Let The Past Die

Mandalore had not simply risen from ruin. It had bloomed.

Once a scorched and lifeless world, torn apart by centuries of war and poisoned skies, it now breathed again — hills soft with moss, rivers cutting crystal-clear paths through once-barren craters, and the Living Waters pulsing deep beneath the surface, teeming with life. Mythosaurs had returned, not as myth but as guardians once more, ancient and colossal, moving through the depths in silent promise. The air was warm now, no longer choked with ash but filled with the hum of new growth. Sunlight poured across the horizon in soft golden hues, kissing the rebuilt cities and villages that dotted the land like stars.

The gardens stretched for miles — not only for food, but for beauty. The outsider among the triad, the one who wore no armor, had insisted: Mandalore deserved to thrive, not just survive. Under her vision, orchards bloomed where bunkers once lay. Flowering vines curled around stone archways. Medicinal herbs grew in neat rows beside fountains of reclaimed water. The people hadn’t just rebuilt their homes — they’d built a future.

The great castle stood at the heart of it all.

Its walls were no longer dark with soot and war. They had been reforged and polished, covered in art both ancient and new — frescoes of Mandalorian battles, handprints of children, painted glyphs from every clan that had chosen to return. Grand windows looked out onto all corners of the land, flooding the halls with light and shadow. The air inside was filled with laughter, footsteps, purpose. It was no longer a fortress for one ruler, but a sanctuary for many.

Three leaders.

The clans had voted — a rare and monumental moment of unity — and it was decided: one leader could not bear the weight of all that had been lost and rebuilt. Instead, three had risen. Three houses, united not by conquest, but by choice. House Vizsla. House Djarin. And the House born of neither — the outsider who had given them life where none thought it possible.

Together, they ruled.

Their quarters were private, tucked at the highest level of the castle, overlooking every stretch of land. But the rest of the stronghold belonged to the people. Where war rooms once stood, libraries now rose. Classrooms replaced barracks. Training halls opened to the skies, allowing youth to learn beneath the sun.

The castle’s east-facing balcony had become your haven — not just for its view of the restored world, but for the quiet pocket of nature you’d coaxed into bloom just outside your shared chambers. Pots of flowering herbs lined the curved walls, overflowing with lavender, mint, and native plants rediscovered in the fertile soil. Citrus trees stood in carved stone planters, their blossoms perfuming the warm air. Vines wound up lattice arches, reaching greedily for the sun.

It wasn’t much. Not compared to the massive gardens you’d designed for the people.

But it was yours.

A sacred, sun-drenched corner of sky and soil that belonged to no council, no clan — just to the three of you.

The stone beneath your bare feet was warm.

You shifted slightly on the balcony, adjusting the lay of your skirts as the midday sun bathed the rebuilt terrace in golden light. The wind had softened over the years—no longer a harsh gale from poisoned skies, but a gentle breeze that carried the scent of citrus blooms and ripening grain. You inhaled deeply, letting it fill your lungs.

Below, the garden stretched in lush, colorful tiers: leafy stalks thick with fruit, flowering vines climbing the restored ramparts, and irrigation channels glistening with fresh water pulled from the healed underground springs.

You’d insisted the castle face the east.

You liked the way the sun rose over the horizon, lighting the land inch by inch, painting it gold like the promise of something better. Mandalore had known too many shadows. Too many wars. It deserved light now.

And for once, it had it.

Your hands rested gently on the railing, fingers trailing along the marble edge that hadn’t existed a few years ago—when all this had still been ruin and ash. Now, vines crept along the walls like veins, like life itself had returned to cling to the stone.

This place didn’t belong to you. Not in blood, not in legacy.

But they did.

And they had let you breathe life back into a world that had only known death.

You smiled, closing your eyes briefly against the warmth, letting it settle in your bones. The sounds of the courtyard below filtered up through the air—footsteps, laughter, the gentle hum of children playing near the fountains. The city beyond the garden wall buzzed with slow rebuilding: hammering, voices, song.

And for this one quiet moment, it was enough.

No politics. No clans. No heavy crowns.

Just the sun, and the breeze, and the garden.

And the knowledge that they would come back to you when they were ready.

Until it wasn’t.

Inside the central chamber — the circular conference hall where the leaders of every clan gathered — that peace was fracturing. The room thrummed with tension, voices overlapping like blades.

