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Karga asked you - told you, really - to walk the Mandalorian through the latest tech upgrades before his next run. Show him the new gear, give a quick demo, answer any questions if he has them.
“You know the stuff better than anyone,” he said, with that dismissive wave he always gives when volunteering your time. “Let him pick what he wants.”
So here you are. Polishing the words “quick demo” like they don’t make you want to grind your teeth.
Because it’s not just any bounty hunter, it’s him.
The so-called stoic Mandalorian with his head full of silence and armor like a second skin. Most people give him a wide berth - he’s got a reputation, after all. Cold. Efficient. Unreadable.
But you know better.
There’s something behind that helmet. Something smoldering. Something dangerous that simmers just beneath the surface like heat on a vibroblade. And Maker help you, but you push your luck with him. You’ve done it since the first time he walked into your bay all broad, silent, and fascinating.
Not that you mean to flirt. It’s just your face, and your mouth, and your entire personality, apparently.
Your mother always said you’d never find a proper life partner like that - too quick with a smirk, too sharp at the edges, always chasing the thrill of a reaction. ‘First impressions count,; she used to say. 'And you burn through them like fuel.’
Well. So be it.
Right now, you’ve got a job to do and no amount of simmering tension is going to stop you from being a goddamn professional. So you straighten your vest, zip up your jacket, roll your shoulders once, and reach for the stun cuffs on the bench that you’ve parked up near his stupid ship.
With any luck, you’ll finish your shift early, once he’s geared up.
You hear the soft hiss of the hangar door before you see him.
That helmet’s the first thing through, catching the low light like it’s daring it to try. The rest of him follows; tall, broad, quiet as ever. No cape today. Just the solid clink of armor with each step and the hum of presence that always seems to fill the room a second before he does.
You glance up from the bench, already slipping into your practiced tone. Dry. Efficient.
“Got a few new toys in,” you say, holding up the stun cuffs. “Karga said you can take what you like.”
He nods once, barely a movement, and steps closer. He doesn’t say anything. Not that you expected him to.
You let the cuffs dangle from one finger. “Redesigned the current model. Lighter, stronger. Can sync to a biosig if you want to key them to your target's pulse. Pressure points in the housing lock-” you gesture to the mechanisms, “-here and here. Less risk of a lock blowout if things get rough.”
He tilts his head a fraction. Watching, listening. You don’t know what he’s thinking, you never do, but you feel the attention settle low in your spine anyway.
You step toward him without really meaning to. Raise the cuffs between you. “Here,” you say. “I’ll show you.”
He doesn’t answer, just holds out a hand so you pass him the cuffs, then you lift your arms - wrists together - to demonstrate. “They fasten clean. No pinch, no drag. Set the angle right and you can keep someone restrained and upright, even mid-transport.”
You feel his gaze like heat, even if you can’t see it. His gloves brush yours as he suddenly takes one of your arms, and then, without a word, he clicks one side of the cuffs shut around your wrist.
You blink a couple of times in surprise, then stare.
He fastens the second cuff with the same careful precision - not tight, but firm. Testing the give, seemingly satisfied with the click.
All you can do is watch in shock. And then?
Nothing.
He just stands there, watching you as you glance down at your wrists, then up at him.
There’s a long beat of silence.
“…Seriously?” you say, incredulous.
He doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches. Charged. Dense with something you can’t name.
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a misuse of tech, Mandalorian.”
Still nothing. But you swear you can feel his smirk behind the helmet. You shift your weight. The cuffs tug, click softly. Your pulse is ticking faster now.
“…This why you agreed to the demo?” you murmur, a dry edge to your voice. “Looking for an excuse to play?”
Finally, he speaks. Low and amused, “You were the one showing off.”
It’s not much. Barely more than a growl, but it lands.
He lifts your hands slightly with his own. Tests how much resistance they’ve got. And then- casually, like it means nothing at all - brushes one gloved thumb along the inside of your wrist. Just one slow stroke.
Deliberate.
Your breath catches before you can hide it and that’s when the door behind you hisses open. You both freeze as someone walks into the hangar. Heavy boots, a muttered voice. Not heading your way yet, but too close for… this.
The Mandalorian glances toward the sound, then back to you. Then, without a word, he places one hand on your sternum, firm and steady, and walks you backwards toward the open ramp of the Razor Crest.
You go, because of course you do, because you’re cuffed, and flustered, and already wet from one goddamn touch. And whatever this is - whatever he’s doing - it’s not over yet and part of you wants to see where he’s going with it.
You’re soon inside the ship and you watch as the ramp closes behind him with a hiss and a thunk. Metal on metal. A sealing off of the outside world.
