hapan-in-exile

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #5: Wish You Were Here

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by kpfun

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.8K (fifth post in Volume 4)

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

_______________________________

V. Blessed Mother, grant me the clarity of wisdom! You are currently facing one of life’s most enduring yet challenging dilemmas. It’s the tension between two competing impulses. Your deeply ingrained sense of practicality and how fucking horny you feel right now. 

Should you drop everything you’re doing and immediately head for the Razor Crest? This is undoubtedly your best opportunity to sneak out while everyone’s asleep and reunite with your favorite family in the galaxy before anyone notices what you’re up to. 

Or do you yield to vanity? This option means time to wash your hair, put on a little makeup, and dig through Humia’s clothes for something that doesn’t make you look like a sack of potatoes. It’s a waste of daylight, but after eighteen days apart, you’d like to remind a certain someone what an absolute smoke show he’s been missing. 

Like, maybe he would sigh very profoundly, so overcome with emotion at the mere sight of you? Okay, sure—it’s Mando—he’s not going to run across a meadow to sweep you up in his arms. But if he gasped your name longingly while threading his fingers through your hair, it would do a lot to ease your desperation.  

All gods divine and merciful, you are levitating with excitement! He’s back, you clasp your hands to your heart. He’s back. He’s back. He’s back. You occupy the same atmosphere. There’s a buoyancy, lifting every footstep as you practically skip up to your front door, throwing it open as though about to burst into song.  

“Oh shit!” Upon entering the hut, you see Serenio enfolded in Davik’s arms. Their foreheads are pressed together, with his long black curls spilling over her lekku. They immediately spring apart like lovelorn teenagers—which, you recall, they are—at seventeen and nineteen, respectively.  

You look between them, watching as they struggle to suppress their ragged breathing. Guess their fake romance isn’t so fake anymore. Maybe Serenio wouldn’t mind getting stuffed into a cleaning cart with Davik? 

Damnit, this was going to make everyone’s sleeping arrangements infinitely more awkward. The hut has a ‘bedroom,’ but it wasn’t used for napping. You, Humia, Davik, and Serenio all sleep inches apart from each other on the floor every night. 

Shit, really? Well, at least romance is working out for someone. It’s sweet. Young love. You’re happy for them. Truly. Did this create a needless distraction? Absolutely. But who are you to judge? You’re about to hike an hour through the woods in the hopes of fucking your boss.

“Want to train with us?” Serenio signs before awkwardly busying herself with rearranging the furniture. 

That’s right, Humia had forbidden them from fighting in the pits. TaggeCo employees loved to haunt the encampment’s cantinas and drinking halls. Sometimes, management brought in musical performances and opera singers for cultural enrichment, but let’s be real—the Lakarani are the true source of entertainment around here.

It’s too risky that one of those corpos might recognize Serenio while she kicked the shit out of someone twice her size and wondered where their cleaning lady learned to land a punch like that. 

I guess the obvious solution is turning our living room into a training gym?  

“Yeah, you should spar with us, Kas,” Davik agrees. He’s completely serious, despite being so flustered you can see his brown cheeks blushing. “We were just making some room.”

They’d already changed out of their TaggeCo workwear. Davik is dressed for movement, and Serenio has her knuckles wrapped. 

They both practically vibrate with restless energy. Although, that could simply be a side effect of all this latent sexual tension. Do warriors consider sparring a kind of foreplay? You’ve got to get out of here before you completely kill the mood. 

“Hmm,” the corners of your mouth tug. “Thanks, but no,” you sign, shifting so that Serenio can read your lips. “I don’t spar.” 

“Ubaa said you were a veteran. What kind of soldier doesn’t train?” Davik seems genuinely confused. “You work through all those fighting stances every morning.”

“I do meditative poses for my blood pressure, Davik. Believe me, combat skills are not what I’m bringing to this operation.”

“What about self-defense? I can train you. You’re surprisingly strong. I’ve seen you carrying laundry from the wash house,” he says appraisingly. Then, a look of horror crosses his face. “Not that I’m watching—”

“I’m going for a walk,” you sign. “Need a bath.” 

What follows is quite possibly the most awkward silence you’ve ever endured as they both study your every movement, packing toiletries and spare clothing, determinedly not looking at each other. 

“Hey!” a thought occurs to you. “Humia says there’s going to be a bonfire down at the jetty tonight. It sounds like a lot of fun. We have the night off. You guys should come.”

At that, they exchange a glance, faces flushed.

“Yeah,” Davik nods. “Do…you want to go?” he signs, asking Serenio.

“Okay,” she shrugs, breaking into a wide smile.

And that’s your good deed for the day! You’ll just have to be mindful to knock very loudly before opening the front door from now on.

**********

It’s true, you’re stronger than you look. Novitiate disciplining in the palace temple helped you develop a lot of muscle mass at an early age. For whatever reason, monastic life seems to require climbing an endless amount of stairs regardless of which religion you serve. 

That being said, you’re a far cry from elite bounty hunter. Davik might have a point about strength training. By the time you’ve climbed the pine tree and made it over the perimeter wall, you’ve got both hands on your knees, panting for breath. 

It’s a lot of effort to avoid passing through the main gate, but you can’t shake the feeling of paranoia as you set out to meet with your co-conspirators. Best to avoid any questions about where you’re headed.

When word of Emperor Palpatine’s death reached the Metatessu sector, Lakarani independence fighters did not wait for Imperials to develop an exit strategy. They immediately seized all the military outposts, along with the mining operations and refinery. Without available reinforcements to take back control of the planet, Imperial forces abandoned Lakaran.  

While fighters had expelled the Empire, they did not succeed in keeping Lakaran free from foreign influence. The planet was now considered part of Hutt Space, and Yarella the Hutt leased Larakan’s mining rights and coaxium production to the Tagge Corporation. 

But their siege and occupation of the refinery against Imperial forces was the stuff of legends. Literally—images of the martyred fighters could be found in every home, along with altars dedicated to the fallen. 

It’s why the Tagge family made sure to invest in a robust security infrastructure when they took over. 

So, another convenient feature of the retaining wall they’d built around the encampment to prevent mudslides is that it created access points in and out of the camp. These gates could be barricaded if necessary, sealing everyone inside. Drones and satellites monitored the area from overhead. 

All in the name of safety. If someone working at the plant was exposed to radioactive material, Tagge Corp claimed they would need to track the population for containment. Of course, all you had to do was look at the river to know the Tagge Corporation didn’t give a fuck about exposing people to toxic materials. 

The transponder on your wrist tracks everywhere you go. All they had to do was locate your signal, and a team of TaggeCo security could show up at your door and drag you off under the pretext of “containment.” Tampering with the device was a fireable offense. If you wanted work, you submitted to surveillance. 

It wasn’t so much that your movements were scrutinized, but they did get documented, which could cause trouble for you later if TaggeCo got suspicious. They might start to wonder why you went hiking through the woods before dawn, who you were meeting with, and a lot of other dangerous questions. 

In a stroke of luck (and probably his dick), the security guard Humia was sleeping with had shown her how to mask the transponder’s signal without damaging it. Still, vigilance costs nothing. You’ve packed your rucksack and draped a towel over your shoulders. Should anyone see you…hopefully, they’ll assume you’re on your way to the hot springs nearby. 

The coordinates popping up on your communicator showed the Razor Crest’s location about two leagues northeast of the refinery. 

Again, just terrible bounty hunter skills—you have no idea how to read a topographic map and are forced to backtrack more times than you’re comfortable admitting. How did Mando do this without walking in circles? 

Eventually, you give up trying to navigate the map and just climb the highest tree you can find to look out over the valley. 

There she is! You spot Razoria—which is what Nito called the ship when he needed her to cooperate—settled amidst a shallow marsh at the edge of an alpine lake. You’d been so caught up thinking about Mando and the kids you’re surprised by the overwhelming sense of relief that wells up inside you just looking at the ship. 

For the first time since you boarded the shuttle for Lakaran you feel…safe. When did you start to think of the Razor Crest as home? 

These weeks on Lakaran might be the longest you’ve been in one place since you stepped onboard the Crest. Wanderlust had been the most enticing part of Nito’s pitch to join them, shuffling the Child across the galaxy. You’ve already seen more star systems in the past five months than your seven-year career in the military. And every night, you returned to this gorgeous clunker. 

With each new planet you visited, a voice would emerge from your subconscious telling you to make a run for it. Now, the voice would say. Run now before it’s too late. But you’d grown so tired of running away. You wanted to run toward something. And you did—you are—running home to this new family of yours.

The Crest had good cover under the surrounding treeline, but her hull gleamed brightly in the early morning light. While TaggeCo didn’t patrol this far into the mountains, drones or satellites might pick up the glare. The Mandalorian should have some camouflage netting. Tree branches would do the rest.

Nito and the kid are stretched out in the sunshine, lounging on the shore of the lake. As soon as he notices your approach, the Ardennian immediately launches into a gallop. 

“Thuli!” He wraps all four arms around you in a fierce hug. 

You drop to your knees to join his embrace. On the shore, you see the kid waving his hands excitedly.

“Hey, little man!” You lift him up and place him on your hip. “Did you miss me?” 

The Child slowly blinks those enormous brown eyes and rests his downy head against your chest. Your heart melts a little when he gurgles contentedly. 

It felt so good to be back together again. All that’s missing is… 

“Mando’s not here,” Nito says, catching you searching for him. “After we landed, he headed straight for Yarella’s castle in Palmal.”

“Yarella’s…?”

As an added precaution, you’d boarded the shuttle to Lakaran directly from Daiyu in case anyone from the Tagge Corporation followed up on you. While Humia had been rude and irritable when she met you at Palmal Spaceport, you were deeply grateful for her presence at your side. 

In ten years of travel, you’ve never seen a city less organized. Palmal was carved deep into the mountainside. Its warren-like sprawl of metallic buildings and tubular walkways made it impossible to see ahead in any direction. Each step felt claustrophobic and dangerous. 

Which–it is! With all the twisting paths and sharp turns, the city’s layout is an ideal hunting ground for bandits.

It made perfect sense why the executives and TaggeCo employees lived on-site. Why, despite being poisoned, the Lakarani all preferred camping in clapboard shacks surrounding the refinery. You were less likely to get your throat slit.

And looming above the lawless chaos, coiling upward in a gleaming steel spire, is Yarella the Hutt’s castle.

“Why would he do that?”

Mando certainly didn’t need the money. Did the man not know what else to do with himself? Did his life hold no purpose beyond battle and hunting? You can feel tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. How could that be his priority when you haven’t seen each other in weeks?

“I think he wanted to have some cover for why we’re here on Lakaran,” Nito shrugs. “You know, big scary Mandalorian in your backyard makes people nervous. Yarella will probably have a job for him.” 

Without pausing to take off your clothes, you shrug off the rucksack, step out of your boots, and wade into the lake.

“Uh, Thuli–”

You dive into the water before Nito can see you crying. 

Mando’s not here. You don’t care about the rationale or logic of his decision. He couldn’t wait one fucking day—one fucking hour—to see you?

The crushing weight of disappointment that he’s not here—that he couldn’t care less about being here to see you—feels inescapable, like the pull of an anchor dragging you down toward the murky depths. You kick your legs out in frustration, but you can’t swim. You can’t breathe. You just sob, choking as frigid water fills your mouth and subsumes your tears. For a moment, it feels like you might drown. 

Why would he do this? You thought you’d offered him the perfect arrangement. The perfect companion and sexual partner. Instead, you’ve been blown off and left behind.

Mando doesn’t let many people in. So you would have thought that what you shared together…a…a connection…

Fuck–a connection? You know, in your bones, he’s never shared that kind of intimacy and tenderness with anyone else. You would’ve thought it mattered more to him.

Apparently not.

Was this your fault? Before leaving for Lakaran, he’d asked about what to tell the kids, and you said something like, “This doesn’t have to change anything.” Because you didn’t want to burden him with worry over love and duty and creeds. 

Was it the wrong thing to say? Should you have just confessed that your heart belonged to him and no one else? Would he be here if you had? Maybe he was simply taking you at your word—that what you’d shared didn’t change anything. It certainly didn’t change that he was Mandalorian and would always put duty above love.     

The truly heartbreaking realization is, that as angry as you feel toward Mando, the real person you’re angry with is yourself. You’d told him he didn’t need to change, but you still expected him to. Are you really such a narcissist that you thought having sex with you one time would be such a transformative experience he’d wake up a completely different person?

It had been three times. Regardless, you’re not being fair. You want to storm and rage. But what good will it do? You’ve fallen for a man whose life is encased in cold steel.  

Hadn’t you prayed for clarity and wisdom? It won’t heal the hurt breaking your heart to pieces or soothe your anger, but you’ve got to temper these feelings with honesty, for him and yourself. 

Stepping out of the lake and back onto the shore, you peel off your wet clothes and join the baby, catching tadpoles in the shallow waters and swallowing them whole. 

It’s a beautiful day. You’ve got the whole morning to spend with these two wonderful kids you deeply cherish. Who’s absence had also weighed on your heart these past eighteen days. Why spoil this precious time together? 

For being a nosy adolescent, Nito very graciously ignores your red, swollen eyes and doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

“I’m about a minute from eating some of those mud-guppies myself,” he moans, watching the Child slurp down handfuls. “We’re down to broth and hardtack.”

“Well, let’s catch some fish,” you offer. 

“I don’t know how. You can’t eat anything from the harbor in Coronet City, so I never thought to learn. Do you think I can actually, like, catch a one? With…my hands?”

“Come on, city slicker, I’ll teach you.”

“Do you have a hook? Isn’t that how they do it?”

“You can also use a net or a basket. But I’ll show you how to spear a fish. I’m sure Mando has a spear somewhere in that arsenal.”

Even better, the Mandalorian has a ranseur, which is basically a fancy trident. Nito’s eyes widen in horror.  

“Won’t Mando be mad if we get fish guts on his spear?”

“Fuck’im,” you say darkly, without pause.

Nito looks askance at your embittered tone.

“What? It’s not made of Beskar.”

His brows remain furrowed, “I want to learn about the baskets.”

After scouring the Razor Crest for all the necessary tools, you camp out on the shore, braiding fishing baskets from the tall reed grass surrounding the lake. “Did you learn how to do this in the war? So you wouldn’t starve?”

“What?” you laugh, showing Nito how to strip the reeds for cordage. “No, I learned to fish as a child.”

“I thought you grew up in a palace?”

“That came later. I moved to the palace when I was your age.” 

Moved to the palace is a very polite way to describe being abducted and held hostage against your will. But you’re committed to keeping the vibes positive this morning, so you leave it at that. Nito’s childhood was no picnic either.

“Before the palace, I lived with my family in a house by the beach. So we fished. You grew up on Corellia, so you learned robotics.”

“Hmm…you are terrible with technology. But this is pretty cool. We’re really gonna catch fish in this?”

“With a rock and some patience, we will,” you wink at him, tying off your knots. “Here, you carry the baskets, and I’ll get the kid.” 

About an hour later, you’ve caught at least a dozen fish. And it’s impossible to feel anything but pride seeing the joy on Nito’s face. You show him how to clean and scale the big ones. Baby chomps down the rest. “Hey, kiddo. Close your mouth when you chew.”

“Are you staying to eat these?” Nito asks. “Or do you have to go back?”

“I think we should spend the rest of the morning camouflaging the ship. You can tell me all about your adventures on Coruscant while we work. But first, I need a nap.”

You tell yourself this is not a ploy—that you’re not stalling for time in the hopes of seeing the Mandalorian when he returns. But that’s a lie.

Nito suddenly grows fidgety. “I—um. I should maybe tell you that Mando’s been sleeping in there.”

“What?”

“In the sleeping compartment. Not at first. You know how he usually sleeps with his back against a wall or something? But then…” Nito trails off. “I just thought you should know.”  

Damnit, your heart starts racing. The Mandalorian has been sleeping in your bed. Your mind leaps to a million possible reasons, yet what else could it mean? 

A wide smile tugs at your lips. And you’d begun to wonder if he missed you at all. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

Standing in front of the sleeping compartment, your body is awash with nervous anticipation. Over what, you have no idea. Just that…

When the door slides up with a faint whine of compressed air, you stare down at the bedroll and gasp. On top of your blankets is a brightly patterned piece of cloth. You pick it up—the fabric is so soft and diaphanous that it slips through your fingers like falling water. 

Free of its delicate folds, you realize it’s a stunning silk robe.  

In his eagerness to undress you, the Mandalorian had torn the hem of yours in his haste to pull it over your head. It’s so old, tattered, and threadbare that you told him not to worry about it.

This one is elegant, with a beautiful print—pale pink, with butterflies in shades of blue and lavender. Like moondust, you smile. You remember telling Nito all about the butterflies on Hapes that migrated along the coast and converged in the palace gardens. Was it a coincidence, or had Mando been listening? 

It might be one of the most extraordinary gifts you’ve received from…anyone. 

Mando had left it folded neatly on top of the bedroll, knowing you would come back to the ship. Kriffing hell, why hadn’t he just waited for you?

Ugh! How could one man be so generous and insensitive at the same time?!

You groan and throw yourself onto the blankets—which, of course, smell like him. You bury your face into the covers to breathe in his scent. The warm, smokey fragrance of the salve he used. The tang of leather and the musk of his sweat. 

It’s a scent tied to your memories—distracting fever dreams of his tongue trailing the curve of your throat, the soft brush of his lips on your collarbone, his warm breath against the shell of your ear. 

You will absolutely not cry and masturbate over this man yet again. Once was a tragedy. Twice is a habit.

But even now, in your mind’s eye, he was kissing you, his mouth sliding down your neck, drinking in your skin, your bodies tangled up together as he moved inside you. Each caress of silk against your nipples is a reminder of his lips.

Had it been like this for him? Were you in his thoughts when he slept in this bed? Did Mando touch himself and think of you? 

You close your eyes and trace your hand down your stomach toward the heat pooling between your thighs. At least there’s no tears in your eyes this time.

When you open them, your imagination conjures the Mandalorian here with you, kneeling between your legs to watch your fingers work. He joins you, drawing his cock into his hand, stroking himself with long, languorous pulls. 

It’s an abstract fantasy since you’ve never seen his face—but you imagine holding each other’s gazes.

His eyes would be...brown. Definitely brown. The hairs that trail down Mando's smooth, muscular stomach are dark and coarse. His powerful body is taut and beautiful—broad shoulders, tapered waist, and thick, sinewy thighs. You would stare into each other's eyes, stroking in rhythm as your breathing quickens, moans rising together. 

You writhe on top of the covers, this vision of him fixed in your mind until your orgasm hits you so hard the world goes white. Your eyes roll back in the rush of release. You lay there a few moments, expecting to feel his body pressed against you in the aftermath, but…Mando’s not here.

And when you finally wake up hours later, he still hasn’t returned.

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

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #6: Coming Soon!

Back to Volume 4 - all posts

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by dindooku

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 5.6K (fourth post in Volume 4)

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

_______________________________

“Hey! Watch it! I–oh…I, um…” the Trandoshan’s words died on his lips the moment he looked up to discover who he’d bumped into.  

The Mandalorian hated working on Coruscant. It was noisy, crowded, and endlessly labyrinthian. Most of the filters in his helmet were rendered useless due to the sheer number of life forms in such close proximity. Continuous vehicle traffic across every level of the city overloaded his motion sensors. 

The frenetic energy of the megalopolis set him on edge.

But what Mando really hated, what he absolutely loathed, was visiting the Uscru District. It was all the worst parts about a place like Daiyu—gambling dens, night clubs, garish neon lights, vendors shouting, the flashing, stochastic holograms—made somehow worse because it was repacked for gawking tourists. 

Acrobats hung from cables crisscrossing overhead, their lithe bodies shimmering, while street musicians played for coins. Instrument cases littered the walkway, and goods were hawked on the pavement.   

He felt uncentered. The next idiot who tripped over him to stare slack-jawed at some fucking juggler was getting bodied. 

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Mando couldn’t afford the delay.

The Mandalorian turned onto Daring Way, toward the sky bridge that would take him to the Floating World. Tourists liked to keep to well-lit thoroughfares, so the foot traffic here was sparser, and he made better time. Soon, the soft, glowing lights of the pleasure quarter came into view. 

Music spilled out from decadent parlors where the doors and windows had been flung open to lure passersby. Beings of every gender and species could be seen lounging, sprawled out on display, wearing little more than scraps of fabric and gaudy jewels. 

Each house catered to a different clientele, their specialty made known by the facade of the building or else the costumes worn by hosts welcoming their clients inside. 

Most tourists never entered the brothels of the Floating World. They just came to take in the scene and watch the crowd, which was a sight in itself. Amongst the extravagant fashions and decor of the houses, many visitors donned elaborate masks or robes to conceal their identities.   

So the Mandalorian was surprised to discover that the Dark Garden had no hosts waiting in the doorway and nothing on display in the windows. Instead, they were closed, sealed tight behind intricately carved black shutters. 

The whole building was black. Its gleaming stone exterior looked more like a palatial mansion than a pleasure house.  

The woman stationed behind the desk in the entryway was also dressed in black. It was a stark contrast to her pale pink skin, white-blond hair, and nearly colorless gray eyes. She looked up at him from between two onyx vases overflowing with vibrant red blossoms that matched her painted lips. 

“Welcome, sir. We appreciate your business. Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m not in need of your…services. I’ve come to see Mistress Anassa. She’ll know why I’m here.”

“Mistress Anassa is very busy,” she smiled apologetically. “Her clients book months in advance. I cannot promise she will have time to—”

He slid several gold peggats across the highly polished surface of the reception desk. 

“Tell her a Mandalorian is waiting. I’ll be here until she finds the time.”

“Very well, sir. Please come with me.” 

She led him through a dark passage to a lounge filled with curved sofas and circular ottomans, where clients–some wearing masks, others with their faces bared–sat huddled in conversation, drinking from elegant carafes or smoking ornate water pipes. 

The hostess directed him to an alcove beneath a cluster of illuminated, floating orbs. 

“Can I offer the Mandalorian anything while he waits? Company, perhaps?” She lowered her voice as she leaned in to place a pillow behind his back. “We cater to every desire here.”

“My desire,” he said evenly, “is for solitude.”

“As you like,” she smiled again, leaving him to wait for Mistress Anassa. 

But he was conspicuous sitting alone, and it wasn’t long before another hostess dressed in black strode toward him. She walked over on towering heels he imagined Thuli would have loved, to see if the Mandalorian was in need of attention.

She artfully placed one of the gilt carafes onto the lacquered table beside him and poured a drink. “May I offer the gentleman anything else?” 

Her voice was as supple as her corsetted leather dress. 

“No. Thank you, I–” 

The sight of two luminous violet eyes caught him by surprise, and his heart stuttered. He turned sharply to see a woman entering the parlor. On second glance, she looked nothing like Thulindhara. But the eyes were unmistakable—their iridescent sheen, how they glowed bright like full moons. She was Hapan. 

“Perhaps the Mandalorian sees something to his liking?” 

It wasn’t her, yet the thrill that rose inside him didn’t ebb. It clutched the breath from his lungs and twisted his stomach into knots. 

Mando knew he would miss her, but he hadn’t expected to feel her absence as a physical pain. 

“No,” he said. “Thank you. But, no. I’m here to see Mistress Anassa.”

He watched as the woman who wasn’t Thuli walked up to a Keshiri couple at the bar, gesturing them to follow her down a long corridor hidden behind a pair of lush velvet curtains.

Beside him, the hostess offered the drink she’d poured, and he accepted it. Not for the sake of politeness but because he felt compelled to hold something in his hands. Sensing his discomposure, she looked meaningfully towards the curtains as they fell back into place and whispered, “They say to lie with a Hapan is to open the door to heaven.”

The Mandalorian had heard that said many times and always dismissed it as a self-serving rumor. He didn’t pay for sex, but mercenaries loved to talk about how they would spend their take on Hapan courtesans. The most expensive pussy in the galaxy, they said. Once you’re between her thighs, you’ll forget your own name.  

Now, Mando understood the truth of these stories. Well…he hadn’t forgotten his name, but she did taste like heaven. 

For most of his life, sex had been about release. Lust was simply another physical need. Like hunger or sleep, he met those needs for the sake of his body. When a woman felt so inclined, he obliged—helmet sealed, armor intact—and let her take what satisfaction she could find.

With Thuli, he learned that sex could be something beyond physical pleasure. They shared a connection unlike anything he’d experienced. Real intimacy. Mando hadn’t kissed a woman since…he’d barely been a man. Still a child, really. 

To be with Thulani, naked and vulnerable as he had never been before, was not about release. It was fulfillment. Satisfaction of body and soul. And, yes, part of that was being between her thighs.

In the abstract, he’d been a little intimidated, but in the moment, it had felt entirely natural. He wanted to linger over her every curve, to put his mouth over every inch of her body, and he had loved all of it—the way she tasted, her fingers tugging at his hair, how her hips lifted with his touch.

It made him feel powerful in a way he hadn’t expected, drinking her in until she was soaked and breathless under his tongue. 

Then, a door had opened—a door between their consciousness, when he’d felt her pleasure cresting through his body, rippling over his skin in waves that matched the stroking of his fingers. She’d lost all control, and his whole being suffused with her ecstasy, so intensely passionate that he saw stars behind his eyes. Maybe it was heaven? 

Thulani’s trick was making people believe in her openness, yet Mando recognized how rigidly she held herself in check. He sensed the wild, fierce nature in her heart that she constrained. It made him feel both immeasurably powerful and deeply gratified to be the one who made her unravel.  

