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. * ✧･ﾟ: * ˳· ˖✮˖ ·˳ * :･ﾟ✧ * .
The first time the Mandalorian touched me started out perfectly innocent.The Child had been fussy. Some kind of indigestion, I think. Unable to get him to sleep, I sought the Mandalorian out where he took perpetual refuge: the cockpit.
It was late in our day cycle and the lights throughout the ship were dimmed to help the Child ease into his bedtime routine. However, the Mandalorian kept the lights in the cockpit off during our long stints in hyperspace; I assumed he took naps of opportunity.
If he was asleep when the doors slid open, he didn't let on. A steady arm reached out and flicked something to the right of the yoke, then he turned to look at us over his shoulder.
"Is everything alright?" asked Mando softly, assuming the Child was asleep.
I shrugged the shoulder without a baby on it and turned so the Mandalorian could see the softly distraught face of his son.
I heard the creak of the pilot's seat as he turned and rose. I peeked back at him as he gently nudged the Child's damp cheek with a knuckle.
"Is he upset?" he asked.
I turned to face him, lightly bobbing in place in my continued effort to calm the Child, and shook my head.
"He has a tummy ache and won't go to sleep. Nothing I do will ease his discomfort. I... I think he wants his father," I said, lightly patting the baby's back.
I saw the Mandalorian's body language change, a softer energy radiating through the armor. He reached a hand out as if to take the Child before seeming to reconsider.
"Please follow me," he said, leading me out of the cockpit.
I followed him down the ladder, pleasantly surprised he placed a respectful but strong hand on my hip as I came down, knowing I hadn't yet mastered the ladder with the Child on my shoulder.
"Thanks," I muttered, smiling up at him when he paused.
He nodded once, turning to the space between the port hatch and the little pile of crates he treated as a workbench, where the water filter and hotplate was – our "galley" if you preferred.
I came and leaned on one of the crates to the Mandalorian's left as he boiled water and dug through the small cabinet above the space. He was silent, but not coldly so. I watched him work with mild curiosity, bouncing and patting the cooing Child, who still fidgeted on my shoulder, a lock of my hair in his fist.
After a few minutes, the Mandalorian turned to me with a small clay cup in his hand which steamed and smelled pleasantly of spiced citrus.
My face must have been a book because he shrugged lightly and said, "Behot. Herbal tea that can help with digestion. Give him to me."
I traded a baby for a cup of tea and smiled as I watched the Mandalorian cradle his son in his arms, taking a moment to pet his tummy and wipe more tears off his face.
"Maybe next time I say 'Don't eat that' you'll listen," he scolded softly.
The Child shot his father a grumpy, petulant look and we both laughed.
"I wasn't there," I said, handing the Mandalorian the cup. "What did he find this time on which to chomp?"
He huffed through his nose as the Child pushed the cup away, and said, "A nest of some kind of insect. Hundreds of tiny ones. Termites perhaps."
"Ew, baby, that's disgusting. You should be more careful. That's why you've been giving me hell all evening," I said, stroking his furrowed little brow. "We'll have to make sure your daddy keeps a better eye on you next time, huh?"
He cracked the slightest hint of a grin at me as the Mandalorian shot me a look. I matched the stare, cocking my head to mirror the helmet.
Something had changed in the energy between us over the last few weeks. I couldn't decipher if it was positive or negative, but it was palpable. I could feel his gaze on me more often, for longer, and with greater intensity. Part of me enjoyed being observed so closely. It was very close to the feeling of being known. I wanted the Mandalorian to know me. He knew me now better than any friend I'd left behind. But I wanted — needed? — more.
I wanted him to know me and I wanted to know him.
I certainly could not tell you in what way.
I took the clay cup and sniffed the steam still wafting.
"Mmm, that smells so soothing and flavorful, Mando," I said, feigning great interest in the beverage. "If the baby doesn't want it, may I have it?"
The Mandalorian looked down at the Child who still frowned but watched me carefully. He tilted his head and hummed.
"He doesn't want it. Go ahead," he said, looking up at me, playing my game. "It would be a shame to waste it."
Testing the temperature with the very tip of my tongue, I then took a deep draft of the tea. It tasted as it smelled: woodsy, spicy, citrusy, but more mellow than I expected given the strong fragrance.
"That's delicious," I said, sincerely. "I'm going to add a drop of the honey I got on Dantooine."