Inside, it’s dim. Cooler. The faint hum of the ship fills the silence, pulsing beneath your boots like a second heartbeat. You barely have time to adjust before he turns to look at you. He’s still all brooding, unreadable silence.
You step back automatically, the cuffs catching slightly where your wrists twist. He follows. One step, then another. Calm and measured. Predator-smooth.
Your back hits the wall of the hold with a dull thud. He doesn’t touch you, just stands there, watching. The space between you is electric. You arch a brow at him, trying to act like your pulse isn’t hammering.
“This your idea of gear testing?”
He doesn’t answer but his hand lifts, slow, to your throat. Not a grab, not even a grip. Just the pads of his fingers resting where your pulse kicks hardest. Measuring it.
You swallow and he tilts his head like he can hear the way you react. Like it amuses him.
And then he moves. One hand closes gently around the cuffs - anchoring you - while the other trails down your arm. Over your shoulder. Across the line of your chest.
Not groping or rough.
Exploring.
You shift, and the metal clinks.
“Mandalorian,” you say, breath catching. “You planning on doing something, or just staring until I melt?”
There’s a pause, and then he speaks, voice low, graveled. “I thought you were a professional.”
“I am,” you say, your voice pitched somewhere between challenge and desperation. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have preferences.”
The helmet tilts again. You know that gesture, that look, even if you can’t see it. He’s reading you, deciding what you’ll take.
After a moment, one arm hooks behind your waist and the other lifts your cuffed wrists above your head, pressing them to the wall. The motion is fast and smooth. It forces your chest forward, your jacket riding up slightly. Your breath shudders out like steam.
You’re fully clothed, he hasn’t said another word, but Maker help you, your knees nearly go.
He shifts closer, his chest against yours. His armor is cold through fabric, his helmet is close now - right against your ear - and his voice when it comes is low enough to bruise.
“You like teasing.”
It’s not a question.
You smirk. “And you like the silent treatment. We all have our kinks.”
That earns you a pause. Then, just once, his gloved hand drops from your waist and presses into your crotch. Just the heel of his palm.
You jerk, your breath stuttering.
“Gods…, ” you whisper, involuntary.
You can feel him smile behind the helmet. You don’t move. Can’t, really. His body’s boxing you in, and your hands are still cuffed and pinned above your head.
It should feel like surrender, but it doesn’t. It feels like anticipation and your whole body is taut like a wire. His gloved hand leaves your thigh only to slip behind you again, and this time, he anchors you, the cuffs are hooked over a fixed bracket on the wall which clicks into place securely.
You’re not held tight but you don’t need to be. Just enough that when you shift, the movement is limited and dependent on his pacing.
Your breath is coming quicker now. You wet your lips. “Didn’t have you down as the type who's into bondage,” you murmur, dry but breathless.
He says nothing. Just steps back to take you in.
You can’t see his face but you feel his attention. Like heat. He lifts one hand and reaches for you and all you can do is watch as his fingers catch the hem of your jacket and tug upwards. Just enough to expose skin - the lower swell of your stomach, the top of your hipbone. The shift of fabric makes your spine flex, nerves sparking under every inch of uncovered flesh.
He traces a line there - glove off now, just callused fingertips dragging slow over skin. Deliberate and possessive. His touch is light but firm, like he’s learning you.
You clench your fists in the cuffs. Your legs tense.
He moves his hand lower, between your thighs again. Still over your clothes - just a firm, testing pressure. Enough to make your hips stutter forward.
You let out a sound, quiet and surprised as his thumb circles once. Then twice.
He doesn’t say a word, but you do.
“Stars,” you breathe. “You’re really not gonna say anything, are you?”
He stills, just for a moment, and then you hear his voice, low and thick through the helmet,
“You talk enough for both of us.”
Your laugh is soft, dizzy. Your head tips back against the metal wall. “I hate how hot that is.”
He hums like that amuses him then he starts to touch you - properly this time. Still through your work trousers, but it doesn’t matter. His hand is clever, careful. He finds the rhythm that breaks you and uses it, the pressure building, your hips twitching into his hand with every roll of his wrist.
Your knees start to give. He shifts, holding you up with his weight.
“I swear,” you gasp, “if you stop now-”
He doesn’t stop. Not until your breath catches and your body goes taut against the wall - bound, trembling, your voice cracking on the edge of a plea.
Then he leans in, voice gravel-dark, smug beneath the vocoder, and says,
“Still think I’m misusing your tech?”
You shudder. “Yes,” you whisper. Then, eyes fluttering as his hand presses harder, “Maker, yes! ”
Your legs are trembling as you balance on the edge of release, then his hand stills and he removes it. Not fast, just a smooth withdrawal - the warmth of him slipping away, leaving your body gasping in its absence.