“The Mandalorian asked for me?”

A woman in a crisply tailored black suit stood before him. He did not immediately recognize her species, but the horns that spiraled around her long, folded ears and convex nose reminded him of a dray goat.

“You’re Mistress Anasssa? The proprietor of this…establishment.”

“Mmm, the Mandalorian is polite for a mercenary,” she sat beside him on the bench and reached out with slender fingers (no hooves) to take the glass from between his hands. It struck him at once how artfully the gesture was both sensual and dominating. “In answer to your question…” she drank deeply. “Yes. The gentleman would be wise not to let the crystal and chandeliers fool him. This is a dungeon. And I am its master.” 

“I see.” It was all he could think to say. “Boss Set’ki said you’d be expecting me.”

“My apologies. I was otherwise occupied when the Mandalorian arrived.” She looked at the untouched carafe on the table. “I am sorry my vintage is not to his taste. And none of my ladies, either, I hear. If it is males he prefers, the gentleman need only—”

“That is beyond my purpose, Mistress Anassa. I’m here on business.”

“I doubt the Mandalorian would burden himself with such formality if he intended to capture me,” the mistress smiled curiously. “What is his business?”  

“I’m interested in one of your clients.”

She scoffed. “The gentleman must realize discretion is an essential tenet of my profession. Why would I betray my client to help him?”

“Because Set’ki owes me a debt. And while you may be the master of this dungeon, your master is Boss Set’ki.”

Her features became resolute. “Then let us discuss this matter in private.”

The Mistress rose and walked toward the velvet curtains. Mando followed her down the long corridor until she stopped before a door with gold flowers embossed along its hinges.

She placed a tasseled fob against the keypad. “I hope the Mandalorian will appreciate that it is to everyone’s benefit if he appears to be another of my clients?”

“Very well,” he said and stepped inside.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected. The black walls did not surprise him, but the abundance of those same red flowers, blooming from vases and wall hangings did. They matched the illuminated floor tiles that pulsed with crimson light. 

Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished to accommodate the…equipment. There was a saltire cross with a rack of whips and paddles positioned beside it and a polished steel beam with manacles chained to its post. A length of rope dangled from one of the ceiling beams overhead. Instead of a bed, a quilted leather couch sat in a far corner of the room. 

Plastered across one of the walls was a diagram of knots with cautionary notes about circulation and nerve damage. 

“I’m sure the Mandalorian must be very accomplished at tying knots,” Mistress Anassa said from over his shoulder.

“I prefer cuffs.”

“Mmm…” He felt her eyes rake over him with heightened interest. “I have never met a Mandalorian before, but I begin to see why you inspire so much fascination. The armor, the brute force, stalking, capture, imprisonment—all potent themes for bondage role play.”

“I am Mandalorian. Violence is my trade. Weapons are part of my religion.” Mando turned to face her. “I’m not playing a game, Mistress.”

He could tell Anassa enjoyed hearing him call her that. 

“Of course. Though I’m sure someone has offered to suck your cock in exchange for their freedom. Can you honestly say their begging has never aroused you?”

Her tone was frank, not seductive. A businesswoman appraising a commodity. 

“I think the Mistress has a false impression about the sorts of people I’m sent to collect.”

At that, she laughed. “Still…I see the appeal. If you’re ever interested in a new line of work, I believe the Mandalorian and I could make a great deal of money together.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mando recalled that Thulani had said much the same thing. A Mandalorian would make good coin at one of those Keyorin brothels.

He suddenly wondered if this was something Thuli might enjoy. Bondage? Role play? The clamps and paddles didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he wouldn’t be opposed to tying her up if that’s what she wanted.

Mando looked at the steel beam, and his mind couldn’t help but stray towards fantasies of throwing her over it and fucking her senseless. 

“About your client, Mistress Anassa.”

“What is it you wish to know?”  

“This man, Ronan Carr,” he took the holo-puck from his pocket and activated its profile. “I’m told he makes use of your services when his wife is out of town.” 

Mistress Anassa schooled her features, but it was too late. He’d seen the look of panic cross her eyes the instant she recognized the man’s face.

“The Senator will be leaving on a diplomatic mission. Does Carr have an appointment scheduled for her departure?”

The Mandalorian suspected that Ronan Carr had an appointment booked for later that day. He’d been following Carr for the past week. Yesterday, the man had reserved an entire hotel floor under a false name and given his personal assistant the night off. 

“He does,” the Mistress confirmed. “But I won’t help you. Boss Set’ki may kill me for my refusal. I will accept that punishment. A political assassination would condemn every soul under my care. That I will not accept.” 

“I have no intention of killing Ronan Carr,” he assured her. “It’s information I want.”

“I suppose that is his trade,” her eyes weighed the Mandalorian, and she dropped the artful persona. “You won’t harm him? No kidnapping or torture?”

“If those are your terms, then I will agree. I only want to talk to him.”

“What if I have other terms?” The Mistress asked shrewdly.

“Name them.”

“I don’t want any of my people harmed.”

He nodded. “Do you know who you’ll send?” 

“Yes, there are a few he favors.” 

“Then give me some token or signal. But tell no one of this.” 

She paused before coming to a decision. “I will go with them tonight. To ensure all will be as you promise.”

“These are your terms?”

“He’s a good client,” she waved her well-manicured hand vaguely, “And if word got out? If he thought I’d helped you?”

“Ronan Carr won’t risk the Senator discovering his…hobbies.”

“I suppose that’s true.” 

“Here,” he pulled out a folded wallet and handed it to her. “To compensate for your loss of business. Though I expect a man with his proclivities should be back before long.”

“Thank you,” she gave him a curt bow. “You know where to find him?”

“Carr has gone to great lengths to conceal his plans, but yes, I know where he’ll be tonight.” And without really intending to, the Mandalorian said, “His desires make him weak.”

Mando was surprised at the scorn in his voice. Surprised to hear himself say that. Did he believe desire made him weak? His desire for Thuli?  

It certainly made it difficult to concentrate. How many times did he think about her each day? 

Maker, if he was being honest…he woke up thinking about Thulani, and the thought seemed to last all day. He worried about whether she was safe. He’d make some stray observation and imagine her reaction. He saw something beautiful in a window and wondered if she would like it. 

When he lay inside the sleeping compartment alone, surrounded by her scent, he thought of Thuli’s mouth on him, those delicate fingers stroking his cock, and his body ached. He could not bring himself off without thinking about her. 

Mistress Anassa looked at him with genuine sympathy as though she could sense his turmoil. 

“Shame is Ronan Carr’s weakness,” she said. “If he were honest about his desires, you would have no power over him. His wife might even oblige. But shame feeds arousal. Maybe you can understand that?”

“Excuse me?”

Shame. Was that at the root of his sudden anger? The Mandalorian was not ashamed of his relationship with Thuli. He did not believe she made him weak.

But he did feel shame about his own selfish cowardice. That in her absence, he’d realized how deeply he cared for her, and it killed him knowing he could never say those words. 

Why? Because they gave her power over him? No. Whether he said the words or not, didn’t change his feelings. But to say them aloud would be a promise. One he couldn’t make.   

She’d met him on those terms, yet he felt ashamed he couldn’t give her more. She deserved better than a man who could not share his name or his face or his life with her. It would always come back to that.

“Shame is one of the most effective tools of repression,” Mistress Anassa shrugged. “But repression simply fuels temptation. Temptation transforms into desire. Desire generates more shame.” 

Anassa opened a hidden panel in the wall and beckoned him forward. Lightly placing her fingers over a wooden slat, she slid it open, and a pinhole of light pierced through the room. The muffled sounds of moaning grew louder.

Gesturing toward the peephole, she said, “It’s only when we embrace our desires that we become free of this endless cycle.” 

Curiosity getting the better of him, the Mandalorian looked. What he saw was the Keshiri couple from the parlor. The man was fully clothed, on all fours, hands and knees braced against the ground. His partner was naked, splayed on his back, while the Hapan woman fucked her roughly from behind with a strap-on.

“They were honest with each other about their desires. Now, it creates a bond rather than a wedge.”

Mando hadn’t anticipated that visiting a sex dungeon would prompt so much soul-searching. His eyes strayed back to the peephole, towards the Keshiri in the throws of climax, eyes shut tight as though she might die from ecstasy. 

While he felt ashamed that he could not tell Thulani he loved her, he could at least ensure she felt loved. When he worshipped her body, when he fulfilled her desires, when he made her unravel—she would know the depth of his feelings.     

“I’ve heard it said that true Mandalorians do not remove their armor. Perhaps the gentleman prefers to watch?”

He pulled the slot closed. “I’ve seen enough.”

**********

One thing the Mandalorian did appreciate about Coruscant was the simplicity of bribing government officials. As with any vast bureaucracy, front line New Republic workers like the port operatives were overlooked and underpaid. 

Flush with cash from Ryun Vos, Mando was able to dock under fake tabs at a shipyard centrally located in a safe and discreet area. Money made all things possible on Coruscant.

“Please tell me something in that bag is fried?” Nito moaned as the Mandalorian stepped inside the Razor Crest. 

“I got some of everything, so your odds are good.”

The Ardennian was sitting at a makeshift table of stacked cargo containers with the Child seated in his lap. He had his mechanic’s apron on while the kid was stripped to his breechcloth. And they were both covered in paint.

“There better be a bath planned for after this,” Mando growled, reaching to wipe the Child’s talons clean with a take-out napkin.

“What? Yeah. Sorry,” Nito said dimly. “Yes! Oil bread. And rice balls! Fuck yeah!” 

The Mandalorian thought vaguely that Thulani would try to curb Nito’s swearing, but he only had so much paternal energy left in him today, and he needed it for the baby.

Mando pulled the fried bread out of reach and replaced it with the box of bean pods. “Hey, kid, you need to eat at least five of these.” 

His enormous ears wilted in disappointment.

“How’s the programming going?” Mando asked, searching for the sweet and sour broth.

Nito shoved a rice ball in his mouth and swallowed it whole. “Do you have any idea how complex a unified operating system for an industrial plant—with residential facilities can be?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

“Paying me in more than dumplings, I hope.” Nito laughed cheerily. “Assuming it’s the Imperial coding language, I think it is…”

“We’re going to find out tonight.”

“You got Carr?”

“I know how to get to him,” Mando said. “We leave in three hours. Spend at least one of those cleaning up the kid.”

“Okay. Okay.” 

The Mandalorian was relieved to have such a tidy solution for Ronan Carr. It wasn’t in his nature to wait for reconnaissance or planning. He was a blunt instrument—brute force, as Mistress Anassa had said. But Nito proved that hacking the man’s communicator could be useful. Coruscant was not the Outer Rim. Best to be cautious here. 

Months ago, he would have stormed the hotel, shoved a blaster in Carr’s face, and broken the man’s fingers until he talked. Now, when Mando considered this approach, the crew from Dark Garden weighed on his conscience. Not everything needs to end in a shoot-out, Thuli had chided him. She wasn’t even here, yet her memory was wringing these little bits of decency from him.

Nito snapped his fingers in front of Mando’s viewplate. “You in there?”

“What?” He shook his head.

“You’ve been staring at those dumplings for an eternity. I want to eat them.”

Mando passed the container. 

“I was telling you about this utter stroke of genius I had.” The Ardennian lifted the kid onto the table and pulled something out from his apron pocket. “So, he’s green, right? Well, I painted his face. And when I put on the bonnet…See! He’s Mirialan.”

Underneath the paint splatters, Mando recognized the geometric facial markings.

“That’s–that is pretty genius.”

Nito beamed. Thuli told him things would be easier with the kids if he put in a little effort. So far, it was working. 

“I mean, he hates having his ears tucked, but it’s only temporary, buddy. Just to keep you safe.”

The Child squirmed and pounded his fists against his thighs. 

Mando had to suppress a laugh. “Bean pods and bonnets. Guess you got it pretty rough, kid.”

The baby stopped mid-tantrum to glare at the Mandalorian.

“Anyway,” Nito went on. “We had the paint out, so I found some packing paper…and look what he made.”

Mando tilted his head and squinted, “It’s a…bantha?”

“It’s the Razor Crest,” Nito snorted.

“If you say so.”

The kid squealed until Mando handed him a meat pie.

“I miss her too, you know.” 

“What?”

“Fish dumplings are Thuli’s favorite,” Nito said quietly. “It’s hard not to miss her when she makes everything so…” he shrugged, “cozy when she’s around.”  

The Mandalorian nodded. “You heard from her today?”

His heart twisted painfully in anticipation. It did every day when he asked that question. But he knew she must have checked in that morning. Nito would be inconsolable if she hadn’t.

“Yeah, I got the signal.”

Good. She's alive. Hopefully safe. “We’ll see her soon,” Mando assured them. “We’re stocked up on supplies, weapons, equipment. Once we get what we need from Carr, we can make a course for Lakaran.”

“Did you get a gift to bring her now that you guys are, you know, sleeping together?”

The Mandalorian choked on his soup. The steel jaw of his helmet caught him painfully on the lip, and he had to pound his chest a few times before he could breathe again. “Did she–ahem–did she say something…about…?”

“Didn’t have to,” Nito waved a furry hand. “For months, you’ve both just wreaked of longing and frustration. Then you came back and smelled…satisfied. Pretty logical conclusion.”

“You can smell that?”

“Oh yeah! It’s kind of funny that humans can’t since all of your emotions get communicated through hormones and sweat glands.”

Mando shook his head again. “I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this,” he sighed. “But while we’re on the subject, there are some…things I should…we should probably…discuss before we leave to find Carr.” 

“What? Like, sex stuff?”

The Mandalorian groaned. Where do I even start…? 

**********

The hotel Ronan Carr had booked was elegant enough for his aristocratic tastes while also offering the assurance of privacy. There was a separate entrance and elevator for the penthouse floor so he could avoid bumping into anyone from his social circle—or his wife’s senatorial colleagues—in the lobby. 

Mando opted to gain entry from the roof. 

“You hear something?” One of the bodyguards asked. 

But just as their partner began to answer, the Mandalorian slipped behind him and placed a blade to the man’s throat. In an instant, he had grabbed the guard’s wrist and raised his blaster. Mando shot the other bodyguard before they could cry out in warning. 

To stage this right, the knife needed to go in at just the right angle. But the man continued to struggle under Mando’s grip, trying to break free from his hold. The guard tried everything—stomping on the Mandalorian’s foot, slamming his head against the Beskar, thrusting his shoulders against Mando’s arm around his neck.

The bounty hunter might as well be a statue for all the give there was in his frame. The guard’s death was inevitable, but he refused to make peace with it. 

Mando hooked his leg around the man’s ankle and sent them both hurtling toward the ground. The force of impact drove the knife into the guard’s throat.

A wet splatter hit his view plate when the man coughed blood onto the Mandalorian’s helmet. Yet he still fought. Hands flailed blindly until Mando drove the blade deeper, severing the spinal cord. And finally, the fingers clawing at his wrists fell limp.    

He rolled the bodyguard onto his back and returned the blaster to the man’s right hand. Should be enough to cover my tracks.

Mistress Anassa had left the south-facing balcony doors unlocked, just as he instructed. They slid open with a soft rolling hush before he made his way silently through the suite. She was waiting for him in the study, hunched over a display monitor. 

“You look a sight,” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Can I get you a towel?”

“No.” The blood was war paint. It would make what came next that much easier. "I staged the guards. You can claim a fight broke out, and you had to get your people to safety."

Anassa cleared her throat and nodded. It was the first time he’d seen her unsettled. “The false name on the hotel reservation avoids a paper trail, but I can’t decide whether Carr realizes Set’ki is tracking all of this.”

“Do you record him every time?”

She glared at Mando. “No, but I had a feeling my master wanted some insurance. I don’t expect Ronan Carr will be making any future appointments with Dark Garden after tonight.” 

Involving Set’ki and Anassa—at all—was an unnecessary risk. The Mandalorian had done it to ensure the safety of her employees, and he didn’t feel any remorse about the Mistress’s bottom line. 

“Tell them to leave the room.”

She crossed her arms with a frustrated sigh. “I know I don’t have a say in any of this, but it shouldn’t go unspoken, this is a gross violation of my professional ethics.”

“You’re arguing ethics after admitting to blackmail?” 

“Those restraints are intended to aid his submission. He needs to feel safe to surrender control. And instead, you’ve co-opted them for violence.”

Mando huffed. “Are you referring to the silk scarves tied around his wrists and ankles?”

“The type of restraints are irrelevant. Bondage is a kink that depends on trust. It’s a choice to be helpless. Consent is based entirely on trust. This is a violation of trust. I feel the weight of what this will do to his psyche, and I ask you to acknowledge that before you step inside that room.”

The Mandalorian couldn’t fathom why she was looking to him to absolve her guilt. 

“And I told you, violence is my profession. Get—your people—out.”

From the display screen, Mando watched as the Mistress entered the bedroom. Her sudden presence startled the other women, but she quickly ushered them into the hallway and closed the door behind her. 

When he was confident they were gone, the bounty hunter opened the bedroom door. The first thing he did was drape a towel over Set’ki’s camera. Mando didn’t want any record of his presence on Coruscant.

He approached the chair Carr was bound to without bothering to stifle his footsteps. The man had a sensory deprivation mask covering his eyes and ears. He hadn’t sensed the ladies from Dark Garden leave the room, and he was becoming agitated, sitting in a puddle of urine, confused as to why they didn’t end the session. 

Ronan Carr paid to be tied down and tickled until he pissed himself. The kink wasn’t inherently sexual. It didn’t make him hard. He didn’t come, and nobody brought him to completion. The tickling made him laugh and his muscles spasm, and eventually, the stress on his pelvic floor emptied his bladder. 

Then, he slept for ten hours. It simply…relaxed the man. 

“Whoa!” Nito said when the Mandalorian explained this. “So it’s like getting a massage? But, like, a really extreme massage.” 

It wasn’t not sexual…he paid to be tickled by beautiful women, after all. 

As he ripped the mask off, Mando tried not to think about Anassa’s sanctimonious pleading. He felt no remorse for Ronan Carr, either.

The bounty hunter unholstered his blaster and pointed it in the man’s face so it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. On cue, Carr jumped, recoiling in terror at the sight of the Mandalorian.

“Don’t cry for help," Mando said, his voice cold and stern. "You don’t want anyone coming through that door to find you like this, do you?”

Ronan Carr shook his head. 

“Good. Do what I say, and I won’t have to hurt you,” he growled. “Tell me you understand.”

Ronan Carr took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand.” The man’s voice quavered, but he didn’t panic. Some people became paralyzed with fear and that made interrogation harder. If Carr could keep it together, this would be over quickly.

“Untie yourself.”

Despite Mistress Anassa’s speech about trust and surrender, her words were meaningless sentiment. Ronan Carr had never given up control. The scarves were tied with enough slack that he could easily lift his hands over the headrest and pull free the knots at his wrists. After that, he only needed to lean forward to release his ankles.     

“Where is everyone?” Carr asked nervously, massaging his wrists.

The man was wiry, more muscular than the bounty hunter expected from someone who spent his life behind a desk. Intimidation was his best tactic to keep Carr in check. Use of physical force would only complicate things. And he made a deal with Anassa.

“You don’t need to know what I did with them. Worry about yourself.”

After a lifetime of doing this work, Mando knew most people’s imagination was far darker than any threat he could make. The man looked at the blood splattered across his helmet, and all the color drained from Ronan Carr’s face.

“What is it you want?”

“I need something, and you’re the person who can get it for me.”

“My wife—”

“This has nothing to do with the Senator. And it doesn’t have to. You give me what I want, and she won’t discover what you get up to under the name ‘Kirk Satu.’” Carr’s eyes went wide with horror. “The piss play makes for an awkward conversation, but I think all the bank transfers will be harder to explain.”  

Now, he had the man’s full attention. “What do you want?”

“First, I want you to put some clothes on. Meet me in the study when you’re ready.”

The man’s suit hung neatly from the bathroom door, yet he stared at the garment like it might transform into a torture device. 

“You’re not—you aren’t going to lock me in?”

“We both know you won’t run,” Mando said. “You’re going to do what I tell you. Then you can forget all about this.”

The look on Carr’s face when he walked into the study made it clear this encounter would haunt him for some time. 

“Is your communicator on?” Nito asked from behind his data-pad. “Your real one. Not the burner?”

“What?” Ronan Carr stammered. “I–yes.” When the notification bell chimed, he pulled the device out from his pocket.

“Okay, read me the security code.”

“Wait! This is about work? You want something from the Archives?” 

Carr looked between Nito and the Mandalorian.

“You do realize the New Republic Library doesn’t store any military or intelligence records. This is not…what could you possibly need that isn’t already publicly available?”

Mando thrust his blaster in the man’s face. “Ask me about my business again and see what happens to you.”

“The security code?” Nito drolled.

Mando grabbed the communicator from Carr and handed it to the Ardennian.

“I’m just…we have a records request system online…”

“For redacted documents!” Nito howled. “If you guys just uploaded everything onto the Net, you could enjoy your tickle party and we wouldn’t be here.”

Ronan Carr’s face turned scarlet. “It’s our responsibility to make sure sensitive information doesn’t fall into the hands of…criminals.”

What a fucking hypocrite. “Can we hurry this up?” Mando barked. The fact that the bodyguards in the foyer hadn’t burst into the penthouse meant that Mistress Anassa had done her part. But their luck wouldn’t last long.

“Well, it’s not my fault the file structure isn’t intuitive,” Nito looked at Ronan Carr with disgust. “And you call yourself an Archivist?”

“I–I don’t oversee information architecture.”

“Ah! Okay…security question for the download. What is the name of your first pet?”

When Nito had the files he needed, Mando thrust a disc into Carr’s hands.

“What—?”

“I lied when I said this didn’t involve your wife. That’s for her. From a former Rebel fighter, Ubaa Dir. Remember the name. The next time you hear it, give the Senator that disc. You’ll know when.”

“How will I explain—”

“You’d rather explain the sex workers and money laundering? Figure–it—out,” Mando snapped, and Ronan Carr jumped.

This time, the Mandalorian did lock him inside the bedroom.  

He found Mistress Anassa in the living room, offering the Child sugar cubes from an abandoned tea service tray.

"I'm done here," Mando said, watching as the kid delightedly crunched the crystals between his teeth. "He's unharmed, as per the terms of our deal. Are you satisfied?"

"Very," she smiled serenely at him. "I thought I'd be spending the night cleaning brain matter off the walls. Instead, I got to play with an adorable baby."

Anassa lifted the Child from her hip and handed him back to the Mandalorian.

"You still want me to bind and gag you?" Mando asked. "I could just lock you inside, like I did with Carr?"

"No," she shook her head. "I've got to sell this if there's a chance I can retain his trust. And he'll need a witness to help explain what happened to the guards." Mistress Anassa looked thoughtfully at the Mandalorian. "When life hands you an opportunity, it's best to seize it with both hands."

"Very well." Mando reached for the plush, decorative rope tying back the curtains—he could at least ensure that she was comfortable.

"Speaking of which," the Mistress grinned. "I do hope you'll reconsider my offer. There are a number of ways we could leverage your particular talents at the Dark Garden."

The Mandalorian offered her a chair.

"After listening to the ruthlessness in your voice saying, You're going to give me what I want..." she shivered rather theatrically. "Fear is a very potent form of arousal. I'm confident we could find clients looking for nothing more than degradation."

The audacity of her proposal impressed him, and his mouth quirked into a begrudging smile beneath the Beskar helmet.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

"And what knots do you plan to use?"

Mando huffed—not quite a laugh. This was beginning to feel like an audition. "A bowline. But I can use a hitch knot if you prefer?"

"Merely professional curiosity," Mistress Anassa grinned, sitting in the armchair as though it were a throne. "Do you have a suggestion for the gag?"

The Mandalorian cocked his head, "Give me your necktie."

He wasn't entirely comfortable with how much keen interest lit up her face. A businesswoman through and through.

She hurriedly fished something out of her suit pocket. "Take my card. You're a working father, after all. It pays to be flexible when there are mouths to feed."

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

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #5: Wish You Were Here!

Back to Volume 4 - all posts

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #3: Life During Wartime

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by myriadimagines

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.2K (third post in Volume 4)

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

_______________________________

“Fucking farrick,” you grumble, trying to jam the locker door back onto its hinges. When it finally eases open, you grab your rucksack and head for the exit without changing out of your coveralls. 

You never remove so much as a shoe once you're inside the refinery. Showers were available, but no one used them. Cameras surveilled practically every inch of this facility. And just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t in here, too.  

Stepping out from under the dim artificial light, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the riot of color. It’s early morning, barely past midnight, but the sky is awash in brilliant yellows and oranges, alight with swirling pink clouds. 

Lakaran’s nearest sun only dipped below the mountains this time of year, never truly setting. When it sank behind the peaks at this hour, the ridgeline became a deep indigo against the horizon, its glaciers reflecting back the sky’s warm glow.  

Ehki is what the Lakarani called their star. Grandmother, it meant. Her daughter, Amular, was the world, and Ehki traveled around her in an unending circle to carefully watch over her children. So tonight, when the sun finally fell into darkness, and there would be several hours of real night for the first time in months, the Lakarani would throw a gigantic party while Grandma Ehki wasn’t looking. 

You know you should hurry up and leave before someone accuses you of loitering, but instead, you pause to take in the view. A small, inconsequential act of rebellion. The scenery is breathtaking up here. The air is thin and crisp. It’s the best part of your day to stand on this spot and take in the majestic landscape right before making that sharp turn toward the escalator. 

The view from the west side of the slope is decidedly less sublime. 

