Hello there! (General Kenobi. You are a bold one)

You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.

In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion. 

You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.

His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.

Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!

He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years

The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved. 

Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.

When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger.  You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were. 

It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again. 

First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.

Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.

Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet. 

It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.

Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.

Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.

Something about him made you squirm. 

You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.

Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.

You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.

“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.

“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”

His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”

You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.

“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”

Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”

In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.

Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.

Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house. 

And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.

Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.

By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.

Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.

You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time. 

You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.

You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.

You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.

While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”

Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”

You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.

His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task. 

“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”

You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you. 

You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.

In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.

“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.

He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.

“Everying alright?”

Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.

Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.

Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.

But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.

You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?

His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention. 

You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.

If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.

Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.

“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.

“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp. 

“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”

His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”

It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.

You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”

You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”

Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’. 

You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.

You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed. 

You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.

But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.

Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.

When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.

You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.

When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.

“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.

You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.

As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass. 

As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.

After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. 

Today is different. You can feel it. 

When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.

Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.

With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.

You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.

You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.

”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.

The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.

It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.

You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.

Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry. 

When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples. 

You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table. 

The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.

When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.

Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together. 

You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.

“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.

“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.

Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”

Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.

“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.

You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.

“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.

The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”

“It has UV protection!” You argue.

“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”

“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.

“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.

“That’s okay. You need a break.”

He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.

“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”

You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.

Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again. 

“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.

Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.

When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.

”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”

You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”

His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”

Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.

When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.

His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares. 

He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”

You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.

“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.

“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”

“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.

He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.

“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.

“Off, please. Take them off.”

His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”

The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.

“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.

“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.

“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more. 

Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.

You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.

And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”

“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”

And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.

“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.

“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.

“What do you need, baby?”

Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.

“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”

His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.

“Since you asked nicely.”

And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.

Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest. 

His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.

“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”

You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.

“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?” 

He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.

“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”

He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”

It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.

Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.

You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.

“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.

“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”

He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.

Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin. 

The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again. 

He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.

As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight. 

“What’s that, darlin’?”

”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”

”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.

The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle. 

“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”

”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.

“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”

“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”

“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”

You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.

Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.

“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.

“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.

Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.

“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”

“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”

You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.

“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”

You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.

You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.

“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.

You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.

He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.

”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.

A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”

He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.

”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”

His offer stuns you into silence. 

Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.

But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.

Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body. 

Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“

”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.

He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“

”Joel.”

”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”

He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.

You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.

”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”

You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.

“Good girl.”

I apologize for the length of this

And now, standing in the merchant’s private meeting rooms aboard a hovering palace cruiser, he remembered why he didn’t accept anything from Hutt associates. 

“This is only half the credits.” Mando said, his voice steady, trying his best to now show any kind of frustration.

“I know, I know, Mandalorian” the merchant, a Zeltron with deep cerulean skin, replied. “Money’s tight, but I am a creature of my word.”

And with that, he stood up, walking towards the end of the room, where he pushed aside a heavy curtain embroidered with stars. Immediately, a wave of strong perfume —spiced with the scent of Corellian hibiscus and Coruscant night markets— hit Mando even through his helmet. 

Din didn’t move. He didn’t have to; he knew exactly what the “payment” would be, and it was not something he wanted.

But, then, he saw it: across the veil of smoke, a faint sparkle caught his eye, and a laugh drifted— light, almost musical, melting into the room like the last note of a flute. 

He stepped forward before caution could stop him.

The merchant guided Din across the wide room, dimly lit by flickering fire candles, the smoke from exotic incense swirling in intricate patterns above Persian-style rugs. The cushions strewn across the floor were deep and embroidered with Naboo silks; they seemed to float above the darkness, inviting yet alien. The air smelled of sin, and the dim lights of the candles drew glowing pale orange shadows on the naked torsos of the ladies. 

Zeltron, Kiffar, Theelin and other human-hybrid females, dressed in silk and linen, laid across the room, spread over the cushions like dehydrated flowers waiting for the dew. Their garments left nothing to the imagination, and yet they covered them enough to leave a man, regardless of his species, intrigued.

“This could easily cover the debt.” the merchant murmured, gesturing toward the figures lounging on the cushions. One of the girls stood up, and without breaking eye contact with Mando, moved to the merchant’s side, giving him a side hug. “More than enough, in fact.” the merchant continued, wrapping an arm across the girl’s slender waist. “My girls ain’t cheap. I am giving you more than what I had offered in the first place.”

Din’s hand hovered near his blaster. Despite being in a room full of women, a few men (some human, most of them Zeltrons and Kiffars) were there… receiving the pleasures they had paid for. 

Everyone’s eyes, one way or another, landed in Din’s figure. He was used to it, at that point, and he knew the lingering eyes of the girls were curious and not threatening, yet Din’s instincts screamed caution. He checked every man in the room for their blasters and weapons, he took note of the guards standing in the darkest corners, and their rifles. He counted the windows (none) and the exits (just one). 

Din cleared his throat, ready to demand the credits outright, when that soft, honeyed laugh sounded again. He must’ve reacted in some way, because the merchant raised an eyebrow, and scoffed a dry laugh. 

“Oh, I see.” the merchant said, waving the figures back into the shadows. “You have… particular tastes, Mandalorian.”

The Zeltron, still holding the girl by her waist, guided Din toward a far corner, where the candlelight barely reached. Shadows twisted in shapes that hinted at hidden treasures —or hidden dangers. Din followed, every step measured, his hand outstretched and ready to blast off anyone if needed. 

Together, the three of them walked towards another room, more secluded. The chamber smelled of spice, smoke, and something faintly metallic —the trace scent of a blaster discharge long past… or perhaps blood. They smelled the same to Din. 

He didn’t know exactly what awaited him, but in his line of work, curiosity and caution walked hand in hand. One wrong step in a Hutt-controlled palace, and it wouldn’t just be credits lost —it would be his head, no helmet, mounted as a warning at the entrance of the brothel.

The merchant stopped before a narrow archway draped in sheer fabric the color of twilight. Unlike the main chamber, this room was quiet. No music. Just the soft crackle of a single oil lamp and that honeycomb laughter he had walked to, like a spell.

The merchant hesitated for a moment, unsure if to say anything or not, but instead he just opened the door and pushed the fabric aside. Inside, there were no cushions scattered across the floor. No perfumed haze thick enough to choke. Just a small table, a low bed against the wall, and a viewport showing the skies of Nal Hutta covered in greenish clouds.

And sitting cross-legged on the edge of the windowsill, was a human girl.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty standard years. Maybe twenty-four. Her long hair fell in uneven waves past her shoulders, clearly cut with a knife instead of proper shears. Her clothes were simple, compared to her co-workers —a loose linen tunic, trousers too big for her frame, sleeves rolled to reveal wrists ringed with faint bruises. Restraint marks.

She wasn’t painted in oils or draped in jewels. She wasn’t smiling seductively. She had something in her hand (the cause of her giggles) but she quickly put it away when they walked in. She looked ahead, and then turned to meet Mando’s gaze, hidden behind the helmet. Somehow, she managed to stare directly at him.

“This” the merchant said smoothly as he took a few steps towards the girl “is special stock. Rare. Fully human. No augmentations. No pheromone glands. No tricks.” He crouched beside her, fingers brushing her jaw as if inspecting merchandise. She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Fresh acquisition from a man who owed me a lot of money. Claims she’s from some backwater agri-world. No papers. No family.”