You groan, frustrated and aching, but he’s not done with you. Not even close.
He steps forward again, closer than before, and raises both hands to your front. His gloves are off - bare, warm palms sliding over your sides, up your ribs. One catches the hem of your jacket, the other brushes the line of your zipper. He doesn’t rush, just lets the tension hang there between you.
Then - a faint zzzzp - he lowers the zipper by an inch, then another.
The opening reveals your collarbones, the rise of cleavage. He doesn’t touch - not yet - but his fingers ghost the fabric edges like he might. Just the implication of access. Of control.
You tilt your head, watching him from under your lashes. “You planning on undressing me one inch at a time?”
He doesn’t answer, just pushes the lapels of your jacket open with both hands and runs a knuckle down the middle of your sternum, slow and steady, until it meets the curve of your bra.
You inhale sharply.
His helmet dips. Studying. Drinking you in.
He tugs your vest up just enough to bare your waistband. His hand presses flat over your abdomen, fingers splayed, grounding you against the hull.
Then - finally - he undoes the fastenings of your trousers. One button. Then another. The zip dragged down slowly, like he enjoys every twitch your body gives in response.
He slips his hand inside. Flesh on flesh now. No barrier and no mercy.
You make a noise that’s nearly a sob - half relief, half heat. Your hips move, but the cuffs hold you just far enough from him that you can’t grind the way you want to.
He explores you. Gentle at first, fingers finding every wet, wanting place he teased before. You gasp when he strokes across your clit, thighs jerking involuntarily.
Then - just as quick - he withdraws.
Again.
Your mouth opens to curse him, but before you can, he turns you around. Your bound arms shift with the movement. Your stomach meets the hull and your breath stutters. He shoves your trousers down to mid-thigh. Not rough, just efficient. He steps between your legs.
The moment stretches. You feel him - the hard line of him through his clothes - pressing against the inside of your thigh.
Then - finally - his voice, “Still think this isn’t a demo?”
You choke on a laugh. He doesn’t wait for an answer. One hand goes to your hip, the other to his belt.
You hear the shift of fabric, the unmistakable sound of armor repositioned just enough for what he wants. What you want.
Then he thrusts into you. Slow and deep.
You suck in a sharp breath, the stretch forcing your against the wall.
He doesn’t move - not at first. Just stays there, buried inside you, letting your body register the depth of him, the weight, the heat. His hands bracket your hips, holding you firm like you’re something precious and breakable.
Then, slowly, slowly he starts to move. Long, languid thrusts that drag pleasure out like a secret. His pace is torturous - measured, restrained. Like he could do this forever.
Like he wants to.
You pant against the cold metal of the hull, voice thin and wrecked, “You’re really dragging this out, huh?”
He presses deeper, hips snug against yours, and mutters, “You deserve it.”
You moan, high and helpless, and he keeps going. Keeps working you open, keeps grinding slow and perfect until you’re a trembling mess pinned to the inside of his ship.
Your wrists strain against the cuffs.
You’re almost there. Almost-
And then he speaks, low and dry, “Believe it or not-”
He rolls his hips hard, and a sharp, obscene noise escapes your throat.
“Not everything is about you.”
You exhale brokenly. “You say that…”
Another thrust - this one deeper.
“…but your cock says otherwise.”
He huffs a laugh - dark and pleased, then he picks up the pace, just enough to make your voice catch with every movement. No more teasing now. Just need.
Just momentum.
And when you come, cuffed, fully dressed, masterfully undone, it’s with a cry that echoes off the ship walls like prayer.
You expect him to pull out completely but he doesn’t. Instead, he draws back just enough to tease, hips rocking slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s testing what your body can still take. What it wants.
You whine. It’s embarrassing but you’re too far gone to care.
Your arms are going numb where they’re still cuffed, stretched taut behind you. Your hips twitch involuntarily and everything aches. But it’s the good kind - the kind that tells you this isn’t over.
He knows it, too.
He pulls out of you suddenly and he turns you to face him, and then his hands are back on you. One hand trails down your thigh, the other finds the hem of your vest, tugging it further open, exposing the curve of your bra. The way he touches it, the slow drag of skin along your skin, is so casual it borders on possessiveness.
He presses the back of his knuckles against the top swell of your breast and just holds them there.
“You like showing off,” he murmurs, low and distorted. “Thought I’d get a better look.”
A tremor rolls down your spine.
“Not what I meant to do,” you breathe.
“No?” His hand slides under the bra now, teasing a nipple until it tightens under his palm. “Always looks like you meant it.”