The scale of the encampments surrounding the processing plant is almost impossible to take in at first glance. The structures are a jumble of materials built on top of each other in layers that look more like debris washed up by the river than a deliberate settlement.

The skyline is dominated by the refinery’s cooling towers belching out steam that smelled acrid and made the air thick with humidity. The water used for cooling went right back into the river, along with the encampment’s sewage. Which is why you absolutely refused to eat anything fished or gathered downstream.

You step off the escalator and see Humia waiting for you outside the checkpoint. The security guard reaches for your bag, not bothering to look up or make conversation while she searched its contents. She doesn’t care to ask for your name either, just waits for the familiar beep of the transponder at your wrist to confirm your exit as you walk through the gate.

“How’d it go today?”

“Good,” you answer brightly, patting the bound folio strapped to your stomach. “I found this fire safety and evacuation handbook with a very detailed floor plan of level nine. Raceways, server rooms, access panels…I’ll have to ask my partner about the utility lines, but we might be able to bore into the operations center from an adjoining room.”  

“That is good,” she nods enthusiastically. "This is your partner, Nito? He’s the tech guy?”

“Yeah,” a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. Humia probably wasn’t envisioning a furry thirteen-year-old when she used the phrase tech guy, but that would be a fun little detail for her to discover later. 

Or sooner rather than later? You still haven’t heard anything from the Razor Crest about when to expect their arrival on Lakaran. Which is absolutely fine. Definitely not a big deal. Nope. Not at all something that you’ve been overthinking for the past eighteen days straight. 

Nope. It’s not at all distracting to obsess about how, after months of tortuous yearning, you finally had sex with the Mandalorian and have not spoken to him since. 

Gods, why is it suddenly so hard to breathe just thinking about him? The fact that you spend most of your nights alone, willing yourself to recall the memory of his hands on your body while the tears can fall without shame…has been, you know, not great for your mental health. 

So that’s why, a few nights a week, you take a break from drowning in insecurity and play at the Sabacc tables. 

Guess that’s out of the question now. You’ll need to avoid Johar Kessen like the plague.   

“Nito’s been dredging through the Imperial archive for more information on the refinery. The stuff he’s found is incredible. All of the records from when they built this place.” 

“Good,” she smiles appreciatively. 

As you descend toward the encampment, the rocky mountain path splits into three parts. Two fanned out onto the raised perimeter wall made of poured concrete and scrapwood that traced a broad circle around the sprawling camp. It had been constructed by the Tagge Corporation to help with mudslides, but what it really helped with was surveilling the Lakarani. 

You and Humia take the main path through the center of camp. 

The hut you shared was higher up on the slope, which was a blessing when it rained but a pain in the ass when you had to walk uphill after eating your weight’s worth of bean cakes for dinner or hauling laundry back home from the wash house. 

“Another option is turning one of the technicians, but I’m not having a ton of luck in that department. I can usually wrap scientists around my finger, but engineers are so tricky. It takes them an ungodly amount of time to realize you’re trying to fuck them.”

“For what it’s worth, I would turn for you in a heartbeat,” you say, holding your face between your hands, eyes wide with adoration. “Those dark lashes are criminally lush.”

Humia swats away the compliment. “I could steal a key card, but I have no idea how long it would take for someone to discover it’s gone. That might hold us to a very narrow time frame depending on when it’s reported missing.”

You follow her up the winding footpath that leads homeward. The camp is much easier to navigate this time of day, when everyone is still asleep. “I like the idea of entering from an adjoining room. That way, there’s no exposure in the hallway. Even if we’re in uniform, five people on the cleaning crew, when there are usually only two, will be immediately suspicious.”

The Mandalorian’s solution would undoubtedly be to come in through the front door, rifles blazing, but that’s not an option in this scenario. You have to secure the operations center before anyone from the Tagge Corporation realizes the refinery is under attack. The risk that they would activate the facilities’ containment protocol is too great. It would condemn not only everyone on site but anyone within five leagues of the processing plant.

“We could stuff Serenio and Davik into the cleaning cart?” Humia chuckles at the implausibility of this suggestion.

“I doubt we could even push the cart with Davik stuffed inside. He’s built like a stack of boulders.”

“I told him to quit training in the fighting pits. He’s going to attract too much attention.” 

“Why does every population center in this galaxy require some kind of fighting pit? It’s a weird kind of calculus. One communal latrine per 20 persons. One fighting pit per 100 persons.”

She rolls her eyes, “Do you know a more straightforward way to earn money than two people beating the shit out of each other? Though, I don’t think Davik does it for the money. He’s just like a puppy that chews all your socks if he doesn’t get enough exercise.” 

“He’s so young,” you sigh, feeling suddenly guilty. “Him and Serenio, both.”

“Most soldiers are,” Humia scoffs. “Revolutions don’t offer a very robust life expectancy.”

“That’s true. I didn’t expect to make it out alive when I joined the Rebellion. And I appreciate the protection. But I can’t help seeing them as children.”

She tosses her head with a derisive laugh, “And I didn’t expect you to be so tenderhearted.”

No doubt she thought it made you weak. But you’re wise enough to know empathy took far more bravery than cynicism. “Just because I can recognize the cruelty of this life doesn’t mean I’ve made peace with it.”  

“That’s rather noble coming from someone working with a Mandalorian.” 

Your neck turns sharply to catch the look on her face, but she’s already ducking around the pilings and cantilevered beams bracing your neighbors' houses against the mountainside.  

“You don’t like Mandalorians?” It seems like an odd prejudice. 

“No,” she sneers. “They say they are bound by codes and honor, yet they show nothing but selfish indifference toward the plight of others.” She stops abruptly on her heels to glare at you, brushing strands of auburn hair from her eyes. “And I like your Mandalorian least of all.”

He’s not my Mandalorian, your heart sighs.

The hateful disdain imbuing her words is like a slap to the face. Humia rarely revealed the depth of her emotions. What could inspire this level of rancor from an otherwise inscrutable woman? And why bring this up now?

You cough, clearing your throat to mask the apprehension in your voice. “I didn’t realize you already knew him?”

“I don’t need to know him. I know what he’s done.” But it’s a reflexive response, not a real answer. So you wait. “They’re all mercenaries,” she says, compelled to explain herself. “Condemning their souls for money. They profit from the misery of others for the sake of themselves.” 

You can tell she desperately wants you to ask, What has he done?

It’s not the first time Humia had hinted at a bitter history between the Mandalorian and her leader, Ubaa Dir. But you don’t take the bait. If you’re missing some part of the story, you want to hear it from his lips, not hers.

Instead, you remind her with a wry grin, “Well, now you’re working with him too.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she concedes. “Wars make for strange bedfellows.” 

An image of them together flashes behind your eyes, and the irrational taste of jealousy fills your mouth. Don’t be absurd! Hadn’t Humia just admitted she'd never met Mando? 

Lucky for you, she lets the moment pass without escalation. Her tone shifts, and she places a companionable hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve heard Kessen fights in the pits. We could go to watch him sometime? Belen’s right, you know, he’s got a crush on you.”

“I have no idea why,” you begin, but Humia raises her hand to cut you off.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Kasya. Hiding under workwear and bushy eyebrows won't change that.”

“Now, why would you bring my eyebrows into it?” You tease, as though it might erase her vitriol from moments ago. That is until you catch sight of the security guard standing on your front porch. “Is it okay that he’s waiting here for you?”

It’s the same guy she brought home last week. When he spots you walking down the path, his face breaks into a wide grin. He waves, looking giddy, as though he might jump off the steps to run for her.  

“This one, I can turn,” she mutters, slowing her pace. “I’m glad he told us how to block the transponders…but he’s fallen harder than he should. If he starts getting heartsick, it could be a problem.”

“Poor kid. You bat those lashes, and what hope do any of us have?” 

“See,” she looks at you askance, nudging you in the stomach with her elbow. “That shit is why Kessen likes you. You’re so sweet with your friends and no one else. He wants some of that honey for himself.”

You snatch at the opportunity to throw her off the subject. “Why Humia Fenrik, are we friends?”

“Why, yes, Kas,” her voice is laden with gooey sarcasm. “You’re my best friend. That’s why I got you this job, remember?” She adamantly refuses to change the subject. “Some men like a challenge. And Johar Kessen is very bored stuck out here with the likes of us, guarding all these soulless corpos.”

“So by challenge, you mean, like how I’ve given him absolutely no indication whatsoever that I’m interested?”

“Are you worried he might recognize you from the Rebellion?”

“What?! No, I’m sure he was much higher up the food chain.” Rumor was that Kessen had led special operations forces during the war. “Kinda sad that he went from Rebel hero to working for the Tagge family.”

“There’s your angle,” Humia says, snapping her fingers. “It would be good to have him on our side once the fighting starts. And Kessen might be elite for a bodyguard, but I bet they treat him like a piece of furniture, same as the rest of us. He must hear things.”

You cock your head at her. “Then maybe you should approach him?”

She’s probably already considered it, but come on! She didn’t have to rake her eyes over you like a bawd house madam ready to offer up her best girl. 

“I’m not the one he wants.”

“Listen, I’m flattered you think so highly of my charm, but I do not have the skill set.” You’re at least tactful enough not to say, I’m not like you out loud. This is Humia’s job. She’s very good at it. And it’s not your place to approve or disapprove of the way she went about it. “I’d be too nervous.”

You remember each time you had to quietly lock yourself in the privy to heave up the contents of your stomach whenever the Mandalorian asked you a pointed question, thinking, He knows! He knows I’m lying! 

Which…yeah, it turns out he did. “I think I’d have a panic attack and blackout.”

“Your cover story is a psycho ex-lover. Of course, you’re nervous.” At that, Humia gives you an appraising look. “You’re living under a stolen identity and seem to be doing just fine.”

“Exactly! Because I don’t talk to anyone.” A sudden knot lodges in your throat. “Have you asked Serenio to approach anyone?”

One of the refinery executives had an unsettling interest in her. You clean the facilities overnight, so there's rarely any staff on-site, but whenever he worked late, he made a point of saying hello to her. A good opportunity to practice his Twi’lek sign language, he claimed.

You know it’s a mistake to ask about it as soon as the question leaves your mouth. She immediately becomes defensive. “Serenio is loyal unto death. She would do whatever I commanded.”

Humia didn’t have to add, unlike you. It just hung in the air unspoken. 

“But Serenio is trained for combat, not espionage. And she’s green as a pea shoot.” 

“Ah, so I’m overripe?” You arch a bushy eyebrow at her. "Just falling off the vine. Thanks for that!"

“I’m just saying Johar Kessen is very attractive and likable. You wouldn’t have to pretend. It’s not much of a heavy lift, surely?”

“Okay, the sleeping with him part I could probably manage. But as soon as I ask Kessen a remotely leading question, he will immediately know what I’m up to!”

“There’s no need to tie yourself into knots,” she snaps. "Just be honest. You think it’s beneath you.”

Humia’s back is rigid, and her jaw is clenched tight. She looks so proud yet so vulnerable that it breaks your heart.

Is this why she’s so angry? She'd been seething all day, spoiling for a fight. It makes you question whether her anger about the Mandalorian is sincere or just an attempt to provoke you.

“Humia, this entire operation is built on your intelligence work. You think I look down on you because I’m horrified or judgemental about what you do. But it’s the opposite. I recognize what a dangerous game you’re playing and know I don’t have the courage for it.”

You wish you could give her a hug, but this was not the time or place to dwell on what was at stake, or the weight of what she carried on her shoulders.

“Fine,” Humia huffs, shaking off the tension. “Just think about it.”

Oh, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Sleeping with Johar Kessen is not going to happen for a number of reasons. 

Chief among them is he would discover that—contrary to your fake documents—you are not human. Which would inevitably lead to the discovery that you are not, in fact, Kasya Hawat. That secret would give him leverage, and you simply refuse to hand someone that kind of power over you.  

But you can’t tell Humia this. Because then she would know that you aren’t human, and that is something you don’t plan to share with anyone here on Lakaran. At least not yet. It’ll be another fun little detail for her to discover later.

Seven hells, now you’re doubly glad she doesn’t know. Given the course of this conversation, you have no doubt she’d insist that you use your influence to dig through Kessen’s thoughts and memories for something useful. That’s why Hapan courtesans were so highly prized—one of the few professions the Consortium allowed to leave the Hapes Cluster—and why they made the best spies. 

Amongst those other reasons…you have no idea how Mando would react. Though, if you had to guess? You’d guess poorly. 

While there’s the whole sworn warrior of Mandalore—I can’t call you mine—complication, you know how he feels about you. A man who struggles with trust would not find it easy to share. His sense of duty and commitment to the job might oblige him to accept it as a necessary tactic, but you aren’t willing to risk it driving a wedge between you. Things are already too delicate.

Aaand now you’re thinking about Mando again. 

Fuck, you miss him so much. You awoke every morning wanting him, a dull ache between your thighs. You wanted to hear the sound of his laughter, to touch every inch of his skin with your fingers and feel his heartbeat under your lips to know he was really all right. You wanted to feel his body over you, under you, inside you… 

Ugh, you’ve already thought about him about a dozen times today. What’s once more.  

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” You lie, hoping she’ll let this go for now. “Will I see you later?” You ask, looking meaningfully at the security guard waiting impatiently on your porch.

“No. Unless you’re going to the bonfire tonight?” Her gaze became conspiratorial. “Kessen will probably be there. All those corpos love Lakarani culture if it means slumming it up with us. He'll have to keep them out of trouble. Your pocket is chirping, by the way.” 

“What?” you ask, distractedly patting down the front of your coveralls. “Um, sure. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“If not, we should meet for morning prayers at the temple tomorrow. Make our report.” Humia says, beckoning the guard over to join you. “Why are you smiling at your communicator?”

"Hmmm?"

The Razor Crest had just arrived on Lakaran.

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

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me.

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post#2: Gray Area

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by mandos-sluts

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 2.2K (second post in Volume 4)

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

A/N: Diving into "the heist" part of the story so I'm introducing more characters + plot complexity. Quick recap, ofc (Thuli) is undercover using an alias (Kasya) working the job Mando picked up back in Volume 1

Content warning - this post contains brief references to the ofc's past abusive relationships (no details but they are mentioned)

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II. “Dunno, love. I says he tryin tae be sweet tae ye.”

Your new coworker, Belen, is a very sympathetic listener. This job involves a lot of long hours working elbow to elbow together, cleaning with a crew of mostly women, so each day, the conversation inevitably turns toward the tawdry state of everybody’s love life.

Good sex, bad partners, stubborn children, pushy in-laws, irregular menstrual cycles, trashy holo-dramas, cautionary tales of sexually transmitted diseases—it made the work go faster.

With eight grown children and now on her third husband, Belen is considered the voice of wisdom around here, dealing with all matters of the heart.

Blessedly, you’re usually spared from having to participate due to the tragic nature of your cover story, which involves escaping from an abusive ex-lover. ‘Kasya Hawat’ had the misfortune of falling for a Spice runner who was violent and possessive, and now she had to lay low working on the cleaning crew at Tagge Corporation's coaxium refinery on Lakaran until he forgot all about her.

A solid alias should be built on a sturdy foundation of lived truths. As such, your made-up phantom ex is a composite of all the most toxic men you’ve ever dated. And oh, there had been a few. It’s the reason you can’t judge the Mandalorian for his attraction to cruel women. Your own track record is hardly flawless. 

Which just begs the question, the nagging voice in the back of your mind taunted, what the fuck is he doing with you?

While he hadn't said as much, you get the impression that you may be the first and only woman the Mandalorian has ever loved. In the weeks apart, this should have been a source of comfort to you. Instead, the realization made you uneasy. Could his tenderness really endure? Or would he come to resent the ties that bind you to someone who shared their heart rather than burying it?

You weren’t exaggerating when you warned him you don’t always navigate 'couples shit' in a healthy way. That’s the legacy of these past relationships—the insecurity, the doubt, and paranoia that can eat away at your peace if you let it. There was the narcissistic fleet captain who was a mean drunk, a spectacularly manipulative intelligence officer who constantly lied to you, and one of Ingtar’s enforcers who may have been an actual sociopath. 

Gods, that was such a nightmare! The first thing you promised yourself after starting your new job as a mob doctor for the Black Sun syndicate was that you would not, under any circumstances, get romantically entangled with your new colleagues. ‘Do not shit where you eat’ being the wisest adage since time immemorial. 

But he was so good-looking and very keen to thank you for saving his life, and you have the worst habit of learning everything the hard way and terrible impulse control…It had ended with Ingtar breaking his leg under threat of death if he ever spoke to you again. 

Most women didn’t have a towering gang boss to save them from an abusive ex, so it’s not difficult to imagine the desperation of fleeing to this abandoned sector of the galaxy if Ingtar hadn’t been there to protect you from the obsessive, unwanted attention. So, in the end, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to build your alias.    

Mercifully, a mixture of earnest compassion and, in some cases, the worst kind of judgmental pity compelled your fellow coworkers to give you space and not press you for conversation about it. 

And thank Erenada for that! It’s a good cover for being quiet and withdrawn. The less you open your mouth, the less likely you are to get caught in a lie. 

To be fair, despite your initial fears, it hadn’t been too disorienting to slip into the role of 'Kasya Hawat'. Nito was right, the repetition of constantly hearing her name directed at you over and over again was enough to make your brain accept it in the same way you might grow accustomed to a nickname. Someone said, Hey Kasya!, and your body knew that means me.

“Then why the hell won’t he just fuck me in his own godsdamned bed, Belen? I can assure you, there’s nothing sweet about getting railed in a supply closet.” Humia let out a pathetic sigh. 

She really is too good at this.

Your partner in espionage has taken the exact opposite approach to infiltration. Humia wanted to be noticed. She made friends with everyone and was seemingly everywhere all at once. The public hall, the bathhouse, the bars and cantinas, and when she could convince someone to break company policy about unauthorized personnel—the Tagge Corp dormitories. 

Sleeping with TaggeCo employees is how Humia gathered most of her intel. 

She slept with so many of them it wasn’t suspicious when she took an interest in someone new. And the Tagge Corp facilities were exponentially more appealing than your scrap metal hut, so it made perfect sense why she’d want to fuck them on company property. 

And because she was dismissed as some opportunistic slut looking for favors, who they were all just passing around—not the greatest security threat they faced—Humia knew virtually everything that happened around the Lakaran coaxium processing plant.     

“I wish I could be as efficient,” you’d told her a few days ago with sincere admiration. “But I’m terrible at pretending to like someone when I don’t.”

“Yeah, you are,” she huffed in agreement. 

Humia had recently brought home one of the TaggeCo security guards back to the hut you shared with a few more of Ubaa Dir’s spies, and you’d glared daggers at that asshole until he took off his shoes. The wood floors might not be polished, but he damn well better respect your house rules. 

“You don’t have to like someone to fuck them, Kasya.” 

Well, except that you do. Not because of some righteous moral high ground! You spent years on the front lines where people took gratification where they could, who found sex a zesty, life-affirming enterprise that was only as complicated as you chose to make it. 

That was all true. Except that you needed something, a spark that ignited attraction. A mutual interest, a shared joke, or a moment of vulnerability. Something.

There’s nothing quite like horniness to give you a surge of self-confidence. 

Of course, your intuition isn’t infallible. Hence, the attraction to your toxic exes. It’s just that without a spark, your body could not perform intimacy. In place of confidence, there was fear and apprehension. You physically recoiled or froze in hesitation. Kissing that noxious Duke only worked because you’d been aroused by vengeance rather than passion.

Hmmm, maybe that’s exactly how Humia made it work?  

“I mean, touché,” you rolled your eyes at her. “But you’re not just fucking them, are you? You’re drawing out their secrets. And while I’m sure you are an absolutely fantastic lay, I’d argue that’s the greater talent.”

“It’s not always about what they tell you,” Humia explained. Each time someone sneaks me inside the dormitories, I learn how they sneak out. Plus, I rifle through their papers, that sort of thing. The trouble with intrigue is that you don’t always know what’s significant until it is.”

“How do you keep track of it all?”

“That, my dear,” she smiled triumphantly. “Is my real talent.”

A flash of motion pulls you back to the present, and you set aside the calibration wand you’d been wiping down absentmindedly. 

“What about you, Kasya?” One of your other roommates, Serenio, signs. Her peachy-pink eyebrows arched teasingly. “Anyone caught your eye?”

You’ve always been better at recognizing languages than communicating, but you’re working hard to pick up more Twi’lek signs, and Serenio is a good teacher. 

That said, you don’t exactly know the correct signs for it’s complicated, or I’m already sleeping with one stubborn man, and while I’m not sure we’re monogamous, I don’t have the energy to juggle another.

Shit, now that’s all you can think about, the feel of his lips on your skin, the way his strong hands grip your waist, his thumb pressing into the crease of your hip, the slide of his tongue over your…

Gods, it had been so good!

Finding a spark with the Mandalorian had not been an issue. Hell, there’s not a single part of your body that did not physically respond to the mere memory of him. Fuck if you’re not so turned on right now just thinking about his tongue that you have to shift your weight to ease the ache between your thighs.

“Work is hard,” you answer, shaking your head. “Too tired.” 

“If’n ye needs so…” Belen cocks her head mischievously. “Johar wad bung yer knees t’ower.” 

Your esteemed elder laughs, cackling with delight at her own vulgarity. Pretty sure she just suggested Johar Kessen would be keen to bury his face between your thighs.  

You blanche. Johar Kessen, a mercenary working for House Tagge. While he is handsome, in a foxy older gentleman kind of way—hunting down assassins certainly helps him stay in shape—his interest in you is confusing to the point of being oddly suspicious. 

“Askit me bout’cha,” Belen winks a crinkled eye at you before hunching back over her mop. 

“Well,” you shrug. “I’m the new girl. I’m sure it’s nothing prurient.”

“Some men like a puzzle,” Humia smirks.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Despite joking with Mando about creating a salacious backstory for 'Kasya', you’ve taken the most sensible course of action and made yourself very unremarkable. Though heartbreaking, your hair is now cut to your shoulders, dyed a sandy brown color, and always worn pulled back into an untidy knot. You look like a root vegetable in your work coveralls, with your breasts bound and wrapped into an amorphous lump. And as a rule, you avoid speaking to anyone who isn’t part of the cleaning crew. 

Not that any of this protected you from the harassment that just came standard working in contracted service labor. Your job entails cleaning the laboratory facilities, so you don’t have it as bad as the crews working in the dormitories or executive housing. Thus far, there had only been one bizarre incident in which a lab technician whipped out his dick in front of you to urinate in the eye wash station. 

But you're not exactly turning heads when you walk into a room the way Humia did. And no one is seeking out your company. Except for Johar Kessen, apparently. Honestly, you have no idea how you managed to come onto his radar. 

No. That’s a lie. You know damn well that you never would have crossed paths with Johar Kessen if you had stayed away from the card games in the public hall. You don’t go out drinking or dancing with your roommates. Everyone else seemed to enjoy the bath house, but you’d had your fill of communal bathing back in the military. The only time you didn’t spend on the job or in your hut was playing Sabacc. 

Okay, so maybe Mando’s got a point. You miiight have a gambling problem. 

When Kessen came to play cards, the man always sat at your table. Not because of you—probably—but because you cut in with the serious sharps. The kind of folks who played through the dark hours of the morning.  

In no way have you encouraged his flirtations, and most of the time, he doesn’t even speak to you directly. But he is a charming man with a good sense of humor who had a habit of looking at you from out of the corner of his eye whenever he told a joke to see if you were laughing. 

“Telt him tae be soft tae ye,” Belen raises a knobbly finger. “Soft heart,” she presses her arthritic hands over her chest. “Hard cock,” and she thrust out her hips in an absurd pantomime. 

Your eyebrows ascend so rapidly that they are in danger of disappearing into your scalp. Maybe this woman shouldn’t be doling out sex advice?

Doubling over with laughter, along with all the other cleaning staff, tears stream down your face until your supervisor stomps over to comment about your productivity. “Do I have to separate you ladies like schoolchildren?”

Gods, it felt good to laugh like this.

And that’s why morality is really fucking complicated. You could never work for Tagge Corp to feed yourself. Every meal you bought with this blood money would turn to ash in your mouth. But you were free to make that choice for yourself. You didn’t have three grandkids at home who would starve for the sake of your pride. 

Plus, Belen isn’t technically a TaggeCo employee despite cleaning their floors for nearly a decade after her husband, a miner at the coaxium deposit that fed this refinery, was paralyzed from the waist down after falling off a ladder. What would happen to Belen and her family when there was no more refinery?

Although that would be a moot point if the Tagge family decided to implode the facility from orbit with you all inside, rather than surrender.

There was a time when you would have cheered on the New Republic busting this place for poisoning Lakaran and its people, sentencing everyone from Tagge Corp, confident they were all monsters who deserved their long prison terms. Now you know better.

Coaxium is what made interstellar travel possible. The New Republic had no intention of doing anything that disrupted the supply of coaxium-refined hypermatter.

Oh, sure, they would file complaints about rights violations and environmental degradation. They would bemoan the poverty that compelled locals like Belen to clean and feed and clothe the bastards who were slowly killing them. But that would be the extent of it.

Ubaa Dir and her revolutionaries were the only ones prepared to fight. They had fought the Empire when they processed the coaxium on Lakaran, and now they would take down the Tagge Corporation. 

And they had hired the Mandalorian to help them liberate the processing plant.   

You had to believe that what came after would be better. That they would save Belen and every other soul living on this godsforsaken compound. 

Because if you failed? If Tagge Corp opted to self-destruct—? 

