i got cursed like eve got bitten

His helmet tilting as he finds you again.

Knowing what he is thinking, for it is on your mind as well.

You’d managed a quick reunion. Lasting no more than a heartbeat, as you met him at his ship. Fingers tracing against your hip, as your lips pressed against the curve of his helmet. Bunching in the whisper-thin silk of your ceremonial dress.

Not finding what he was looking for. A growl, that was cut short.

All too eager to whisk you away, but even with his unexpected arrival, he hadn’t been able to escape his duty.

You’re too far away to hear the debriefing, but you can imagine your husband’s voice getting shorter. Impatient. Clipped.

That’s what two weeks away from you does to him.

Especially with the messages you sent to his holo, two days prior. Waiting until after the negotiations were done.

Giving him everything except what he wanted. Glimpses of flesh, where the gossamer robe wrapped around you. The soft curve of a breast, the fabric pebbled at shadowed peaks.

Glistening fingertips between plump flesh, swollen with desire.

The last was the only one with a message. A small, thin chip pinched between thumb and forefinger.

He’d know what it was.

Had been there when it was placed in your hip, his hand wrapped in yours as the needle pierced flesh.

Had talked about it often, late a night, a shared wish for the future.

One that has come, now.

Come home soon.

Din had been two days away.

After your message - he had made it in one.

He’s on you the moment the bedchamber door closes. Backing you up against the heavy stone. Gripping at your waist, as your face tips to his.

You’d liked this, when you first got together.

His desire.

How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

“Let me see you.”

There’s no hesitance in the way he reaches for his helmet, and you can feel the space between your thighs dampen.

His dark eyes blown wide with need, when it lifts off his head. Parted lips as he pants, brow furrowed. The thick curls, begging to be tugged.

But this is what you like more.

The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels.

After all, his duty is to his people.

But it’s you that he serves.

He moans against the press of your mouth. Once-clumsy kisses now practiced. Your teeth nipping at his lower lip until he opens willingly. Hips rocking against yours when you lick into his mouth.

Red painted against his mouth, from your painted ones.

It’s been far too long.

You’d never tell him, but you’d been waiting as well.

A sigh slipping from your lungs at the hands that skitter up your waist. Almost pawing at you as he mouths at your throat.

The pulse point beneath your ear.

Knowing better than to leave a mark.

That’s only for you - his skin your canvas.

His lips hovering at the necklace - a silver pendant tucked between your breasts. A soft and reverent kiss against it, as his legs start to bend.

Slowly lowering to his knees, as your thighs make room for him.

His nose ghosting against your belly. Down - tilting to kiss against your hip. Your mound, before he’s moving to inhale you.

“Let me.” It’s rasped out, as his eyes tilt up. Fingers gathering the hem that brushes your ankles, as his knees spread against stone.

“You were good?”

Din groans, his mouth pressing against your core. The silk dampening beneath his tongue, sticking the fabric against your slick folds.

His breath hot, and you have to resist the urge to squirm.

“Fuck,” His fingers inch higher. Stroking against soft skin, “You know I was, cyare.”

Your breath hitches, when his knuckles drag against your slit. Something akin to a whine sliding from his throat when he meets bare skin - his earlier curiosity finally sated.

“How did it feel?”

There’s a ragged huff of a laugh. His other hand dropping down to palm at his crotch. Teeth gritting, hips flexing.

Fingers parting you, letting the tip of his finger nudge at your entrance.

“You shouldn’t have sent those messages.”

Your eyebrow arches, your grin sly, “You didn’t like them?”

He makes another rough sound. A hand fisting on the hem of your skirt again - tugging it up until it’s gathered against your abdomen.

Baring you fully - the part of your thighs, where his palm curves against your core. Tongue dipping across his lip in anticipation.

An effort, in the way his eyes drag back up to your face. Voice rough, the scrape of stone against metal.

“You know what you do to me.”

You clench around his finger. Eager for him, though you’ve learned to school your face - a second mask to the one you wear.

How well your husband listens.

The verbal confirmation sending another hot rush of need. Your own fingers slipping down, past his knuckles. Fitting beneath the dip of his chin, petting between your slick thighs.

The tips coming back shining. His mouth parting automatically, as you slip two fingers against his tongue.

“And see what you do to me?”

His eyes slip shut - groaning, as he sucks. Tongue laving against your skin, thankful for anything you give him. Another shift of his hips, his own hand flexing against you, when you slide your fingers free.

Forefinger and thumb against his chin, leaving a gleam of spit behind, as you guide him where he aches to be.