The girl’s gaze never left Din’s visor.

“She’s not trained yet.” the merchant added. “Her species makes her expensive, but her condition alone makes her worth far more than the credits I owe you. One hour with her and we would be more than settled.”

Din’s hand slowly curled into a fist.

“How old?” he asked, his voice lower than before.

The merchant shrugged. “Youngest you’ll find of her kind in Nal Hutta.”

Din tilted his helmet slightly. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

The girl's eyes widened. It seemed like Din was the first person to ever speak to her directly, or let alone ask her something so personal, now that she wasn’t a person anymore. But, before she could even stutter, the merchant interrupted sharply, squeezing her arm. “Property designation L-17.”

Din’s visor turned slowly toward him. “She has a name.” he said, matter of fact.

The Zeltron forced a smile, shaking his head, as he put his hands together. “Names are sentimental. And you see, I manage many girls, it’s useless for the stock to remember names and surnames.”

And with that, the merchant took a step closer to Din, and spoke to the girl in the entrance of the chamber, the one who had followed them in. “Give notice at the front desk, L-17 is booked for an hour.”

Din took one deliberate step closer, shaking his hesd. The sound of beskar boots against the metal floor rang heavy in the small room.

“I didn’t agree to this.” he said. “I want the credits.”

“And I am offering you something far more valuable.” the merchant replied, slowly and calm, with a tone as sharp as the blade hidden in his garments. 

Din’s hand hovered near his blaster again— but not out of discomfort this time. He was calculating.

He could demand the money once again, and leave most likely empty handed, best case scenario. He could shoot the merchant and fight his way out of a Hutt cruiser swarming with guards. He could walk away entirely without making a scene.

Or—

“An hour?” he asked, moving his fingers to relax his grip, forcing himself to not grab the blaster. 

“More would be too much. An hour… I understand it is enough time for humans.” the merchant smiled, clearly satisfied. “Assuming, of course, you are human underneath that helmet. I heard most Mandalorians are.”

Din didn’t reply. The Zeltron bowed shortly, and walked to the door. “We’ll see you in an hour” he announced as his girl closed the door, leaving Din and the human completely alone in the chamber.

The door sealed with a heavy hiss. The silence that followed was loud, but it finally made Din relax his shoulders. 

He didn’t move toward her. Instead, he crossed the small chamber, removed his gloves one at a time, and set them carefully on the table. Then, he sat on the edge of the low bed, taking his boots off. After a moment, he leaned back against the wall, helmet still on, arms resting at his sides, trying to get as comfortable as possible. 

He did not look at her. But he knew she was staring, expecting an order. “I won’t touch you” he said at last.

The words sat between them, heavy. To Mando’s surprise, the girl didn’t relax. But she didn’t shrink, either. “You paid for the hour” she said.

“I didn’t pay. The merchant owed me.” Din replied, closing his eyes, though of course she couldn’t see it. 

He could feel her gaze on him, studying him. “You’re Mandalorian,” she said carefully. “That means you have a code.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his eyes, and watched her more closely as she shifted slightly on the windowsill. 

The way she held herself still, the way her breathing evened out on purpose. The lack of fear, or rather her temple-like control of her emotions, made Din raise an eyebrow. Something metallic flashed briefly in her hand before she curled her fingers around it again. Din noticed, of course. 

“Where’d you get that?” he asked, sitting a bit more straight. 

Her chin lifted a fraction. “Get what?” She played fool. 

He tilted his helmet toward her closed fist. After a stretch of measured, skin tight silence, where she realised she couldn’t lie to him, the girl opened her hand. 

It was nothing but a small magnetic restraint clip, bent at the edge and with rough edges— hacked. 

“You’ve been working on that” he observed.

“For three weeks.”

Din nodded, impressed. He imagined most girls, if not all, were held against their will— he had assumed the merchant would’ve had smarter ways to avoid these kinds of situations. And yet, here there was a human girl, with a hijacked clip, waiting for an opportunity to run. 

“That won’t open this door” he informed her, expecting to break her illusion, but her reply surprised him. 

“I know.” She met his visor without flinching. “It opens the service corridor two decks down.”

Now he turned his head fully toward her, standing from the bed. “That corridor leads to—”

“Hangar access.” She finished the sentence. “Or so I’m told.”

Told.

The way she said that, and the slip of an accent —fine and clear like ceramic— made him realize she wasn’t a farm girl. He could hear it in her cadence now, and see it in the straighten of her spine, and the elegant arch of her naked feet. But it was more obvious when you spoke to her, and the way she chose words. 

She was educated, and raised with a purpose much higher than most humans— and definitely not the one the merchant intended of her. 

“You don’t sound like you’re from a backwater agri-world” Din murmured, not sure if he was doing the right thing or not.

She gave the smallest smile. “No, I’m not. And this isn’t my place either— but it’s also no place for a Mandalorian.”

Fair enough. 

Din sat down on the edge of the bed, now closer to the windowsill. “You’re waiting for someone” he said.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

She hesitated, for the first time. But that was just a pause to decide her words. “My people.” She replied at last, something twinkling in her eyes. 

Not family.

Not father.

Not husband. 

People.

That was more than enough to know that she— oh, she was a princess. Or at least nobility. And whatever her heritage was, she was hiding it very well.

“You’re not scared” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment, until she sighed. “I am.” she replied. “I just refuse to perform it.”

Din felt something shift in his chest. It took him a minute to understand it was respect. He hadn’t felt that for someone in a while— truth is, he hadn’t bumped into many people who deserved it. She did, though. At least in plain sight. A noble girl, trapped in a brothel, refusing to break and planning an escape instead of just waiting like a damsel in distress? That deserved respect. 

“Are you going to take me out of here?” she asked, but it wasn’t a plea to be rescued, it was a calculated question, to measure her own plan. 

“No”. Mando replied, and that clearly surprised her. She raised her eyebrows, not a single wrinkle on her forehead as she did.  “I’m not in the business of stealing what isn’t mine.” he found himself explaining— odd for him. 

Her fingers tightened around the clip. “Well, I’m not his property, even if he thinks so.”

Mando swallowed saliva, and nodded. “I know.” He said. She had a point. “I agreed to this” he said finally, voice lower “so I wouldn’t have to kill everyone between here and my ship.” Again, more explanations he wasn’t entirely sure why he was giving— maybe because he hoped she didn’t hate him for not helping her out. “I’ll figure out the credits later. But it was this or bloodshed.”

She studied him, holding herself with her arms. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because if I walk out too soon, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

That earned him the faintest nod. Now she was the one gaining his respect. The Mandalorian was strategic, not hot headed, and didn’t murder for sport.  She liked that. 

Din shifted slightly on the bed, going back to his relaxed pose, resting his back against the bedframe. “You have how long before your people come?”

“It is unknown.”

That made him huff a small laugh. “Then you don’t have a plan.”

“I do” she said, straightening up, holding the chip tight on her fist. “It’s just… delayed.”

Din looked at the bruises, at her clothes, at the bones poking from the hemline of the neck. Three weeks she had lasted, untouched and unbroken, but it was clear her limit was getting closer. If he had been a lesser man, he would’ve been the one in charge to bend that willpower holding her together. 

