Thirsty Thursday is now all week

Unable to help yourself, you reach up to play with Din’s hair, carding your fingers through the floppy, soft strands and mindlessly twisting his locks around your fingers.  Though it was not your intention to wake the man, it’s not long before his lashes start to flutter open.

“Good morning, mesh’la.”

“Good morning, my love,” you lean forward to press a soft, chaste kiss on Din’s lips, “your hair is getting long.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” he nuzzles forward, chasing your taste.

“I could cut it for you.”

Din chuckles while wrapping his strong arms around your waist, then, in one swift motion, rolls you on top of him as you squeal in surprise, “I’ve never heard of a Princess who knew how to cut hair.”

You grin down at him, fingers still dancing through his curls; oh, how you love the press of Din’s bare chest against yours, the feel of your entire body rising and falling on the power of his breathing alone, “I’ve been taking lessons from the Royal barber.”

The Mandalorian melts at your admission, forever touched by the efforts you make to accommodate his Creed, to tend to him, “I’ve always just cut my own hair.”  An errant thought strikes him as he recalls the look of some of his legion at their last training session, “Wait… have you been practicing on the Guard?”

“I have!” Your eyes widen in surprise, “Oh no! How come?”

“No reason, cyare,” Din grins, amused by the image of Solana’s most fearsome warriors trying to sit still while their beloved Princess wields a pair of “practice” scissors at their heads. 

You slap at Din’s shoulder, though your attempt to look offended fools no one – one of your life’s greatest joys is being teased by your husband, to be one of the few beings in the known worlds who can find themselves on the receiving end of the Mandalorian’s normally hidden good humour, “No one even sees your hair, save for Grogu and I.”

“Just because I’m under a helmet doesn’t mean I can’t be a little vain,” Din smiles so hard his dimples make a surprise morning appearance - the sight sets your heart aflutter.  After running a gentle finger over the curve of the elusive dip on his right cheek, you tap it lovingly, “Well, I concede you have very good reason to be vain, General.”

You lean down to kiss him just as Din surges upwards to capture your mouth.  He licks in tenderly as soon as you open for him, lips that seal against yours curving into a satisfied grin at your soft inviting whimpers.  Your tongue slides along Din’s, slow and lazy, as he steals your air, over and over.  You’ll never get over this – being able to kiss your riduur in your shared bed with no sense of urgency, getting lost in his affection with no looming fear of getting caught, of time running out.  He’s here, he’s staying, he’s home.

“Okay, Princess, I would love it if you’d cut my hair,” Din murmurs against your lips.

“Really?” Though Din always says he could never refuse you anything, his indulgence still delights you every time.

“Yes, really.  I welcome any opportunity to carry a reminder of you with me, always,” Din’s expression is gentle and earnest, his love for you ever apparent in the depths of his soulful brown eyes.

You think to your hair ribbon that’s now securely sewn to the inside lining of Din’s gloves and your heart kvells at your Mandalorian warrior’s penchant for sentimentality; to keep from tearing up you start to climb off your husband and out of bed, “I’ll call for some scissors.”

“What’s wrong?”

The question lingers in the air for too long before you gather the strength to answer.

“Nothing” you stammer.

“Oh come on, did I have something on my face?”

“No, it’s okay, you’re okay” you rush to answer before hastily stabbing some salad from your plate.

This was a terrible idea.

You and Joel having dinner together. Why you insisted?

Oh yeah, because he saved your little precious cat the other day. She was falling over the fence while sniffing around. She likes to climb and jump and explore all around Jackson. The other day she tripped on a broken wood board and almost fell off right in the middle of some infected outside the gate.

And now you’re stuck here with your new hero and you’re watching him eat a taco in a way it’s making your knees feel like jelly.

The way he bites on it, the way his lips purse and his jaw adjusts to try and keep everything safe from falling back down his plate. He's leaning over the table, making a noise that sounds like a noise of pleasure, and you can tell he has his legs spread under the table, a habit everyone learns to avoid sauce dripping down their legs and staining their clothes. He’s so… damn.

You always had a crush on Joel and you never admitted that to anyone, not even yourself.

You're friends, you're just friends, you told yourself every day as your heart pounded in your chest. Sure, he was always kind to you, and it wasn't the first time he'd helped you. He'd fixed your roof, as well as the cabinets in your kitchen and the leaking bathroom sink.

He’s so good with his hand, so focused when he works, times and times again you found yourself totally mesmerized by his competences.

He's selfless, kind, and generous, but he's that way with everyone, so you tried not to fantasize too much. It didn't mean anything that he'd helped you; you weren't any more special than any other Jackson resident.