You can feel the heat of his breath for a heartbeat, before his mouth meets you. The moan breathed out against your skin, tongue flattening against your clit.

Hungry, in the way he devours you. Lapping at the tight bud, while his finger remembers how to move. A second added, as his lips wrap around and suck.

It sends waves of bliss coursing through you. A tremble in your legs, before one hooks over his shoulder. A heel pressed against his armor, urging him closer.

He’s all too willing to obey. Losing himself in your pleasure, soft sounds slipping from his throat as he works you open. As his tongue flicks, again and again.

You can already feel it start to build. He’s always known how to touch you, his eagerness and your own self-restraint only fueling the fire in your belly.

“If only they could see you now,” You breathe out, in wonder. Tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck, but it only makes him moan, “On your knees for me.”

His eyes lift to meet yours. Giving himself to you, his mind focused on only one thing - the taste of you against his tongue.

“What would they think, knowing I keep their Mand’alor in a cage?”

A low oath slips from him. Another flex of his hips, as his fingers curl against a spot that makes you see stars.

Your next words coming as a soft command.

“Show me.”

You mourn the way his fingers slip from you. Gleaming, as they drop to his armor. Loosening the golden belt, removing the ven'cabur beneath. Drawing himself out.

The light catches on the beskar beneath.

Pretty and gleaming. Ornamental in its design, but your family did come from a long line of forgers.

It had been easy, to craft a piece to compliment him. An extension of his armor. A near-constant reminder of your absence.

For that is what it was.

Not to punish him. Din would never stray, you believed that with your whole heart.

Instead, it was to ensure that he did not spill himself needlessly. That every drop of his essence was spent where it belonged - deep inside his wife’s pretty cunt.

A shared idea. A secret.

He had almost been late in leaving, with the amount of time it had taken to lock it around him. The key left with you, along with his heart.

“Pretty,” You coo. Even better up close, you're sure - though you will have to wait.

He hums in agreement. Focused now, tracing your clit with a pattern he knows will make you cum. The hand leaving his armor to knead the flesh of your ass, tilting your pussy to his mouth.

But you can’t resist teasing him, even as your breath grows short. As your tone catches on an edge, needing to hear it.

The toe of your boot shifting just enough to nudge at him.

“Whose pretty cock is that?”

A groan is muffled against your skin. His rhythm knocked off-kilter, as he mumbles his reply.

“Yours, cyare.”

You’re nearly there. The edges of your vision darkens, heart hammering behind your ribs.

“You-,” You start, as your toes curl. As the pressure builds in your belly, threatening to burst, “You want me to take it off?”

Surely he must feel the pressure of the metal. The way his cock strains with desire against the cage, still held back.

“No.” He rasps.

“Not yet.”

The denial makes you come. A cry leaving your lips as you fall apart against his mouth. As he licks at you eagerly - fingers fitting inside you once more, to give you something to clench around. Feeling the tight pulse around them, against the flat of his tongue.

Letting you ride out your orgasm, the pleasure shared. Hips shifting involuntarily, meeting open air.

And only when your back relaxes against the door, does he allow you to lead him to bed.

You leave marks against his skin, as you move down.

His armor removed carefully. Ritualistically, set aside in the padded crate near your shared bed.

Streaks of red from your lips, their outline lightening as it transfers. Neck, chest, abdomen.

Halting at the one piece he still wears.

The metal encircling him, giving you peeks of swollen skin. A jerk of his hips when you trace against his sack, drawn tight with need.

Then, up.

“You’re dripping.” Your fingers trace against the tip, just brushing the flushed skin beneath.

Coming back shining, his eyes fixed on yours as you taste him with your tongue.

“Is it for me?”

His answer comes in a roughened rush.

“Always.”

You hum, lips curling. Pushing yourself up, letting him watch the way you tug the dress from your shoulders. Baring yourself - the soft sways of your breasts, shifting until your hips rest flush with his.

His hands twitching where you pushed them above his head, warning him not to move.

Your name gritted out, a futile warning, when you shift against the cold metal of the cage.

Letting it slide against your clit, slick with your release. With his need, so wholly restrained.

“Please.” It’s bitten out.

Your fingers play with the necklace. His reaction cataloged away, for later. Eyes fixed on his as you slowly dip back down.

“Should make you wait longer,” You muse, “But you listened, didn’t you?”

He has long enough - you can see it in the way his muscles string tight. The need written across his face, as he watches your movement.