“You want to get to that service corridor?” Din found himself asking. 

She went very still, her breathing caught on her chest before she spoke. “Yes.”

He sat up. “Then when the hour’s up, you follow me. Don’t run unless I tell you.”

Her eyes sharpened, an eyebrow raised once again. “You’re helping me.”

“I’m helping myself.” he corrected, or rather lied. “I don’t want the merchant to think of me as a partner for business.” A beat of silence followed, and then, once again, Din found himself over explaining. “And I don’t like what this place is.”

That was as close to an admission as she’d get out of him, but it was enough. She slid off the windowsill, stepping closer toward him, but still keeping distance.

“For what it’s worth” she said quietly, “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me— you’re Mandalorian, after all.”

He didn’t respond at that, but his shoulders loosened slightly, almost against his will. Across the hall, distant laughter echoed again. Din glanced toward the door. “We wait.”

The hour did not pass quickly. If anything, they did the opposite. And it got longer with every distant footstep in the corridor that felt closer than it was; with every burst of laughter beyond the walls; with every distant and echoey moan and whimper that reminded them what performance the merchant expected them to be engaging at.

Din checked the time twice in the corner of his visor display. Fifty-three minutes.

She was pacing around the small chamber, not nervously, but thinking. Her linen clothes made a carpet-like sound as they rubbed against each other. “They’ll expect…” She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “They’ll expect signs.”

“I know.” Din replied, although he hadn’t really thought of it. Their gazes landed on the bed, where the sheets laid pristine. Din stood slowly. The mattress dipped as he pressed a gloved hand into it, then released. The fabric smoothed itself almost perfectly.

“Wrinkle them” he said.

She blinked. 

“The sheets.” He clarified. 

She moved without embarrassment now, pulling at the blanket, twisting the fabric, creasing it sharply near the pillows. She tugged one corner loose so it hung unevenly. While she worked on the bed, Din stepped toward the small oil lamp and dimmed it further. The room fell into deeper shadow, making the green clouds on the window glow like emeralds through the window. 

“Your hair” he added, looking at the pale green glow bouncing off of her curls. 

She hesitated only a second before dragging her fingers through it, loosening the waves until they fell more chaotically around her shoulders. But then, she paused, her face contouring into realisation. “I…” She swallowed, with her fingers still tangled on her locks.

“What?” Din asked, turning around to see her composure flickering for the first time.

“They think I’m untouched.”

He said nothing, but he knew her stomach turned just as much as his. 

“If he checks” she continued quietly, more controlled and collected once again, but thinner at the edges, “there won’t be… evidence.”

Silence filled the room again. On his visor, the clock moved a number. Fifty-six. 

Din looked at the sheets. Then at her. Then at his gauntlet. The idea came to mind before he could even process it. 

He stepped past her toward the table, removing one glove. His hands were calloused, scarred with old cuts and burns, many from work, even more from childhood. It took her by surprise to see they were, as least in sight, pure human. 

“I believe this will be enough” he said.

Before she could ask what he meant, he drew the small vibroblade from his boot. He didn’t hesitate, not even a second, when he rested the blade on his skin and made a quick slide across the pad of his finger, shallow enough to heal… shallow enough to bleed. 

She inhaled sharply, despite herself, as she watched how Din pressed his hand briefly against the rumpled sheets, leaving a small, unmistakable stain. It wasn’t dramatic or excessive. It was… believable enough, hopefully. 

He wiped the blade clean against his glove and sealed the minor wound with a small med-seal from his belt. “All right?” he asked.

She stared at the mark on the sheets for a long moment. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Once again, footsteps echoed in the corridor. But this time, they didn’t pass by. 

Din put his glove on and resumed his place on the bed, leaning back against the wall exactly as before —except now the sheets bore their story.

She moved instinctively toward the windowsill again. “No.” Din commanded. When she turned, he nodded to the bed. 

Quickly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, back partially turned to him, hair falling forward over one shoulder. She sat close enough to suggest proximity, but still keeping distance. She clenched the edge of the mattress tightly. Din couldn’t tell if that was part of the acting or not. But before he could ask, the door lock disengaged with a metallic click, and the Zeltron merchant entered with the same perfumed air and calculated smile he had an hour before. 

His gaze flicked immediately to the bed and a smile of satisfaction struck his face. The sheets, the light, her hair, and the stain, all seemed to be doing the trick. 

“I trust the hour was… sufficient?”

Din didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rose slowly from the bed. “It was.” he said.

The merchant’s smile widened. “Excellent. Then our debt—”

“I’m interested in purchasing her.”

Din’s words cut through the room like a blade. Through the corner of his visor, he saw the girl stiffening a bit, still on her spot. 

The merchant blinked for a moment, and then laughed— a short, loud laughter that clearly was the only sound he managed to get out as he processed the request. “I’m afraid she’s not for permanent sale.” The merchant informed. 

“I’m offering triple what you owe me.” Din lied. 

The Zeltron’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “You misunderstand. She is an investment.”

Din stepped closer, voice calm, measured. “Everything has a price.”

Now that wasn’t a lie. And yet, the merchant’s pleasant demeanor cooled by a fraction. “Not this one.”

Din could feel guards shifting just outside the doorway now. The shift was subtle but he picked on it right away, and he hoped the girl was smart enough to pick on it too.  The plan had just tilted.

“She’s—“ Din stuttered, not entirely sure of how to continue, but the merchant interrupted his words. 

“She is leverage.” He informed the Mandalorian. 

Not merchandise, or cargo. Not a gift, or a tool, or a working machine. She wasn’t kept in another room from the other girls because of her price, she was separated… because she wasn’t a girl from the brothel. Hence why the merchant offered her to pay his debt— her abuse didn’t have the goal of a profit for him, but clearly served a function for him. 

Leverage.

Din’s helmet angled slightly. “Against who?”

The merchant’s smile returned to his face, but thin this time. “Now that would be telling.” He said as he gestured politely toward the door. “Our arrangement is complete, Mandalorian. I suggest you depart before additional fees are incurred.”

Din didn’t move. The corridor beyond the doorway felt narrower now as guards grew closer, blasters ready. 

A part of him, a more cowardly side of him, knew he could just walk away with half of a payment and a lot of information. 

Lucky for her, though, he wasn’t a coward. 

Din moved before the guards did.

The merchant’s smile hadn’t fully faded when Din’s gauntlet shot forward and seized him by the collar, dragging him hard into the doorway. The Zeltron gasped as Din twisted him sideways. When the blasters erupted, the first bolt hit the merchant instead of beskar.

Female screams followed.

Din fired with clean, efficient shots. One guard dropped. Another stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, before falling as well. The corridor exploded into chaos. It was clear the guards hadn’t been expecting this, and their hesitation cost them their lives. 

“Move!” Din said, hoping the girl wasn’t waiting for this moment to become foolish. She stepped past the fallen merchant without looking down, and ran to the left. 

Din advanced, firing with measured precision, as he followed her.  They reached the first junction before more boots thundered from the far hall. “Left.” she said. “Service access.”

They slipped into a narrower corridor that was dimmer, colder, and scentless. The decorative walls gave way to exposed piping and maintenance panels. The air smelled metallic— both from blasters and blood. 