"You dishonor generations! We held that valley for a century before Sundari fell!"

"And you lost it when you aligned with traitors," another spat, slamming a gloved fist on the table.

"Careful where your accusations land, Clan Eldan."

"Careful? My people farmed that land with their hands for three hundred years! And now it belongs to Clan Ordo? On what grounds?"

"Because Clan Ordo showed up when the sky was still toxic. They bled for that ground."

Paz Vizsla said nothing.

Not yet.

He stood beside Din Djarin, both armored and still, like twin statues in the eye of a storm. Around them, the argument swelled — land disputes, territory lines, age-old vendettas cloaked as negotiations.

"We agreed on unity," one of the newer clan leaders said, voice taut. "We voted for three voices, not a return to old blood feuds."

"Unity doesn’t mean surrender," the elder from Clan Rook growled. "If you give away the lands of our ancestors, what’s left of our name?"

A scoff from another side of the table. "Your name? Or your pride?"

Din exhaled slowly through his nose, gloved hands clenched behind his back. He had let them speak. Let them rage. Let them burn through their grievances. That was the Mandalorian way — pride before patience.

But this was different.

This was ego dressed in tradition.

And he could feel it building in Paz beside him — the way his shoulders squared, the way his thumb twitched against the grip of his belt.

"The land belongs to those who protect it," Paz finally said, low and calm, his voice cutting through the noise like a vibroblade. The room went still for a heartbeat.

Then: "We all protected it!"

The shouting returned. Someone rose. Someone else reached for a datapad. The insult was nearly spoken before Din’s voice sliced across the chamber:

"Enough."

The silence that followed was immediate.

He stepped forward, visor sweeping over the room. "The vote was clear. The choice was made. We are no longer scattered houses clawing at the ashes of the past. You want land? Earn it by tending it. You want legacy? Build it anew."

His voice was low, unflinching. "Mandalore is not a tomb. And we will not turn it into one again."

A few leaders sat back, cowed. Others seethed quietly, glaring but saying nothing. But it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

The next insult wasn’t loud, but it was calculated.

"And what of your third? The one who wears no crest, no helm? An outsider leading Mandalore? What kind of future is that?"

The chamber went deadly quiet.

Paz’s armor creaked as he shifted.

Din’s chin rose beneath his helmet.

Another voice added, "She wears no beskar. She hasn’t walked the Covert. She doesn’t speak for us."

That did it.

Paz stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "She speaks with the blood she’s shed and the land she’s healed. She speaks with the air you’re breathing now, with the food in your stomach and the peace in your children’s sleep."

Din’s voice followed, quieter but no less sharp. "She brought life to this planet when all of you had given up on it. You speak of tradition, yet you sit in a castle she helped restore. You spit on the only reason Mandalore lives again."

Someone muttered, "She’s not Mandalorian."

And Paz snapped.

"She is our Mandalorian. Our riduur. Speak against her again, and I will show you what legacy really means."

There were no more arguments.

Just silence.

Din and Paz exchanged a glance — a silent agreement, both fists clenched and patience bled dry.

They turned without another word.

And with fury etched in every step, they left the council hall behind — the doors echoing shut behind them like the slam of judgment itself.

Their boots struck the polished stone with force, the heavy rhythm of their stride cutting a path through the quiet castle halls. No words passed between them, but none were needed. Not when the anger sat so thick between them. Not when it roiled beneath their armor like fire waiting for air.

The castle guards moved aside. Servants stepped quickly out of view. Everyone knew better than to stop the Mandalores when they moved like this — when they moved with purpose and wrath braided together like cords of beskar.

Up the stairs. Past the great hearths. Past the library alcoves and the sunlit halls, where children’s laughter had not yet faded.

But even that warmth couldn’t touch them now.

It wasn’t until they reached the upper levels, the private wing reserved for the three of them, that Din’s steps finally slowed — just slightly — as if the rage had started to fray at the edges. Paz was still storming ahead, shoulders drawn taut beneath his armor, fists clenched at his sides. But Din stopped him with a hand to the chestplate.

“She’s out on the balcony,” he murmured.

Paz exhaled — more a growl than breath — but nodded.

Together, they moved toward the sun-drenched chamber, toward the open doors that spilled light into their quarters. And there —

There she was.