“I would wait,” Din husks, “For as long as you wished it.”

The spark flares to life again. A kiss press against the metal, before your necklace touches against it.

A click as the cage unlatches - careful in the way you ease it from him.

His breath comes in a low hiss, when you touch him. The feather-light drag of your nails against sensitive skin, jerking to life beneath your fingertips.

Hardening, now that he was no longer restrained. Two weeks of that tight pressure eased, and it feels like a fresh breath of air.

He tastes like you, when your mouth presses against his. Tongue stroking against yours when you line him up against your entrance, your fingers struggling to wrap around.

Moaning against your mouth, when you finally sink down.

Finally home.

Finally where he needs to be, as you gasp at the intrusion. His fingers opening you up before, but it’s always a stretch.

Leaving behind a delicious burn, one you’ve craved. Hips rocking as you get used to the weight of him inside you, once more. Until that dull ache bleeds away to bliss.

And finally your hips lift - gliding up the full length of him. Clenching around the tip before you drop back down.

One, two.

Hands braced against his chest as you bounce on his cock, as his own curl into fists. Eyes glazed - lips parted as he watches you, his heart pounding beneath your flattened palms.

Three, four.

Stroking a spot deep inside you, one you’d chase if he wasn’t so far gone. His eyes greedy where he watches you take him, the shine of his cock before it’s buried in you.

Five, six.

It’s then that you lean forward. Lips ghosting against his, pulling back before he can chase after.

“Are you going to give me what I want, riduur?” You croon, testing your teeth against his throat.

His pulse spiking - a rough buzz beneath your lips as he exhales a sharp breath.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Picking up speed, as you nip at his ear.

“Fill me? Get me swollen with you?” A hand ghosting across your belly, as you sigh against him, “Let everyone who you belong to?”

Din growls, but it pitches long. Low, caught in his throat at he shifts beneath you.

“Gedet’ye, ner runi.”

Slipping into his native tongue, as his thoughts loose in his grasp. His begging is a symphony, combined with the slap of your skin against his. With the slick slide of his cock, his panting breath.

“I can’t-," Din husks, "Not going to last.”

Your lips stretch wide with your smile.

“Want you to,” You purr, “Give me what you were made for.”

Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen.

Once again, your husband comes early.

Forgetting himself - his hands coming to grip at the curve of your waist. Denting flesh as he tugs you down, holding you against the rut of his hips as he spills with a muffled shout inside you.

A ragged breath, each time his cock throbs. Wordless moans as two weeks of his desire is spent, filling you until it threatens to spill over.

Until the iron-grip of his fingers relax. Eyes left-heavy lidded. Only tightening when you make to move off him.

Keeping you in place, his cock still notched to the hilt inside you.

“I missed you.” You tell him, fingers tracing his jaw. Against grown-long scruff, flecked with silver.

A kiss pressed against the spot that never fills in all the way. More peppered across his cheek, until his breathing slows.

“Missed you.” It’s huffed out. The flash of teeth, as he draws your mouth to his.

Still hungry, even after all this time. Barely sated, even as he fills you.

“Did you-?” It’s murmured against your lips, when you break to breathe, “You meant it?”

Your eyes are soft, when you grab his hand to your hip. The still-tender spot, letting his thumb press against soft skin.

He groans, low and throaty. Flipping you beneath him, as his eyes drag down your form - as if you have changed, already.

As if it’s already taken, as your thighs widen to make room for him. Letting him slip from you, but his fingers are already there.

Sliding against slick skin. Gathering himself up - where he’s leaked from you. Fucking it back inside, working himself deeper.

Stroking against that spot, as his lips slot against yours.

He’ll make you come again.

Again, and again, if that’s what it takes.

Your husband was always good at giving you what you want.

thank you so much for reading! excited to start this year off like the last - domming our fave old men. 💖

mando'a translations:

The rain pelts against the panes of glass, washing the day’s dust that had settled away. The full moon that beams into your bedroom is the only light source. You hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. Instead, you chose to curl up into the fetal position under the blanket to stare at the droplets making their way down to the window. It’s grounding - a reminder that the earth was still spinning on its axis even with runners and clickers feasting on its crust. And its inhabitants.

You’re not sure how long you watch for, but it’s long enough that the moon has moved from one side of the pane to the other. A key turns in the lock and the heavy front door opens and slams shut. It’s soon followed by the twisting of the multiple locks on the inside. You hear the familiar noise of a backpack being shrugged off and placed by the stairs. A heavy jacket bound to be made heavier by the rain that battered it gets hung at the bottom of the banister and the bang of boots hitting the skirting come after. One. And then the other.