Well, that’s why you spent all day talking about stupid shit, like whether Johhar Kessen could still get it or if Humia was at risk of developing a UTI from having sex in the public baths.

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

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #3: Life During Wartime

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4: Smart Girl Like You

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem Reader

Total word count: ongoing, TBD

Estimated reading time: ongoing, TBD

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

This is Volume 4 in my *serialized action+adventure/erotica storyline*

Reader - you are a fugitive, former Rebellion combat medic, trying your best to navigate life on the run, and the escalating sexual tension with your new boss. 

He is the Mandalorian. 

______________________________________________

Volume 4 - All Posts:

Past is Prologue

Gray Area

Life During Wartime

Say goodbye to the old me [Mando POV]

Wish You Were Here (new!)

_______________________________________________

Back to Volume 3: I Know a Guy

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #1: Past is Prologue

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by pedrorascal

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 2.2K (first post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, *NSFW*

A/N: This episode takes place directly after the events of Volume 2: Post #4

__________________________________________

Flashback to five months ago. Dorumaa.

“Easy,” someone said in her ear, placing a steadying hand on her back. “Easy. I’ve got you. Try not to move.”

Thulani wanted to say that she was fine, but it would be a lie. Her head was ringing, and the ebb of adrenaline was a cold wash through her veins. She lay crumpled on her side, unsure of how much time had passed since she had been thrown across the room and into a wall. 

She didn’t think she’d blacked out. But that was the funny thing about head trauma. You simply could not trust your memory to be a reliable narrator of recent events. It could have been several hours or no time at all. 

I can’t have been unconscious that long, she realized. 

While the Odbori district was located outside the city walls, this amount of destruction would require some attention from the local constabulary, regardless of who owned the place. It was an open secret that the building was a front for Black Sun’s unlicensed gambling tables. Which is the only reason her neighbors weren’t already climbing over the rubble to get a better look. Nobody wanted to get caught in the crossfire. 

But kriffing hell, a rather sizable portion of her apartment had collapsed onto the street!

One thing Thulani felt very sure about was that her shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact. It hurt like a mother fucker and did not appreciate being crushed underneath her. It had started to tingle from lack of circulation, and if she didn’t move it soon, it would go numb.

She shifted her weight to ease the strain, but that steadying hand on her back resisted.

“Easy,” he said again. “Be still.” 

She didn’t recognize his voice. It sounded…oddly distorted. 

The lens of her visor was chipped, but from this angle, Thulani had a very clear view of the smoldering remains of what had been her ‘Terms of Service’ signage. Only a few words had been left untouched by the wreckage, the largest of which proclaimed in bold: COMPLY. 

A very unsubtle message from the universe.

“I’m going to check your spine.” Strong fingers pinched the back of her neck. It felt strangely intimate, and her whole body shivered. “Does this hurt?”

Unable to form words, she tried to shake her head no in response. But his other hand immediately reached for her chin to stop her from moving. “Don’t do that.”

His voice was firm yet gentle. The smell of his leather gloves tugged at the edges of her memory. She knew this man.

“It’s not a spinal injury.” She lifted up her hand. “No sharp pain, and I can feel all my digits. See?” 

“Good,” said the Mandalorian. He made it sound like wiggling her fingers was a great accomplishment. 

She would have been annoyed, but there was something genuinely comforting about his voice. It was calm and soothing. And kind. She could not recall hearing another voice that was so reassuring. 

“Does your head hurt?” His gloved hands probed her skull. “Any sore spots?”

“Ah!” She hissed. “There.” 

He made a deep, sympathetic noise. 

“I probably have a concussion.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.” He fell silent, fingers working over the soreness. “Nothing soft,” he said after a moment. “Can you focus your eyes?”

“Yes. I can see where, under my 'Patient Code of Conduct,' I used the wrong character, so it actually says defecate instead of accommodate.”

For some reason, tears began to press against the creases of her eyelids. It’s okay. That’s just the adrenaline crash. “But I guess I don’t have to worry about that…anymore.”

“Exactly. Try not to worry about anything right now.” 

An absurd snort of laughter burst through her nostrils. That voice. She wanted to trust it. She wanted to believe that everything really would be okay.

“I don’t feel any swelling,” he said a moment later. 

It felt nice to be soothed and comforted. When was the last time another person had tended to her like this? 

Thulani flushed, reminding herself that this level of attention wasn’t necessary. She could sense as well as treat her own injuries. 

Any misgivings died on her lips when she felt his thumbs settle on either side of her vertebra between her shoulder blades. There was nothing sexual about his touch. However, she became keenly aware of his wide shoulders looming over her and how vulnerable she was lying on the ground. 

Yet, she did not feel afraid.

“Tell me if anything hurts or goes numb.”

“Mmm-hmm,” was all she could manage once his hands made their way down to her lower back. Layers of cloth and leather between them, but she imagined she could feel his fingertips pressing into her skin. She gasped when his thumb pressed into her tailbone. 

“Does that hurt?”

“No. Maybe. I’m sure it’s just a bruise.”

“You’ve got some glass buried in your hip and shoulder, but I think the concussion is the worst of it.” 

Yes, that would explain the excruciating pain…and the pool of blood I’m lying in.

“I’m going to lift you up now,” the Mandalorian said. “We need to leave before the roof collapses.”

He slipped his hands under her arms and, kneeling behind her, picked her up in one swift, effortless motion. She noticed he was careful not to let his fingers touch any part of her breasts and appreciated the gallantry. Honorable was not the same as trustworthy, but it was pretty damn close. 

The Mandalorian was quite a bit taller than she was, and her feet momentarily hovered above the floor before he set her down again. Once upright, she found herself standing with her back against his chest. 

“How’s your head?” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder to place a gentle hand on her temple. “Are you nauseous? Dizzy?” 

Thulani could feel his voice rumbling against her back. “N–No,” she murmured. It felt childish, but she couldn’t suppress the yearning that he might hold her. 

“I’m just not used to being on the other side of this dynamic,” she said aloud to herself as much as him. She needed to get it together. Her life was literally burning down around her, and here she was, swooning over some stranger. 

“How am I doing?” He asked from over her shoulder, taking her left arm by the elbow to inspect her cuts.

“Better than most warriors I’ve known. Maybe you missed your calling?”

A small huff of static crackled through the modulator when he laughed.

“We should patch up your arm, but I don’t think there's time.”

“It’s okay. I’ll get to it later.”  

“Worried I’ll start cutting some holes in your clothing?”

Um…what?

Thulani turned to face the Mandalorian. Her heart had skipped a few beats. Did he just…make a joke?

“I’m–I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I needed to insert the chest tube and—” 

"There's no call to apologize. Didn’t I just tell you not to worry?” 

There hadn’t been anything suggestive in his tone, but her stomach clenched suddenly in a wave of arousal. Stop this! What is wrong with me? She should at least wait until they were clear of the burning building before her thoughts turned to seduction. 

“Can you walk?”

Despite Thulani’s assurances that she could, she took one step and immediately swayed on the spot. 

“Careful.” He caught her by the waist before she could fall face first back to the floor. “Let me help you.” 

The Mandalorian pulled the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. She didn’t realize she’d been trembling. Thulani looked up at him, surprised, and then he bent down, slid his arm behind her knees, and picked her up.

She didn’t know what to say. His arms were strong and protective. She wanted to rest her forehead on his shoulder, to curl up against his chest. Her life had taken a very unexpected turn in the past few hours, and she was so tired, and it would be so easy to simply give over to that strength and let him rescue her.

“I can walk.”

“No. You can’t. And I wasn’t exaggerating. The roof could come down any minute. We can’t wait for you to stagger out of here.”

“So you’re going to carry me across Dorumaa?”

“I promised I’d get you out.” He said it as though that explained everything. A man of his word.

“I didn’t expect such kindness from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yes. I did just watch you immolate several people in my living room.”

She couldn’t believe that soothing, trustworthy voice came from the same man. Maybe it was some trick handed down by Mandalorian hunters, a voice used to convince his quarry to give themselves up, to coax them into coming willingly. 

You know, just like I’m about to… 

No. If he wanted her dead, he would have left her in the rubble. She was a needless complication. She knew his secret—that he was guarding a child so valuable Black Sun’s most loyal lieutenants had broken their chain of command, risked torture and hideous death, to capture him. 

Instead, he had stayed to save her.

The Mandalorian looked down at her upturned face. Pressed against his chest, she could feel him holding his breath in anticipation.

“I had to stop them from hurting the people under my protection,” he said evenly. Then, he nodded toward the slow trickle of blood dripping from her shoulder onto the floor. “Guess I wasn’t entirely successful.” 

What did he mean by that? Surely he didn’t mean her? She barely knew the man. And yet he had stayed and rescued her. I know almost nothing about him. But I feel like I know who he is down to the very marrow of his bones. 

“What happened to the kids? Are they okay?”

“Yeah, they’re hiding out at the tea shop down the street.” 

“Oh, that’s good. Madame Otessa is trustworthy. They should be safe.”

“I know. That’s why I sent them there.”

She laughed. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”  

“I’ll take that as a compliment since you sound pleased.”

“Yes. I am pleasantly surprised you didn’t leave me here to burn to death.”

“You saved my life. Honored my Creed. I make it a point to repay my debts.” 

Right. He feels duty bound to me. This was about honor and life debts. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. Yet she found she did not mind being bound to the Mandalorian, whatever his reasons. 

Some people took offense at being saved. Thulani had been a healer long enough to know that some people had an extreme dislike of needing anything from anyone. Even if that person was not capable of reattaching their own retina, for example, they resented you as though it was a personal insult. As though your help only proved they could not restore the sight in their eye through sheer force of will. 

She was a healer. She did not expect gratitude. But she was nonetheless touched by the Mandalorian’s respect and admiration. 

“We should get out of here,” he said urgently.

“In the compartment where I hid Nito and the baby…there’s a bag. I’ll need it for what comes next.”

“And what happens next?” The hunter sounded deeply concerned about her answer.

“You’ll let me leave Madame Otessa’s Peony Pavillion to flee for my life?”

She had to get out of Dorumaa. Run for the next city, planet, quadrant, whatever it might be—because whoever had told Gwynn and Juss where to find the Mandalorian was not going to let her live.

His helmet tilted. “Respectfully, I think your odds of survival are better if you stay with me.”

The words echoed inside her mind. Stay with me. They promised safety. She knew that he was only helping her out of a sense of duty, and yet all she wanted was to believe in that promise. It had been so long since she felt safe. Not since that night, when the Queensguard had dragged her family out of their beds and forced them to watch while they executed every member of the Baqri household. 

Then her parents had been taken, and there was no one left to protect her. In the years that followed, though there were many times she prayed for it, no one had ever saved her.

So, while Thulani had every reason to harden her heart, she did not resent being rescued. She leaned into his warmth and found comfort in the strength of his arms, and she was not at all embarrassed to have needed it. 

“You’ll…help me?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I should warn you. I can get you out, but I can’t promise what I'm getting you into.” 

Thulani knew on some level that she should be worried he would turn on her. She found she couldn’t imagine it. Gods above, she trusted him. Her body trusted him. She had seen him burn Gwynn alive. She had heard the sickening crack of bone when he had snapped a man’s neck. Yet she was dead weight in his arms. There was nothing in her muscles or her skin or her nerves that told her she was in danger.

“That’s okay. I can’t stay here.”

The Mandalorian carried her away from the shattered windows. She felt his weight shift and put her arms around his neck for balance.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

___________________

Continue reading Volume 4 - Post #2: Gray Area

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #din darjin smut #the mandalorian smut #din dijarin x reader #mandalorian smut #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 2 - Bonus Post: Nothing Breaks Like a Heart

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

A/N: this is a bonus post from Mando's POV

This episode takes place directly after the events of Volume 2 - Post 8: Making the Bed.

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

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

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The Mandalorian replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. 

Her face flushed with desire, her lips parting as she gasped and panted. She looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes through thick, dark lashes, grinding against his hand, riding his hips. Then, a flash of confusion. The hurt. And the retreat into a mask of feigned indifference. 

And fuck if that didn't make him feel, if possible, worse. To see how quickly she regained her calm. How she'd suppressed her emotions just to ease the tension and alleviate his guilt. As if the pain he'd caused her was an imposition. As though he deserved that generosity. 

But he’d seen the unmistakable shock of anguish in her eyes. It was like a knife in his ribs. He wished she was the kind of woman who would stab him. That’s what he deserved. Why did her compassion make him so angry?

Because you’re an asshole, he reminded himself. She deserves better.

He’d managed to drive out the memory in the hunt that followed, focusing on his target. Yet after scaling seven stories of this residential tower, waiting for the charges to trip and detonate…if he let his mind wander for even an instant, he saw the shift in those luminous violet eyes. 

It was desire, lust—fuck, maybe even love?—then heartbreak. He couldn’t stop seeing it. The memory laid him open like a lash, cutting deeper every time.

Maker! When had he fallen so hard for her? 

No, that was a stupid question. The Mandalorian fell the moment he wound up on her operating table and realized the gorgeous woman he’d seen in passing was also kind. And courageous. And funny. The way one minute, she held him down with surprising strength and comforted him the next. She didn’t flinch when he’d tried to intimate her, and she didn’t hesitate when saving them, even though it meant sacrificing her hard-won freedom.  

No. The better question was, at what point had he lost the ability to contain his emotions?  

Once he locked onto his quarry, he never let anything interrupt the hunt. He’d never stopped before. But all it took was Nito’s voice over the com-link saying, “I think Thuli’s in danger,” and he turned his back on his enemy to run for her. That should have been the first warning sign.  

The second would have been the searing, white-hot rage that surged inside him when he’d come through the library window to see her with that nobleman. Her intricate braid was mussed and had been pulled out in places. Like maybe a man had run their fingers through it. And he felt more jealousy than he’d ever experienced in his life. 

He’d brushed it off, knowing she relied on touch to incapacitate her target, which meant—well, needing to touch them. But the intensity of his reaction caught him off guard. 

And that was another source of concern. Why was he always attracted to women who could kill him?

Unhealthy is a word that sprang to mind. Thuli clearly didn’t make a habit of using her power that way. She's a healer. She’d taken an oath not to harm others. In fact, it was really infuriating when she wouldn’t kill the people who so obviously deserved to die. 

She was so kind, sometimes it was easy to forget that she was among the most dangerous beings he’d ever encountered. But her little speech '…I could cut holes in you and seal them back up again, over and over, until you tell me what I want to know…'

It might have been a bluff, but it sure as hell had been convincing. The threat of violence was…there was no denying it, it was hot. It sent a jolt of arousal through him that ran directly to his cock. He never dreamed that Thuli had such stone-cold ruthlessness lurking inside her. 

It was impressive. It was effective. And it was hot.

Putting her in charge was either the best or worst decision he’d ever made. 

She said no one had trusted her for leadership? Well, fuck those fools. She’s a good leader. Who knew competency would be such a turn-on?

Then she’d saved his life. Yet again. For the dozenth?—Hell, he didn’t know how many fucking times. Had he actually lost count of the number of times she had saved him? 

Tonight, he at least had the opportunity to return the favor. And he had. Thank the gods, he had! It’s one hundred percent the reason he lost every shred of self-control, but what did that matter. She’s alive.

He carried her through the abandoned docking bay, letting Nito blast his way out in a firefight, leaving the palace behind because he couldn’t let her out of his arms. That’s when he should have known he had lost all control. 

Or when he begged her to wake up.

He should have walked away as soon as he knew she’d be okay. Instead, he wanted to sit beside her.

Touching her face with his bare hand. Fuck, it was a mistake to touch her. Not like he didn’t know how soft her skin would be, but…now he knew from experience.  

And when she’d placed his hand over her heart? When he realized he wasn’t alone, that what was between them…whatever it was, it went beyond lust. The hunger he felt for her, she felt it too. It was passion and longing. There had been tenderness. 

Had been tenderness, the Mandalorian reminded himself.

Now, there was polite indifference. 

It’s for the best. She deserves better. It was good that he’d stopped. He shouldn’t have let things go even as far as… 

She shivered and trembled as he dragged his fingertips across her skin. Her breasts full and soft in his hand, the feel of her pinched nipple under his palm. And when he finally slid his fingers down between her legs, she was so wet it made his cock throb with such force he nearly spent himself against his pant leg.

It was good that he’d stopped. Letting it happen at all was…

She moaned, gripping his neck and shoulders as she rocked against his hand, her nails biting through the thick canvas of his flight suit and into his skin. It was a pain so sweet that it bordered on pleasure.  

For fucksake, letting it happen at all, that was…he’d lost control. He hadn’t quite realized what was happening, only that he loved the sound of her breathy sighs, that her muscles clenching around his fingers were soft as the silk of her dress, that he could probably leverage this angle to stroke her through one climax into the next. 

So when she’d reached down between them for his belt, some part of his brain resisted. This wasn’t supposed to be about him. It had been about her and what he could do to keep her making those breathy little noises.

But, of course, this was about him, too. 

After all, he had been the one who pulled open her robe without permission, grabbed her hips, and ground his swollen cock against her thighs. Because if he had asked her permission first, he would have had the presence of mind to know what colossal mistake this was—one that she would regret. 

"What am I doing?"

It wasn't until he saw the shock rent across her face, as though he’d slapped her, that he realized he had spoken those words out loud.

Kad Ha'rangir, I am the lowliest shitstain amongst your creations!

But...it was good that he’d stopped. Letting it happen at all was a mistake. It was selfish. She deserves better. Damnit! Knowing it was his fault didn’t change how much he hurt her. How was he going to make this—?

Beeeeow–click–click–click

Fucking finally! They’d opened the balcony door, triggering the charges.

Relief washed over him. He yearned for the silence inside his mind that came with fighting. He unholstered the blaster at his side. Nothing clears the head like being shot at.

_____________________________________

Back to Volume 2 - all posts

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #din darjin smut #the mandalorian smut #din dijarin x reader #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut #mando fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 story arc is completed! Please to enjoy these very eventful 27 hours in Daiyu City.

Volume 3: I Know a Guy

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem Reader

Total word count: 45K (divided into 12 posts)

Estimated reading time: 3 hours

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, *NSFW*

This is Volume 3 in my *serialized action+adventure/erotica storyline*

Reader - you are a fugitive, former Rebellion combat medic, trying your best to navigate life on the run, and the escalating sexual tension with your new boss. 

He is the Mandalorian. 

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Volume 3 - All Posts:

Dimples

Now we're getting somewhere

Another of Thuli's Tales of Emergency Medicine

Margin or Error

What did the wall ever do to you?

You Can Find Me in the Club

Counteroffer

About damn time

Drugstore Cowgirl

Good old-fashioned shootout

Well, Hell's Bells (New)

A Loving Feeling (New)

Bonus Post [Mando POV]: Want to make love in this club

_______________________________________________

Back to Volume 2: +Plus One

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #mando x reader #sexymando #mando x you #din darjin smut #the mandalorian smut #din dijarin x reader #mandalorian smut #pedro pascal #the mandalorian #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #12: A Loving Feeling

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 4.6K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

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

A/N: I think my content warning is don't read this in a public place!

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XII. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commands in a low whisper, adding a hurried “please,” to assuage his gallantry before he draws your knees behind his back and grips your ass in both hands. 

Somehow, he’s able to press more kisses to your lips and cheeks, even the tip of your nose, while carrying you over to the bed. You can feel how much he wanted you—but behind that desire, you feel...something else. Something that felt like apprehension. 

You uncross your ankles and loosen your grip around his neck in a signal to set you back on the ground. In practice, this meant awkwardly sliding down the front of him, with one hand on his shoulder for balance as you tried to avoid choking him in the tangle of your limbs.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay,” you assure him gently. “More than okay. Amazing. But…you know I can sense your emotions, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “I can feel you—there, in the back of my mind.”

“Is that okay?” You ask timidly. Surely, he would have said something before now if it wasn’t. “If it bothers you, I can try harder to shield the connection. Stop it from happening.”

“No, it’s okay.” His hand on your shoulder squeezes reassuringly. “It's like being closer to you…in a different way. I can’t explain it. But no, it doesn’t bother me.” 

“Good," you sigh in relief. "Like I said, I feel amazing, but I’m not sure that you do? I can sense that part of you...doesn't want this.” 

“I—” he inhales sharply. There’s a long pause before he sighs and brushes the hair from your cheeks, cupping your chin in his palm. “I can say with all honesty, there’s nothing I want more than to be buried between your thighs right now.”

That’s validating! Wait. What isn’t he telling you?

“Ugh,” you moan. “This involves some type of misplaced guilt, doesn’t it?”

His sigh is even deeper this time. “Can I at least escort you to the bed first?” 

The Mandalorian takes this duty to heart. With one hand splayed wide over your lower back and the other holding your elbow, he guides you to the edge of the bed to sit you down. 

“Are you…kneeling?” 

He is. Well, at least his desire to be between your thighs is sincere. 

“I need to...tell you some things before we proceed...any further,” he said, taking a deep breath. "So you feel like you’re making an informed decision. About me."

“Okay. May I first say that I’m relieved to have this conversation now instead of after you’ve been halfway inside me?”

A sharp snort passes his nostrils, and it strikes you as the kind of response that would have been obscured under the helmet. He's so much more expressive than you expected.

“Even after a lifetime of rigid discipline, once I’m inside you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.” 

Once I’m inside you. His whole being—everything about his presence—felt hyperreal now that you can hear the emotion in his voice and sense his interiority.   

And right now, he’s a tangle of anxiety, torn between an urgent desire to act and the crushing fear of loss.

“Right...”

You wrap your robe back around you in case staring directly into your tits is just making this more difficult for him.

“Mando, I know you’ve spent the past months coming up with all these reasons why we shouldn’t do this. All I can promise is that I will listen—and hear—everything you have to say. I promise.”

“Right. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Remember, I’m here with you because of the person you are now. The man you used to be? He’s not here. You are. You’re the one ready to bear your soul in some weird act of contrition to avoid hurting the person you care about.” 

“I—thank you. It’s not where I’m going with this, but thank you for saying that. You have a generous heart,” he leans forward to place another kiss on your forehead. “What I’m trying to avoid is that look on your face when you found out about Xi’an. You were…upset…when something you assumed about me turned out not to be true.”  

“Upset?” You burst out laughing. “Ok, you’re the one being generous. I was humiliated, got drunk, and the night ended in a bar fight.”

“The bar fight was my fault,” he admits. “But I’d like to avoid hurting you again by…making sure you’ve got a clearer picture. About me.”

You’re sitting with a puddle of come between your legs, a sour stomach full of dread, and no idea what he’s about to say. 

“I belong to a sect of Mandalorians following the ancient Way of Mand’alore. It’s a way of life handed down through centuries by a band of warriors formed by Mandalore the Great himself. When I was sworn into the fighting core, I took an oath to live this way of life—The Way.”

You reflect that you’d always envisioned ‘The Way’ in capital letters when he said it because it seemed so full of reverence. Ecclesiastical training is hard to shake, it turns out.

“Our identities are subsumed by the armor we wear. Under our helmets, we are no longer individuals but part of the unbroken chain of our ancestors. When I die, another will don my helmet, and a new link in the chain will be forged.”

Part of your brain grudgingly acknowledges that this would be an incredibly fascinating field of study. However, most of your brain is preoccupied by the frustrated throbbing between your legs.  

“Everything we do is for the Covert. We deny the personal in service to the collective.”

Here, he pauses. Hesitates. 

“And so…we do not own personal property. And we do not take mates. Or sire children.” 

Oh! Oh! Oh, this is why he’s wracked with guilt. Oh! Oh no no no no no! Oh, this is such a fraught emotional minefield. 

How do you tell someone that while you don’t not want—?

As if reading your thoughts, he quickly amends, “I’m not saying that you want to bear my children, but—” He sighs. “Foundlings are how we replenish our ranks because they have no blood ties. Their loyalty and welfare are bound to the entire Covert.”

Oh! That’s why he didn’t feel the same turmoil about the Child. Just you. Because he loves you. But he shouldn't. 

“There’s no requirement for celibacy…but…”

“Yeah, I can definitely see why you’re in a bit of a doxastic dilemma here.”  

“A what?” He asks, breaking from his tortured monologue. 

“Sorry! You get like this, spending your childhood with sages.”

Damnit, you need to approach this with the focus he deserves. The throbbing between your legs is gone but not forgotten.

“Doxastic means, um, principles of belief. The tension in logic between how simple principles are when laid out but aren’t actually simple when put into practice. At all. Because life is super complicated.” 

When the Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, you feel compelled to continue. “You’re caught in a dilemma between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law.”

You clutch at a sudden thought.

“Like how I took an oath as a healer to do no harm. Well, ‘harm’ is pretty fucking subjective, right? But the intention of the oath is to remind me about the sanctity of life. To weigh the harm of the interventions I do or do not make. 

It’s up to me to determine the spirit of the law when life gets complicated…which, paradoxically, is why it’s so important to have an oath or a Creed because it keeps you grounded. Tethered to something bigger than yourself.”  

This he seems to understand.

“Under your Creed, the letter of the law doesn’t prevent you from having sex with me—just that you can’t take me as your mate. So we aren’t breaking your oath. But that doesn’t change what’s in your heart. And I think you don’t quite know how your feelings for me fit into the spirit of the law.”

“Yes,” the Mandalorian says, sounding profoundly relieved at how well you understand his predicament.

“I think the question of loyalty is what’s bothering you.”

“Yes,” he says, and this time, his relief sounds more poignant, perhaps because of how well you understand him. 