I opened the cabinet and took out the rustic little jar of rich, walnut-brown honey with the bright orange comb floating in the middle. I used the wooden dropper to swirl a bit into the tea.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Child watching me intently, his father having turned him to face me.
I took my time tasting and adding more honey until I was satisfied that it was a hint sweeter than I preferred, humming and sniffing as I went.
"Oh, Mando, I wish you could taste this it's so good," I said, turning back from the cabinet, leaning next to the Mandalorian once more.
"I often take a cup to bed with me. Even though it has caffeine, it's soothing because it's what I drank as a child," he said softly, absently bobbing the Child in his arms.
"Oh, that makes me happy to know," I said, giving him a genuine smile. "Please feel free to use my honey anytime."
The Mandalorian ducked his head for a moment to say, "I have been."
I did not intend to, but I giggled. His body language came dangerously close to embarrassment, but I knew he couldn't possibly be embarrassed by myself.
"Baby," I said, leaning my shoulder against that of the Mandalorian, resting a hand on the Child's little pooch of a tummy, "would you like to try the tea?"
His big, umber eyes fixed on me for a moment before flicking back and forth between his father and the proffered cup of tea. Finally, his ears relaxed and he sighed, making a light burbling sound.
I set the cup between his outstretched claws, making sure he had a grip before I let go.
After taking a sip, the Child lowered the cup and exhaled, smacking his lips.
"Good, huh?" I said giving him a playful wink.
He looked a little sheepish but settled more comfortably in the Mandalorian's arms. When said arms shifted, I was suddenly reminded that I still leaned on his shoulder.
"Oh," I said, leaning away. "Sorry, I didn't realize — "
"It's alright," said the Mandalorian, shifting again to settle his weight more onto the crate behind him. He rested his free hand on the surface not far from where my bottom was a moment ago. A subtle gesture of his shoulder spoke an invitation I was both surprised and thrilled to receive.
I smiled and leaned against the crate, my hips a breath away from his. The extra space he gave me by moving his arm allowed me to lean closer to the Child, almost resting my cheek on his strong chest.
The tinkling of icicles tumbled down my spine at the same moment a warm rush flew up it when I felt the Mandalorian's arm gently press into my back and hip, completely innocently, of course.
After his warm, soothing drink was finished, the Child watched our faces carefully as we quietly talked. We both frequently spoke to him, petting his head or tummy; I would occasionally tug on his little feet, resting in his father's palm, and earn a sleepy giggle.
The soothing atmosphere, the warmth and quiet talk, and the calming tea soon worked their magic, and we watched the baby's eyes droop shut. Eventually, the only sound besides our voices was the Child's quiet snores.
After he was certain his son was down for the night, the Mandalorian stood up straight, grunting softly with the effort, and carried him to my sleeping compartment, laying him on the rack and swaddling him in the blanket there. I watched as he stood a moment, staring down at the sleeping Child, my chest rolling with thunderheads of warm affection.
After closing the compartment, the Mandalorian strode back to the work area to lean beside me. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.
After a thoughtful silence, he cleared his throat and said, "Thank you for helping me with him. It's not in any way your obligation, but your kind and thoughtful care of the kid allows me to focus on our survival. It's a great comfort. Thank you."
At the last two words, he finally turned to look at me. I looked up at him and nodded, feeling it something to which I was not meant to verbally reply.
Whilst no one would characterize the Mandalorian as a talkative man, he was intelligent and sarcastic, and so would engage in the occasional conversation when the fancy took him. This must have been one of those times, because his chill silence warmed and simmered to a pleasant, quiet conversation, the two of us leaning side by side, staring lazily at our outstretched legs.
During a thoughtful pause in the conversation, I found myself bold enough to lean upon the Mandalorian's stout shoulder, letting my head droop a bit, as I was genuinely exhausted.
He shifted slightly, angling his body to better support mine, his arm wrapping around me once more, but more snugly, intimately, his palm pressed to the crate with his thumb just barely brushing my bottom.
I smiled to myself, knowing he couldn't see my face and hopefully not feel the flush that burned my jaw and cheeks. I waited a few minutes for our heartbeats to steady, relaxing into the closeness, before I let my arm drift around the Mandalorian's waist.
He tensed immediately of course, but not as sharply as I expected. My movements were careful, measured, until I could hook a couple of fingers into the belt of his holster, my arm casually resting around his waist and hip. It could almost be platonic, save for the way my fingers rested between cold leather and warm body.