As they ran, a bolt scorched the wall inches from her head, making her scream. Din caught her arm and pulled her behind him in the same motion, returning fire without breaking stride. 

“Stay behind me.” He shouted. 

“I am!” She shouted back. 

Finally, they reached the ladder shaft, where two clueless guards awaited. Din didn’t slow, and he blasted before the guards could even draw their weapons. 

The girl took her chip, the hijacked one, and placed it on the door. Her fingers trembled, but it was the only part of her body doing so. And when the door opened, she gasped in relief. “Hangar is forward.” she said, breathing slightly faster now. “But they’ll lock it.”

“Not before we get there.” Mando shook his head. 

They turned the final corner, and ran straight into resistance. Four guards this time. Unlike their previous workmates, these ones were prepared and ready to blast. In a quick move, Din shoved the girl sideways, behind a stack of supply crates, just in time the blasterfire erupted.

The corridor filled with light, his beskar armour making fireworks with each hit of a bolt. One guard went down to a clean headshot. Another to a blast that ricocheted off the wall and caught him in the throat. The third lunged forward, and Din drove him into the bulkhead with a brutal shoulder slam before firing point-blank.

The fourth fled the scene. Din would’ve killed him if it wasn’t for the girl. 

He turned his head to locate her, but lucky for him, she was already moving past the bodies and into the hangar. That made the corners of his mouth lift up as he ran behind her.

They burst into the hangar as the massive bay doors were already beginning to close. And there, waiting, sat the Razor Crest. But blasterfire began to rain down from a catwalk above as they reached the ship. A bolt clipped the edge of the ramp controls as Din slammed his fist against them. 

The boarding ramp began to lower, and she climbed up, but halfway up, a bolt grazed her shoulder.

Din turned and fired upward, forcing the catwalk guards back just long enough for the girl and him to climb up and close the ramp. 

Inside, the Crest felt tighter than ever as he rushed to the cockpit. She followed behind, one hand pressed to her shoulder, though she refused to slow or cry. 

Din dropped into the pilot’s seat and ignited the engines. The hyperdrive couplings screamed in protest, and he silently prayed they cooperated one last time.

“Hangar doors are sealing,” she exclaimed, peering through the viewport.

Din didn’t hesitate as The Crest lurched violently upward, scraping hard along the closing doors. Metal shrieked. Sparks exploded across the viewport in blinding flashes. For a moment —one suspended, endless second, longer than the hour they had endured— it felt like the ship wouldn’t make it. 

And then, they were flying across Nal Hutta’s murky sky. Din steadied the controls, guiding them into thick green cloud cover, and as far away from the brothel as possible. 

That’s when she collapsed. 

By the time you awoke, the sounds of screams and blasters were long gone, and the smell of perfume and incense had faded away. 

The ship was quiet. Not silent —ships were never silent— but quiet in the way the world sounds after a thunderstorm, before birds sing again. Quiet, just like when something stubborn settles after surviving. You noticed the faint clicking of cooling metal, and a low vibration under the floor.

You did not open your eyes immediately, as they were still heavy. That was the first thing you felt. The second was pain. Not sharp and blinding like the moment you were shot-- instead, it was a dull, tight pull on your shoulder. You reached your hand to your shoulder, and recognised the gauze to the touch. As your fingers traveled, you touched something else. A blanket, definitely not soft, or washed, but doing its job.

Your memory returned in fragments, then. The corridor. The catwalk. The bolt. The Mandalorian.

Your eyes opened slowly, at last. Around you, the cockpit lights were dimmed. That surprised you-- the fact that you were still in the cockpit, sitting on the passenger seat, instead of laying on a bed. Outside, the viewport stretched not across the green murk of Nal Hutta, but a velvet, deep darkness, speckled with distant stars.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was. 

The Mandalorian. 

Your saviour.

He was seated on the pilot chair beside you, helmet still on, of course, with an upright but not rigid posture . One gloved hand rested loosely against his thigh, while the other hung near the controls.

You sat upright, straightening on the chair. You shifted your weight, the gauze cold but comforting across your shoulder. Every movement reminded you of the fight, of the corridor, the catwalk, the feel of cold metal under your palms, and the smell of scorched walls. Yet, even with pain lingering, even with the adrenaline fading, there was a sliver of relief that wrapped around you like the coarse blanket still draped across your lap.

The Mandalorian didn’t turn, nor moved. He just spoke.

“You’re nobility.”

His voice was calm, and he didn’t say it like an accusation, just like a fact he had assumed back in the brothel and confirmed a moment ago. 

You let out a slow breath, as a deep weight sunk onto your chest. “Yes” was all you said.

When he didn’t reply, nor ask more questions, you moved, folding the coarse blanket back and swinging your legs slowly off the cot, ignoring the slight pull in your shoulder. The cockpit smelled faintly of fuel, ozone, and oil.

“What gave it away?” you asked, resting your head fully against the chair as you watched the stars. 

“Your accent, and certain words you use--” the Mandalorian explained, his voice deep and rich. Now that you were out of danger and enclosured into the cockpit of the ship, it projected more clearly. “No farmer girl has your vocabulary, and the leverage part… men like the merchant love money more than anything, it didn't make sense he wouldn’t sell you to me. So, I searched databases.”

Your stomach tightened, but not from fear. From inevitability.

“I found inconsistencies.” he continued. “No missing persons report matching your description from any agri-world in the sector. No ransom demand listed through known Hutt channels.” His head tilted slightly. “No public bounty.”

You held his gaze through the visor.

“Yet…” he continued calmly, “three encrypted bulletins were issued through private syndicate networks three weeks ago. Diplomatic bulletins.”

The silence that lingered was deep and rich, and it added more weight to the stone that was oppressing your chest.

“Your father...” the Mandalorian spoke, matter-of-fact. “is the King of Corfai”

“Former King.” you corrected softly, and cleared your throat as you looked away. “He abdicated three years ago, my brother sits on the throne now. But the Hutts don’t care about titles.”

The engines hummed steadily. “The merchant said they took you for leverage” the mandalorian repeated.

“For humiliation.” You corrected, again. Gathering strength, and ignoring the pull on your shoulder, you stood carefully, bracing one hand on the bulkhead. The ship swayed subtly with hyperspace corrections. “They wanted a smuggling corridor across Corfai’s southern hemisphere. A permanent passage with unchecked inspections and protected airspace.”

“For the merchant network.” he said.

“For the Hutt merchant network” you clarified, giving him a look that implied a lot. He is a bounty hunter, you thought to yourself, so he must be aware what kinds of merchandise flows in a Hutt merchant network. Spice, weapons, drugs, and more than just women to feed the brothels. 

“Corfai’s economy is delicate, especially now with these turbulent political times.” you continued. “They believed my father would bend and convince my brother, but he didn’t.” A faint exhale left your chest, although it didn’t lessen the heavy sensation you felt. 

“So they made you disappear” Mando said, but you shook your head. Unconsciously, you found yourself clasping your hands together, behind your pack— an old posture from state briefings. 

“I wasn’t meant to be killed or disappeared. Quite the opposite, in fact. I was meant to be seen, and rumoured about my whereabouts. About my dignity.”

“And then returned damaged” he finished.

Your jaw tightened. “I don’t believe they would’ve returned me, but yes. Hand me back damaged, stained, violated. No longer a princess, but instead a living proof of the Hutt’s power, of what happens when you say no.” 