“The question of loyalty is in your heart, Mando. There’s nothing I can say to change that. But I would never make you choose. I can’t promise that I’m always going to react to things in a healthy way…I also have a temper,” you spread your hands out helplessly. “But I don’t believe in ultimatums. I couldn’t do that to you. I don’t have it in me.”

He startles you by resting his head on your thigh. “I know.” 

The throbbing heat stoked to life again, building into a straining ache that just makes it harder to say this next part.    

“I’m sure you already feel conflicted about testing the boundaries of your oath by taking off your helmet. Which is why I’ll understand if you want to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he says. “I don’t think I can,” and he presses his lips to yours. 

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

He breathes through his nose, keeping his lips pressed to your mouth in a desperately intimate kiss.

Frantic with need, he clutches at your waist to tug your robe loose. Not to simply open it, but to pull it over your head. You get caught up in his excitement, tucking your chin and shrugging your arms free of the sleeves so as not to disturb the mask. Damp tendrils cascade over your shoulders as you reach for the knot you tied against his hips.   

It’s hilariously challenging to undo while he bends and twists, trying to remove his boots. You forgot he still had them on!

As his kiss deepens, the Mandalorian puts an arm tight around your waist to bear you down onto the bed. He pushes you backward against the mattress, his other arm supporting your head. Your hands glide up his powerfully muscled back over the scars you’ve seen so many times but never touched. Up and up, until your fingers twine around his neck. 

He must feel every hitch in your breathing with your bodies pressed so closely together.

“Sorry,” he quickly shifts his weight onto his elbows so you can take a full breath. “I’m not used to being on top.”

That makes you laugh. “How do you like it so far?”

The Mandalorian responds by burying his face into your hair and kissing your throat through a tangle of wet curls. “I like your arms clinging to my shoulders." He reaches behind his back to grab your knee, sliding his palm over your thigh and down to grasp your hip. "Your legs wrapped around me.”

The way his thumb digs into the soft crease between your hip and thigh makes your stomach clench, and you feel a damp warmth spreading where his body presses against your wet center.

“Good,” you gasp. “I hope you like the rest, too.”

“You have to tell me if—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hmmm, sometimes hurt can feel good. Like this,” you lift your chin up to glide your open mouth over his neck, letting your tongue trace a wet line up to his ear. The tip of your tongue makes a delicate circle around the shell before returning to lick his soft earlobe. Then you suck it between your lips and bite. 

His gasp of surprise turns into a deep groan, and his cock throbs against your stomach.

It’s thrilling to discover the sensitive parts of his body. He very much enjoyed the attention to his ears. So much so that he has to break away and divert his focus. The heat igniting within him threatens to burn through his self-control, and your tongue, hot and moist, just makes him yearn to be inside you.

The Mandalorian shifts his weight from his elbows back onto his knees to rechannel his efforts. His warm mouth finds the hollow of your throat and kisses a path downward between your breasts. He nuzzles underneath one, tracing the curvature with the tip of his nose, kissing and licking. When his lips find the pinched skin of your nipple, he draws it into his mouth. 

You didn’t think he would be so—

Inside his mouth, his tongue made lazy, agonizingly slow circles. Then he sucked in earnest, taking a long pull between his lips. In a shock of passion, you cry out, “Aaangh!” Your hips surge against his, and you cling to him, holding his head to your chest. Your fingers dig into his neck and shoulder, urging him for more.

He groans in affirmation, all the muscles in his groin tightening. With your breast still in his mouth, nipple on his tongue, his other hand strokes over your ribs, down your waist to the flare of your hips, then back up. He seeks out your other breast, this time cupping you in his palm to lift it to his mouth. When his lips find its peak, his teeth graze over the swollen tip, and you flinch.  

“Tell me if—”

“Yes, yes, you can feel guilty about it later,” you sigh and arch your back to press against his mouth again. His laughter spreads heat over your skin before his tongue slides back over your nipple, lips closing to suck fiercely. Your eyes drift close, and you lose yourself to the sensation. 

His thick shaft is wedged into the apex of your thighs, and you can feel it pulsing with need. As the tension inside you coils tighter and tighter, you push against him, parting around the base of his cock despite the briefs you still wore. Your breath comes in short gasps as your hips move rhythmically. 

Mando pulls back, perhaps to watch since you are definitely about to come. His free hand moves up to gently caress your neck right as all the coiling tension releases. 

“Oh, fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth as you whimper helplessly into his ear. “Was that—?” He pants, sounding confused but not angry. 

“Y-yeah,” you stammer. “It’s, uh, harder for me to, um, shield my influence…when I’m…you know. I’m sorry…I should have warned you.”

“No,” the Mandalorian says in a dazed sort of voice against your ear. “It was…intense, but…good. It was good.”

Between your legs, he’s still hard as a rock so no harm done. 

“Will I feel it every time you…?”

“Maybe,” you smile, suddenly shy.

This seems to give him a notion. Mando’s mouth traces over your collarbone, trailing warm, wet kisses down your stomach. He goes lower. Your breathing becomes shallow as his tongue circles your navel, the tension in your muscles building as he moves even lower, his teeth skimming your hip bone. 

Involuntary, your hips shoot upward, and he tugs your briefs off in one swift motion.

He settles back on his heels and presses another kiss to the inside of your knee, another higher up, and another against the inside of your soft, tender thigh. Your breath spills out in a huff of air, fingers twining into the sheets, hips twisting with sheer anticipation to receive every inch of him. 

“You said you wanted to feel my tongue inside you?” His voice is husky, full of enticement.

“Yes!” You cry out. Wait, what? You hadn’t expected that he would— 

“Only if you’re comfor—”

His thumbs spread you open, and his mouth closes over your cunt to take a long, loving taste.   

Your head presses back into the mattress. Erenada grant me patience!

What his tongue lacked in precision, he more than made up for with ceaseless enthusiasm. He was not the type of lover to artfully tease or make you beg. No. There’s nothing withholding about the Mandalorian’s mouth. 

If you were capable of forming words, you could offer him encouragement. He’s nonetheless keenly observant of each hitched sigh, each moan of pleasure or gasp of surprise, each spasm of muscle. He quickly learned that what you liked best is the way he drew your clit between his lips, against the tip of his tongue, to suck before releasing it to lick. 

And what you really liked is when he preceded this by running his tongue in a deft line to part the ridged folds of your cunt before dipping inside you. He soon finds a delicious rhythm of licking, sucking, and circling that makes your hips vault off the bed.  

You rock against his mouth, arching to meet each thrust of his tongue—maybe too much? Mando lifts your thigh to place your knee over his shoulder, forcing your weight back onto the bed. But he keeps up the pressure, his tongue exploring every fold, every ridge. 

He stretches out a hand, fingertips gliding over your stomach to stroke your nipple, groaning when your breast fills his palm. Ah, yes, he can better reach your breasts in this position. You should have known—it’s been a whole minute since he’d touched one! 

Laughing softly, you cover his hand with your own to squeeze and knead. 

You don’t know what to do with your other hand. You’ve tried so hard to retain some composure, burying them under the pillows, clenching the sheets. There’s a sense of integrity that, this being his first time doing this—and he was doing a remarkable job—that you be euphoric but not ecstatic. Maintain some control.   

Then, he slips two long, slender fingers into your tight, aching center and applies pressure up, from inside. And without really realizing it, both your hands are tangled in his hair, clutching at his scalp, probably painfully.

But he keeps up the pressure, keeps driving inside, building you up and up and up. 

You climb with him, insides humming and twining, every muscle clenching and coiling. And when the release hits, you actually shed tears with the rush of it.

The words spilling from your mouth are no longer within your control—half remembered prayers from another lifetime. It’s not until your inane babbling tapers off that you hear the squelching sound of him stroking himself, crouched on his knees between your thighs, hand wet with your come. 

“Huh-unngh!” he moans, shuddering in the aftermath of your climax. Which is enough to have the heat rising up inside you again. Your heart is still pounding against your ribcage as though trying to break free. 

Though you feel completely weightless, you bend toward him, hand reaching for his neck, lips searching for his mouth. When his lips open, you dip your tongue inside, tasting yourself as you pull him closer, arching into the welcome embrace of his arms.

“So,” he sighs against your throat, trying to catch his breath. “It was good, then?”

You burst out laughing and offer him some lewd praise in Hapan.

“What is this word, chibran? You keep saying it.”   

“Mmm,” you slide a hand between your bodies to grip him in your fist. “I said I’d give anything to know what it feels like to have your cock inside me.”

You hear his head tip back to release a guttural moan as he thrust his hips upward to push further into your hand. You continue to caress him with long strokes from base to tip. Gentle but with a firm grip.

“Haa-aah…anything?” He asks, sounding very pleased with himself. 

“Do you already have a price in mind?” Your thoughts are alight with imagination. What sort of obscene fantasies did he have planned for you?

He pushes you back onto the bed. “I need to be inside you. Now, cyar'ika. So this time, we’ll call it even.”

The Mandalorian braces his hand against the mattress beside your head, fingers twining in your hair. He tries to keep his weight on his knees so that his other hand can carefully guide the head of his cock to enter you.

At the first nudge of him, your breath hitches in your throat, and he immediately freezes.

“You’re, uungh, so wet. I thought–”

“It’s a good hurt,” you gasp into his ear, instinctively lifting your hips and widening your legs to accommodate him deeper. “You’re just, aah…a lot to take.”

You don't need to divulge that it has been a while. Because, despite Nito’s teasing about you doing ‘just fine’ for yourself, the Mandalorian is absolutely a gigantic cock-block. It’s been months since you got laid, and your fingers can’t really approximate his…girth. 

“I’m trying…to be easy,” he says, gritting his teeth. He was panting in long, ragged breaths. You can sense every fiber of his being screaming at him to take you. Now. Roughly. To drive into you with unrestrained abandon.

Instead, he moves with slow and lush, rolling thrusts to ensure you yield to every inch of him. You cling to his massive shoulders, and he leans down to press his lips to your temple and along your jaw.

When your body finally eases and begins to draw him in, you both moan together with relief, and your mouths collide in an eager, messy kiss.

Fully sheathed inside you, he pauses to flex against the clenching surge of your muscles. “Aaah!” You cry out at the feel of him, a pressure and tension that both eased and ached.

His hips begin moving steadily, then he draws back and thrusts deeply inside you again. 

“Aaah!” You wail and wrap your legs around him to pull him closer.

It’s more than his self-restraint can bear. He draws his shaft out once more, and this time, as he penetrates, you sense his concentration focusing on the wondrous throbbing of your cunt, enfolding his full length.

“Nnngh!” He groans over you, resting his forehead against your cheek, slick with sweat, as he begins to pump more rhythmically.

Soon, his impulse for closer and more, evolves into harder and faster…and that seemed good. A good idea.

You untwine your legs from around his waist and dig your heels into the bed on either side of his knees. It gives you greater purchase to push back against the surge of his hips so that you can meet each thrust. 

“Yes,” he moans, grabbing your forearm from behind his neck to press your hand down into the mattress, interlacing your fingers. 

Your mind is straining to break, so close to the edge of blissful release that you can’t hold up any kind of shield. It’s the right time, you tell yourself. He’s ready. 

The connection between you rushes open into a shared consciousness. His pleasure was your pleasure, and your pleasure was his, your heartbeats syncopating in an ecstatic cadence. 

“Oh, fuck! Yes,” his hoarse cries send hot breath into your ear. “Yes!” 

You rock harder and faster. Your free hand wildly stroking his back, then grabbing his firm buttocks to urge him on, lost to the feeling building inside you. The tension was reaching its peak. You both feel it gathering and climbing. You chase it, race for it, setting a fearsome pace that Mando seems all too pleased to maintain. 

Then he pulls out. You gasp with the sensation, the sudden absence of pressure and all-consuming need to be filled, every nerve of your body yearning...so that when he thrust back inside you, the experience of total and utter satisfaction finally breaks you. 

You come with a feral cry on your lips, and the flood of oxytocin and dopamine is a wave you ride into oblivion.

It’s the same state you reach for to tap into your healing force. For this certainly was a type of healing, to let the heat of passion burn away the hollow, lonely places in your heart. To be with someone you love, and for a time, not to feel lost or broken. To be happy and contented and exactly where you should be.

You remain in that state for an eternity, or no time at all, until you realize that the keening, breathless sobs are emanating from your mouth.

“Haa, aangh, aah!” Mando collapses on top of you in exquisite release. This time, he remembers to take his weight on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. He's a fast learner!

“Haa…aah…aah.” Panting with each lingering spasm, he continues throbbing inside you, his body shuddering in your arms.

********

“I don’t want to move,” he says from somewhere between your breasts. “But I must be getting heavy.”

“I’m more worried you’re going to suffocate.”

“Then I’d die happy.”

He pulls out slowly before laying down beside you, fitting an arm underneath your neck so that your head can rest in the crook of his elbow. The other he wraps around your waist. You lie in companionable silence, waiting for your breathing to steady.

It’s so peaceful, but you feel compelled to say something. Something desperately romantic, so he knows how much it meant to you. How much you care.

Of course, you steer right past romance and land on cleverness. 

“So, it was good, then?” 

The Mandalorian bursts out laughing—deep, booming laughter that rumbles in his chest with such force that it shakes the bed. You turn your head to smile up at him and share in it, even though you can’t see his face.

“Yes,” he whispers, kissing your hair and drawing you even closer, with your back sealed against his chest. You feel him softened but not spent, pressing into your hip, still wet with your release. “Much better than a wall.” 

“Walls can be fun, but there’s never any cuddling after.” 

“I regret what happened, but I’m glad we stopped last time. This was so much…more. I didn’t know it could be like this.” His body curls around you, tangling your legs together. “I’m glad I could take my time and do it right. For both of us.” 

“You sound pretty satisfied with your performance,” you say teasingly.

“I was in two fights and a shootout. I thought I would last all of ten seconds and then fall asleep on top of you.” Mando props himself up on his elbow. “Instead, I made the most beautiful woman in the galaxy cry out in my arms. It was a good day.”

“You have a remarkably skillful tongue for someone who spends most of his life with a helmet on.” 

Shifting in his arms, you lift your chin, lips searching for his mouth. He bends down to kiss you—tender at first, but when his mouth opens, the heat between you reignites. Or perhaps it had not died down at all.

One of his hands cups your jaw while the other splayed across your stomach. Against your hip, you feel him growing hard again. 

"Wait? Two fights?"

You can feel him smiling, the press of his mouth behind your ear. "The guy who found your jacket didn't think he should have to return it. Something about finders, keepers."

"So you fought him for it?" You chuckle breathlessly.

"Hmmm," his hands find your breasts, squeezing and kneading. "I know how important it is to you."

“Before, you asked me what nia’n cor means,” you whisper against his throat. “Nia, is a light…a light in the dark. Se nia’n cor means light of my heart.” 

He sighs longingly, burying his face in your hair to kiss the curve of your jaw.

“Are you tired now?”

“No. I’m not tired,” he replies, pressing his lips to yours. Breath catches in your throat, and you gasp into his mouth. “I’m wide awake,” he says.

The Mandalorian’s hand drifts behind your knee, pulling your leg over his hip so he can guide himself inside you. One of his arms cradles your head, the other gripping the back of your thigh, and he begins to move in slow, sensuous strokes.

__________________________________________

END OF VOLUME 3

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this volume in the series story arc.

Continue reading Volume 4: Smart Girl Like You

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #mando x reader #sexymando #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #star wars smut #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3- Post #11: Well, hell's bells

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 5.6K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

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

_____________________________________

XI. “Oh! And I bought a rice cooker,” Nito adds triumphantly, leaning into the holo-transmitter with a wide grin. In his lap, the kid’s ears are just visible, perking up at the sound of your voice.

“Wait! You can cook?!”

“Of course, I can cook. I’m an orphan. We’re basically the most resilient beings in the galaxy.” 

That’s right. Mando, Nito, the Child…together, you were a family of orphans. Was it simply a random twist of fate, or the cosmic force of the universe pulling you all together?

It’s not the first time this thought had occurred to you, but now it felt oddly significant.

The Mandalorian had his covert, Nito had his gang of boosters back on Corellia, and there were still a few medics from the Corps that probably would take you in. But the Child? He truly needed a family. He was the cosmic force pulling you together.

Because you all recognized what a transformative gift it was to be loved and cared for—to have someone committed to your safety and well-being. 

Your gaze shifts toward the cockpit, catching sight of the Mandalorian. He was busy entering the navigation coordinates.

The transformative power of love, huh? Well, maybe there’d be more of that to go around from now on. 

Turning your attention back to the holo-transmitter, you cock an eyebrow in mock outrage. “Then why am I always the one making dinner?”

“My bowel movements have been better since you took over meal planning. Also, less scurvy.”

“Funny how I didn’t hear a single ‘thank you’ anywhere in there…”

Nito clasps his hands over his heart in a sign of devotion, “Thank you for my healthy poop, Thulindahra.” Then, he gasps excitedly. “That’s right! What’s your new name?”

“Kasya Hawat,” you recite, having repeated it about a thousand times in your head. “It’s pronounced Kaas-ee-yah…I think.” At the bottom of the screen, you see the kid’s ears turn upward. “Hey, how are his ears doing?” 

“I checked them this morning. No gunk.”

“Phew! Don’t forget to clean them while I’m gone, ok?”

Nito’s brow furrows. “Are you worried about remembering you have a different name now?”

Fuck, will no one in this family let you to artfully change the subject?

“Uh, yeah. I am, actually.” You admit, continuing to towel off your wet hair. Three showers in one day might be a personal record. “It’ll be really terrifying if someone yells Kasya at me and I don’t turn around.”

“I bet after a few days of everyone saying it…” Nito shrugs helplessly.

“Let’s hope so,” you sigh. Catching yourself frowning, you try to rearrange your face to look more hopeful. “Tell me. What’s the first thing you made with your new rice cooker?”

“Fish porridge,” he says proudly.

“Nice! And were there any vegetables involved in the making of this meal?”

“Knew I forgot something,” Nito snaps his fingers with a sly wink.

“Hey, genius! Eat a plant every once in a while if you don’t want vitamin deficiency.”

“Okay, Doctor Thuli.”

“Pffft. If I were a good doctor, you’d have a better grasp of micronutrients.” 

“Wait, why don’t you just go by 'Doc'? That’d be easy to remember.”

You pause thoughtfully. “I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, but a former doctor working with the cleaning crew might raise a few eyebrows.”

Not that falling on hard times isn’t a universal affliction. Plenty of well-educated professionals were forced to take whatever work they could get—especially in the aftermath of a galactic civil war. But it’s the kind of backstory that makes a person stand out. Coworkers would inevitably come to you asking, ‘Please let me show you,’ with odd requests for this or that ailment. 

And Kasya Hawat had not received any medical training. Hell, she hadn’t existed since the age of five. You’d need to be careful about appearing too knowledgeable or helpful when someone got injured.  

“Better figure out your meal planning soon. Otherwise, Mando will have you eating MREs while I’m gone.”

“Ugh,” Nito stuck out his blue tongue. “I try not to think too much about what life was like before we picked you up. So bleak!” He moans, “Now you’re making us relive it.”

“First of all, this whole scheme was your idea, kiddo. Second,” you twist in your seat to watch the Mandalorian make his way in from the cockpit, “Mando’s going to be super sweet to you guys because he’s very keen to stay on my good side.”

Nito scoffs, and then a dark look crosses his face. “I know we planned all this out…but it feels kinda scary now that you’re really gonna do it.”

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. “And we’ll go over everything together before I leave.”

“Okay,” he nods, not quite convinced.

“Okay,” you repeat gently. “Well, we should be back before nightfall.” Then you add in a stern voice—teasing him, “Dinner better be hot when we get there.”

Nito gives you a performative salute before ending the transmission.

***********

“The kids, ok?” Mando asks while pulling out the hem of his cloak from under the Beskar chest plate. 

His helmet takes in a quick sweep of the room.

It’s a small transport shuttle, with most of the hold serving as the ship’s living quarters. Apart from the comms station, there's a bed, a lounge area, and a small kitchenette. 

“Yeah,” you laugh, delighting in his paternalistic fealty. “They’re doing good.”

Then, taking pity on him, you nod toward the opposite side of the room. For some unfathomable reason, the sleek design aesthetic required that the wall paneling conceal all the door frames. “Bathroom’s in that corner over there.”

You get up to reach for his cloak, draping it tidily over the back of a nearby armchair. When you sense him standing behind you, the breath catches your throat. 

It's his turn to use the shower. Is he planning to undress out here, right in front of you? What did that mean? 

Keep it together, Thuli! You have no idea how the next eight hours will unfold, so try not to get ahead of yourself. There’s no way to avoid the awkwardness of building intimacy with someone. Still, it’s not like you to be shy about it, either.    

You love to come out of the gate swinging…?

“So,” you sigh softly, looking at him over your shoulder. “Am I allowed to walk around in my underwear now?”

Packing your robe for a day’s long journey seemed a bit excessive at the time—thank the gods, that’s never stopped you before.

Sure, you could change back into the clothes you wore for the fake identification photos. But why make more work for him? Mando will thank you for saving him the trouble of taking them off again. 

Wait. No. That’s not fair. Just because you’re ready doesn’t mean—  

“When have you ever waited for my permission to do exactly as you please?” He says in that enticingly gruff voice, brushing past you. 

Ooof, maintaining your composure will be hard if he insists on putting up the hardened Mandalorian act. An excited shiver is already rippling over your skin. And you’re sure the thin robe did very little to hide your pinched nipples.  

Erenada, save me! 

You need to slow down and stop jumping to conclusions. Just because he bought that mask doesn’t mean you can pressure him with expectations.

Remember, this was all new for him. Well, not the sex part. But the sex without clothes on part? Definitely, the sex with someone he cares about part. 

And who’s to say you would jump straight to the main event—

“Is there any hot water left?”

Oblivious to your internal struggles, he crouches down to remove the leather greaves from his shins.

Right. Effortlessly captivating. You are effortlessly captivating.

“You’re pretty eager to get in that fresher for someone who swore we didn’t need one.”

Mando places his greaves and weaponry on a table nestled against the armchair. “I never said I didn’t want a shower. I questioned whether it needed to have eight jets and a tub.”

With all the close calls in Daiyu City, you both agreed it would be wise to switch shuttles for the return journey back to the Crest. And since you had some money left over after bargaining down Gwellis, you’d coerced the bounty hunter into an upgrade.

“I think you’re going to like those jets. One in particular is quite…vigorous.”

Mando huffs, shaking his head. Gripping the tips of his fingers, he carefully removes each glove along with the gauntlets, setting them down beside his greaves. 

“You going to watch me undress?” He asks wryly.

Mmm-hmm.

“If you let me,” you reply with more confidence than you really feel. In fact, you’re oddly nervous navigating this tension between eagerness and restraint. Unsure of how to show both. 

You hold your breath in anticipation, but he doesn’t tell you to look away. 

“Here,” you extend a hand out to him. “I’ll help…”

When the Mandalorian nods, you hop onto the square back of the chair and reach for his arm. Doing your best not to get distracted by his massive presence looming over you, you place his forearm across your lap so you can work with both hands to release the steel hinges. 

Fortunately, your fingers remain nimble despite the intensity of his fixed attention. The gods only knew what he was thinking. 

After removing both vambraces, you pause. You could take off the thigh plates next, before—

Yes. Well, there were the thigh plates and pauldrons first...

Your movements are clumsy, unlatching the heavy plates while balancing atop the flat but narrow back of the chair. You hear him snickering when you wobble precariously, stretching your hands out for the pauldrons. He decides to remove them himself, handing you each one to stack neatly on the table. 

You had wanted to reach down for his belt—for him to let you this time—but he unbuckles it without hesitation and pulls it from his waist without a word. 

Then, unexpectedly, he leans forward to grip the back of the chair, his bare hands settling on either side of your hips, shoulders framing you. If you sat up straighter and lifted your chin, you’d be kissing—if he wasn’t wearing the helmet, that is. 

Your heartbeat starts to echo against your ribcage. Badump, badump.

“Go on,” he says, pretending like he isn’t smirking under that Beskar.

“Are you enjoying seeing me get flustered?”

“I am. It’s very satisfying, given how cocky you usually are with your little winks.”

Rolling your eyes, your fingers reach for the flak vest, pausing when you notice the silk stitches. A relic from that first night on Dorouma, when he almost died on your exam table. Of all the turns your life had taken, did you ever expect to be here, together on this tiny ship, looking up at this indomitable warrior, with his heartfelt confessions of love still ringing in your ears?

“What’s that look?” Mando asks.

“Mmm? Oh, nothing.”  

The stitches are trim and even, but you blush, feeling guilty for needlessly ripping the fabric. You didn’t know then about the thin metal closures concealed along either side of his back and embedded in the leather shoulder straps. It’s what let him remove the armor without disturbing his helmet.

“Your eyes,” he catches you off-guard, taking your chin in his hand to lift your face up to the light. “It’s faint, but the sheen and color are returning.”

You tamp down on the little trill of panic rising in your chest. The Mandalorian’s fingers felt cool against your flushed skin. The press of his consciousness beckoned, but you ignore it, holding it back until the right moment.   

“I wanted to make sure it would regrow, before I…” 

What you don’t tell him is that you wanted to ensure that if this really would be your first time together, you’d look like yourself—not some woman who’d never existed. 

“I’m glad you can pick up the color through the view plate. I wasn’t sure if it could.”

“One of the filters only neutralizes density, so I see things with the same detail you do. More or less.” Mando’s thumb gently strokes the downy hair along your cheek. “Like when you’re blushing.” 

Ha! Ahhh…

The bounty hunter laughs when you have nothing to say in response.