You know what stage of his journey he’s on as he makes his way up the carpeted stairs by the difference in the pitch of the creak each wooden step makes under his footing. All of them stop screeching when he reaches the top and heads for the bathroom.

The hinge of the bedroom door screams for oil as it opens and closes behind him. Still tucked up into yourself looking at the rain, you’ve come to know his routine so well that you don’t need to watch to know exactly what he’s doing and a smile creeps across your lips.

The click of the light in the bathroom is next, followed by the first splash of water from the faucet hitting the white ceramic sink. Joel never allows himself to cross the threshold of the bedroom covered in the day’s grit, refuses to taint a sacred space you've created.

A wall divides you both, but you know he’ll drench his cold, scarred hands in warm water and soap, scrubbing off the dirt, grease, and gunpowder. The patter of the running water stops and the tap squeaks as it’s turned to close. A moment passes before the light switch clicks again in the opposite direction.

Feet pad towards the bed you’re in and then stop. One by one, thick fingers push the plastic buttons of his shirt through the holes and the worn material drops to the floor. He grunts at the everlasting ache that plagues his shoulders as they squeeze together for him to pull his undershirt over his head. There had been some nights that if you listened close enough, you could hear the fibres of it snapping from the strength in his arms. But tonight he's gentle with it as he removes it from his torso.

He continues his undressing, tugging at the end of his leather belt, popping open the clasp and snaking it from around his hips, over the curling waistband of his dark jeans that will get swept down his weary legs next. The tarnished metal buckle clinks when it hits the ground, accompanying the rest of his clothes.

The edge of the mattress dips under his weight when he finally sits on the edge. A heavy sigh leaves his lungs and escapes through cold, puffed out cheeks. His fingernails scratch his scalp and the bones in his neck crack as he rotates his head to try and shirk off the day.

Eventually he falls backwards to lay beside you with a groan as individual vertebrae adjusts themselves to being horizontal for the first time since early morning.

The tension he’s carried around in his muscles begins to leave, though the movements he makes in an effort to get comfortable reverberate from the pillow underneath his head over to yours and into your ears. He never expects you to be awake. He never wants you to be awake. Some evenings you stay in whatever position you were lying in in an attempt to fool him that you don’t worry yourself until he comes home.

There are nights when he’s not here that you’re held captive by your mind and memories, when it’s hard to remember when it wasn’t so dark. Having been in constant fear of what might lie around the next corner for so long, they’re feelings that you can’t just abandon. Things you thought beautiful are now ripe with decay and desolation. The sun you once basked under is now covered by a shade. One wrong move and you could find yourself beneath the mire of fields that were green and golden.

When his breathing evens out, you unravel yourself from the sheets he lays on top of to look at him and his brown eyes meet yours. They’re tired but warm despite the chill outside. Neither of you were sure how you this began. Two lonely people in a lonely place. Two unexpecting people that now, always had to expect the unexpected. But he was the one that put a hand over yours in a time when you had no one else left to ask.

You prop yourself up on an elbow to get a better view because one day can change everything - one day had changed everything.

His curls are still damp from the rain he walked home in, and moonlight bounces off the silver that streaks through them. His eyelids are heavy and begging for rest. Droplets of water still cling to his neck from the washcloth he ran over it after washing his hands.

Your other hand reaches up to touch his stubbled cheek that was still warming up from the elements. A sigh leaves his nose and his brow relaxes under your touch. It continues to travel down over his neck, wiping away the last of the water, to brush over the small patches of hair then over the skin that bore the scars, scrapes and scratches of all of this.

He brings his hand up that had rested on his stomach up and it finds the nape of your neck to cradle. His thumb traces over your jawline. Its skin is rough and calloused but welcome. His eyes soften but you know he’s battling between being thrilled you’re awake and being furious you’re not on your second dream.

Regardless, he mirrors back the smile that's widening across your face from his return home. His hand on your neck coaxes you down to him for a kiss on his bitten lips while your palm remains on his chest absorbing the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat.

You left him at the other end of the couch hours ago. His hands held a script and yours held a novel. When morning comes, a car will roll up the gravelled drive to collect him for a shoot. You hoped that maybe your exit would have prompted him to follow but instead he stayed seated, one leg tucked underneath him, whispering words from the dog-eared pages to himself and the soon to be empty living room.