As the Mandalorian relaxed against me once more, I actually did begin to doze this time, my head nodding forward. Just as the lilac cloud overtook me and I would begin the drop, a strong, warm hand caught my cheek, bringing it back up to his chest.
Unintentionally, I let out a soft moan the second or third time this happened, nuzzling against his warm body.
His hand froze, a fraction of an inch from my face. My fuzzy brain decided to fix this by grabbing said hand and pulling it back to my cheek, sighing in cozy satisfaction.
I felt the vibration under his skin as the Mandalorian groaned softly, curling his fingers around my jaw and through the loose hair at my neck. I knew when I felt his fingertips scratching lightly along my neck that I had started something that I could no longer stop. A victorious smile pulled at my mouth.
Now, I had never been much of a flirt. It wasn't as though there was really anyone around the valley with whom to flirt in the first place, save for a few farmers' sons, mechanics, and the occasional spacer. I had a few flings, but nothing major, so now that I was initiating something, the realization that I had no clue how to go about it made me roll my eyes at my overly ambitious libido.
However, the Mandalorian saved me a great deal of strategizing when his hand behind me crept up my hip to press softly into the curve of flesh there. I swallowed and tightened my arm around his waist, turning my face into his panza, and sighed. My heart nearly stopped when his hand slid south to spread boldly across my thigh.
I bit my lip against a flighty whimper and pressed my face deeper against his chest — and if I didn't know better, I would have sworn that smug bastard chuckled quietly at my shyness. My free arm came to lay across the hand on my thigh, slowly, gingerly guiding it down to the inside of my thigh, though the snugness of my linen skirt rendered further progress impossible.
For a long, tense moment, the Mandalorian's fingers flexed nervously between my legs, his breath quickening, before he shoved off the crate and boxed me in against it, his hands grabbing eagerly though not roughly at my hips. I let my gaze drag up from the space between us to the darkness of his visor, catching my determined face in the reflection.
He stepped between my legs so that his hips were almost flush with mine for no other reason it seemed than for me to feel his erection pressing through his clothes for want of my body. I wiggled my hips and pressed back just a bit, surprised when he stepped back out of my space.
The Mandalorian was as complicated a man as they came. He fascinated me. I had to finally admit he captivated and seduced me through no conscious act of his own. Every secret he revealed or question he answered only left behind two more.
I wanted to know him as badly as I had ever wanted anything, beyond my wishes about my home, of course. I felt as though knowing him would give me insight into the great mysteries of the universe. To be known by him would elevate me to some ethereal status where I was a great mystery of the universe, the answers of which known only to this man.
I am many things, but no one would count my being a fool as one of them. I knew I would never grow close enough to the Mandalorian to know much more than superficial facts about him. I knew I would never truly be known by him. But for now I would cheerfully settle for being touched by him.
I rested my hands on top of his, lightly pressing my fingers into the soft but strong leather that protected them.
The Mandalorian tilted his helmet closer to my ear and all the hair on my body prickled. In the deep silence that had overtaken the hold, his voice nearly caused me to jump out of my skin.
"I want to touch you," he ground out, trying to keep the passion in his voice muted, unsuccessfully of course. "I want to touch you."
"Touch me, Mandalorian," I breathed, leaning closer. "I want to feel you. I want to touch you."
I reached for his hip, only to be stopped by his hand gently taking mine.
"Please," he whispered, holding it to his chest. "Please wait."
I nodded softly, uncertain of the reason for his denial of my touch, but loath to make him uncomfortable in any way.
"Please let me," breathed the Mandalorian, squeezing my waist now.
I stood up from the crate, straightening my back, and wrapping my arms around his waist, the front of my body now brushing against his; I still felt the heat through his clothes of something hard and hungry.
A racket behind me startled me as the Mandalorian kicked the crates out of the way, knocking over some tools in the process. I was guided backward until my back was flush with the bulkhead. Quite suddenly I found my back cold and my front very warm.
I was quietly startled once more when the Mandalorian nudged my forehead with that of his helmet, nuzzling ever so slightly with an imperceptible turn of his head.
When he sighed, I understood this to be an intimate gesture. I slowly lifted my hand, fingers upward, letting him see my approach, to press softly to the bottom of the steel facade as though stroking his jaw. I accompanied the caress with a slight press of my head to his and a light nuzzle.