“You’re pretty cute, all hot and bothered.” He steps back from the armchair to remove the remaining vest. With the Beskar plate and tassets, it’s heavier than you expected, forcing you to place a foot on the ground for balance as you pivot to lay it on the table.

Behind you, the Mandalorian wraps an arm around your waist, and you nearly fall off the chair in surprise. 

“Why are you so nervous?” 

That’s a great question. A few hours ago, you’d brazenly reached between his legs to stroke his cock. Why are you feeling so apprehensive? All your bravado had dissolved into an anxious knot of fear and trepidation in your stomach.  

“It’s just…I’m scared of…”

“Of me?” 

Mando immediately removes his hand from your waist, voice full of concern.

“No!” You say urgently, trying to reassure him. “Sorry, I’m making this more awkward than…I’m scared that if I’m not careful…I’ll…I’ll do something inappropriate.” Your words are so quiet, it’s a miracle he can even hear you. 

He remains confused, nonetheless. “When have you ever worried about what’s appropriate?”

“Well, I want to respect your boundaries. But I’m not quite sure what they are, so…” You look up at him. “Last time, I got carried away and did something wrong. And I’m afraid that if that happens again…you won’t trust me anymore.”

That’s part of the truth, anyway. You don’t know how to put your other fears into words. That what you’re most afraid of is rejection. That all this joy and excitement is just weaving another rug for him to pull out from under you.

What if you let yourself surrender to desire, and when he’s finally naked and undone between your legs—he shuts down again?  

“I got carried away, too.” He sighs thoughtfully, reaching up to hold your face between his hands. “I only let myself think as far ahead as what I wanted…until I realized I didn’t know what came next. Or after.”

You rest your hands over his, your luminous violet eyes imploring him to continue. 

“But I couldn’t think through those questions with you spread over my lap, so I just…stopped.” Mando’s gaze fell to the floor. “I still haven’t apologized for that. I tried to pull you closer, only to push you away. While I don’t exactly have relationship experience, I understand that women don’t like it when you try to have it both ways.”

“No one likes emotional whiplash,” you shrug.

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Then I saw how much I hurt you and…I’m sorry.”      

“Thanks for that. I just hope you can understand why I’m…you know, slightly cautious about the uncertainty.”

“I understand,” he nods, looking up at you again.

“Like now. I want to help you with the sleeves—but the neck seal is attached. What if I bump your helmet? Is it ok if I touch it? Is that a taboo? I know I’m overthinking things,” you throw your hands up, feeling at a loss. “That’s why I’m coming across as nervous.”   

“Yeah. The helmet…complicates things.” Mando runs his fingers over his jaw beneath the Beskar. “But I might have a solution.”

Oh, thank the gods, we’re finally going to talk about this! Somehow, you’d found the patience to wait for him to bring it up on his own. That’s at least one test of moral courage you’ve passed today.

“Alright,” you say, sitting up straighter. And since it felt too much like lying to pretend you don’t already know what he’s talking about, “I’d be happy to, um, put on the mask. If that’s what you want.”

“How did you—”

“I walked down the aisle you were browsing,” you awkwardly hoist your shoulders up to your ears in feigned innocence. “What can I say? My skills of deduction are just that good.” 

He huffs in disbelief, and you let out a soft chuckle. “I don’t know whether I should be offended by your astonishment that I’m capable of the most basic level snooping—or terrified since you agreed to let me go undercover for this job.”

“Now that you mention it…” he brushes a few damp tendrils of hair from your face, his tone growing somber. “I’m not thrilled about the idea.”

“Because you’re worried or because you’re going to miss me?”

“It can be both.” Then, the bounty hunter draws back seriously. “Do you know how to use a knife?”

“Use a knife…Is this where I make a joke about the pointy end?” 

Mando let out a frustrated sigh. “Can you use a knife to defend yourself? They’re not going to let you carry a blaster, but they might let a woman keep a knife. I can show you a few moves.”

You remind yourself that weapons and combat training must be some type of Mandalorian love language. It’s sweet, really.

Grabbing hold of his arms—his thick, muscular arms—“Mando, I survived six years of active war zones. If you want me to take a knife, I will. But I’ll be okay,” and you turn him around so you can work on unfastening the neck seal. “Trust me, I spent most of my childhood practicing how to be invisible and overlooked.”

“I find that hard to believe, given that I’ve met you.”

“Oh, ha-ha! What did you say before? I’m making up for lost time. I spent so much of my life with my head down that once I started talking, I couldn’t stop myself.” You have to climb artfully onto your knees to reach all of the snaps when a sudden thought seizes you, and you lean over his shoulder to whisper, “I was also raised to be a sacred virgin, and look how that turned out.” 

The Mandalorian snorts with so much force that he has to cough to avoid choking.

“Wow!” You exclaim, sitting back on your heels. “Don’t be a jerk. Is it that shocking? I kept that vow of chastity until the day I left, I’ll have you know.”

He turns to look at you, thumping his chest for more air. “Is that really the first thing you did with your freedom?”

“Argh! You are such–” he catches the first fist you aim at his stomach, “a punchable—” but you manage to land the second, “jerk!” 

“Sorry,” he continues to laugh, holding your fist in his hand. “That’s just–ahem—not what I expected you to say. I thought you were a princess or something.” 

“You thought I was a runaway princess?” 

“Something like that.”

“Sounds romantic. What made you think I was a princess?”

“Asks the woman who needs eight shower jets?” Mando scoffs.

This time, you punch him in the ribs.

“Ow! Not bad. You put some force behind that one.” 

He shrugs out of the armored sleeves and tosses them onto the table. Have you ever seen him in just the flight suit before? The thick fabric perfectly outlined the muscular plains of his body—his toned arms and legs, his broad shoulders and narrow waist. 

Okay, dial it down, slutty, slut, slut! Don’t rush this. It’s tough being caught between impulse and self-control. You want to climb him like a tree, but you also want to be respectful and let him set the pace.  

Of course, the Mandalorian immediately puts your willpower to the test. 

“It’s your bearing,” he says, resting his hands on your shoulders. “You have large breasts, but you don’t hunch. Your back is always straight, as though someone corrected your posture growing up. I thought you must be a warrior or a princess…and you’re way too squeamish about violence.” 

Hmmm, what’s he talking about? It’s hard to focus with him standing so close, with his hands resting on your shoulders and your knees pressing into his thighs. You’d only picked up on one word of that. 

“I knew you were checking out my tits behind that view plate.” 

You expect him to be embarrassed, but instead, the Mandalorian sounds roguish. “You’d probably kick me in the nuts if you knew how much time I spent staring at your tits.”

He still hadn’t moved his hands from your shoulders, so you feel brave enough to place both palms over his chest. To your great delight, his heart begins to beat faster.

“On the contrary,” you smile up at him through your lashes, arching your back so he can get a better view. You don’t need psychic abilities to know just how much the Mandalorian worships your ample cleavage. “I like being adored.” 

And it feels like the perfect occasion for one of your little winks.

All the breath he’d been holding comes out in a huff of static. “You are beautiful and kind and courageous. You’ve saved my life many times.” Mando’s fingers trace up the back of your neck to cradle your head in his hands. “I know you don’t need me. Yet you make me want to protect you and keep you safe. I don’t understand how anyone could overlook you.”

Now you’re the one who’s breathless. You blush, feeling feverish. “I–I didn’t think you’d take my encouragement so literally.” 

“And I thought you’d be better at receiving compliments,” he says wryly.

“Compliments invite the envy of the gods, Mando!”

“Is that what they tell sacred virgins to keep you modest?”

The way he says the phrase ‘scared virgins’ is remarkably obscene. He’s getting far too good with these sassy retorts. 

“I already regret telling you that,” you groan. Then, staring up into his view plate, you confess in a dizzying rush before you lose your nerve. “My motives were more shameless. I want the adoration of your body. I was hoping you would grope me or kiss me.”

He seems to weigh this statement with the same grave consideration that he approached everything, even as his hands tangle into your hair. “It can be both.”

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

“How does that feel?”

It’s silky and soft. It had cushioning around the eyes and nose bridge that blocked out all surrounding light, as well as keeping the mask in place. The bands rest snuggly behind your ears, cinching at the base of your skull. 

“Secure. Do you want to try it?” You offer earnestly. “So you can see for yourself?”

“No,” he says. “If you say it’s secure, I believe you.”

You reach out blindly to confirm he’s still standing in the same spot.

When your fingers gain purchase, you pad lightly over his arms until you reach his elbows. Finding your balance on the back of the armchair, you spread your legs further apart so you can pull him closer into the circle of your thighs. This way, you can sense, rather than see him—by the heat radiating from his body, by the smell of his sweat, and the sound of his breathing.  

“Are you sure you’re ok with this?”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder, breaking the tension. “Just nervous that I might actually kick you in the nuts by accident.”

“I’ll be very careful of your knees,” he says, laughing too. 

Mando places his hands around your waist above the smooth curve of your hips. Through the whisper-thin fabric of your robe, you feel the hard calluses of his fingers, and your body tingles with anticipation, aching to feel his touch on your skin.

You can tell there’s still so much else he needed to say, but it’s hard to care about any of that now. 

Suddenly, all that mattered was to coax this yearning from him so it would surround you both in a haze of unbridled desire. When his hands slide up your back and over your shoulders, down the length of your arms, you gasp at the touch of his thumbs tracing the contours of your breasts. 

It’s nothing compared to the sound that spills from the modulator as your hands run up his torso to stroke the hard muscles of his chest. He’s surprisingly warm beneath your palms, rubbing them over his sides, his stomach, and pecs. 

You can tell the sensation—someone caressing his body—is new to him. Overwhelming. 

His hands grip your wrists, and you brace yourself to stop. 

“Will you help me with this?” 

With what? Another trill of panic surges in your stomach as your fingertips brush against the cold Beskar. You tremble, your mind conjuring a dozen fearful thoughts about dropping the helmet, of desecration and iconoclasm. But his hands remain full of surety, guiding you to lift it up and over his head. 

Then, you do almost drop it. 

When you feel the warmth of his breath against your cheeks, all conscious thought vanishes. 

You’re vaguely aware of him setting it down, the thud of metal impacting the wooden surface of the table. But all you can focus on is the sound of his breathing, inhaling and exhaling, the susurration of air passing his lips.

“Can I…?”

In answer, he raises your hands to his face. 

He has a strong jawline. Angular but softened by the trim hairs of his beard, which feel surprisingly supple. His nose has a prominent bridge. You like that. An equally prominent brow line. You like that too. With a deep crease in the middle. Pfft!

“What’s funny?” He asks, his question tinged with consternation. 

“I always imagined that you must be frowning under your helmet. But it’s funny…trying to imagine the subtleties of something you can’t see.”

“You think about me frowning?”

Gods, his voice is so clear. It comes out low, a deep rumble in his chest. Less gravelly than how it sounds through the modulator. Still, very sexy.  

“Not as much as I think about you smiling,” you assure him truthfully. “Sometimes I think I hear it in your voice, but obviously, I can’t be certain. That’s why it’s such a relief—triumph, maybe? When I make you laugh. You should add wit and good humor to my list of virtues.”

At that, he does laugh. 

“Hmmf!” A sound somewhere between a cry and a hushed whisper escapes you. “Your eyes crinkle when you smile.” 

You hear the crack in your voice and quickly swallow down a sob bubbling in your throat. 

“Why are you crying, Thuli?” He asks with profound concern, his hands reaching out to comfort you.

It had nothing to do with sadness. The rush of emotion—disbelief that this was actually happening, that he had taken off his helmet, and you were touching his face! Joy in the knowledge that he trusted you enough to do this. The hunger and anticipation of what happened next, how much you wanted him. It all welled up inside you, seeking release.

“I n-never thought…” you sigh. “Would you say my name again?”

“Thulindahra,” he rolls the smooth syllables over his tongue before placing a tender kiss on your forehead. “Thulani,” you feel the brush of his warm lips on your cheek. “Thuli,” he kisses the other.

“Cyar'ika,” then his lips press against your mouth. 

You know that word. Cyar'ika. Beloved. You’d stared at it in the chapter for ‘family’ in the Mando’a phrasebook you downloaded onto your data-pad. How many times had you lain in bed looking at that word?

Cyar'ika. 

At first, his kiss is soft and delicate.

With your hands on his face and your lips sealed together, the connection between you is becoming increasingly fluid. But it still feels too soon for that.

You can sense his exhilaration tempered by a struggle for self-control. Which is very touching! He wants to linger and enjoy, to be present.

He deepens the kiss, and you respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, arching into him. At the press of your breasts against his chest, a sudden urgency crowded his mind. What little control he had is already melting away under the heat rising between you. His body can only process two competing impulses, closer and more.

Things are a little clumsy at first, his teeth catching on your lips because he's too impatient for your mouth to open. The Mandalorian groans at the first caress of your tongue, and when you steal it from his lips, he rocks his hips against you, his swelling erection grinding into the soft ache between your thighs. 

His kisses soon become devouring in a way that makes the heat scorch right through you as your tongues twine together and slide over each other. 

There’s no sound but your gasping breaths and the shift of your bodies. His open mouth trails kisses over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, drinking in your skin. Then he returns to your mouth.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Badump, badump, badump. Mando’s lips press against your thundering pulse, and you know he must feel how fast it’s beating for him.

A hand slides down to grip your knee, spreading your legs a bit wider so he can settle further between your thighs. A sweet jolt surges through your core when you part around the hard press of his cock despite the layers of fabric.

“Can I open your robe?” His breath is hot against your ear. 

Where he found the willpower to ask permission, you have no idea. But it’s also very touching! 

“So chivalrous,” you smile, and while he’s momentarily distracted you place a few kisses along his jaw and behind his ear.  

“I want to do this right for you,” he says between hitched breaths.

This makes you smile wider. Of course he would imagine fucking you as a awesome responsibility. “Mando, whatever feels natural to you will be right.”

The Mandalorian pulls your robe aside to kiss your shoulder while his other hand reaches for the dip of your waist, gliding up your ribcage to cup your breast. A deep, contented sigh pours from his lips when his fingers gather its fullness into his palm. 

“This is clever,” you grin, opening his flight suit from his waist to his neck.

“Hmmm,” he says distractedly. Whether that’s his response to the ingenuity of dual zippers or the feeling of your nipple budding between his fingers isn’t clear. He circles his thumb lightly around your tingling skin and kisses your breasts until the heat inside you turns into a fire that flooded your cunt with warmth.  

You feel so desperately greedy for his hands, but you also want to pleasure him, too.

Carefully, you remind yourself.  

You hoped that caressing him over his clothing would make his skin less sensitive, and it seems to have helped. His breath catches under your touch. Yet his body does not twitch or recoil.  

He shivers and trembles wherever you drag your fingertips across his skin. There’s a lot of territory to cover! The ridges of his firm abdominals, his muscular back, and the contours of his broad chest and shoulders. But again, he does not pull away. 

This makes you feel a little more comfortable about exploring him with your mouth, so you slip your fingers under the seams of his sleeves to peel them off.

Mando doesn’t protest, though perhaps you should have asked his permission? You tie his sleeves around the tantalizing jut of his hips and make a mental note to ask before tearing off his pants later. 

Your lips search blindly for his nipples—you can’t see them with the mask on!—leaving a wet trail over his body. He moans, almost painfully, when the tip of your tongue slides over the pinched skin as you draw it into your mouth. Soon overcome by the sensation, he’s done the impossible and forgot about your breasts for a minute to grab you by the hips. Between your thighs, his cock throbs eagerly against you.

“Hfff, hfff,” he can’t seem to get enough air. Under your palms, his chest stutters with each heaving breath.

“Is this okay?” You ask. It’s not a selfless question. You don’t want to overwhelm him now. That would be disappointing for both of you.

You can sort of sense him nodding before he remembers that you can’t see anything with the mask on. 

“Yes,” he whispers, then he buries his hand in your tangle of loose waves, fingers threading into your hair. He pulls you closer to lean his forehead against yours. “Yes,” he sighs into your mouth.

You lift your chin up to find his throat and lick at the salty skin, lips closing over the rough stubble to suck at the sharp cartilage with your soft tongue. 

He responds by pulling you tight against him, his hands sliding up your back to press your body even closer. It’s an indescribable pleasure to feel your skin against his, the sensation of your supple breasts rubbing into the hard planes of his chest. The Mandalorian seemed to feel that any space separating you, even if it was only a few layers of clothing, was an intolerable cruelty. His cock must be aching.

Closer, his body demanded. More.

“Bed?” He asks, voice hazy with lust.

“Yes,” you say with breathless enthusiasm.

__________________________________________

Keep reading- Post #12: A Loving Feeling

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#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Bonus Post: Want to make love in this club

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

A/N: this is a bonus post from Mando's POV

This episode coincides with the events of Volume 3-Post #6: You Can Find Me in da Club.

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

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

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Reader prompt from @foxin5billion:

Could I request Mando’s perspective watching Thuli dance and make out with Bril’s girl in part 6? Like what’s his vibe is he sad? angry? horny? All of the above???? foaming at the mouth !!

I have no right to be jealous, the Mandalorian reminded himself as he watched her climb numbly out from behind the lounge table to follow Bril’s companion toward the dance floor, their hands intertwined. 

She’d done an excellent job of hiding it with her effortless smiles and easy laughter, but…he could tell she was hurt. And shaken. And it was because of him. 

He caught it the moment Bril had said those two words, your ex, in that exact order. 

Nothing about her face had changed. Yet he noticed her whole body tense, her breathing stilled in her chest. She thought he had lied to her.

Which meant he would not be the one to comfort her, despite how much he wanted to. He wanted to soothe her wounded pride and explain.

He’d tried to, he told himself, hoping to allay the leaden feeling building in the pit of his stomach. But she’d cut off his attempts to justify why he stopped her that night on Berchest when she’d reached for his belt. 

Because once his cock sat thick and heavy between her silken thighs, he would have lost all control. And there was still so much she needed to know, including why she might regret sliding onto his dick. 

She'd said, I understand…but she clearly hadn’t understood him at all. 

Now, she was looking for comfort elsewhere, in the arms of another.

“Shit! Sorry,” Bril chuckled. “Should know better than to bring up a man’s conquests in front of the new doll.”

The irony was that Xi’an wasn’t his ex. That implied some kind of relationship. What they had was so much worse. Hollow gratification— usually found against a wall amidst the charged aftermath of brutal violence.

Sure, sometimes he fantasized about taking Thuli against a wall, too. His muscles straining with each deepening thrust as she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, her fingers digging into his back and shoulders. He’d been seconds away from doing just that when they’d... 

Damnit, it’d been so long since he allowed himself something that heedless and impulsive.

But what about after? When he pulled out, and she climbed off? What would happen once the heady rush had passed? He didn’t have an answer for that. And that’s why he was keeping his distance. 

That’s what he needed to explain to her. 

“You’re imagining things,” he told Bril.

There was another question he didn’t have an answer for...

How could he live with himself after making her a walking target for his enemies? They hadn’t had anyone to blackmail him with before—armor and helmets also protected the Mandalorian from being used against each other. But if someone like Vos got their hands on Thuli, if he threatened to hurt her unless he obeyed…it would work. 

Like he told her earlier, better not to give them any leverage. She’d only be in more danger.

“You are so full of shit,” Bril guffawed. “Mando, I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re moping.”

“I am not mope—”

“Alright, brooding. But you’d better pace yourself cuz you’re not getting her back anytime soon now that Saffina’s enlisted her in whatever scheme she’s got going on.” Bril craned his neck to spot them dancing, then decided he needed to stand to get a better look. “Flashing her tits for backstage passes or some shit.”

It didn’t feel as much like lurking with the Twi’lek standing next to him, so Mando indulged his curiosity and searched for Thuli amongst the crowd of dancers. That’s when he caught sight of her shimmering hair and felt the air evaporate from his lungs.

Bril’s girl—Saffina*—was brushing a stray tendril from Thulani’s cheek to delicately tuck it behind her ear. 

He immediately knew what she intended and was powerless to stop it. How many times had he lain awake, imagining himself doing something similar? An innocent excuse to touch her face. He watched as Saffina leaned forward, her hand still cupping Thuli’s cheek, to press her lips against the woman he loved. 

When Thulani closed her eyes and smiled, deepening the kiss, he felt breathless, as though someone had punched him in the gut. 

Then she opened her mouth. He saw their tongues slide over each other, and he remembered the feeling of his fingers rolling over her lips and inside her wet mouth. The way she’d sucked at them, hollowing her cheeks and tracing the tip of her tongue over their soft, calloused pads. 

You will never kiss her. 

His heart clenched so tightly that his hand sprang up to his chest to soothe the pain of it.  

He had no right to be jealous. But what about Bril? Watching as his woman brazenly coveted someone else in a club full of his allies and adversaries. Maybe he’d put a stop to this.

Did he want them to stop?

“Isn’t she here with you?” the Mandalorian asked. 

“What? Yeah, but—Maker, I forgot everything’s so fucking black and white with you. Beautiful ladies are like birds, Mando. They gotta be free.” 

The Twi’lek held up his hand, fingers spreading wide as though releasing a sacred dove. 

On the dancefloor, Saffina whispered something in Thulani's ear that set her laughing behind her hands. Had he ever made her laugh like that?

“Exactly,” Mando growled in response. “She doesn’t want to be weighed down by my bullshit. Which is why nothing is going on between us.”

But hearing himself aloud, even he knew it sounded like a lie.

“Huh,” Bril smirked. “Doesn’t seem like she’s overly concerned with your bullshit to me.” 

The Twi’lek nodded towards them, just in time for Mando to see Saffina’s hands glide up her ribcage to squeeze Thulani breasts together. His cock throbbed urgently as her nipples became visibly tight beneath her bodysuit, seizing him with this carnal desire to bite them over her clothing. 

They kissed again before the two women dissolved into giddy laughter.

The Mandalorian coughed roughly to dislodge his sudden erection. He had no right to be jealous, but he still felt it. Felt furious—with himself, with her, with Bril and Saffina.

Saffina, who made him feel like a coward. He was furious. And aroused. He didn’t know whether he wanted them to stop or keep driving him closer to the edge.

Their embraces and kissing weren’t passionate, but he didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse. Every gesture was both sweet and sensual. She kept looking at Bril’s girl with a mischievous countenance on her face. Her smiles were conspiratorial, her laughter full of excitement. 

His heart wrenched again. You will never look into her eyes.

“Mando, I can tell you like this one—and you don’t like anyone—so I’m going to give you some solid advice. Just lay it all out for her and let her decide for herself. You ain’t gotta make shit more complicated than that.”

His friend made it sound so simple. 

But what if, after hearing about the conditions of his oath, she said no? That she didn’t want to be bound by the constraints and limitations of his Creed.

Right now, he could hold onto the assurance of her desire, the memory of her hunger and yearning for him that flooded his consciousness when her fingertips had pressed into the soft underside of his jaw as she sat astride his hips. He didn’t want to let go of that. 

Then, a small voice from the recesses of his mind asked the question he hadn’t dared let himself consider. What if she says yes? 

He’d been fighting back the memory of his ungloved hand gliding over her body before dipping his fingers between her thighs. She was so smooth and slick and perfect. Her muscles clenching tight around him. The shock of how wet she’d become with anticipation for…him. 

And, of course, afterward, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what it would feel like to guide himself inside her—sliding into her with gentle, rolling thrusts until he filled her inch by inch. The noises she would make. He remembered her soft sighs and hitched breathing. The cry of pleasure that had been building in the back of her throat.   

Then, he’d stopped her. Which he didn’t regret. Most of the time. It had been the right decision. So, instead, he imagined what it would feel like to hear her moaning beneath him, to cry out his name.

She will never know your name.

He shook his head. “If you really care about her…how do you make peace with putting a target on her back?”

Bril clapped the Mandalorian on the shoulder and barked, “You’ve got it all wrong. She's the criminal mastermind, not me. I’m just the dumb muscle.” 

Mando found he could believe it. Saffina had an aura of unhinged manic energy. Her eyes were keenly intelligent and intensely observant. She was absolutely Bril’s type. 

And Thulani’s, apparently.

The Twi’lek sighed sympathetically. “Maybe ask yourself if you’re underestimating her, too.”

Bril might have a point there, he conceded. Thuli had enemies of her own. She’d been outrunning them for a decade without any help from him. But…

But what if? What if he found some way for them to be more? More than the fleeting encounters he’d held himself to all his life. The fuck-and-leave that was all he’d ever known.

What if he could feel her beneath him, her naked body pressed against his bare skin? To drink her in, to lavish her and feel her warmth. To kiss her. He’d never experienced that before. He’d never trusted anyone enough to risk it. But he trusted her. 

Then, something else caught his eye.

Farrik, he had to stop thinking about kneading her luscious hips—which was really difficult while she was shaking her ass like that—and keep his guard up. 

“Mando, what did I just say?” Bril grabbed him by the arm, halting his path toward the dance floor.  “Give her some fucking space to process whatever she’s pissed about before you go barging in on her good time.”

He restrained himself from following the two women as they made their way across the club.

“Fine. But I’m not taking my eyes off of that asshole,” he said and pointed to where Talsala weaved his way through the crowd.

"You got Vos checking up on you?"

But the Mandalorian didn't think that Talsala was here to spy on him. No, he was here for—

His blood roared through him, pounding against his eardrums. It was beyond jealousy. It was rage and fury at the thought of the Torgruta watching them together.

If Thulani wanted to sleep with someone else, that was her right. Hell, if she wanted to sandwich herself between Saffina and Bril, he wouldn't stop her. But after all his smug leering at her over cards just to bait him, he would kill that loathsome merc before he touched her.