You carried yourself to bed but continued to read, sliding further down the mountain of cushions that are propped up against the velvet headboard. The words became increasingly difficult to absorb and you reread the same paragraph over and over until you eventually drifted off, book still in hand.

Some hours later, you’re woken from the light slumber by the familiar bumping on the other side of the wall – he’s finally coming to bed. He never walks or runs up the staircase. He trudges or bounces over the plush carpeted steps depending on what the day has thrown at him. A squeak of rubber across the hardwood floor tells you he's finished his climb.

The doorknob turns and he peeks around the frame before crossing the threshold. He wants to see if you’re still awake. After closing it quietly, he offers you a soft smile – trying hard to balance it out with sorrow and glee. He’s sorry he’s late to bed and that he’ll be forced to leave again but joyful that he can squeeze in some time together.

But before you can both indulge, he heads for the ensuite bathroom. You know the sounds and the order you’ll hear them. It begins with the tune he hums over the buzz of his toothbrush echoing off the bright white tiles. You never could figure out how he managed to get splatters of toothpaste that high up on the bathroom mirror.

The humming is halted by a crash. Stainless steel against ceramic. If you could see through the wall dividing you, you’d place a bet that the sleeve of his too-big robe got caught on the nozzle of the soap dispenser and sent it careening into the sink. Again. A hissed self deprating fuck follows it.

Whether Dieter is two feet away, or two thousand miles always, he always finds a way to bring a welcomed noise into your life. In the silence of the early morning hours, separated by timezones, your phone would vibrate over the wooden nightstand. Sometimes it’s an I wish you were here with a picture of the inside of a hotel suite. Other times, it’s a picture of a pigeon with no context other than the word Look!

You're drawn to his bedlam as much as he’s drawn to your peace.

He shucks off his champagne-coloured corduroy robe and throws it over the end of the bed, revealing his worn lavender t-shirt underneath. It’s a perfect picture before he slips out of his crocs and reaches over to flick the switch on the lamp on the nightstand, turning the room the same shade of black as the tattoo on his arm.

When he exits and turns off the light, he tiptoes around to your side of the bed. The bed that’s too big for both of you when you share it and will feel gigantic come sunrise. He takes the book from your hand and places it on your nightstand, pages down so you don’t lose your place.

Every time he comes back from travelling, he curses himself for not remembering to buy you a bookmark. Though he’ll still tell you about all the funny ones he saw through his sunglasses in airport stores.

You’ve come to learn he’s predictably unpredictable. You never know if he’s going to ask the most thought-provoking question about how the planets aligned themselves or if he’s about to tell you about the meatball sub he ate two years ago, describing down its last garlicky notes and the texture of the bread.

And just like that, you don’t foresee him climbing into bed from the bottom of the mattress, but he does. Clambering over the puffy duck feather duvet, he drapes his upper body over your legs, splaying himself across you, and rests his scruffy cheek on your stomach. Almost in unison, you both sigh at the sensation.

For a few seconds, he’s still in the new darkness that’s drowned the bedroom. Still enough that you can feel the slowing pulse in his neck beating against your bare skin and the steady jets of warm air that leave his nostrils pour over your lower belly.

Calm enough because everything about this is just that – enough. His signature smell of amber combined with the crisp mint on his breath is rapidly becoming your own personal sleep tonic as your eyelids threaten to become heavy again.  

It doesn’t last long. His hand is quick to search for yours, now unburdened by your book and when he finds it, he places it on the crown of his head.

What he wants is simple – just move your fingers through his disobedient curls.

You grant his wish; your fingertips glide gently over his scalp in lazy and uncoordinated motions. Tonight, leftover residue from his hair gel coats your fingers as you massage his head. Other nights, they catch on hardened flecks of oil paint that have fallen from his paintbrush and knotted his hair. Sorry, sorry, you’d whisper when you’d feel his lips twist against your flesh, wincing at the tug. His own knuckles find a slow rhythm, swiping back and forth across your waist.

The tiny groans of pleasure that your fingers cause him to illicit as they brush through his dark strands soon switch to soft contented snores. It's tempting to turn and check the time but doing so would turn the clock into a timer that would count down the minutes until his inevitable departure.

Sleep has found him. It’ll find you shortly too. Safe in the knowledge that he’s not persecuting himself about a performance that’s yet to happen, or whatever other pressure is weighing him down. For now.

Both of you will sleep through the alarm that’s set far too early and he'll wake with a jolt of panic. There won’t be time for breakfast or a shower. You’ll be left with a lingering kiss and that everlasting promise of a new bookmark.