He paused, and for a moment, you dared to let the heaviness settle without moving. The soft vibration of the hyperdrive hummed through the floor and into your bones. The dim cockpit lights cast long, angular shadows across the panels, glinting off the metallic edges of buttons and switches. Outside, the stars blurred into thin, pale streaks, streaks that seemed to echo the chaos you’d just escaped.

Then he broke the silence. “Are you hurt?”

“Just the shoulder.” You shruggle, holding the injured arm with your hand. “Thanks, for patching me up. And saving me.”

Your manners were not the best, you knew, but it made you feel flustered just to imagine the Mandalorian picking you up, ripping your shirt off, cleaning your wound and then carefully setting you beside him. 

“You’re welcome” he scoffed. “But I meant…” His voice softened, almost low enough to be swallowed by the hum of the ship. “The merchant said you were unclaimed.”

His voice was low, and if he hadn't been wearing that helmet, you would’ve sworn he was blushing as he spoke. “You said you were unclaimed. Is… that true?”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than any blaster bolt had been. You knew what he meant, and for some reason --perhaps owing him your life, or perhaps his religion-- you decided to speak the truth.

“No.”

You looked out the window, into the stars, as you continued. “I was claimed long ago, by a knight who no longer works at the palace. I’ve had many lovers since then.” You didn’t meet his gaze, but through the corner of your eye you saw the helmet move. “The merchant thinks he can tell when a human is virgin or not, when he barely even knows our anatomy.”

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clicks of the ship’s machinery. You hoped he didn’t ask more specific details. 

“Did the lie help?”

“Yes…” you spoke with the truth again. “But it wasn’t going to last long. You came in time.”

You shifted, taking a steadying breath as the hyperdrive thrummed beneath you. The vibration traveled through your chest, soft but persistent, lessening a bit of that heaviness you felt in your chest.

And when you thought the conversation was over, the bounty hunter spoke once again. “Why did you choose the service corridor instead of the main hall to escape?”

“The main hall cameras record to external Hutt archives. The service corridors are internal.” You explained. The smooth, unyielding tilt of his helmet caught the low light, reflecting stars in tiny, fractured patterns.

“You weren’t planning to be rescued” he said quietly, as though verifying a truth he already suspected.

“No.” you admitted, looking back at him. “I tried to keep a low profile, and flee on my own before things could escalate.”

“And now?”

You looked out the viewport at the velvet expanse of hyperspace, letting the stars draw your focus. “Now I need a ship that can move without attracting attention.”

A slight tilt of the helmet, deliberate, made you turn once more. “You’re in one.” he said.

Your shoulders eased slightly. “You realize that if you return me to Corfai, you will not leave quietly, right?”

“I don’t plan to land publicly.”

“And if my father insists on thanking you?”

“I’ll leave before he can.”

For the first time, a small smile flickered across your face, fragile but real. “You could drop me at a neutral system, and erase yourself from this.”

“I don’t abandon assets mid-transport.”

You almost replied back with something silly, like ‘I'm not an asset’, but you knew it'd be pointless. And a lie. You were an asset, a piece of a game, an object for men’s politics. So you just sat down again.

The ship’s hyperspace hummed deeper, steadying the ship’s path, as if sensing the fragile truce forming between you.

“What happens when we reach Corfai?” the Mandalorian asked.

You inhaled, slow, measured, the faint scent of ozone and oil sharp in your nose. “Officially? I was never gone.”

“And unofficially?”

You bit your cheek. “We’ll determine how much of this becomes public. If the Hutts are exposed, it becomes galactic. If it stays quiet… then perhaps we might let it slide.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat in the cockpit, suspended in the silent hum of the Razor Crest. The dim lights glimmered on the smooth curves of metal, on the worn edges of control panels, on the gloved hands resting lightly at your side. Outside, hyperspace stretched, carrying you away from the brothel.

Time moved slowly as the bounty hunter and you traveled through space towards your planet, and the Hyperspace had gone quiet in the way only deep night can feel quiet.

The Razor Crest vibrated softly around you. The lights were dimmed to a low amber glow, shadows settling into corners, the cockpit illuminated only by the wash of blue streaming past the viewport.

You couldn’t sleep.

The Mandalorian had shown you a bed where you could rest more comfortably, the only one in the small ship— his bed. 

You turned in the sheets, trying to pick up the smell left there. The scent, not of his armour, but of his skin. Every time you closed your eyes, echoes of the brothel invaded your thoughts. Long nights where all you could hear were moans and pleasure. Now, those memories mixed in with the scent of what hid beneath the beskar.

You couldn’t sleep. 

You stepped from the bed slowly, your bare feet quiet against cold decking. You took a few steps —it wasn’t a large ship by any means— and found the Mandalorian right where you had expected him, still on his pilot seat, even though the ship was in autopilot. 

“You don’t trust autopilot” you said softly, hoping to not startle him, but he wasn’t asleep. 

“It’s old.” He replied, gloved hands resting on his thighs. 

“So are you.” You joked, taking another step closer. And, to your surprise, he joked back. 

“I’m older.”

You smiled, and stepped into the cockpit.

The air was unperfumed. Nothing like the brothel’s cloying air. And yet, the echoes of the moans continued to run on your ears. You lowered yourself into the co-pilot seat. “Couldn’t sleep” you explained.

“Nightmares?” The Mandalorian asked, making you chuckle. 

“Eh, you could say so” you said with a shrug.

The silence stretched, deep like the black stretching across the galaxy. Not a ship in sight, not a planet nearby. They were so far away even the stars seemed to be out of reach. 

But you couldn't let that distract you. You were on your way to Corfai, to your father and brother, to your duties and responsibilities. To your silk dresses and long hours of work. You had to shift your mind once again, dart it away from the echoes of the brothel, from the scent still trapped on your nostrils. 

“Can I be honest now?” you found yourself saying. The Mandalorian nodded, shortly. “You asked if I was… still a maiden. And I said no. I’d rather we keep that between you and me.”

It took the bounty hunter a long moment to reply, long enough to make you hesitate if the request had been a right call. But he surprised you, at last, when he cleared his throat, and said: “Not my business to tell.”

“Right. But, for nobility, these kinds of things are important.” You replied, perhaps too quickly. You didn’t like the anxiety that was growing on you the closer the ship got to Corfai.

“Why?” 

“Huh?”

When you turned your head, you found the beskar helmet staring right at you, your own face reflected on the visor. You didn’t look happy for a princess that was just rescued. 

“Why is your maidenhood important for nobility?” The Mandalorian asked.  

You had to look away, even if he didn’t. “Well, heritage, I suppose.” You found yourself doubting, even though you knew the reasons. You were taught from birth your body was more important than others, because it had the ability to birth heirs to the throne, to continue the bloodline. That, above all, was your duty and purpose. 

“And… there’s this thing about being… pure. The whole reason I was kept in a brothel and not locked in a cell is because they wanted to take that away too.” 

“But you aren’t pure.” The Mandalorian said, matter-of-fact. 

“No, I’m not” you confirmed.

Your gazes met again. But now, instead of watching your reflection, you forced your eyes to look beyond, to try and spot the human eyes you knew laid beneath the armor. 