You felt like he flirted a few times, calling you darling, throwing in a joke here and there about how much time you spent passing him tools and assisting him however you could, even though the only thing you'd made from scratch with your hands was a little clay pot for your mom during your art class when you were in sixth grade.

There was a moment last summer when the sink had splashed everywhere while he was fixing it. Your white t-shirt got wet, becoming see-through in the front. His eyes had lingered a little too long on the curve of your breasts.

He'd once bought you a beer at Tipsy Bison, and you'd spent the evening talking. He hadn't even kissed you, but the way he talked to you, the way he'd opened up to you despite being a notorious grouch...no, it wasn't possible. There were dozens of women in Jackson, and they were all eager to get laid with Joel. You'd noticed the way they looked at him, how they devoured him with their eyes as he was bent over building something, his shirt riding up his back, revealing his tanned, freckled skin underneath, how they drooled over his strong arms as he carried wood or supplies he'd gathered during a patrol.

And not just women, you had also seen more than one man observing him with particular interest.

So why would it have to be you?

“You're staring at me,” he says, before sticking his thumb in his mouth to lick the sauce off. “Have you never seen anyone eat a taco before?” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “I was just wondering if you like them.”

“Darling…I’m from Texas” he replies after taking a long sip of his beer.

“So what? Is loving tacos a prerequisite for being Texan?”

“Pretty much” he shrugs.

Is he making fun of you?

“But yeah, they’re great. I appreciate you takin’ the time to cook for me” he smiles.

“You saved Snowflake, I owned you” You sigh, getting up from the table with the excuse of getting another beer, trying to relax despite his gaze that doesn't leave you for a second.

Snowflake, safe and sound, is currently napping in the living room.

He’s smooth tonight, he seems at ease more than you ever previously noted. He laughs when you struggle with the bottle opener, he takes the bottle from your hands and uncorks it.

“Here you go, darling” he breathes and pour it into your glass.

Your cheeks heat up at the way he takes another bite from his taco. Deliberately slow, groaning softly as his teeth sink into the corn husk and then into the spiced meat. His tongue darts out a moment later to lick some sauce from his lower lip. It feels like straight up porn, damn you and your tacos.

Your fingers itching to wipe the sauce he didn't notice from his chin.

"Wait, you have a little bit of..." You lean over the table, tracing a line with your thumb just below his lip. "Sauce...here," you mutter.

"Thanks, baby." His voice is deep, husky, and to your greatest dismay - cause you’re not supposed to feel what you’re feeling - it makes you wet.

Wet as a goddamn waterfall.

He takes your wrist, brings your finger to his mouth. Closer, ever closer. His lips part, your finger slides over his tongue.

He moans. He fucking moans, sucking the juice from your finger.

You freeze, the sound of it still ringing in your ears.

“Delicious” he growls, a smile dancing on his lips.

You could swear he never looked this gorgeous.

Relaxed, playful, teasing you from the other side of the table.

“Why don’t you come here and help me with the rest of the taco, so we can skip to the dessert faster?”

You catch the double meaning feeling a million butterflies in your tummy, flapping their wings around, your head light, your pussy clenching.

Your legs are wobbly when you get up, he takes your hand guiding you on to sit down on his lap.

“Do something for me, alright baby? You barely ate so now I want you to take a good bite” he commands, his voice steady while he holds a taco in the air.

Your arm is around his shoulders, your legs draped sideways over each other, his hand on your waist while the other brings the taco to your lips. You open your mouth, taking a big bite, salsa dripping onto his fingers. As you chew, he carefully cleans them one by one, his tongue darting and gathering, making you wonder what else he could do.

You’re not hungry for anything other than him right now, that’s for sure.

He’s big and broad and warm against you, his hand deliciously weighs on your small back keeping you steady, his legs making the most comfortable sit you’ve ever had.

He places the taco down on his plate and his eyes lingers on your lips doing all the talking.

His fingers run up your leg, slipping under your dress, hot on your bare skin as they travel higher and higher.

“Good girl” he whispers and you’re just putty in his arms, timidly smiling back at him.

His fingers are resting on your inner thighs, languidly tracing circles on your skin.

“May I?” He asks, hazy eyes and soft voice.

A greying lock falls on his forehead, calling for your fingers. You love his hair, you always dreamed to run your fingers through it.

He smells like leather and something citrusy and fresh, clean and pleasant.

A faint hint of alcohol and spices lingers in his breath but you’re eager to kiss him nonetheless.

“What you looking at?” He smiles, poking at you.