"Are you sure?" Mando breathed, his voice catching so gently.
I grinned and nodded against his helmet.
The Mandalorian took such a deep breath that I felt his cuirass brush my breast. On his exhale, his hands moved from my hips around to my abdomen, fingers tracing lazily across my tummy and lower, just a bit lower... just a...
My breath trembled as it passed through my mouth, my eyes closed against the sight I felt would fade if I looked upon it.
But those strong, eager fingers dragged back up my abdomen, pressing over my ribcage. When his knuckles brushed the underside of my breasts, I made a pathetic whimpering sound.
The Mandalorian's helmet never having parted from my forehead, he hummed as he pressed it against me, nudging me further backward.
I took a deep breath as his hands cupped my breasts with shocking tenderness. I exhaled as I brought my hands up his body to hook around under his shoulders.
He must have felt my hands shaking because he caressed up my arms, nudging until our hands met. He linked our fingers and rested them over his heart.
I shivered as I squeezed his fingers, desperate to show him my eagerness. He squeezed back before pressing my palms down against the cool steel, indicating I keep them there.
The Mandalorian slowly caressed down my neck and over my clavicles out to my shoulders, where he spread his fingers wide across my skin, staring at his big hands flexing over my delicate joints.
I arched my back ever so slightly to encourage him to move his hands, touch more, reach for more, take more.
Agonizingly slow, the Mandalorian's hands slid down my arms until they were level with my breasts. With a trembling hesitance, his fingers spread across my chest, palms pressing up to cup my breasts, and he sank his fingers into the soft flesh until my breath caught in my throat and his gaze flew back up to my face. His grip softened, but he did not relinquish it. He squeezed lightly once.
The Mandalorian tilted his head as though to whisper in my ear, and though he had guided us to this point, his voice shook with the same weak desperation I felt.
"Every time I thought about this — "
"You've thought about this?" I said, shocked, my voice uncomfortably squeaky.
With a trademark sigh, Mando said, "Of course I have, Sarad'ad. So many times."
"Then why...?"
"I was ashamed of myself. You were not mine to... to think about that way. You would be leaving us and I would never see you again."
"You think after all this, I would want to leave you? Leave your son?" I asked, lips trembling as I clutched his gloved hands to my chest, frustrated at this turn of events when my body was craving him.
I could feel the Mandalorian staring at me, almost see his lips parted in quiet surprise. He seemed to collect himself and said, "You don't belong out here. Why wouldn't you leave?"
I scoffed, biting back the hurt as I planned out how to phrase my next statement. I massaged the palms of his hands through the worn, pliant leather with my fingers, imbuing the gesture with as much tenderness as possible to offset the bitterness of the words that would follow.
"Nor does your son belong out here," I said flatly. "But he belongs with you. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mandalorian? Once again you disserve both your self and mine with your assumptions."
"I don't understand what you're saying, woman," Mando grunted with mild frustration.
I gently jerked the large, strong hands I held and said, "Put your hands on me, Mandalorian, and when you remove them, rest assured that I will not subsequently disappear in a puff of disrupted atomic dust!"
The sound he made under the damned helmet both baffled me and sent a shockwave of hot lightning down my spine to the place I was determined to get him to touch before we parted. It was a weak little whine, almost a sound of defeat, but underscored with a deeper growl from down in his chest; an absolutely exquisite sound.
Mando pulled his hands loose from mine and cupped my face with them. The warmth and tenderness of the gesture cut through the indignation, the frustration, even the lust I was feeling, and into my heart, cleaving it open there behind my ribs. Never had I felt such overwhelming basorexia as in that moment, staring impatiently at my own blurry reflection.
He hesitated, his breath stuttering through the filter, seemingly watching my face. Futilely, I watched back, my eyes flicking back and forth between where I assumed his were.
"I don't..." began the Mandalorian, trailing off.
Here was the most dangerous man in a quadrant thunderstruck at the prospect of my touch – the pride swelling in my lungs nearly stifled me.
Slowly I prized his hands off my cheeks, pressing a kiss to each palm, keeping his gaze all the while, before replacing them on my waist. It was his turn for his breath to hitch.
That swelling pride ceded then to a brief, bright bolt of audacity, and I asked, "What exactly is it you've thought about, Mandalorian?"
"So much."
His voice barely made it past the modulator. I grinned.
"Show me."