Bathed in gold.

Their riduur stood barefoot on the balcony, the soft folds of her dress stirring gently in the breeze, her face tilted toward the sun. The garden that bloomed around her stretched like a painting — vines and soft blossoms curled along the railing, fruit trees swaying in harmony with the wind. Her fingers trailed over petals as she moved, quiet and unhurried. The image was still. Peaceful.

Untouched by the violence brewing behind stone walls.

Din’s jaw loosened beneath the helmet. Paz’s hands relaxed from their fists.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

They just stood there, watching her — the woman who had rebuilt a world with gentleness and grit, who wore no armor but carried their house, their people, their future with every quiet breath.

And maybe it was the contrast. Maybe it was the sharp line drawn between that war room and this living sanctuary. But the rage cracked — not gone, not dulled, but shifted.

Din stepped forward first, silent as shadow.

Paz followed.

She didn’t hear them at first — too lost in the way the breeze kissed her skin, in the soft brush of green against stone, in the birdsong that echoed from the hills below.

But then she turned.

And smiled.

Not startled. Not concerned.

Just warm. Just herself.

Din reached for her hand as Paz came to stand behind her, a steadying wall of heat and strength. She tilted her head gently toward Din’s shoulder, sensing something in the quiet.

“You’re back early,” she said softly.

Din didn’t answer. He just brought her knuckles to the edge of his helmet and rested there. Paz’s hands settled on her waist, fingers brushing over the fabric of her dress, grounding himself in her calm.

“They questioned you,” Din said at last, voice tight.

Her smile faded, brow furrowing. “Who did?”

Paz’s voice came low from behind her — rough, protective. “They called you an outsider. Said you had no right to sit beside us.”

She turned then, letting Din’s hand slip from hers as she faced Paz. Her palm came up, resting gently against the side of his chestplate.

“And what did you say?”

Din’s voice came firm. “That this planet breathes because of you.”

“That the peace they live in was built by your hands,” Paz added, gaze dark beneath the visor. “That you are ours. Riduur. Leader. Healer. Flame.”

She didn’t look away.

Didn’t shrink.

She just reached for them both — one hand still on Paz’s chest, the other rising to touch the edge of Din’s helmet.

And then, with that same sun-drenched stillness, she said, “Then they can take it up with me.”

Din exhaled a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

Paz’s fingers curled a little tighter on her waist.

Warm gold faded into soft rose, stretching shadows across the stone balcony, painting the world in honeyed light. The wind had gentled even more, brushing against bare skin and soft fabric like an apology. Like a balm.

You stood between them, still barefoot, still glowing in the fading light, your hands moving with quiet care.

“Let me,” you whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze as your fingers found the release latch on Paz’s chestplate.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t argue.

He just bowed his head slightly, letting you unfasten each piece of beskar with practiced grace. The plates gave way under your hands with soft clicks and muted thuds, heavy metal easing from his body until only the flight suit remained — and even that, you brushed your fingers over, smoothing away the weight of the war room still clinging to him.

Then you turned to Din.

His stance was steady, his head tilted down toward you. And when your hands reached for the helmet, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need to. Not with you.

The helmet came free with a soft hiss of air.

And there he was.

His eyes were already on you — dark, weary, aching in a way that only you seemed to see. You smiled up at him, gentle and unafraid, letting your thumb stroke along his cheekbone. Din leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a breath.

“You’re both too beautiful to hide from me,” you murmured, stepping closer, your fingers brushing back the dark curls at his temple. “Especially when you’re hurting.”

Paz let out a breath behind you. Not a word, not yet. Just a sound — like something inside him had finally been allowed to loosen.

You turned toward him again, lifting onto your toes just slightly to help him out of the last of his upper layers, your palms trailing up the lines of his chest, then down his arms.

You didn’t rush.

Not a single motion was hurried.

Not when you’d waited all day to have them here. With you. Whole.

Din moved behind you, wrapping an arm low around your waist, pulling you gently into the space between them. You relaxed against him instantly, leaning back into the solid strength of his body, feeling Paz’s hands rise to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his eyes searched yours.

He didn’t say what he was thinking. He didn’t have to.

Because you already knew.

And so you rose up on your toes, pressing your lips softly to his — slow, soothing, tender. You poured everything into it. Every quiet thank-you. Every whispered I’m here. Every you’re safe now, you’re mine.