“Your lips” you reply, faintly, without even thinking.

“Mmm wanna try them?”

You don’t answer, you just kiss him.

His lips are so inviting and soft in contrast with the delicious scratch of his beard and mustache.

It feels so heavenly you even forget where you are, everything disappears beside his mouth welcoming your tongue, his tongue meeting yours, his hand roaming your back and his fingers dangerously close to your center.

You’re dripping, literally. You’re so wet at this point your panties feel useless and you’re pretty sure he feels that same way the moment his index and middle finger meet the fabric.

He groans in your mouth, while you hand finally gets to get lost in his curls. They’re even softer than you expected. You tug a little bit, eagerly licking into his mouth, savoring his taste and dancing with his tongue.

You didn’t feel so needy in years.

He traces tight circles on your clit, you moan so loudly it’s unmistakable even if you’re still kissing him.

He pulls away only to ask you, “You like it, huh? What does this little pussy want? Does she want to come?” You whine, words failing you.

“I need you to use your words, babe”

“Yes. Yes, I need it. She needs you” your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper coming from the back of your throat.

“Straddle me, take what you need on my leg” he orders.

You get up, your legs trembling, your whole body aching for a release.

You lift the skirt of your dress, exposing your white lace panties. You weren't wrong; when you look down, you see they're practically see-through because you're so soaked.

"Take them off," he urges. And you do.

The moment you sit on his jeans-clad right leg, each of yours bracketing his, and feel the fabric of his jeans against your folds, you almost lose your breath.

“Move baby, I want you to make a mess” he grabs a handful of your ass, guiding your hips back and forth on his legs, your clit brushing against his jeans, your juices dripping down, leaving a wet stain all over.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he groans, his hand tugging at the neckline of your dress and at the bra underneath, exposing your tits.

His lips are on them a second later, hungrily sucking at your nipples while you can’t stop rolling your hips on his leg.

Your right leg meet his erection, again and again.

He’s rock hard, you can feel it twitching beneath the fabric.

Your orgasm crushes into you a moment later, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips, his lips still latched on your breast.

It’s all dizzy and hot and confused, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, your bodies hot and sweating.

Joel hugs you the entire time while your peak crushes into you so violently your legs are shaking and your back arches so much you almost feel like slipping off.

When you finally come down from your high, Joel cups your face, tenderly kissing you.

You notice a mark on your breast you hadn't noticed, you hadn't even felt him bite that hard.

You chuckle. “What about this? You wanted to devour me like a taco?”

“No offense to your cooking, but I'd choose your tits over tacos any day.”

“Shall we move to my bed? I’m still hungry and I’d love to try this” you whisper in the shell of his ear, palming his hard on from above his jeans.

He laughs, lifting you up in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. “You know what? This is the best taco Tuesday of my damn life.”

He clears his throat and straightens his jacket as you stand at his desk, firing off the day’s activities.

“There’s a fourth-grade field trip coming through at nine-thirty,” you tell him, reading off your synced google calendar. “They’d be thrilled if you passed out stickers.” Naturally they’re stickers for his mayoral campaign: VOTE FOR TED with his face on them, a background of star-spangled red and blue stripes. He takes the one you hand to him from a box under your arm, an amused smile on his lips as you carefully peel one off for yourself and smooth it over your blazer.

“Ah yes. Can’t have the kids leaving City Hall without being walking advertisements for my reelection,” he jokes. 

You smirk in return. “It’s good press. We’ll put it up on social media later. And don’t forget, in eight years they’ll be voters. Gotta tell them how important it is to get to that voting booth.”

“Planting the seeds of civic duty early,” he murmurs, sipping his now-lukewarm coffee. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“You’ll never find out,” you reply with a teasing smile, going back to your desk to fire off a couple emails before the schoolkids arrive.

Ted expertly works the room, doling out campaign stickers and exchanging high-fives with the eager group from Ms. Thompson’s fourth grade class. He kneels down to talk to a shy little girl in a flower-print dress, asking her name and making silly jokes to get her to smile. You keep your phone out, snapping pics and taking videos to post later. This is PR gold. Most of the kids seem to be in awe of this place of government, while others look on, just happy to be away from campus for a little bit.

You follow as Ted gives them a tour of the building, explaining the few departments within and defining his role as mayor of Eddington. His natural magnetism shines through, something you can’t help but appreciate. He effortlessly fields questions and keeps the kids engaged, explaining alongside their teacher the workings of local government. Afterwards, the group gathers together in a neat cluster for a photo that Ms. Thompson promises to put on the school website. You snap three quick pics, not wanting the kids to grow restless too soon.

