to say?” He muses, clearly registering the playfulness in your voice as a good thing. He peers over his shoulder and as you look up towards his face you see a hint of his skin tone where the helmet rests on his face, and you blush and smother your face further into the sandy warmth of his cape.
“That we…” You hesitate for an audible moment, your brain shuffling through a multitude of lies and half truths, “ought to take speeder bikes more often.” There. The answer is the truth, and it’s casual but you think it’s clear enough to provoke an honest response from him.
His hands still, and you hold your breath, to your relief he squeezes the flesh tenderly. “We will.” His voice is hotter than the setting sunset.
Your back straightens with recognition, “I’ll stay with the bike.”
He doesn’t have to see your face to hear your smile, and he hoped you could hear his teasing smirk, “I’ll be quick.” Mando dismounts the bike and stands tall over you, as you turn your knees to face him a gloved hand pinches your chin gently but firmly, locking your eyes together. “Don't go too far.”
You smile sweetly, already daydreaming and clenching your thighs together, “I couldn't bear it.” . You straighten your leg from underneath your robe in a dramatic stretch, exposing it to the dimming desert air tauntingly. Massaging your fingers into the tops of your thighs, exposing the thin white strap of your underwear curving over your hipbone.
His mouth is dry, like he’d crawled through the desert towing a hefty bounty. The unmistakable tug in the pit of his stomach of need stirred his tired muscles into a fever, his travel-worn mind only thinking about how to he's going to break you over his cock in perhaps just a few hours. But as his eyes drift to the dark knowing smirk calling to him, begging him to come play.
“Mando! I was beginning to worry about you.” A handsome older fellow in a bright red sweater emerges from a few buildings down.
Minutes he thought. He would have you somewhere, anywhere where he could hold you, run his hands over your legs, and your chest, into your mouth in the next few minutes or he might collapse.
“We need a room. She's exhausted, heat sickness.” he shouts, barely bother to call over his shoulder or address the strangers concern.
“My home. Four doors down on the left, spare room is to the right of the entrance.” He calls back, this must be a friend of his. “I'll bring you food and leave it on the table when I come home.”
You nudge Mando’s boot with your foot, “Manners.” Half playing but the eagerness is pouring off him in waves, stroking your own need until you might pounce on him using the bike seat as a vault.
“Thank you.” He calls over his shoulder, genuinely, and he utters something you barely make out between the two of you, “Let's hope he’s out late.”
You shiver at the implication, inhibitions diminished. “Heat sickness?”
He shrugs, before bending down to lift you up around his waist. “It's a good reason to do this.”
This close you nuzzle into the gap between his helmet and his shoulder, lips moving against his throat as you kiss over the thin fabric, so thin in fact you can feel his heart drumming steadily.
You're so enamored with everything about him, his scent, his prowess, and his energy mixing with your emotions and this own.
With ease, you're brought through a small modest living room, but you're unable to see much other than the wall rolling by as you're swept through a doorway and set on a thin bedroll. The lights are promptly shut off and you hear a soft sound, and its not until his bare hands are resting on your cheeks that your eyes adjust, placing together a familiar armored chest.
He runs his hands over your body, lightly urging the robes off your shoulders, the fabric spreading open to reveal your modest undershirt. Thin with wear even in the dark you can see the tight bundles of your nipples through your breast band.
“Maker.” He swears, not even disquising the beeline he makes for them, circling and brushing over them with precision you used to fear. “You’re so beautiful. Mesh’la.”
You recognize this word, and as the word endearment clicks in the forefront of your brain you realize just how after each other you always were. Pet names, play fights, lingering fingers on helpful hands, plain as day.
He moves to the hem of your undershirt demanding it off, but you protest, reaching for the front of his armor to unlatch his chest plate.
He stills, keeping his hands out of your way and watching you dismantle is armor around him like you've done it your entire life. The heavy pieces are set aside, accumulating in a disorganized pile in front of the door as he takes them from your hands.
Undressing him, the intimacy of the moment almost overwhelms him, not only the physical demands of the extensive clasps and hidden magnets, but the mental shield that the armor protects him with. Hiding his emotions, his skin, his weaknesses, it was his crutch, his symbol and status, but none of that mattered anymore. Each exploring hand running over the uncovered area drove him wild, feather light but thorough.
You said a silent thank you to whatever sorry soul’s house this was and prey for a sandstorm.