Bril sighed roughly through his nostrils. "Okay, what if we hang back and—"

But Mando was already cutting a path toward the VIP section.

__________________________

*Thuli refers to Saffina as 'Coral' in Post #6 after repeatedly forgetting to ask for her name.

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

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#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Could I request Mando’s perspective watching Thuli dance and make out with Bril’s girl in part 6? Like what’s his vibe is he sad? angry? horny? All of the above???? foaming at the mouth !!

Oh! I like this idea ❤️ Definitely a range of emotions 😂 since he had to watch someone else enjoy Thuli's perfect breasts from the dog house window

I'll work on this prompt as a bonus post for Volume 3 ✅

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #10: Good old-fashioned shootout

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 2.6K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

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

__________________________________________

 X. Unlike the exclusive mooring of Vos’s yacht with HK sentinels, security lights, cameras, and sensors everywhere, the hangar bays in this section of Daiyu Spaceport, where Gwellis Bagnoro’s ship is located, are unnervingly deserted. And you definitely get the impression people are being paid to make themselves scarce. There is no legitimate reason why the corridors need to be this dark. 

You’re glad for the silence, but it feels almost too quiet after the noise and chaos of the city streets. 

You arrive at the hangar expecting to see the Onodone waiting for you, but there’s no one in sight. In fact, it’s eerily still without the usual maintenance crew droids.    

The grim surroundings did not prepare you for the caliber of this forger’s ride. Apparently, Gwellis Bagnoro can find enough suckers like you to pay his outrageous prices because his corvette is in pristine condition. No mismatched parts for his ship. 

Poor Nito usually salvaged everything needed to sustain the Razor Crest through its continual state of repair. 

With containers stacked high on either side of the ship, you’d think the Onodone would need help loading all this cargo. They create a sort of labyrinth around the hangar bay. How did he expect to fit this payload inside a gunship?  

Something feels off. 

Maybe he’s just waiting for you on board? Even as the thought occurs to you, your boot catches on something soft yet solid, and you stumble forward. Looking down to see what you’ve tripped over in the dim haze of the hangar’s overhead lights, you see a station agent crumpled on the flight deck with a knife stuck in his gut. 

“Mando!” you shout.

But it’s too late. You hear a ting of blaster fire right before the fueling tank next to the ship explodes, knocking you off your feet and showering the hangar in flaming debris. You get slammed hard into the side of a cargo container from the force of the blast. Your ears are ringing, your vision is blurring at the edges, but you can still see the onslaught of blaster fire breaking out around you.  

Looking over your shoulder, you see the Mandalorian, who’d managed to stay on his feet. He’s crouched, taking cover behind a diagnostic panel directly in your line of sight, loading his rifle from the bandolier across his chest. 

“Is this Vos?” You shout.

“They’re Guild.”

“The Crest!” 

You’re terrified about what might be waiting for you back at the ship. Mando’s precaution of leaving it docked on a nearby moon didn’t seem so paranoid after all. 

“If they knew where it was, they wouldn’t be waiting for us here.” 

He’s got the rifle up, adjusting the scope.

“Thermal imaging, you said?” 

“What?!”

“In the visor?” He stills the muscles in his shoulders, taking aim. “You said your visor has—”

“Yes,” instantly recognizing what he’s planning. “And night vision. I can adjust the settings.”

“How’s it impact your aim? Still good?”

“Fuck, yes. I have a laser sight” You’re already screwing the barrel attachment onto your blaster.

Mando nods his approval.  

With one shot, he takes out the electrical in the hangar bay so it all shuts down. The lights go out, all the doors fall closed, and the docking clamps thud onto the deck. Through your visor, you can see they’ve got the high ground, hoping to pin you in place until their crew on the deck can flush you out. 

If they were hunting the Child, they wouldn’t shoot to kill. They needed you alive for questioning. 

Well, one of you, at least.

The Mandalorian crouches around the diagnostic panel to take aim at one of the snipers firing down on you from the catwalk overhead. You’re able to hit another gunman positioned above the cockpit. But there’s at least three more of them—two of whom are situated on top of the corvette. 

Should you scale the cargo containers to get a better shot and risk exposing yourself?

“I’m going to—” you call out before you see the Gand bounty hunter launch himself over a stack of containers to bear down on the Mandalorian with a raised halberd. 

Mando’s able to block it with his rifle, but his opponent continues swinging relentlessly. He catches another blow with his vambrace and kicks the legs out from under his attacker.

But the other hunters have flanked him. And there’s more blaster fire coming at him from above. 

You can’t remain here, paralyzed with indecision, so you take a deep breath, sink low, and slip out from behind the container in a lunge, blaster held out in front of you. 

The Gods are kind. Several more hunters charge towards Mando, their backs unguarded as they pass your position. You take them down in quick succession before they can reach him, still grappling with his other attacker. 

Unable to get off another clear shot, you begin climbing the cargo containers. It’s fucking terrifying how readily your brain reverts to autopilot—letting the adrenaline push you forward despite the threat of exposing yourself to sniper fire. You try to retain as much cover as you can, scrambling around the ship’s intake vents. 

Then, you hear the ping-ping-ping of blaster bolts hitting the Beskar armor and forsake all caution, climbing with whatever handhold you can find, fingernails cracked and bleeding. 

There’s a gap between the wing where you can see an opening up to one of the bounty hunters splayed across the exhaust turbine. But you’ll have to step into it to fire. If they look down at you, they’ll have a straight shot, same as you. 

Your heart is pounding against your eardrums. It’s been years since you’ve seen combat like this. You have to drown out the panic and concentrate.

All you can do is prepare your grip, make sure you’re ready on the trigger, and pray they can’t see your movement in the darkness. 

Turns out they can’t. But that first shot, you miss and merely clip their shoulder. Shit! They respond by shooting wildly, a spray of fire that erupts in every direction. Your second shot gets them in the chest, but not before their own blaster takes out the other sniper posted on top of the ship’s sensor array.

Which meant there was only one shooter left. 

You look around to check on Mando. He’s dispatched the rest of his attackers in a pile of bodies strewn across the flight deck. 

That’s when a sharp, lancing pain burns across your scalp. Your hand claps over the side of your head, just above your ear, and you groan as raw, wet tissue squelches under your fingers. That’s how close you came to dying today. Hot blood starts to trickle over your cheek and down your neck. You’ve gotta nail this fucker before you start to grow dizzy.

At the moment, you don’t feel dizzy at all. On the contrary, the pain brought everything into crisp focus. 

You launch yourself off the ship and start running in sporadic bursts and turns as soon as you collide with the ground. Serpentine! You can almost hear your drill sergeant yelling it at you. 

The last shooter is tucked away in an alcove on the other side of the hangar. You can’t be sure—but you think they’re hiding in a tangle of suspended cables and tubing. No way to climb up there without getting gunned down.

Here goes nothing. 

You shoot at the wires holding the whole mess together, and a section of the braided cables collapses to the floor. To the credit of this bounty hunter’s strength and determination, they continue firing at you while dangling from a metal coil one-handed. 

But you’ve got the advantage. All you have to do is wait for your shot. There’s a nasty thud when their limp body falls to the deck. 

Behind you, Mando’s whipcord fires, and hand over fist, he drags a sobbing Trandoshan hunter into his waiting blade. 

“You take care of the others?” He says, wiping the knife on his boot.

“Yeah. We’ll be long gone before they regain consciousness.” You reply, clicking the safety back on and holstering your blaster.

He tilts his helmet from side to side, and an irritated sigh erupts from the modulator.

“Do no harm? I feel like you, of all people, Mando should support the sanctity of my oath.”

“There’s a time and a place—Thulani!”

He cries out in horror when his headlamp falls over the gash sliced across the side of your head. Which stung like hell.  

“Is it bad?”

“I—” his voice chokes in his throat, reaching for your chin. “I can see your skull.”

And immediately, you vomit up all five glasses of Spice liquor onto his boots. 

Fortunately, he’s pretty tough—a hardcore Mandalorian, right?—and despite how disgusting you must look with sick clinging to your lips, he catches you in his arms when you stagger forward.

“Tell me what to do.”

The sound of his voice is so soothing—deep and strong. His muscular arms cradle you, one wrapped around your shoulders while the other surrounds your waist. Solid as iron but gentle, holding you tightly against his chest. 

“This feels pretty good,” you sigh. “I think the adrenaline crash is just—hitting me hard. Will you, um, hold me like this until I finish healing?”  

“Of course. Whatever you need. Anything.”

“I’m sorry I got vomit on you.” Ugh, so embarrassing. He would probably not be in the mood to fuck you after this. “It hasn’t even been a whole day, and I’ve already ruined the mystique.” 

“Fuck the mystique. You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

You shift in his arms to find a perfect little nook for yourself. “I’m definitely seeing the advantage of a helmet now.”

He let out a soft chuckle, “I’ve got some expertise in that area if you’re in the market.”

“Could—could you tell me how it’s going with the—”

“The gigantic gash in your scalp?” Mando scoffs, delicately tugging the visor from your face to get a better look. “I can’t see the bone anymore, but…there’s some…burnt flesh...hanging…open.” 

“Am I at least earning some warrior street cred with this?”

“I told you you didn’t have anything to prove to me,” he says earnestly. “There’s got to be something I can do?”

“Just hold me.”

His arms tighten around you.

“It’s gonna look like I’m gone for a minute,” you whisper. “But I promise I’ll still be here with you. Okay?”

He nods.

You let your head rest against his neck, then close your eyes, take a deep breath, and call upon that feeling of surety. When the you that was you disappeared and was subsumed by the infinite. That pulse of power surging through every fiber of your being.

Don’t let yourself get distracted by the throbbing shock of the wound as it seals shut. Or the searing heat as the tissue reconnects. Or just how thick Mando's biceps are...

All those tiny nerve endings that had to be repaired. You can’t make the hair regrow, but vanity is like the least of your worries at the moment.

Okay. Yes. There. That should do it. 

Now, what you really need is a fuck ton of electrolytes. 

“You can let me go,” you open your eyes and smile up at the Mandalorian.

“No,” he says, pulling you closer.

“Mando, we can’t flee the scene glued together.”

“Don’t care,” he murmurs from somewhere in your thicket of blood smattered, vomit crusted hair. Aw, is the Mandalorian going soft on you?

Suddenly, the whoosh of the corvette’s boarding ramp echoes throughout the hangar, causing you both to turn and draw. 

“Don’t shoot!” The Onodone inches his way down the ramp with his hands extended, the vocodor swinging from his neck. “They got here right before you did. There was nothing I could do!”

“That’s as may be,” you march up the ramp with your blaster not exactly aimed at Gwellis, though not precisely lowered either. “But I tell you what. I’m willing to let you make it up to me.”

                                              --------------------

“I didn’t expect you’d be such a tough negotiator.”

“After he sold us out? Like hell, I was going to pay fifty-thousand fucking credits.”

“Alright, but making him hold the mirror while you stuck that needle in your eye? That’s cold-blooded.”

Without the reflective tissue, your eyes no longer glow with a violet sheen. To all the galaxy, you would appear to be an unremarkable human woman. 

But Mando had been right. As you removed the guanine from your cells, it felt like stripping away your identity piece by piece. The last remaining connection to your homeworld.

The Mandalorian might have chosen to forsake that little boy, the man he would have been—but you found you couldn’t. So you’d left some tissue under the lenses in the hopes that one day you might be able to coax it back to regrowth. If anyone asked, you could claim the faint remaining glimmers were the result of some kind of chemical exposure.

Would Mando think you’re a fool for holding on to the past? How had he—

But he hadn’t let go of the past either. 

You wouldn’t be able to see those memories if he’d really let go of who and what he was before, like he claimed. And while it might not be conscious, intentional resistance to his Creed, it proved that oaths and tenets can’t change what’s in your heart.

 “Whatever,” you jeer. “He can go cry into his money.”

“We don’t know it was Gwellis,” the Mandalorian shook his head. “It could have been any one of Vos’s henchmen. Someone who recognized me at the club. Or Bril, for that matter.”

“I like Bril!” You raise an eyebrow at him. “You need more people in your life who aren't afraid to make a joke at your expense.”

His helmet turns to look at you, and you can just sense his indignation. 

“If you’re rolling your eyes at me, Mando, I can’t see.” You smirk. “Besides, you had the entire populace of Daiyu City buzzing the moment you set foot planetside. You knew we would catch heat before we even made it to the club.” 

And nothing has changed. Making your way back through the concourse, his gleaming armor draws the same stares and excited whispers. “Gwellis is right. Subterfuge is not ‘the Way’ of a Mandalorian. I’m beginning to think you welcome everything ending in a shootout.”

“It’s a lot more straightforward than spending the next two weeks pretending to be...” he grabs the newly made ID from your hands. “Kasya Hawat?”

“Something tells me Mandalorians don’t engage in a lot of intelligence gathering either.” You pull off the wig you wore for the ID photos and toss it in a nearby bin. 

“That’s why I pay informants.”

“Touché,” you concede. “It’ll be worth it, though. We need someone on the inside, and we don’t know Ubaa Dir’s people. That could change. But for now, my circle of trust doesn’t extend past Team Razor Crest.” 

This last part, you say more to yourself than the bounty hunter. You’re not exactly thrilled about the prospect of working as an exploited minion for the Tagge Corporation, living in some squatter’s settlement attached to a refinery in the middle of nowhere.

“Worth pulling out those gems embedded in your teeth?” He asks wryly.

“I’m thinking Kasya’s backstory includes working in a Zeltron pleasure house during her prodigal wanderings.” You wink at him, “I might even be able to keep the moondust hair.”

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

Keep reading - Post 11: Well, Hell's Bells

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 1 - Bonus Post: I know you think about me in the shower

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

A/N: this is a bonus post from Mando's POV

This episode takes place directly after the events of Volume 1: Post 3: Thrilling Tales of Emergency Medicine.

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

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

_____________________________________

Reader prompt from @hotnmad:

“I didn’t see anything! But your thoughts are…very loud.” “How do you—right," he nods. "No helmet in the fresher.” EEEEEEKKKKKK I WANNAAAAA KNOWWWW I WANT THAT FLASHBACK. PLEASE. LET ME SEE WHAT HE THINKS ABOUT IN THE FRESHER IM BEGGING 😭😭😭

Gods, help me, pleaded the Mandalorian. I’m in trouble.

He desperately rubbed at his temples like the kinetic energy might stir something loose in his brain. I’m in so much fucking trouble. 

He’d made it four months of her living onboard without making a fool of himself. This was, in large part, because he had decided speaking with her was far too much of a liability. It’d only be a matter of time before he blurted out something awkward about how flexible she is (you can really get that leg up there) or offered her a shoulder rub (all those handstands must make your muscles tense)... 

But he couldn’t say something stupid if he kept his mouth shut. 

Now, he could not for the life of him remember exactly what, if anything, he had said to her under a haze of Bacta and painkillers.

Which is why he usually grit his teeth and worked through the pain without meds. Because that shit dissolved every ounce of self-control he possessed. Whatever impulse he felt, he chased. Whatever he wanted, he took.

And he wanted her. 

He was pretty sure that he'd grabbed her.

The sedatives in the Bacta meant his blood pressure was probably too thin to get a hard-on, but he couldn’t be sure.

What he did remember was the feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest. Hell, he’d squeezed her so tightly that one of her nipples had actually popped out over the top of her neckline. That would be hard to forget. 

He also remembered her arms wrapped around him. The way she fit perfectly tucked against him. She hadn’t pulled away. 

But he shouldn’t read anything into that. She was being nice because that was her nature. It’s the same comfort she would extend to anyone who almost died in her arms. He’d awoken with one of her pillows propped under his neck and a wool blanket wrapped around him. A tender kindness for someone who had thanked her for saving his life by grabbing at her like some lecherous drunk.

She’s kind to everyone, he reminded himself. She has this immeasurable patience that he couldn’t fathom.

A vision of wet cloth clinging to the generous curves of her breasts teased at him. They were ample, probably more than a handful.

Fucking farrik, you gotta stop thinking about her tits!

Thulani was sweet, but she wasn’t innocent. He liked that about her, too.

She had this self-awareness about the lushness of her body. She knew it influenced the way people perceived her and how they treated her. The Mandalorian had some inkling of what that must be like—he was a walking fetish for a lot of people, after all—so he found it pretty impressive when she used her sexuality to intimidate someone.   

She tried it on him sometimes.

Thank the gods, she couldn’t see his reaction under the helmet. But he did feel guilty about her confusion whenever she couldn’t read his response to her flirting.

Not that he’d try to stop her. Every hand she placed on his arm, every coy smile she flashed him, every time she walked around in her tiny shorts that were basically underwear—he enjoyed safely from beneath the view plate.

She liked to flirt with everyone. With the station agent, the merchant selling dumplings, standing in line at the bar. She was just like that. Like starlight. Everywhere she turned to cast her gaze brightened. She invited anyone and everyone to share in its warmth.

And damnit, she’d been so warm. Her round ass braced against his thigh, the thick curve of her hips pressed into his stomach. Her tits.

The Mandalorian thought back to the first time he'd seen her, crossing each other on the staircase in the lobby of Ingtar's casino. She was climbing them confidently in her ridiculously tall heels. Lifting her face to the ceiling, her body arched, breasts thrust upward like an offering to the gods.

He would probably die, and his last thoughts would be about her tits. They were full and soft but also firm. She could probably smother him between her perfect breasts, and he would die happy. 

Shit, his cock was so hard it ached. He lightly palmed it through the thick canvas of his flight suit. But he was too full, in urgent need of release. There was nothing else for it.

The Mandalorian tossed the pillow and blanket back onto her bedroll and limped toward the fresher. The stitches stung, yet the sharp pain was not enough to dull his desire. He could lock himself inside the holding cell and claim he wanted privacy, except that she would most likely hear and guess what he was doing in there. The noise from the running water and the air vent would obscure the sound of his grunts and heavy breathing.

It felt shameful to jerk off in the shower while she sat about a foot directly above him. She was a woman under his protection, and he’d already crossed some inviolable boundaries by forcing her into his lap. Last time he needed the release, he'd left the ship and rented a room in town...? 

We’re already strapped for cash.

Right. He’d just have to take care of this quickly and do penance for it later. 

By the time he stripped naked and closed himself inside the fresher, his body was trembling. His blood roared in his ears. Had he ever felt this hard before? Was it some side effect of the Bacta? Or was it simply a measure of how much he wanted her?

He reached between his legs to grip the length of his cock and squeezed. 

"Um, Mando—" She shouted from the other side of the stall door. "I know this is super intrusive, but I need to remind you that you can't get your stitches wet. You should rub—wash! Wash yourself with a cloth."

He froze. His hand had been sweeping up and down the expanse of his shaft. There was no way he could respond. His breath was already harsh and uneven.

“There’s a sponge in my shower caddy you can use if you need to…” she offered. “I’m…I’m gonna go back up to the cockpit. We’ll just—ah, wait for you up there.”

Fuck. He stood there for a moment with the head of his cock under his thumb. 

Her sponge? He saw it tucked into the container that hung from the shower head. A real, organic sponge. Large and plush. Like her tits. Looking at it made him laugh. Not even running for her life could curb this woman’s taste for luxury. 

She luxuriated in everything. And he liked that, too. She savored things. 

He remembered growing half a stalk just hearing her moan while she stuffed her mouth full of custard buns.

Her mouth, thought the Mandalorian as his dick throbbed in his hand.

He thought about her mouth a lot, too. 

Right. Let’s be done with this.

He grabbed the sponge. It was still slick with her soap. Something that smelt like flowers and crisp citrus. He wrapped it around his cock and imagined the hot, sticky sheath of her cunt as he entered her.

No—nnngh, he groaned.

Her tits. Instead, he imagined her kneeling between his thighs and thrusting himself between her breasts as she squeezed them together, sliding them up and down his swollen shaft—anngh, unngh. 

And her mouth. She would tuck her chin down to slide those full lips over the head of his cock, lapping at the beads of come she drew from him.

Mmmf—his hand stroked the full length of his erection, no longer languid pulls now, but quickly.  

His chest heaved with each panting breath.

Haa! He jerked faster. Haa! Faster, faster. Haa, aah! He was so close.

He groaned again as the pace of his frantic rhythm increased.

Knowing Thuli, she would probably look him directly in the eyes the whole time she had his cock in her mouth—nnngh!

He pumped relentlessly until, finally, he cried out. He shuddered as each spasm tensed every muscle in his body, his come spurting again and again.

Ungh! Haa, aah, ahh!

All over her sponge. 

Fuck!

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

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #9: Drugstore Cowgirl

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 2.2K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

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

__________________________________________

IX. “Wait!” You cry out in a rush of panic. “My jacket…” 

You recall slipping it off before following Coral onto the dance floor. And then, you’d lost the chance to grab it when the night club erupted into chaos. 

Surely, Neon Dreams had cleared out by now. Or the initial hysteria would have passed? 

It’s not the first time you’ve had to weigh the consequences of leaving or retrieving Artem’s jacket. Of course, his memory is more than a piece of clothing. You know that. But it’s all you have left of him.

You peer over Mando’s shoulder to glance down the service tunnel. There’s no smoke or signs of a fire from the club basement.

Valine merely shot down a few of the spotlights. The rigging hadn’t collapsed. Maybe everyone had resumed partying, and your jacket remained buried between several booth cushions.  

“I know it seems ridiculous,” you tell him. “But…I have to go back for it.”

“Your brother," Mando asks in a gentle voice. "He’s gone?”

“Yes,” you nod.

“When did you lose him?”

You don’t need to bother with counting.

“It’s been ten years.” 

Hell, you can practically hear the Mandalorian doing the math in his head.

“Is that why you left Hapes?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not why.”

He responds by crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna need more of an answer than that, Thulani.”

Mando’s tone is sarcastic, but just barely. If you’re being honest, he sounds a little hurt. And he has every right to be. He’d told you about what happened to his family…and all those childhood memories you’d seen regardless of whether he wanted to share them or not. 

What had you shared with him in return?  

“So, you think one orgasm entitles you to ask a personal question?”

You smirk, arching an eyebrow artfully in the hopes of recasting your evasiveness as a game. Some flirtatious tactic to seem mysterious rather than withholding.

“Hearing the way you moaned?” He says in that rough voice, leaning closer to your ear. “I’d say I earned it.”

Whew! Suddenly, your stomach clenches into knots. You’re lucky he’s willing to play along. 

Alright. Well. Now you’ve got to give him something. 

“Artem’s death is not why I left Hapes. We escaped together—or tried to. He didn’t make it.”

“Escaped?” He asks, pulling back in surprise.

“Yes,” you sigh. “We thought about running so many times. But where would we go? And then we had this chance to leave and join the Rebellion.” You roll your eyes before reminding yourself to be kind to that naive and desperate girl you’d been. “A new home. Meals, clothes, a bed, a purpose. It was a chance at a new life, and we took it.”

“Why couldn't your family protect you?”

While you don’t know much about Mandalorian culture beyond what you’ve read in books or message boards—you envied their commitment to collective resilience. The safeguarding of Mandalorian life above all else. It’s what you missed most about your time in the Rebel army. When your unit always had each other’s backs. 

Palace politics is the exact opposite. Just the continuous rise and fall of noble houses in an unending cycle. The whole of existence narrowed down to who accumulates and wields power. And your proximity to the throne. Everyone out for themselves.

“Um,” you can’t believe you're about to tell him this. “They’re in prison. For treason. When I said Tigran and I belong to the Queen…that’s why. Our families were declared traitors to the Crown.” 

You hadn’t expected it to come out quite like that. So terribly succinct. 

Then you realize why you didn’t want him to know about any of this. Because it all sounds so fucking tragic. 

Is it too late to change the subject?

“By my count, that was three questions,” you add with a wink before he can dwell too much on your emotional baggage.

“Clarifying questions shouldn’t count against my total,” he says in all seriousness.

Uncrossing his arms, he places both hands on your shoulders consolingly. “We don’t have to keep talking about this if you don't want to. I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you rest your palms over his chest plate. “He would have been really proud of me for making it this far.”

Mando pauses to look down at you in earnest. “You’re nothing if not tenacious.” Then, taking in a deep breath he says, "Thank you for answering my question in the spirit in which it was intended. I've noticed you talk a lot," and he grabs both your wrists to prevent you from punching him. "All that talking makes it seem like you're very open—but you don't actually reveal much about yourself."

"I...yeah, that's fair," you concede.

"It's a good strategy for survival. I just don't want you to use it on me."

"Mando—"

He gathers your hands between his leather palms. "When I ask you a question, it's because I want to know more about you."

"You're right," you say. "It's just that I'm also not great with...trusting people. I try to live in the present. That's how my life has been unfolding since…forever. Living moment to moment. But maybe it's also a way to hide things? Because I'm the only one who sees the full picture. Does that make sense?"

The Mandalorian nods, "There's a lot about my past I'm not proud of—that I don't want you to know about. You won't scare me off, so just be honest with me."

"It helps that you're easy to talk to."

"Me?" He asks skeptically.

"Yes, you. Hmmm, more honesty...I know you think Tigran and I have this tortured romance, but it’s not like that.”

“Okay. Then what’s it like?”

Ugh, how do you sum up a toxic twenty-year dumpster fire of a relationship? 

“We share a secret that he doesn’t trust me to keep.”

“What secret?”

“Well, if I told you, I’d just be proving him right, wouldn’t I?” You grin. “He can’t turn me in because I’m a liability, and he won’t kill me because I’m all he’s got.”