“I think I need a caffeine IV,” he chuckles as he returns to his office, you following after, waiting for the photos to upload to all the city’s social media accounts. He pours you both a fresh cup of coffee from the Keurig that was a gift from the Rotary Club. “I’ve forgotten what a handful kids can be.”

“Is now a good time to tell you that Ms. Thompson asked for your number?” You glance up from the phone, your lips already poised for a smile.

“You didn’t give it to her..did you?”

“The number I gave her was the directory here at city hall,” you admit. “She’ll have to get through me first to get to you.”

Something about the way you say it makes Ted’s heart miss a beat. You mistake his speechlessness for annoyance.

“If you don’t want to go out with her, just say you don’t think it’s prudent to date a constituent,” you quickly cover your tracks. Ted has never been angry at you, but his personal life is one thing you’ve never delved into. He’s been single for years now, long before you came to work for him. All you know about his wife is that she lives somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, and that he refuses to speak her name.

“I know, I know,” Ted replies good-naturedly. “It’s just that you seem to find this whole thing unbelievably amusing.” He sips his black coffee, adding a bit more creamer to yours. “Are you getting some sort of satisfaction out of seeing me squirm?”

“It baffles me to watch you squirm. I thought you’d at least be flattered.”

“I am,” he concedes. “But it’s also unexpected.”

“You didn’t see the hearts in her eyes when you spoke to her students about policy proposals? I thought she would propose to you right after.”

Ted blushes, attempting to hide it as he sips his coffee. “Ms. Thompson is a little young for me. And she’s not really my type.”

“And what type would that be?” You continue this light teasing of his lack of a romantic life, but at the same time you’re denying the little trickle of hurt you’re causing yourself in pushing the issue. Something wants to claw its way out but you keep knocking it back inside where it belongs. The look of casualness you maintain in your deportment ought to be studied.

He’s shaking his head in denial at your question. He’s taking too long to answer. The words are jumbled up in his mouth, unsure of how to spill out or if he should even allow them to. He should tell you it’s a personal matter, something that shouldn’t be discussed between a boss and his employee. When he takes a sip of coffee to delay his reply he spills some on his tie, the one you like best on him, the blue paisley print. “Damn it,” he curses, blotting at the silk with a napkin.

You’re already hurrying to your desk, pulling a brand new tie from a drawer and bringing it to him. Wordlessly you help him untie the stained on and put a new one on. He starts to knot it himself but you’re already there, fingers nimbly pulling the silk through loops. You’re awfully close to him, a fact you don’t seem to be aware of as you deftly knot the silk. Your tongue peeks out between your lips as you work, and he has to will himself to look away, to block out the scent of your perfume that’s already reaching his nostrils.

“Done,” you announce happily, putting his soiled tie away to be dry cleaned for later.

Ted checks out his reflection in the mirror he keeps in one of his cabinets that holds his grooming tools – a brush, an electric razor, some cologne. “How do you always have a spare tie ready for me?” he asks in awe.

You shrug. “I have your son bring them from home so I have extras here,” you confess.

He turns to you, shutting the cabinet. “You’re telling me Eric brings my spare ties to the office?” He chuckles in amusement. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you? I don’t know whether to be impressed or mortified that my son is delivering fashion accessories on my behalf.”

“It happened once right before a press conference and I had no one else to call,” you explain. “Since then he helps me out sometimes.” You feel it’s prudent to leave out the fact that Eric asks to be paid in gas money each time. It’s a worthwhile fee.

“I can’t believe you’ve been pulling this off without me knowing. Remind me to thank both of you for keeping me presentable.”

“It’s part of my job.” You sip the last of your coffee.

Ted studies you for a moment, the sunlight catching the edge of your glasses. “Part of your job, huh? Funny, I don’t recall that being in your job description.”

“It’s there,” you shrug, playing along. “‘Record and preserve the minutes and proceedings of city council meetings, provide highly responsible and complex administrative support to the mayor’..I’m sure ‘coordinating wardrobe logistics with said mayor’s family’ falls under that umbrella.”

A little chuckle leaves his lips. “Edna never went so above and beyond,” he says, mentioning the former secretary before you came along. He’s quiet for a moment, letting your words sink in. “You’re not just my secretary. You’re keeping me together.”

Shaking your head you wave off his compliment. “You’re oversimplifying it.” You can’t let him see you get flustered by a few words. You’re stronger than that.

“I’m being serious.” He tries to find the right words. “You’re making sure the cracks don’t show. You’re the duct tape holding the mayor’s office together. I don’t know how you managed to get my kid to run errands for you,” he adds with a chuckle. “I’d be hopeless without you.”