You didn’t mean to do it, but your eyes dropped down to admire the rest of the fit-- a big armor, for a big man. Older, he had said. Determined, not hot headed. Respectful. And yet, incredibly dangerous. After all, this wasn’t one of the castle’s knights, this was a bounty hunter who just so happened to bump into you. A man who could’ve abused you if he had wanted to. A man still with the opportunity to do so.

His hand --the one he had taken the glove off to cut his finger for you-- was resting on the control board, but it drifted down slowly, like a snail, to lay on your knee. It was big, heavy, and warm, and his thumb ran soft circles on your exposed skin. 

And when you looked up --to do what? You weren’t sure-- he moved it away, as if he’d gotten a whiplash. 

“Sorry. I don’t want to get it wrong.” he apologized, looking ahead, and straightening his stance --closing his legs, tightening his shoulders, and clearing his throat, his voice more correct now, less warm. It didn’t sound arrogant, nor controlling. 

He was nervous. 

You turned fully in your seat to face him, your legs crossed daintily by your ankles. 

“Get what wrong?” you asked quietly.

The Mandalorian didn’t look at you at first. His helmet remained fixed forward, staring out at the endless streak of hyperspace as if it were the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

“You” he said after a moment. “I’m a bounty hunter.” he continued, voice careful now, measured in a way that felt more deliberate than before. “You’re a princess.”

The way he said it made the title feel heavier than it had when it came from courtiers and diplomats. From them, it was expectation. From him, it sounded like distance.

“You were taken by Hutt men” he went on. “You were kept somewhere you didn’t choose to be. I’m bringing you home.” His fingers curled once against his thigh. “Wouldn’t be right to...”

“To what?” you pressed, hoping, begging on your mind he’d ask what you wanted him to. That he also couldn't escape the moans echoing on his head, that he was also drunk on your scent --not the incense of the brothel, but your own scent, the smell of your skin.

The helmet turned toward you again. And, once again, your reflection stared back at you from the visor, eyes darker now in the dim amber light.

“Mistake your kindness” he said.

That surprised you. “Kindness?” you repeated, a bit disappointed.

“You’re grateful I got you out” he said simply. “That can feel like something else, to other bounty hunters.”

You bit your cheek, a bit frustrated, and leaned back slightly in the seat, folding your arms loosely across your middle. For a moment you watched the faint reflection of his helmet in the cockpit glass, the broad shape of him filling the small space.

“That’s a very cautious way to live.”

“It’s a necessary one.”

You tilted your head. You knew it was necessary-- it was the way you were raised to. But needs were needs. 

“For bounty hunters?”

“For men who wear armor.” he simply said, and something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten. The odor of his human skin, the one trapped beneath the beskar, still hung on your nose.

You let the silence stretch again, long enough that the hum of the ship filled the space between breaths.

Then you spoke, almost in a whisper. “You’re assuming my kindness comes from being rescued, or because of my manners.” The cockpit felt smaller, if that was even possible, when he turned again. “I spent weeks in a brothel…” you continued, your voice steady but low, your gaze fixed on the visor. “...listening to men think they were irresistible because someone was paid to moan for them.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow on the armrest of your chair. “Trust me, Mandalorian. I know what false interest sounds like. This isn’t it.”

You could almost feel the way he was listening now and how his body relaxed involuntarily-- shoulders loosening, legs opening up again.

“So, if I were grateful…” you said, standing up, “…it would look like this.”

The pilot seat didn’t move when you slowly lowered yourself to sit on his legs, straddling him. 

You didn’t move until you got a sign, of any kind, that he wanted this. Lucky for you, it came rather quickly— his hands, gloves on, moved to hold your waist, and fixed your posture on his lap to a more comfortable angle, exactly where your hips and his met. 

But when he spoke, his words shocked you. 

“I’ve never…” He began stuttering. “I’ve never been with anyone.”

There was no embarrassment in his tone. He just said it, stating a fact. It made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“You don’t owe me that confession” you said gently.

“I wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t expect something I don’t know how to give.”

That made your smile soften, and relax your shoulders, even if you hadn’t been aware you were so tense. He was a virgin, probably by Mandalorian code, or perhaps due to his own personal experience. A man so correct, so right, so strict, of course had trouble enjoying himself. It didn’t turn your heat off— if anything, it made you feel calmer. And hornier. 

“Sex isn’t about giving or taking— that’s prostitution. That’s what happened in the brothel. We aren’t there anymore.” You explained, running your fingers lazily up and down his arms, moving them up to trace a slow line along the edge of his collar. “You’re very brave in battle” you murmured.

“Battle makes sense.”

“And this?”

The Mandalorian took a pause, exhaling. 

“This doesn’t.”

It made you smile again. “It will. If you want to” you whispered. 

And, to surprise you again, the Mandalorian’s hands tightened around your waist at your words, almost as if he’d been afraid you would’ve stepped away from his lap. 

“I do.”

You smirked. 

The heat pouring off of your core was already too noticeable to ignore it anymore, so you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, holding on to his frame, as you began to rock your hips back and forth. The fabric of his pants made a sharp contrast between the rough linen of your brothel clothing, rubbing you harsh but determined. And the naked parts of your body —yours hands, your arms, and part of your thighs— felt hot against the cool beskar armour. 

But before you could moan, he did. 

His hands grasped your waist stronger, pushing you deeper into his crotch, making the friction more intense. A moan, mixed in with a small gasp of surprise, left your lips. 

You would’ve devoured his mouth now, but he kept his helmet on, your own eyes reflected on them. “Does it break any Mandalorian code—?”

“Leave that to me” he interrupted before you could even finish. His voice sounded worked up, and breath taken. “You… you keep moving.”

That made you bite your lip to hold on a smile. You kept moving, slowly, in a circular pattern. You felt yourself get wet, dampening the linen of your clothes. 

“You feel anything under your suit?”

“I do.” He growled. That made you speed up just a bit, and rub yourself a bit tighter. The Mandalorian didn’t moan again, but you could tell he was swallowing all the noises down his throat.

“And your gloves?” You continued, pushing the edge a bit. You were eager to be touched by real skin, and to get closer to the scent you’d smelled in his bed— his scent, not the scent of the beskar. “You can touch me”

You didn’t expect much, so you smiled when he actually moved his arms from your waist to remove both of his gloves. The cut finger was the first one to land on your waist again, and you felt the small bump of the healing wound against your skin. 

His hands were big, soft, pale white. And they guided you deeper into his crotch. Your linen garments were ruined by your wetness by now, and through his pants, you felt his manhood grow and harden, rubbing you exactly where you wanted him the most. 

“You’re not bad at this” you whispered.

“I’m armored” he replied, making you laugh softly, and the sound broke the last of the tension between you two.

Your hands slid from his helmet to rest lightly at his collar. “If we go further” you said, gently “we go slowly. And we stop if you want to.”

“Yes.”

He looked steadier now. Not overwhelmed. Just focused.

“I don’t want to rush you” he said.

“You’re not.” You replied, a bit surprised. You were clearly the one rushing him, not the other way around. But this man, this Mandalorian, you’ve come to learn, was too well mannered. 

You brushed your thumb lightly along the edge of his helmet, and he pressed his fingers tighter against your skin, pressing on to your ribs. 

“You’re choosing this?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You chuckled a bit, although it was more of a moan than a giggle. “Do I have to explain why I want to sleep with you?” 