And when you pulled back, Din was there, claiming your mouth in turn — deeper, aching, but still gentle. Still slow. His hands were warm on your hips, Paz’s breath brushing your neck.

Surrounded.

Centered.

Held.

The sun continued its descent behind you, casting long light through the arches of the balcony garden. Flowers swayed at your feet. The air was warm and thick with green and gold.

And the war — for this brief, suspended moment — was nothing but a memory.

You didn’t even notice the way you’d begun to drift backward.

It wasn’t purposeful. There were no guiding hands, no spoken suggestion. Just touches. Just warmth. Din’s fingers slipping beneath the fabric at your waist, Paz’s lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the hollow of your throat.

You stepped back without thinking — just an inch — and they followed.

Din’s palm flattened across your stomach, anchoring you against him, while Paz’s hands dropped to your hips, sliding over the soft curve of your dress like he was rediscovering the shape of you.

Another step.

This time, it was Din who moved first — guiding you with the faintest nudge of his hips, the pressure feather-light, like suggestion more than action. You breathed out, your lashes fluttering as your back grazed the edge of the doorway leading into your chambers.

The stone cooled under your feet.

The light dimmed just slightly, shifting from gold to amber as the suns dipped lower behind the hills. But everything around you — the air, the touches, the way Din’s lips pressed against the back of your neck while Paz nuzzled into your shoulder — it stayed warm.

So warm.

Your steps were smaller now. Slower. But they didn’t stop.

You were melting between them, pliant, fluid, guided by the unspoken gravity of their bodies.

Paz kissed the hollow beneath your ear, his voice low and gravel-soft: “You make the world feel quiet.”

You turned your face slightly, catching the edge of his mouth with yours — not a kiss, not quite, just the press of breath and want and something too soft to name.

Din’s hand slid up between your breasts, feeling the steady thrum of your heartbeat beneath your ribs. “You’re the reason this place is alive.”

And still — no destination spoken.

But your legs bumped the edge of the bed.

You gasped softly, surprised, your hands finding purchase on Paz’s shoulders as Din kissed the back of your neck again, lips smiling faintly against your skin like he’d known where you were headed all along.

You turned then, slowly, your gaze flitting from one to the other.

You stood between them, heartbeat fluttering like wings against your ribs, your dress still clinging delicately to your frame. But not for long.

Paz stepped behind you, his hands finding the ties at your back with surprising gentleness for someone built like a wall. His fingers were calloused, his breath warm against your shoulder as he slowly worked the knots free, loosening the fabric inch by inch.

Din stood in front of you, quiet, his eyes never leaving yours. When the dress slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, he stepped in, one hand brushing down the side of your arm — featherlight — before settling on your waist.

“You always take such good care of us,” he murmured, his voice low, roughened by emotion that hadn’t found a place to land back in that council hall. “Let us take care of you.”

He led you back toward the bed, guiding you gently until the backs of your knees hit the edge. He sat beside you, pulling you into his lap with a soft groan, one hand cupping your breast, his thumb brushing lazily over your nipple until it peaked under his touch.

You gasped, body arching slightly — and that was when Paz knelt before you.

You gasped when Paz lifted your legs higher, his massive hands curling beneath your thighs as he settled onto his knees, thick shoulders braced at the edge of the bed. He let your hips rest against him, your lower half tilted just enough to grant him complete access—your ass barely cradled by the mattress, supported entirely by him. His breath was molten against your folds, a reverent hum rising from deep in his chest before his tongue made contact.

A long, slow stripe. Just one. A tease.

Your back arched immediately, a soft cry breaking free against Din’s mouth as he kissed you through it—deep, slow, savoring. His palm cupped your jaw as he swallowed every sound you made. The other hand never left your chest, fingers toying lazily with one nipple before switching to the other, flicking, pinching, soothing in an endless rhythm of torment and care.

“F-Fuck—” you whimpered, trying to move, trying to rock your hips, but Paz held you still with devastating ease. All you could do was feel.

And then, you looked up.

Din was already watching you—his lips swollen, his brow furrowed with something like awe. His fingers tightened slightly around your breast, and when your eyes fluttered open to meet his, you didn’t even have to say it. He saw it in you.

The plea.

The desperation.