“Mr. Mayor..” you shake your head again, unused to compliments.

Ted tilts his head, voice dropping to that quiet register that never fails to get your attention. “Is it really that hard for you to accept a compliment?”

But it feels like more than a compliment, especially in that low register he uses so rarely, specifically when he’s alone with you. You don’t dare to hope for more than what it is: a simple appreciation. 

“Besides,” he continues. “Haven’t I told you to call me Ted by now?”

A small chuckle escapes you. You slide your glasses up on your nose, needing something, anything to distract yourself. “Ted.. you don’t have to be so nice.”

“I mean every word. You’re damn near perfect. I don’t tell you that often enough.” His gaze is steady on yours.

There’s a beat of silence as you regard each other, standing just a couple feet apart, the air charged with unspoken tension.

You clear your throat. “Don’t forget about that budget meeting you have at one. I’ll put in the lunch order.” You’re anxious to get back to work, to bury yourself in emails and files and ordinances until the end of the day.

“The mayor,” Ted announces, “is officially off the clock.”

You give him a smirk as he puts things away in his briefcase. It’s a tanned leather valise with his initials embossed on the side. He’s had it as long as you’ve known him, which has been nearly a year now. As City Secretary for that long, you’ve come to know him during his term as Eddington’s mayor, both in a professional and personal sense.

Professionally, you get along well.

Personally, you might have a crush on him.

Not one to mix business with pleasure, you maintained a distance at first, cordial but impersonal. Businesslike. Discussions were confined to work and schedules. But with Ted it was impossible to keep up a facade of impartiality. He was so open, so friendly, so willing to give his time to others without so much as a quick check of his watch when conversations ran long. He spoke with each and every constituent and knew them all by name, shook their hands at the pharmacy, cheered for the local Little League teams on opening day. He was the epitome of what you imagined a small-town mayor would be. Soon you found yourself opening up to him, a little at a time. You weren’t particularly fond of broadcasting your personal history, especially to someone you already knew so much about. 

And now you’re calling the mayor by his first name and you have his son’s number stored in your cell for fashion emergencies. So much for impartiality.

Ted’s right. None of this was in your job description.

“Technically, you’re never off the clock,” you retort, packing up your own belongings and getting your purse out of your desk drawer. You scan your personal phone for notifications, only finding a few from Instagram and Discord. Nothing that can’t wait.

When you look up Ted is smiling at you, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes your heart skip a beat. “Touché,” he replies, his smile warm, eyes glittering. “It’s the weekend. Surely you have some plans..?”

“A pint of Ben & Jerry’s and trashy reality TV. Every girl’s dream Friday night,” you joke. You’re going to go home and do what you always do – peruse Netflix or Hulu until you find something halfway decent then turn it off partway through so you can read during your bubble bath.

Ted sounds almost hesitant, brows drawing close together, his lips almost in a frown as he avoids eye contact with you. It’s not like him. “I was thinking about trying that new cafe on Chaparral Street. I’ve ordered from there before, but I haven’t really stepped in to..” He clears his throat, giving you an expectant look, one that feels like he’s preparing for you to reject him outright. “If you could tear yourself away from your Chunky Monkey and Real Housewives, I’d like to take you out for a coffee.”

You try to school your features into something not resembling frozen shock. He’s your boss. You’ve eaten lunch together before, you’ve even been to his house after work hours to help with campaign efforts and brainstorming sessions. But you’ve never been ‘off the clock’ with him in any sense of the term. 

You mentally kick yourself into saying something, because he’s just standing there, waiting, shifting from one foot to the other, his hope dwindling. 

“Actually it’s Phish Food and America’s Next Top Model,” you finally reply, your smile disarming every ounce of worry that’s been building up inside him. “But I think I can postpone it for next Friday.”

“Okay then.” He’s trying his best not to let a grin break across his face, nervous excitement already buzzing through him. Deciding he doesn’t want to put too much pressure on you, he adds: “I’ll meet you there.. say, seven o’clock?” Meeting there is better, he figures. More casual that way.

You make a show of checking your watch, an attempt to conceal the way you’re suddenly flustered. Again. “Okay, it’s a–” you clear your throat. “I’ll see you at seven.”

Ted pushes off the doorframe with a grin and you can’t help but return it, a new charge in the air between you. “Drive home safe.” And he’s gone, a little swagger in his step as you remain at your desk, processing what’s just happened. With a sharp exhale you push up from your seat and gather your things to leave.

dividers by @kodaswrld 👑