A faint grunt accompanied eager caressing as the Mandalorian's now bold hands explored my body with abandon, his hesitance decimated by my demand. Across my stomach, around my ribcage, up and over my breasts, thumbs grazing over my tingling nipples, over my shoulders to stroke long through my hair to my lower back, down to cup hungry fistfuls of my soft bottom, around the curves of my trembling thighs to press against the front of my hips, his thumbs softly, slowly traveling down the front of my skirt to press into the soft flesh just below the waistband of my underwear.
This entire time, my head lolled back against the bulkhead, my breasts heaving, hands exploring as much of his armored body as I could reach. Never before had I been so aroused, even thought I could be, could need someone's touch this brutally.
It took a moment for my brain to catch up with the sudden stillness. I opened my eyes to see the Mandalorian watching me, his fingers hooked just under the hem of my skirt, patiently awaiting my consent.
I smiled softly and nodded, letting my trembling hands rest on his biceps.
With a hungry groan, he slid his hands up my thighs, taking the skirt with them. I couldn't help the weak moan that escaped my throat as his fingers brushed warm, hungry, secret places.
He paused, tugging at my leggings. He growled in frustration, pressing his fingertips into soft flesh. I cocked my head, nonplussed.
"Why do you always wear so damn many layers, woman?" grit the Mandalorian, finally jerking my skirt up over my hips to pull my leggings down my thighs.
"I had to modify my tropical fashion to match the cool breezes that rolled off the mountains," I said, smirking at his nervous, frustrated hands. "And space is cold."
"I'll end up tearing one of these off you someday," he growled, meeting my gaze and dragging his hands back up my thighs.
"Oh, I wouldn't complain," I breathed with an airy little laugh, lazily draping my arms over his shoulders and blocking from my racing brain the implications of his statement.
If I didn't know better, I would have thought the Mandalorian snickered at me.
My delicate underwear was next, bunched in an impatient grip and pulled down to my midthigh, where the top of my leggings was crumpled.
He hummed as his gloved fingers grazed around the inside of my thighs, fingertips brushing almost imperceptibly across my labia.
I whimpered as he came so close to the place I was now desperate to feel him. I knew if I could see the man's hidden face, he would wear a smug grin.
"Do you still?" he breathed, letting his fingertips drag through the hair scattered across my pubic mound.
I nodded, swallowing so I could speak.
"Yes, please," I squeaked, subtly pressing my hips towards him. "Please."
The sudden stillness in the room alerted me to the Mandalorian's holding his breath. Something about that fact caused my heart to flip over behind my ribs. He finally exhaled and gently cupped his palm over the entirety of my mound, feeling my body quiver. I gripped his panza roughly with my trembling hands.
Resting his thumb at the apex of my labia, slowly, languidly, lazily, clearly relishing in my apparent desperation, the Mandalorian dragged his first two fingers up the seam, sealed by the sparkling dew he had pulled from me in his relentless teasing. I whimpered as it gathered on his fingers.
The Mandalorian glanced down between us at his hand and sighed, his voice crackling once.
"You're so wet," he whispered, a startling reverence and awe weighing his voice down into my bones.
He returned his gloved palm to its previous position, teasing a gentle circle with his thumb as his fingers parted my glittering folds. My eyelids lazily floated shut as I reveled in the creeping pleasure of his whisper soft exploration.
Then his two fingers slid inside me with the cool precision and celerity of his draw, and I wailed in shock and need and pleasure and just the faintest trace of a delicious pain. I was very nearly embarrassed by the sound, pornographic and vulgar that it was, but the idea that I was showing the Mandalorian how very much I wanted him unlocked something feral inside me that only wanted to show him more. But fate would have my tongue fail me then.
"Not so verbose now, huh, mesh'la?" he grit through an apparently rough but victorious smile.
I could only squeak in response, earning me a huffed laugh through the modulator.
His gloved fingers drew out of me, wrecking me with the roughness of the material and the tenderness of the touch. Rubbing his thumb gently over my painfully erect clitoris, he matched the rhythm of his fingers stroking in and out of me, flexing at the deepest point in the circuit.
I saw white. Bright light shining, much the way some describe the gateway to the afterlife. Blood roared in my ears, hot and livid in its pure primal rush.
"You take me so beautifully," said the Mandalorian in a muted, breathless gasp.