“Did he ever try to…with you?”

“No! No,” you reassure him. “Maaaybe when we went through puberty. But staring at my breasts when we were thirteen is kind of water under the bridge at this point. And, I mean, who can blame him? My tits are mesmerizing.”

The Mandalorian huffs, shaking his head, and you give yourself a little pat on the back for getting this all out without having a meltdown or making him deeply uncomfortable.

Yet, whatever happened between him and the mercenary Tigran Vildar must be the stuff of nightmares because the bounty hunter's whole body visibly eases hearing you say that he's never touched you. His immense sense of relief is palpable, and it definitely feels like something more significant than a nagging jealousy that you might have slept with someone he knew.

“If Ingtar knows I’m alive,” you muse, making your way back to the basement cellar. “I guess Tigran will find out soon enough.” 

“Thuli, he found out the minute your profile was updated in the Guild database. He could be on his way to Daiyu City right now.” 

“Or he might find some reason to be conveniently preoccupied until my trail goes cold?” You offer this up as a highly optimistic alternative. “Maybe it’s foolish to pretend I know what he’ll do. In any case, I should get in contact with Ingtar. I feel awful that he thinks you abducted me.”

“Let the old man think what he wants.”

“Come on,” you say, stepping over a pile of liquor boxes. “You want to be on his shit list just for some fucking pussy?”

It’s hard to channel all of Talsala’s outsized ego, but it’s a pretty good impression, in your humble opinion. Then, you laugh, thinking about how satisfying it was to watch Mando slap the teeth out of his mouth. 

“Don’t sell your pussy short,” he replies, his voice sounding gruff through the modulator.

Your cheeks flush scarlet, and that clenching throb in your stomach drags a little lower. 

“Give me a boost?”

The freight elevator built underneath the bar looks super loud. There’s a low drone of music coming through the open service hatch, but no sounds of dancing or partygoers to obscure the noise. If you want to sneak in undetected, you’ll have to climb. 

“You don’t honestly think I’m letting you back in there?” 

“There might be injured people still inside. I could help.”

“You can’t save everyone.” He sighs impatiently—but you swear you can hear him smiling. “Sit this one out. I’ll get the jacket. You stay here.”

You throw your arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

Mando stands there awkwardly as though he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Until finally, he decides to rest them on your lower back. One of these days, you’re gonna have to teach him how to hug like a normal person.  

In a burst of explosive movement, he jumps up and catches the edge of the hatch. Hanging there momentarily, he rolls his neck before pulling himself up slowly. Despite the layers of fabric and Beskar, you can see the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders flex and tauten. 

You find yourself fanning your face with your hand. 

Listening with rapt attention, you don’t hear anything amiss. No blaster fire or screams or the blare of alarms going off. He might actually manage this without blowing anything up.

You take the time to clean yourself up a bit. Securing your hair beneath your hood, readjusting your visor and gloves, retrieving your inseam from inside you. It’s drenched with your come, but there’s not much you can do about that now.    

Starting to grow anxious, you chew on the corners of your lips until you catch the sound of approaching footsteps. And yes, you are a creepy weirdo who notices everything about him and instantly recognize the cadence of Mando's gait.

Moments later, he vaults down the hatch, landing in a crouch with your jacket clutched in his hand.  

It takes a minute for your heart rate to slow. Really, you’ll never get out of this fucking service tunnel if you give into every impulse to grope him. 

Plus, it’ll seem extra manipulative to seduce him when you know he’s about to fly off the handle after he hears what you have to say next.    

“So I need to tell you something. That I did. Which is unforgivably stupid. And, uh, you have every right to be mad at me about it.” You pull the chip card from your jacket pocket and crush it under the heel of your boot. “Talsala handed it to me right before we met with Vos. I meant to destroy it as soon as we left the ship, but…”

“But then someone tried to slash open your throat, and you forgot about it?”

“Yes, exactly!” 

You shrug the jacket back on, unable to look him in the face—or view plate. “I know that’s not an excuse. Stupid mistakes get people caught or killed. I need to be more vigilant.”  

“I’m not mad,” he lied. 

Oh, the Mandalorian is most definitely pissed at you right now. But you appreciate he’s got the emotional intelligence not to lash out at someone he was hoping to have sex with later. 

“You’re hard enough on yourself,” he continues, stepping closer. He pulls the hem of your jacket together and zips it closed up to the collar. “And I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to me.”

You shake your head slowly and grin at him. “We’re just dealing in sexual favors already, are we?” 

Mando slides his hands over the curve of your hips to squeeze your ass between his wide palms. “I get the sense you want to make up for lost time.”

“Hmmm, how long have we got before we’re supposed to meet up with Gwellis?”

“Forty-three minutes.”

“Shit!” You groan, thinking fast. “Shit! The hotel is definitely compromised. I’ll need to hit up a pharmacy on the way there.” You shoot him a sympathetic look. “Guess we have to continue this later, se nia’n cor.”

“What does nia’n cor mean?” He asks, intrigued.

You flash Mando the most enticing smile in your arsenal. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

------------

Let the gods bear witness to my love for you, Mandalorian.

There was exactly one bed aboard the shuttle you rented to fly round-trip to/from Daiyu City. And, yeah, you’re being very presumptuous, but a girl likes to be prepared. 

I’m shaving my lady regions in a drugstore toilet on the off chance you're going to fuck me.

With your foot braced against the bathroom sink, you say a little prayer and pass the razor blade between your cheeks.

Stepping out of the restroom stall feeling considerably more aerodynamic, you spy the Mandalorian at one of the payment kiosks.

What could he possibly...?

In the most nonchalant manner possible, you walk down the aisle you'd caught him browsing earlier and try to peruse the merchandise through your peripheral vision.

Sleep aids, aromatherapy, white noise machines, and—

Well, well, well.

Guess you're not the only one being presumptuous.

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

Continue reading - Post #10: Good old-fashioned shootout

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#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #mando fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin x you #star wars smut

[hapan-in-exile]

Girlie i love love LOVEEEEE your writing!!! You've very quickly become one of my very favorite writers, I think your fic is SO witty and smart and original! I adore the way you worldbuild (you've obviously done your Star Wars homework) and the way you build your characters, and how the story is built not from the start to the finish but from the middle, so we can wonder about wtf happened before you satiate our curiosity <3 and I absolutely love your OFC, I've read pretty much every Mando fic format under the sun but she's so different! I really like how she expresses herself and the way she thinks, it's relatable without being boring or exaggerated, and the banter with mando is top tier!!! I seriously seriously just love all of it, you're so talented!!!! It baffles me you don't have more reblogs because your fic is SO good!!!!! Although it really is much of a socializing game on here to get a well-known blog i guess. Have you uploaded it to AO3? Xoxo your biggest fan -@hotnmad (my slutty slutty sideblog lolll)

Thank you so much! You're honestly a fantastic cheerleader to have in my corner. I really needed this validation 😭

I'm only ever on Tumblr to post this story, so I get why it doesn't have more traction since I'm not super active or consistent. I work full time, but it's been such a fun, creative outlet when I have the time to write.

I really appreciate all your comments! It's hard to know how stuff lands without feedback. So glad to hear that you're enjoying the story <3

[hapan-in-exile]

Chapter 3 - Post #8: About damn time

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 4K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

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

__________________________________________

VIII. “Listen, Mando,” Talsala scoffs, straightening up and drawing away from you. “I don’t know what you got going on with this girl…but is it really worth burning your bridges with Black Sun? You wanna be on Ingtar’s shit list all for some fucking pus—”

Crack! 

The sound of Mando’s gauntlet hitting Talsala’s teeth when he backhands the Togruta across the face is like a thunderclap.

With his hand gripped around Talsala’s throat, he pulls the man’s face within an inch of the Beskar helmet and growls through his clenched jaw, “Come near her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Valine steps up to intervene as her partner struggles to twist out of Mando’s rigid hold. When Bril shuffles through the crowd to cut off her path, she sizes up the Twi’lek with an exasperated groan.

“Enough dick swinging,” she says, reaching into her shoulder holster to pull out a blaster. She fires a series of bolts—not at Mando or Bril—but at the lighting rigs overhead. They explode in a shower of sparks and sporadic pops. 

Within seconds, partygoers begin surging past, screaming and pushing each other, trying to get away from the VIP section. Guards have their blasters out, and you can hear random shots being fired as people stampede for the exit.

You’re in danger of being trampled, which is a terrible way to go. Instincts kick in, and you leap with each step, letting the crush of bodies carry you onward to avoid getting dragged down to the floor. 

“Sorry in advance for this.” 

“Wha–” 

Mando thrusts an arm between your legs, “H-h-hey!” and heaves you over his shoulders. He plants each stride against the streaming crowd, making his way back to the bar while carrying you above the press of tangled limbs. Atop his shoulders, you get a full view of the chaos unfolding, a rippling wave of panic as clubgoers are either caught up in the crush or climb the furniture to press themselves against the walls.  

Advancing in the opposite direction, you can only guess where the Mandalorian is headed. With both hands around your waist, he heaves you onto the bartop before launching himself over. There’s an access door built into the floor that drops to a basement below. 

“Come on,” he barks at a group of people huddled behind the bar. They look up at him in terror but soon realize he’s offering them an escape route. 

Once they’ve cleared your path, he lowers you down, dangling from his powerful arms until you're a safe distance from the floor.   

The basement is littered, floor to ceiling, with a maze of liquor boxes.

Fortunately, the other patrons were able to locate an exit door. It lay open, busted on its hinges. You peer out to see a long underground service tunnel punctuated by metal grates cut into one side that opened onto a busy concourse. The sound of loud voices and footsteps echo against the concrete along with the perpetually flashing lights of Daiyu City. 

While you crouch behind the door frame, Mando marches ahead in pronounced silence, pausing long enough to ask, “He hurt you?” before abruptly walking off as soon as you assure him that you’re fine. 

Not exactly fine. The Spice liquor made everything fuzzy and difficult to keep up. Plus, his legs are so damn long.

“Mando—”

“Did I hear you say you're familiar with the word inconspicuous?” 

The bounty hunter’s voice is barbed with a sharp edge, and he doesn’t bother to curb his relentless pace or turn back to look at you.

“W-what—?” You stammer in confusion. “Wait, Mando. Can you slow down, please?”

Inconspicuous? What had you done that was so terrible apart from enjoy yourself at a nightclub along with the hundreds of other people packed into that warehouse?

“You told me to dance if I wanted…,” you protest, trying to tame your sweat soaked hair into a compact knot.

“Dance,” he snaps, still looking resolutely forward.

“What you actually said was, knock yourself out.” 

“It wasn’t an invitation to go wild.”

“Wild?!” You choke on a huff of laughter. Mandalorians really are conservative. “Ok, first of all, there were naked people wearing paint dancing in cages suspended from the ceiling—so I didn’t cause some kind of scene. Secondly…I didn’t do it for the attention.”

You can hear the heavy exhalation from his nostrils while he silently shakes his head. 

“The most beautiful creature in the galaxy asked me to dance with her. I’m not made of stone, Mando. Or Beskar, as the case may be.”

Hot damn, wasn’t there supposed to be an apology somewhere in there?

“I hope you know when they come looking for you again, she’s going sell whatever information you shared.” This time, he feels compelled to at least speak over his shoulder at you.

Erenada, is it that hard for him to refrain from treating you like a child? “For your information, she didn’t ask anything about me. So don’t worry. There wasn’t a lot of talking.”

Okay, that might have been a bit backhanded. Except why should the Mandalorian care who you fool around with?

He snorts in disgust, shaking his head again. 

“Huff and puff all you like, Mando. I’m impervious to your slut-shaming,” you jeer with barely concealed fury. The upswell of anger has you increasing your pace to catch up with him. “Why are we even having this conversation?” 

“Because before, you were satisfied torturing me with your…morning stretches and too small towels. Now you're going to do something reckless just to spite me.”  

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mandalorian. I had terrible impulse control long before I met you.” Ugh, he really was such an arrogant jerk sometimes. “Besides, I’ve had my hand three inches from your dick, and I don’t know what your name is either.”

You immediately freeze on the spot. Both of your hands actually slap over your open mouth as though you could stuff the words back in. You’re finally realizing just how drunk you got by the force with which you immediately sober up. 

Mando stops in his tracks to turn and face you.

“I’m so sorry!” You blanch. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have said that. We don't have that kind of a relationship.” 

He walks towards you with a menacing stride that causes you to retreat a few steps until you feel the bite of the concrete wall press against your back. 

Fuck he’s taller than you remember, looming over you, and you can only stare up into that impenetrable black view plate like some terrified quarry. The same face you’ve seen frozen in carbonite.

“And what exactly is the nature of our relationship?”

His voice is the same even keel as always, but there’s an…undertone? 

You’re not sure if it’s a rhetorical question. 

Your breathing becomes shallower, and you can feel your heartbeat quicken. He’s so close you can see your reflection in his helmet despite standing in deep shadow cast by the dim tunnel lights.

“You told Gwellis I was a friend.” 

“Hmmm...” it comes out of the modulator as a low rumble that vibrates through the air between you. Then he takes you completely by surprise, resting the length of his forearm against the wall a few inches from your head. He nods slowly. “But you want to be more than friends.” 

Time seems to have slowed down under his fixed attention. You’re too nervous to say something clever, so you should know better than to open your mouth. 

“Y-y-yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

Paralyzed, you have to remind yourself to draw breath. Your body roils with tension, thrilled at this sudden shift in dynamic. Wasn’t he about to yell at you?

You nod again emphatically because you have no air left to speak.

His other hand slips behind you, loosely palming the small of your back. The fabric of your bodysuit is so thin you can feel the pinch of pressure under each of his fingertips. It’s like he’s about to kiss you, but…

“Does this—ahem,” your mouth is so fucking dry. You timidly lick your lips and try to swallow the lump in your throat. Then, a rush of nervous laughter bubbles up. You giggle, and there’s the faintest note of anxious hysteria. Still a little tipsy, then. 

“Is this because I made out with a girl?”

He laughs, “Maybe. I don’t know how long Bril and I stood there watching the two of you. I... I just can’t pretend not to see it anymore.”

“See what?” You ask as though you’re holding onto the edge of a cliff.

“The way your face lights up when someone makes you happy,” he says. “All I could think was…when’s it my turn...to be the one who makes you happy?”

That’s not something you ever expected to hear from the Mandalorian. This gruff, stoic man who never spoke about himself or his feelings. 

“That may have been one of the sweetest lines anyone’s ever tried on me. Where have you been hiding all this charm?”

“I don’t usually need a line,” he says wryly. 

And you laugh, glad to see that being vulnerable didn’t do anything to dampen his ego. 

“That’s right,” your lips quirk into a grin. “You’ve got women throwing themselves at you.”

Without shifting his position from the wall, his hand pulls the visor from your face. 

“You really didn’t do all that to make me jealous?”

“I mean, you weren’t the intended audience. She knows one of the bouncers…but I guess they’re terrified of Bril, so she had to convince him she was flying solo? Honestly, she probably would have stripped down naked and asked me to spank her if it got her into that VIP section.” 

“That might have caused a scene.”

“But, it was nice…feeling wanted.”

You don’t know how long you stand there in silence before his gloved hand reaches out for you. Gently taking your face in his grasp, you feel his leather fingers trace behind your ear and along your throat, his thumb stroking your jaw. 

“How have you been living on my ship all this time, and you don’t know how much I want you?”

When you fantasized about this moment, you imagined coming together in a desperate, heady rush. Not like this, with giddy apprehension, excitement, and nervous laughter. 

“Hmmm, Bril said you have a thing for bad girls. What would you want with a nice girl like me?”

“Are you so sure about that?” He asks, letting his hand rest on the back of your neck. “It sounds like you have a gambling problem.”

At that, you let out a burst of laughter. “You’re getting a little too good at these sassy retorts.”

“I learned it from watching you,” he says in a low voice that makes your stomach clench.

His grip on your lower back slides up between your shoulder blades, pulling you against him, with your nose about an inch from the jaw of his helmet. Your hands feel too passive, so you lift them up to press against his firm stomach below the chest plate.

In a breathy whisper, you ask, “What about a good girl…who does bad things to you?”

He pauses as though thinking about it in earnest. “Sounds like you’re going to get me into deep trouble.”

“Deep trouble?” You smirk, arching an eyebrow. “Just how deep?”

Your hand slides down his stomach to cup the bulging erection that’s building between his thighs.

“Maybe deeper than you can handle,” he replies in a tight voice, placing a hand over your grip and squeezing. His hips roll upward, thrusting into your palm.

“I might surprise you, Mando.”

Your fingers pinch around his shaft to stroke the length of him over his pants. His head tilts upward, and a long guttural groan escapes his lips. Immediately, he takes your hips in both hands and presses you against the wall.

“But you said we couldn’t—”

His hands, which had been making their way up your ribcage toward the swell of your breasts, pull away from your body. In an attempt to respect the seriousness of the conversation, you also remove your hand from his cock. Why couldn’t you have just kept your mouth shut?

“I thought you couldn’t be with anyone like this?”

“Yeah, I kinda realized that after seeing your reaction to Xi’an.”

“Did you have sex with her? With…Morigan?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because they wanted to fuck a Mandalorian in his armor and leave after.”

This might be the first time you’ve heard him swear. It’s kind of shocking. Especially in this context. A harsh word for something that should be a celebration. Instead, he sounded bitter and ashamed. 

“That’s not what you want, Thulani.”

“Ok, I’ll set aside for a minute how incredibly rude it is to tell a woman what she wants…Mando, are you saying you’ve never been with someone you love?”

He turns his head to look away from you, straightening his shoulders. “I’m not great at trusting people.”

“But…you trust me?”

“I do,” he nods.

“Then why—”

“Because there are things you’ll want from me, things you deserve that I can’t give you.” His voice is so tired and defeated. “And I don’t know how long we’ll have before you realize that…”

“Hmmmf,” you stifle a laugh. Shit, that’s going to piss him off.

“What’s funny?” Mando asks defensively.

“I’ve seen you leap into the mouth of a giant flying lizard–on impulse–in the heat of battle. But this is what terrifies you?”

You place a hand on his arm and try to convey the tenderness of your feelings. “Of course, I want to kiss your lips and feel your tongue inside of me, but…” you laugh softly. “Shit, Mando, no one’s ever made me beg for it before.”

Some of his earlier temper rises up again. “Has it occurred to you that’s what this is really about? Chasing after something you can’t have…what happens when it turns out this isn't what you wanted?”

But he didn’t sound all that angry. He sounded afraid. “Do you honestly think that, Mando? That I’d be so careless with your feelings?”

“No,” he says. “You’ve got the kindest heart…even after everything you've seen…it’s what I admire most about you.”

He takes your hand from his arm and holds it between his two leather palms. “Which is why you should run from me. With that new ID, you could get a good job on some Mid-Rim planet, or I can take you back to Ingtar myself. But you should take your chance at a decent life while you can…before I drag you into the darkness with me.”

Without realizing it, your eyes begin to fill with tears, and his thumb traces across your cheek to wipe them away.

“See…I’ll just make you cry.”

“I’m sad that, for whatever reason, you don’t think you deserve to be loved.” You assert. “This whole time, you’ve been making these arguments to harden your heart.” Something between a sigh and a laugh crosses your lips as you brush away the remaining tears. “Was your plan to just stifle your emotions and masturbate in the fresher indefinitely?”

“How do you—right," he nods. "No helmet in the fresher.”

“I didn’t see anything! But your thoughts are…very loud.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the only one locking myself in the shower,” he says teasingly. “You aren’t as quiet as you think.”  

You blush spectacularly. “I was thinking of you, if you must know.”

“I’m not surprised,” he says, catching your fist in his hand before you can land a punch to his stomach. “I like to think about that stretch you do with your hands on the floor, and you lift your leg up to the ceiling.”

“I knew that one would get your attention,” you wink before returning to the heart of the matter. “Were we supposed to dance around this forever? Whatever this is?”

“At first, I just focused on how much the kids needed you and how selfish it would be to sabotage that relationship for them…because of what? Because I couldn’t keep it in my pants?” And that sound of shame and regret tinged his words again. “But now it feels like this dam is bursting in my chest and…and I don’t know what to do.” 

“Because you’re afraid of falling for me?”

He sighs, “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

“Mando,” you say, taking him by both arms this time and looking up into his view plate. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow—and neither do you. I wish I could say that we’ll never hurt each other, but I can’t know that either. What I do know is that my pulse skips a beat whenever I see you. I get butterflies in my stomach just standing next to you. My whole body is full of deep feelings for you. Feelings I want to explore with my heart and my hands. And you’re right; we don’t know how much time we have, which is why I don’t want to waste any more of it.”

His hands cup your chin, holding your face up to him.

“How deep?”

“See!” You roll your eyes. “That’s the sexy voice. Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” 

He laughs. And you think back to those days when it was like pulling teeth just to get him to talk to you. His laughter came so easily now. Surely, that was proof enough that he loves you, too. Even if he hadn’t said the word, you heard it in every smile and laugh you won from him. 

“I know you’re not going to take off your helmet to kiss me, so what happens next?”

“I will,” he says seriously. 

“What?”

“I’m going to kiss you. Not right now in this dingy tunnel. But I’m going to figure out some way to make this work. I just need you to give me a little more time.”

“I don’t want you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or compromised,” you say honestly. “So take whatever time you need. Just know that I’ll be waiting for you. Eagerly waiting.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been thinking about this non-stop since you climbed on top of me.”

Your mouth breaks into a wide smile. “If I recall correctly…none of that involved taking off your helmet.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“For what? Carrying me over your shoulder like a sack of grain?”

Suddenly, his hands return to your hips, and his knee nudges your thighs apart. “For leaving things….unfinished.”  

You don’t remember placing your hands on his chest, and the sudden shock of cold from the Beskar makes you shiver. Heart racing, you spread your fingers under his cloak, feeling the tension in the firm muscles of his back, and wrap your arms around his neck.

Pressed against him, the heat rising from his body surrounds you despite the layers of fabric and metal, and the cold concrete.

His hands are so strong. You gasp when he grips your hips tighter. He crests the curve of your lower back, his palms sliding downward to gather the swell of your ass in his hands. The tips of his fingers dig into your skin, and you hear a choked groan when his pelvis rocks upward, glancing your hips.

“Is this ok?”

“I let a complete stranger grab my tits in the middle of the dancefloor. What do you think I’ll let you do to me in this deserted service tunnel?”

“Hmmm, I bet you’ve been dripping wet since you put your hand on my cock,” he says in a low growl.

“Uh-huh,” you nod enthusiastically. 

“That’s my girl.”

He continues to trail up your back and over your shoulder blades, hands sliding across your underarms and finally over your breasts. Your breath hitches audibly as he rolls and squeezes them, your nipples budding under his wide palms. 

Gathering and kneading your breasts, he takes a deep breath, and a rough sigh spills from the modulator, sending a clenching wave of desire shuddering through you. 

The pulse of your heartbeat is now located between your legs, your clit swelling with every throb. You were already wet, but now you can feel the flood of warmth spreading across the seam of your bodysuit as Mando traces his hands down your stomach, down lower, lower... 

His hand is so warm between your thighs. Your belly clenches when he draws the heel of his thumb along the length of you, both easing and building the tight ache inside you. Using the tip of his finger to stroke up and down over your vulva, the pressure spreads you beneath his fingers. 

“Mmmm...”

A sound halfway between a moan and a cry escapes your lips. 

“What was that?” He asks. 

And you fully melt hearing how much enjoyment he’s taking in pleasing you. 

“Mmmm-more.” You let yourself smile genuinely up at him, lacing your fingers at the base of his neck, your forearms meeting where you brace your elbows against his chest plate. “Please, don’t stop.”

His hands slip down your back again to grasp your ass, lifting you up and splaying you across the top of his right thigh, his knee wedged against the wall behind you. “Because you said please.” 

There’s a raised ridge that runs the length of his Beskar plate, and he positions you on top of it so that it runs between the cleft of your labia. With both hands still gripping your ass, he rolls your hips forward to grind your clit against it. The balls of your feet just reach the floor, but with the strength of his arms steadying you, you manage to rock yourself back and forth in rhythm, arching your back and tucking your pelvis like the sway of a pendulum. 

This is technically a public place, but you’ve always needed breathwork to get yourself there, so you don’t bother trying to keep quiet.

From the corner of your eye, you see the feet of passersby slow, perhaps searching for the sources of the obscene mewling and hitched sighs pouring forth from your lips.

At some point, his arm wraps around your lower back to keep you upright as you ride his thigh. His other hand braces your chest, thumb, and fingers, teasing your nipples over the fabric of your suit. 

The tempo of your hips alternates between slow, heavy circles and shallow rapid thrusts—your clit so swollen the rigid metal pinches with each pass. This wet, you glide through every motion, your taut calves and hamstrings trembling. Then, the rising tension peaks into a hot, cresting wave that spreads across every surface of your body.

Your fingers dig into the back of his neck, your scalp tingles, the tightness in your chest releases, and your cunt throbs numbly.

Your panting, plus the wail you let loose, have surely clued Mando that you’ve already cum, but he continues to hold you in place, one arm around your back, the other gripping your ribs. 

You rest your head on his shoulder and pull your arms down from around his neck to grasp his hips under the flak vest and tassets, where there’s only one layer of fabric. The closest you can get to him. 

For now.

“Come on,” he says, finally pulling his leg out from between your thighs, setting you back down. “You’ve got fifty thousand credits burning a hole in your pocket.”

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

Keep reading - Volume 3 - Post #9: Drugstore Cowgirl

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