The way your lips parted, swollen and slick, trembling as a moan slipped out around the words you couldn’t form.

He knew.

You wanted him.

All of him.

“I want…” your voice broke off into a breathy moan as Paz’s mouth returned to you, tongue dragging slow circles that had your thighs twitching in his grasp. You whined, chest heaving, lips wet from Din’s kiss. “Please… please, I wanna taste you, too.”

Din’s expression darkened, heat flashing behind his eyes. But still, he stayed composed. Still slow. Still in control. He leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple.

“You think you can take it, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice a low hum against your skin. “With him doing that to you?”

You whimpered—half nod, half gasp—as Paz sucked your clit into his mouth with a low growl, the vibration stealing your breath.

“I’ll be good,” you whispered, already leaning toward him, eyes wild and glassy. “Please… I’ll be good.”

Din exhaled hard through his nose, thumb brushing gently over your lip as he watched you fall apart.

“You’re already good,” he murmured. “But if you want it that bad… open up for me.”

Din’s thumb traced your bottom lip, slow and possessive.

“Not yet,” he whispered, watching your face like a man studying scripture. “You’re close. I want to see you fall apart first.”

You whimpered, fingers twitching where they clutched the sheets, your head tilting back when Paz’s tongue circled you again—slower this time, more intentional. His beard scraped against your thighs as he groaned, deep and shameless, savoring every drop of you.

Din didn’t move away.

He stayed seated beside you, legs spread, body turned so that he could drink in every flicker of your expression. One hand continued its gentle assault on your breasts—fingertips pinching, rolling, soothing—while the other ghosted across your jaw, anchoring you in the moment.

“Look at you,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So desperate. So fucking pretty like this. Letting us do whatever we want.”

You could barely breathe. The pressure in your belly was coiling tighter, your thighs trembling around Paz’s head as he sucked another slow pass over your clit. You cried out, hips bucking—but he just held you firmer, one big hand splayed across your belly, grounding you in place like he owned you.

“You wanna be good for us, sweet girl?” Din murmured, his voice impossibly soft, but so commanding it stole the air from your lungs. “Then come for him. Let go. I wanna feel it when you break.”

Paz grunted against you like he heard it—like he’d been waiting for that permission. His tongue flattened, then flicked. One hand slipped lower, thick fingers pushing through your folds, finding your entrance and easing in with the kind of care that belied just how massive they were.

You sobbed.

Din kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your open mouth, swallowing every gasp as Paz began to fuck you with his fingers—slow, steady, brutal in their depth.

Your moans grew louder, messier. Your back arched and Din held you to him, lips against your brow, murmuring sweet filth into your skin.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Give it to him. Let him taste how sweet you are when you come.”

And you did.

Your whole body seized—hips jerking, mouth falling open in a strangled cry as your orgasm hit, raw and blinding. Paz moaned against you, not stopping for a second, drawing it out until you were nearly sobbing, your legs quaking in his hold.

Din held your face in his hands, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, “That’s my good girl.”

But Paz didn’t stop.

Even as you trembled, even as your breath stuttered through the aftermath of your high, his mouth stayed on you — warm and unrelenting. His tongue moved in slow, reverent circles, licking up everything you gave him as if it belonged to him. As if he’d starve without it.

Your thighs shook against his shoulders, overstimulated and melting, but he just held you closer, hands gentle but firm as he kept your legs spread wide, his low groan vibrating through your core like a second wave waiting to crest.

“Easy,” Din murmured softly against your temple, still cradling your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “You can take it, can’t you, mesh’la?”

You nodded — barely — your lips already parted, eyes fluttering open to look up at him. There was no demand in his gaze, only quiet invitation. His fingers drifted down, guiding your jaw as he shifted closer, brushing his cock along your lips, slow and patient.

“Open for me,” he whispered. “Just a little. I won’t push.”

And you did.

Your lips wrapped around him, the tip resting heavy and warm on your tongue. He hissed softly through his teeth, the hand not guiding your face bracing against the bed as his hips rolled just enough to let you taste him.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice thick, tender.

Below, Paz moaned again — deep, wrecked — as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth never left your clit. You gasped around Din’s cock, the sensation making you twitch in his mouth, torn between whimpering and sucking harder.

“Sweet thing,” Din murmured, one hand settling in your hair, not to control — just to feel you, to ground himself in your warmth. “Look at you…”

You were glowing, glistening, and so utterly taken care of.