“Yes.” He replied immediately. “I don’t want you to do it because you feel indebted.”

“I know i'm not”

“Or because you think you should.”

“I know I shouldn’t”

“Then why?”

You stopped your hips, feeling his cock hard and pressing against you. You felt like you were drowning in your clothes, and seeing him all dressed, helmet on, made the sensation worse. 

“Because I need to get off.” You confessed, and looked down at the spot where your hips met his, where the fabrics had faint stains of wetness. “And so do you.”

That seemed to settle it.

He nodded once, sharp, firm, like the knights of the palace when you gave them orders. “Then I’m yours” he said quietly.

It made you bite your lip. You would’ve devoured his mouth right there, but there was one thing standing in between. 

“The helmet—?”

“Stays on” he cut you off, immediately. 

You sighed, a bit frustrated. “So I can’t kiss you?”

It took the Mandalorian a moment to reply, as if he was measuring his options. But in the end, he shook his head, sharp, but less firm, like this wasn’t an order he was happy to follow. 

You swallowed saliva, the pool of heat on your thighs now unbearable. “Well, lucky for you I can do other things with my lips” you said, and moved. 

He was about to protest when your hips moved away from his crotch when you kneeled in front of him, and worked your way around his belt. 

The Mandalorian didn’t move— he seemed too shocked for it. But when you huffed in annoyance he flicked your fingers off of the belt, and swiftly removed it. You leaned back for a bit to admire it; watching a man take his belt off was a sight you loved to see. 

When he was done loosening the belt, you continued your job. Gracefully, as to not startle him, you moved your hand, cupping his cock before sliding it in to pull it out. 

It was pale, veiny, and you saw a lot of hair at the base. Pretty good length— not too much, not too little. The tip was a soft shade of pink, and you couldn’t help but imagine that was the same color of his lips, hidden beneath the beskar helmet. 

The bizarreness of it all made you chuckle a bit. Here you were, holding a man’s length in all its glory, and yet you were not allowed to see his face as you lowered your lips, and gently sucked off. 

Drowning the moans was too much for the bounty hunter at this point, and his hiss felt like a victory chant. After all, it was the only way to know he was enjoying it. 

You took your time blowing him. He was a virgin, but you weren’t sure if he had ever been given pleasure like this before, so you made the experience worth remembering. 

Your tongue wrapped on his tip all the way through, and sucked hard, making pressure on his nerves. You removed your lips quite often to spat on his shaft, so your hand could slide up and down smoothly. You felt every vein on his cock pump with each stroke of your hand, and by the time your mouth was reaching the base, the Mandalorian was holding your hair, helmet tilted back, and growling like a beast. 

“I—“ he moaned, clearly out of his control. You moved your lips away, holding to his cock but not stroking it. It pulsed, like a bomb, on your grip. You knew exactly what was happening— he was about to come, all the cum gathered right on the tip, waiting for release. 

“Bed?” You asked as you slowly rose. He nodded, and you almost swore you saw him tremble. 

Smiling, licking his taste off of your lips, you took his hand and guided him to his bed, as if this wasn’t his ship and not yours. 

You would’ve loved to ask about the helmet once again, but you knew you couldn’t push it. So, once you reached his bedsheets, you only slipped off of the linen garments, and rested on all fours, chest pressed on the mattress, ass up in the air. 

You didn’t have to explain to him what to do, although it took him a moment to follow. You felt the tip right on your folds, trying to push in— and even though you were wet, the friction made you flinch a bit. 

“Spit on it, and go slow” you told him. You couldn’t help but moan when, after a pause, a wet and cold spat landed right on your ass, sliding down to your core. “That’s it.” 

The Mandalorian moved the tip up and down, parting your lips, before he put a knee up on the bed, and slowly pushed in. The sensation— the first time a cock slides into your womanhood— was as good as ever. But for him? Oh.

The Mandalorian let out a loud huff, something along the lines of incredible pleasure and frustration to not come right away. He stood still inside of you, before he gathered himself and began to rock his hips in and out. You weren’t sure if you needed to give him any more guidance than this, but he seemed like he didn’t need it. 

For a moment, all the sounds on the ship were his and your moans, growing louder, covering the hum of the ship, the sounds of the windpipes on the walls, the drip of the oil or the purr of the engine. That’s why he took you by surprise when he spoke, voice a bit trembling, but holding together. 

“You said let it slide”  

“Huh?”

“Your kidnapping.” He huffed, hips in and out. “Why wouldn't you want to--?

“Take revenge?” You finished the sentence as he drowned in a moan. 

He swallowed. “Claim justice”

You adjusted your hips, raising them up a little. Your chest rose off of the mattress, letting you breathe a bit more, and talk more smoothly. You swallowed another moan. “Some battles are not worth the fight. My planet isn't in the right position, politically and economically, to face the Hutt cartel” you explained as your hand reached down to rub yourself, immediately tightening around the bounty hunter’s cock. It made him hiss. 

“Aren’t you mad?” He asked. 

“I’m—“ you tried to reply, but the Mandalorian moved his own hand off of your hips to replace your own fingers in your cunt. You held them in place, teaching him exactly how to move them, and where. He was a quick learner. “I’m close”

The political conversation ended right the same way it had started— drowned in moans. You moved your hand away, and the Mandalorian kept his movements perfectly paced, synchronizing his thrusts with the circular movements around your clitoris. 

You turned your head, your lips partially open, holding in the tune of the moans, and saw him naked— all except the helmet, of course. 

His torso was lean, strong, covered in hair. Some spots didn’t have hair, though, and instead had scars. He was pale, very much so, but sweat covered every inch of his skin, and you knew underneath that helmet he was blushed and dripping. 

You knew he was making eye contact through the beskar, because he thrusted harder when you turned to face him. “Would you let me do this back in the brothel if I had wanted to?” He asked. 

“No, definitely" you said, although you didn’t sound that convincing as he pounded you in all fours. 

“Then why you let me now?” 

You rolled your eyes. You knew this was important to him— to know that this wasn’t a mistake, that he wasn’t breaking codes, nor your trust. You knew that he, bless his heart, had never done this, and wasn’t totally aware of the subtle, gentle, swift dance around sex. “Consent, reward“ you moaned, feeling your cunt get tighter. 

“Shit” the Mandalorian cursed, loud, as he suddenly pulled his cock out. You hissed at the sudden loss of contact. “Stop that”  he said.

You shook your head— asshole didn’t let you come. Of course, he had no clue what was happening, he only did so because he was probably about to finish as well, just with the grip of your core. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” You apologized, but raised an eyebrow as you saw him kneel right on your core. “What you what are you--?”

“Close your eyes.” He commanded, and you smiled. He was about to eat you out. Biting your lip, you faced the wall again. Then, the sound of beskar hitting the floor, and a deep breath, told you all you needed to know— he’d removed his helmet.  

“I’ve never done this before” he said, voice raggedy but more clear now that he didn’t cover his head anymore. 

“Remove your helmet or go down on a girl?” 

He huffed. “The latter”

You moved a little in place, and used both hands to spread your cheeks wide, but his own hands covered yours in a second. You removed them, and held tight to the sheets. “Give it a long lick, all across the folds first.” You explained. 