You gasp and squirm, wrists tugging against the cuffs. It only makes the ache in your arms worse - and the heat in your core sharper.
“You don’t have to-”
“I know,” he cuts in, voice rough. “But you’re not stopping me.”
And stars help you - you’re not. Instead you tilt your hips in silent invitation and he wastes no time in thrusting back into you. Hard.
You choke on a sound you barely recognise. Your head lolls against the wall behind you, thighs trembling with overstimulation and something worse - the dizzy rush of knowing he could do this all night.
And you’d let him. Oh gods, you’d let him wreck you.
His grip tightens on your hip, anchoring you in place as he fucks you in long, punishing strokes. Not cruel - intentional. The way he finds every sensitive spot, the rhythm he keeps - you can’t hide from it. You can’t even brace. Not with your hands still trapped and your body already wrung out.
“Look at you,” he growls. “Still trying to be in control.”
“I’m not-” you pant.
“You are,” he says, and fucks into you again so hard your voice catches on a sob. “Always running your mouth. Always pushing.”
His hand slips down to where you’re already soaked. He finds your clit with obscene precision and starts to rub in slow circles, maddeningly steady, as he drives into you again and again.
Your whole body starts to shake.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
You let out something between a cry and a curse and he just hisses, “Maker, you sound so pretty like this.”
You can’t form words anymore, just needy noise. Your second orgasm builds fast and sharper than the first, deeper. It hits like a blaster shot, knocking the air out of you in a long, wrecked moan as your body clenches around him, spasming hard enough to make your vision go white.
He groans - low, guttural - and follows you over the edge, hips grinding down once, twice, then he pulls out and spills cum across your thighs.
This time, neither of you speak. The silence is thick and wet and heavy with breath.
Then, finally - finally - he shifts and reaches up to release your cuffs.
You slump forward with a gasp as your arms fall free, every part of you trembling. He steadies you before you can collapse, one hand on your hip, the other easing your vest back over your chest like that makes any of this decent.
“You good?” he asks, quiet.
You nod. Then grin.
“You’re lucky I like surprises,” you rasp.
He chuckles - a low, warm sound.
“Good,” he says. “Because next time, I’m using your other prototypes.”
He’s gentler now.
You’re still braced where he left you, clothes rumpled, pulse finally slowing. His hands are steady as they adjust your pull your trousers back into place. His fingers touch your jacket, smooth the fabric down your sides. One glove brushes your wrist, hesitates near the cuffs.
You can feel the shift in him from heat to concern, the comedown hitting hard.
He moves to unlock you.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me-”
Whirr-click.
A mechanical hum fills the air and both of you freeze as you realise the ramp is lowering.
A shaft of light slices across the hold, warm and merciless. You can hear the footsteps outside before you see them.
Karga’s voice calls your name from the landing. “You in here?”
Din steps back like he’s been shot, hands still raised, panic radiating off him in waves. He looks around for cover, for explanation, for any way out.
You, meanwhile, are already moving. With a smooth twist of your hips, you’re upright. One hand slips into the pocket of your utility belt and pulls out a small device - sleek, metallic, totally inscrutable. You flick a switch. It hums softly.
By the time Karga steps into view, you’re holding it up like a prized tool on display.
“There you are,” he says. “Thought you’d gone AWOL.”
“Just giving the Mandalorian a proper walk-through,” you reply, tone breezy. “He’s interested in the modified neural dampeners. Thought I’d run a full calibration. Demo’s easier in a shielded space.”
You flash the device and Karga squints.
Din stands behind you, still and silent, posture rigid.
Karga eyes him, then shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t keep him too long - we’ve got a backlog of contracts.”
You’re already walking toward him, unbothered, boots tapping on metal. “Was just wrapping up.”
You pass Din without looking back, completely composed, while he stands there - flushed, frozen, still holding the cuffs in one gloved hand.
Outside, the ramp lifts behind you with a final hydraulic hiss.
You can feel his release across your thighs slowly being absorbed into the black fabric of your trousers. You’re going to have to change, and soon. Good job you’re due a break…
You walk steadily down the path beside Karga, back straight, pace smooth - but every step sends a subtle ache through your thighs and hips. Deep muscle memory. A reminder.
You don't wince.
You do, however, silently curse Karga for his impeccable timing. Another sixty seconds and you might not have made it out upright. Still, you can’t stop the grin that curls at the corner of your mouth.
Because Maker help you, but you knew he had it in him.
Stoic, silent, smug bastard.
He plays the long game - but when he moves?
He moves.
You roll your shoulders, already thinking about his next visit. You’ll be ready for him.
And next time? You’re bringing stronger cuffs.