Your breath hitched around Din’s cock, the stretch of him still velvety and slow on your tongue. He hadn't pushed — hadn’t needed to. Just let you take him at your own pace, his hand cradling the side of your face, thumb gently stroking your cheek as he whispered your name like a prayer.

Paz was still between your legs — steady, skilled, devastating. He hadn’t stopped. Not after your first collapse, not after you trembled in his hold and nearly went limp with the strength of it. If anything, he’d doubled down, dragging you through the comedown only to start the climb all over again.

His tongue worked in lazy, knowing circles, unhurried but unbearably precise. Every flick against your clit was a tease. Every gentle suck a promise.

You whimpered around Din, eyes fluttering shut, and he groaned—deep and low and reverent.

“She’s close again,” he murmured, half to himself, half to Paz. “Look at her…”

Your body gave a twitch when Paz growled into you, like he could taste it — the tremble beginning again, the heat curling tighter, deeper, aching to burst.

Din was watching you now — not just your lips wrapped around him, but the tiny ways your body gave you away. The way your legs tensed in Paz’s hands. The way your fingers flexed, searching for something to hold onto. The soft hums in your throat that vibrated against his length.

“Gonna give us another, sweet girl?” he asked gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Think you can come again for us?”

Paz pulled back just enough to murmur, voice thick with heat, “She’s already trying to. So fuckin’ good for us.”

And gods, you were trying.

You were unraveling all over again.

Held steady in their hands, used with care and affection, undone by mouths and fingers and warmth and the kind of touch that worshipped without mercy.

You were close.

So close.

And they both knew it.

It crashed into you before you could even warn them.

Your body arched — helpless and weightless in Paz’s grip as his mouth pressed firm and unyielding to your clit, tongue working you through every last ripple. Your thighs clamped around his head, trembling. You moaned, loud and strangled, Din still resting heavy on your tongue as you came again — stars bursting behind your eyelids, toes curling, your pulse stuttering wild beneath your skin.

Din’s hand was on your cheek, soft and steady, holding you as you shook. His cock twitched slightly at the feel of your mouth fluttering around him, and he groaned softly — low and appreciative, not needy.

“Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your brow. “You wanted that, didn’t you?”

You whimpered a nod, breath hitching as Paz slowed his pace at last, drawing lazy, wet circles with his tongue while your body twitched with aftershocks.

Din didn’t push. He never thrust. He just let you hold him — let you breathe around him, let you find your balance again with the weight of him still warm on your tongue and his thumb brushing gently at the corner of your mouth.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Paz muttered, voice hoarse as he finally pulled back enough to kiss your inner thigh, his beard damp and his palms still firm on your hips. “Coming all over my face again.”

The world felt like it tilted.

Not from force — but from how safe it was to fall.

Your body slackened between them, chest rising in shallow, breathless swells as you stayed nestled in their hands, dizzy and bliss-drunk.

You didn’t need to say a word.

They’d given you everything.

And they weren’t done yet.

It took a moment — long and quiet and glowing — before either of them moved.

Paz’s hands smoothed gently over your hips, grounding you as your body trembled through the last of your high. Din leaned forward, kissing the edge of your jaw, then your shoulder, then finally easing himself from your mouth with care.

“You alright, mesh’la?” he murmured, voice thick with warmth and reverence.

You nodded, barely able to speak through the haze. “Mhm…”

Paz rose first, towering beside the bed as his palms slid lovingly along your sides. He didn’t let go as Din shifted back, settling into the pillows, his body long and warm against the sheets. His arms opened for you instinctively.

“C’mere,” Din coaxed softly, guiding you with one hand at your waist, the other helping you climb over him.

You followed — still loose-limbed and pliant — until you were straddling his hips, facing away. His thick length pressed warm against your folds, already slick and teasing. You shivered, leaning back slightly as his hands caught your thighs, steadying you.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take your time.”

Behind you, Paz’s hands caressed your back — slow, open-palmed strokes that calmed more than they teased. His mouth pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, then another at the nape of your neck, his voice rough with praise.

“Look at you… stars, you’re beautiful.”

Your hands braced on Din’s thighs. Your chest still rose and fell in short, gasping breaths, but your body responded — hips shifting, lifting just enough to align yourself with the thick weight of Din beneath you.