It took a second but then you felt it— the soft, cold, slimy tongue right across your burning cunt. It felt refreshing, like sipping a glass of the coldest and sweetest juice you could find in the galaxy when you are thirsty. Your moans made you vibrate, and you felt him smirk on your sex. 

“Now part them apart, and work your way in with your tongue.” You continued explaining, and he obeyed to perfection. His lips sucked on you, drinking in your fluids. “Once you reach the clit you suck— fuck!”

He’d found it, and he had sucked. 

“You alright?” He asked, parting his lips from your cunt as your knees shook.  

“Don’t stop.” 

The Mandalorian obeyed, and went back to eating you out. His tongue explored every crevice, and moved in and out of your entrance just like his cock had done it before lowering to your clit. It moved up and down, sometimes close to reaching your ass. You would’ve loved to ask him to lick it too, but you didn’t want to push him too much— besides, your cunt was tilting by this point. 

“I need a finger” you murmured, nose buried on his pillow as you inhaled his scent. 

“Huh?” 

“In me.” You clarified. “Do it slow, lick it first.”

You couldn’t help but giggle a bit when, suddenly, his hand was right next to your face. He wanted you to lick his fingers. 

You moved your head a bit to do so, and through the corner of your eye, you saw a glance of him— small ears, and brunette short hair with curls stuck by his sweat onto his skull. But that was about it. 

In your tongue, you felt the small dent of the cut on his finger, the small wound he had taken to himself to free you from the brothel, all because you’ve lied about your virginity. And now here you were, sucking on it, helping him claim his own. 

The Mandalorian removed his hand, now sloppy with your saliva, and you smirked. “You’re naughty, Mandalorian” 

“Din. call me Din.” He corrected, but he didn’t pause to let you process the information. “Now what?”

“Insert them, slow, and when you reach the top, hook them up and move them towards you, like you're calling me” you explained. 

You felt the index and middle fingers slowly get in, sliding with no problem. They were thick, and they easily got all the way in, and hooked like you asked him. It made you shiver as he moved them, calling for another orgasm. 

“Now?”

“Keep eating me too.” You sighed, and moaned louder when his fingers moved faster and his tongue went back to your clit. “Oh my—“

It didn’t take you that long to cum this time, now properly riding your orgasm through his fingers. You felt yourself tighten around them, and you knew he felt it too, and tasted the sweet liquid softly pouring out. 

When he removed his lips, you thought he was just taking a break to breathe through, but he moved his fingers away, and held you by the hips. “Keep your eyes closed” he commanded as he flipped you to lay on your back. 

He barely gave you a second to obey, but he was ahead of it— his hand reached your eyes before your back had hit the mattress. You opened your legs wider, setting them on his shoulders. This time, you didn’t have to give him any indications. 

You moaned hard when he slipped in. You were over-stimulated by this point, and the angle on your hips made his cock thrust even deeper, rubbing against your cervix, making you hiss. His hand, big, rough and sweaty, pressed hard against your eyes. 

“Don’t stop” you begged.

“Wasn’t gonna” he replied, and to your surprise, his voice was just centimeters away from your ear. His breath mixed in with yours when you moved your head a bit. And, still with your eyes covered, you leaned into his mouth. 

His lips were chapped, but the moistness of your cunt had softened them. He tasted like you, but they also had a metallic touch to them, probably from the beskar. You were surprised to also feel hair from a trimmed beard and moustache as well. 

Your hands moved to hold him, to run your fingers on the damp curls, to caress his jawline and feel his beard, to hold on to his thick, strong neck. You were lost, lost in his smell, his touch, his tongue, his cock— so lost, in fact, that you didn’t even realize he’d removed his hand from your eyes at one point to hold your waist, and cup your breasts, and run his fingers through your curls too. 

But his hand returned to cover your vision at the same time he broke the kiss apart in raggedy breaths. “I need to—“ 

“Come? Pull out, then” 

You felt it all, but didn’t see it— his cock moving out of your pulsing cunt, and the hot pool of cum dripping into the skin of your belly. It was hot against your skin, and it came out in small intervals, until it was finally over. 

“Keep your eyes closed” he murmured as he softly stood up, removing his hand from your face, and walking away. 

Of course, you didn’t obey. 

You opened them up immediately to see the mess. His cum, white and thick, was creamy and shiny on your skin. You saw the bedsheets were damp as well. And in between your thighs, just before your leg ended and your genitals started, there was a love bite. 

You couldn’t explore it much before you heard footsteps, and closed your eyes shut again. 

“You can open them” you heard Din speak, his voice a bit drowned now— he’d put the helmet on. He was still naked, but now more freshened up, sweat no longer clinging to his skin. He carried a damp towel, which he immediately used to clean his seed off of your skin. 

He did it slowly, and you knew he was admiring it under the helmet, taking in the scene in front of him.

“How you feeling?” You asked. 

He sighed, and dropped the towel aside as he put his hands on his hips. “Tired” was all he said, and then moved to pull his pants up. 

You smiled, and moved to the side, to leave him room. “Sleep with me.” You said, and chuckled when his helmet suddenly snapped up. “We already fucked, we might as well” 

He didn’t move, not speak, but his shoulders relaxed. He crawled to your side, and laid on his back, stiff like a board. 

Rolling your eyes and smiling, you moved to cuddle him. “This is part of the sex too, Din” you explained, and that made him loosen up, loosely draping an arm around your waist as you drifted off. 

He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.

But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.

I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.

And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.

You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.

The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.

And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.

He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.

Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.

“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.

"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.

You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.

Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.

He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.

But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.

You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”

He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.

It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.

But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.

“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”

His eyes had narrowed at that.

It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.

But how?

You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…

His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.

He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.

It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.

He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.

No one touched her and lived.

His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.

“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”

“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.

You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.

“What’s happening to me, Mando?”

“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”

Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.

Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?

Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.

To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.

They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.

Guards at the door.

One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.

He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.

That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.

He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.

**

It was a trap.

Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.

He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.

But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.

When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.

And they were stood in his way.

So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.

“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”

He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.

But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.

“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”

A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.

Just as the saber ignited in his hand.

**

When he came to, he was panting.

And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.

He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.

Or maybe it was fear.

He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.

Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.

He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.

“I’m not scared of you, Din.”

When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”

His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”

There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.

But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”

Fuck.

He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.

At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.

Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.

He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.

His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”

“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"

"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."

"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."

There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.

He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.

He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.

“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”

You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”

His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.

“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”

But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.

“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”

Shit.

His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.

He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.

He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.

“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”

His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.

“Yes.”

**

It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.

The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.

If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.

"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."

You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.

When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.

Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.

In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.

His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.

"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.

You were lost then.

Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.

“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.

There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”

You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.

Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.

He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.

You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.

The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.

He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.

“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”

But you heard what he left unspoken.

We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.

You would die before you asked him to stop.

Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.

Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.

“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”

He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.

“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.

You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.

The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.

He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.

It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.

He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.

Oh. Oh fuck.

It was a lot.

It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.

You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.

You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.

You would feel him for days after this.

Maybe weeks.

You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.

The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.

“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”

“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”

You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.

For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.

"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."

That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”

His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.

He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.

“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”

He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.

“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”

You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.

Stars, you were soaked.

All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.

It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.

**

You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.

Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.

“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”

You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.

You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.

“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”

He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”

He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.

Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.

It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.

You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,