The sound made by his gloved fingers inside me thrilled me, scattered burning embers across my face. It was dirty, foreign, exciting, rough, wild... liberating.
I clung to the Mandalorian, voice a trembling, tumbling rattle as I begged for things I didn't understand.
"Shh," he whispered, stroking my cheek with the back of his free hand. "I got you, little flower."
I bonked my head against his, numb to the pain, and squeezed my eyes shut.
"Wanna touch your skin," I heard myself whimper, unaware of my decision to speak.
He groaned softly, accompanied by a frustrated huff. The hesitation, turmoil, disappointment, and desire rolled through the modulator clearer than any words could.
Suddenly clear headed, I recalled intimate moments between him and the Child when he held him sans gloves.
I grit my teeth to feign command, jerking his sleeve, and said, "I know you can take the gloves off."
The Mandalorian's breathing had grown heavy and rapid since he first touched me earlier, but now he gasped at my scandalous suggestion. Was my assumption wrong?
I reached between us and gently took the Mandalorian's hand in mine, bringing the two slicked fingers to my mouth. I suppressed a grimace at the peculiar taste of my own body mixed with worn leather, dried blood, and destruction. Instead I met my own gaze in his visor and heard his breath hitch roughly in his throat.
When I released his fingers, I licked my lips, still keeping his gaze. The strangled sound that resonated in the hollow beskar before filtering through the vocoder collapsed my ribs around my heart and crushed it.
I gently tugged the glove from his hand, admiring every millimeter of rose-gold skin as it appeared. With a little theatrical flair, I tossed the glove away before pressing his fingertips to my lips.
"There," I whispered, surprised to hear my voice had gone, "now you can feel me as I feel you."
Our hands moving in sync, I returned the Mandalorian's fingers to the warmth and wet between my thighs. He pressed the now bare skin into my folds, clearly savoring the sensation.
He tucked his head down beside mine as I wrapped my arms around his neck. When he spoke, it was a whisper so faint that it did not make the pickup inside the helmet and only reached my ear from absolute proximity.
"Mesh'la, you're so soft."
The last word was punctuated by two fingers sinking deep inside me. I made another of those desperate sounds of shock and pleasure.
My legs buckled but my Mandalorian was strong and kept me from collapsing to the floor. He nuzzled the helmet closer into my neck as though he could will his skin to mine through the steel.
It had been quite some time since I had last felt another's touch. The sensation of the Mandalorian's strong fingers tenderly stretching me open was simultaneously frighteningly familiar and soothingly new. Every atom in my body was buzzing with electricity at the stark contrast.
I tightened my hold around his neck as the heel of his hand ground against my clitoris. The initial shock gave way to a pleasant thrill as the movement of his hand became a gentle rhythm of stimulation, as though I laid in the comfortable berth of a ship on the sea.
I sighed and stretched my fingers out, tentatively creeping two under the helmet just behind the Mandalorian's ear. His reaction played out over only a fraction of a second, but I felt every distinct phase: A stifled jerk as his first instinct, quickly replaced by a deep shudder, followed by a rattling sigh.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, nuzzling the helmet as I might have his hair were it available. "I just wanted to touch you."
"I know. Don't apologize. I like it," he croaked.
Emboldened, I used more fingers to tug down the cowl that guarded the space between his panza and helmet. He groaned softly as several of my fingers raked along his warm vulnerability there.
"W-when were you last touched this way, Mandalorian?" I asked, voice crackling as pleasure meandered through me as though it was a garden path and my body a faerie woods.
He sighed and shook his head almost imperceptibly against my shoulder.
"Don't."
I stroked the bare skin under his ear in what I hoped was a soothing way; I couldn't bring myself to verbally respond to such a request. A fraction of the mountainous tension in his shoulders subsided under my touch.
The Mandalorian refocused his efforts and I momentarily forgot about his creed and his hesitance and essentially everything except for the way his fingers fluttered inside me, dancing, it would almost seem, against my g-spot.
I whimpered, a few sounds, a few syllables, perhaps even phonemes, before I could uncross my eyes and form proper words.
I don't recall planning them, but I think the words that came out were, "Please Mando..."
"Mmmm... Tell me, what do you need?" groaned the Mandalorian, his teeth grit.
Whatever brief organization I may have wrangled in my thoughts was gone and all I knew was feeling good and wanting to continue feeling good.
"I - I don't know," I whimpered with all the vulnerability and need of a hungry puppy.