Your hips lifted, just enough to line yourself up with him — or so you thought.

But then Din's hands slid up, gliding over the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back. One stayed there, warm and steady. The other... dipped lower. Between your cheeks. Parting you gently, his thumb stroking slow circles while his voice rumbled low beneath you.

“Not there, sweet girl,” he murmured, his cock nudging higher — right against your tighter entrance. “Wanna feel all of you.”

Your breath hitched, and Paz leaned forward from behind, his broad hand stroking up your spine.

“She can take it,” he rasped against your neck, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “She always takes us so well.”

Your thighs trembled, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still fluttering through you. But gods, the stretch you were about to feel… the fullness… your body already pulsed at the thought of it.

Din moved with infinite patience, his cockhead sliding slick through your wetness first, letting your body adjust, coating himself in everything you’d given him. Then he angled upward again, the blunt tip pressing against your rim with deliberate care.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, lips brushing your shoulder as he guided your hips slowly down. “Just like that, baby.”

You did.

And your body opened for him.

Inch by inch, burning and exquisite — not sharp, not sudden, but deep and consuming. He held you tight the entire time, his breath coming ragged, controlled. Paz watched it all unfold, his eyes dark and reverent, hands on your hips as though to anchor you there — to hold you right in that perfect place between surrender and bliss.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect like this,” Din groaned beneath you, voice ragged. “So tight for me… just like that.”

And you hadn’t even moved yet.

But stars, you were already unraveling.

Din’s hands stayed firm at your hips, holding you steady as he began to move beneath you — slow, controlled, every thrust a tender press that stretched you to your limit. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t frenzied. It was a rhythm meant to soothe, to let your body feel every inch of him without overwhelming.

He groaned low with each roll of his hips, his breath shaky, chest rising and falling beneath you. “That’s it… good girl,” he murmured, thumb stroking your spine. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

And you did.

The tension in your shoulders melted with every pass of his cock, the ache in your thighs soothed by the gentle way he rocked into you, never forcing — always offering. You could feel him trembling beneath the restraint, but he never pushed for more. This was for you.

Din’s pace remained steady beneath you, slow and deliberate, each roll of his hips driving his cock deeper into that tight, forbidden space — one hand gripping your waist, the other gliding up your back in a soothing stroke. You could feel the way he held back, the way he moved just enough to keep you grounded in pleasure, not overwhelmed by it.

Your head lolled slightly, body relaxed and trembling in his hold, just as a low whistle broke the quiet.

Paz.

Kneeling in front of you now, watching the two of you like a man starved. One thick hand stroked lazily along his massive cock, slow and indulgent — like he had all the time in the world to admire the way you sat, trembling and open, on his brother's lap.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “So fuckin’ small like this…”

He leaned in, letting the broad head of his cock brush your stomach — right below your navel — and your breath hitched at the sheer size of him. He pressed a little more, letting the weight settle there. The length of him reached nearly to your chest.

“Maker,” he whispered, half to himself. “That’s where I’d be… all the way up here. You’d take it, wouldn’t you?”

His thumb dragged across your skin where his cock lay heavy against your belly, gently marking the spot. “You’re made for this,” he breathed. “So fuckin’ pretty… so soft. You know how good you look stretched around just one of us — imagine what you'd look like stuffed full of both.”

Behind you, Din groaned against your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin. “She’s squeezin’ me,” he rasped, thrust faltering for a beat. “She likes the sound of that.”

Paz’s eyes darkened as he leaned closer, voice like honey-drenched gravel. “You like that idea, cyar'ika? Want me to fuck you while he’s already buried deep? Want to feel both of us inside this perfect little body?”

Your breath stuttered, the pleasure simmering hotter under your skin.

You didn’t even need to answer. Your body did it for you — twitching, tightening, trembling.

Din’s rhythm beneath you never faltered — slow, deep thrusts that massaged that tight inner channel with reverence, coaxing your body to stay relaxed, to open just a little more with every pass. His hands gripped your hips, grounding you against him, letting you feel every inch, every pulse of him buried where he wasn’t supposed to be — and gods, it felt perfect.

Your moans were soft, breathless, nearly broken. Until you felt Paz’s hand ghost along your inner thigh.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice like thunder turned velvet. “I’ve got you, mesh’la.”