He brought his other hand, heretofore caressing my side, still gloved, and rested it on my cheek which I only just realized was burning red-hot. With a loving, gentle caress that stole what little breath I retained, he brushed his forehead against my temple and whispered, in a sinful, breathy voice that could only have been forged at the breast of some fertility goddess at the heart of a nebula, "Tell me, Sarad'ad. What do you need me to do? I will do anything to keep hearing those pretty sounds you're making."
A self-fulfilling prophecy, I of course made another of those sounds.
"M-M-More...!"
"More?" Mando growled. "Harder, deeper, more fingers?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
He huffed a laugh and added a third finger, flexing and scissoring them inside me, yanking a ragged cry from my throat.
I could feel my slickness run down into his palm as his fingers spread me open, right on the border of pain and pleasure.
With a ragged breath, the Mandalorian hissed, "You're such a fuckin' mess." He paused before adding, "Beautiful fuckin' mess."
Mando punctuated his statement by flexing his fingers in such a way that... that... Oh, the sound my pussy made around his fingers...
The Mandalorian chuckled, muted in the back of his throat, nuzzling my temple again, and the soft buzzing laugh dipped down into a purr that I felt in the very marrow of my bones.
"Do you wanna come on my fingers, mesh'la?" he asked, the tips of which sweeping lightly across my cervix.
"Yes," I gasped, voice clamoring around the lump in my throat.
"Will you come on my fingers, precious thing?" he asked, teasing my g-spot.
"Yes," I wailed, voice now crumbling apart into soggy flotsam in the humid air.
"Then come."
I was a star, turning supernova in the palm of the Mandalorian's strong hand. I was a bubble bursting, a blown flash bulb, interstellar dust.
I think I may have hurt him with the way I gripped his body to mine. But he never faltered, beautiful, powerful, deadly hands holding me up in space and ripping my soul out through my hips, dispersing my matter through the universe.
Through the rush of blood and hyperspace in my ears, I gradually heard a different sussurus entirely reach me.
It was him.
"Shh, precious thing. It's okay. I got you. Kuur... I'm here."
"Mando?" I squeaked.
My eyes refocused on the stoic visor before me and I remembered where I was. How the Mandalorian managed to look concerned through a steel mask I'll never know.
"There you are, Sarad'ika. How are you?" he whispered, brushing his gloved fingers through sweaty tendrils clinging to my forehead.
I had to gulp twice to force my voice up and out of my throat before I could say, "Never better."
Mando snickered. Drown me in Sôunntâ if I speak untrue. The Mandalorian snickered.
He steadied me on my feet, helmet tilted just slightly, as though affectionately looking me over. I wobbled slightly before realizing my dainties were still bunched around my knees. We both laughed as he helped me put my clothes back together.
"A gentleman," I whispered, going for flirty but losing balance and tumbling the other direction right into reverence, and I could tell the Mandalorian took it just that way.
He shifted his weight so our arms and chests just brushed.
When I had finally caught my breath, most of it at least, I flashed the Mandalorian as wicked a grin as I could muster and reached for his belt, fingers trembling violently, before I lost my nerve.
"No!" he said, grabbing my hands.
I recoiled, jerking my hands back in close to my body, watching, waiting for an explanation, terrified that I had somehow affronted the Mandalorian religion or disrespected his creed.
Mando sighed deeply, his throat rattling, as he shifted his body back towards me. He reached out and took my frozen hand, pulling it to his chest again as he did the first time.
"Please," he whispered. He massaged the back of my hand with his thumb, softly, slowly, comfortingly, and said, "Please don't."
"I'm sorry," I squeaked, voice reedy as I still panted, hesitant to meet his eye.
The Mandalorian traced his fingertips under my chin and gently tipped it up so I would look at him.
"Don't be," he murmured, bringing our foreheads together.
I wasn't certain about this gesture, but it felt profoundly intimate. I had seen him touch the Child in such a way in quiet moments of familiarity. One hand still clutching mine over his heart, the other lovingly caressing my cheek, I felt closer to him now than I did as he was pulling an orgasm out of me with his fingers.
As he put breathing room between us, I tugged on his hand one last time. He cocked his head and paused.
My mouth felt dry, but I managed to weakly mutter, "But Mando, what about you?"
He squeezed my fingers as he finally stepped away. I could hear the smug grin in his voice as the Mandalorian said, "I got what I needed."