You barely had time to brace yourself before you felt it — the warm, broad tip of him nudging at your soaked entrance. He paused there, one massive hand bracing your belly as his other hand stroked along your ribs, steadying you, comforting you, worshiping you.

Din's voice was low in your ear, lips brushing your temple. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just breathe. Let him in.”

Paz exhaled hard through his nose. “Fuck, she’s tight—”

He didn’t shove, didn’t rush. Just a slow, intentional roll of his hips, easing the thick head of his cock into your already dripping cunt, parting you with a stretch so slow, so intimate, it pulled a whimper straight from your lungs.

Your head tipped back against Din’s shoulder, lips parted in a silent gasp as Paz slid in deeper — still not all the way, just enough to make your thighs quake and your stomach flutter.

“That’s it,” Din soothed, his hand drifting up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple in lazy strokes. “You’re taking both of us so fucking well.”

Paz stilled for a moment, letting you feel just how much you were holding already. His forehead rested against yours, eyes drinking you in. “You tell us if it’s too much, baby,” he whispered. “But I don’t think you want us to stop.”

You couldn’t speak — didn’t need to.

Your body answered for you, hips twitching forward in invitation.

And both men groaned, hands gripping tighter, already drowning in you.

You felt the first shift of their bodies before you heard it — the subtle creak of the bedframe, the low hiss of breath from between Paz’s teeth as he rolled his hips just a little deeper into you. Din answered with a firm hand around your waist, his thrusts remaining slow, steady, coaxing your body to adjust, to welcome both of them.

Your mouth opened on a gasp, but Paz was already there — ducking forward to press a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your parted lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he murmured, voice wrecked and full of awe. “Wrapped around us. Taking us like you were made for it.”

You whimpered into his mouth as he kissed you again — deeper this time, more open, more wanting. His lips moved with yours, warm and coaxing, like he was trying to pour his affection straight through your mouth and into your bones. His tongue teased yours, slow and searching, while his hand stroked the side of your face with surprising gentleness for someone so broad, so overwhelmingly built.

Din’s fingers squeezed at your hips, grounding you with each drag of his cock into that impossibly snug channel. “That’s it,” he breathed against the shell of your ear, watching the kiss unfold with a possessive sort of pride. “Let him kiss you. You’ve earned every bit of that.”

Paz chuckled softly into your mouth before breaking the kiss, resting his forehead to yours. “Not stopping, mesh’la,” he promised as he started moving again, just the smallest shift of his hips. “Not until I feel you come all over me.”

The stretch, the pressure, the feeling of them beginning to move in sync inside you — it was too much and not enough, the kind of pleasure that built slow and unbearable in your belly, your chest, your throat.

And the soft brush of Paz’s lips on yours again—gentle, needy, loving—was somehow the thing that undid you most of all.

Paz shifted slightly, keeping his strokes deep but controlled, one massive hand sliding between your bodies as he searched for that swollen little bud already slick and pulsing from everything they’d done to you tonight.

“Can’t forget this, can we?” he murmured, the pad of his thumb circling it in slow, deliberate motions. “You’re already so sensitive, mesh’la. Bet this’ll make it even better.”

You gasped — a sharp, needy sound muffled only by Din’s palm now stroking slow along your side. His other hand rested on your stomach, feeling every inch of Paz moving inside you, his own rhythm still dragging deep behind you in your other entrance.

You were surrounded. Owned. Loved.

“Doing so good,” Din murmured from behind, voice tight and reverent as he shifted his hips again, nudging deeper. “Just feel us. Let go, baby.”

Paz leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, thumb now rolling tighter circles over your clit, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure.

“You’re takin’ us so damn well. You feel that? That’s me right there… and him—fuck—you’re full of us.”

He groaned softly at the sight of your thighs trembling, your mouth falling open, your eyes fluttering shut in overwhelmed bliss.

His strokes stayed slow, precise, but his thumb never let up, teasing that tender, aching place until the heat curled inside you all over again — unbearable, pulsing, ready to spill over.

“You gonna come for us again, cyare?” he whispered, kissing your cheek as he kept working you. “Gonna let us feel you fall apart?”

Your breath hitched as their pace began to shift—subtle at first. Din’s hands gripped your hips a little tighter, guiding your motion back onto him as he thrust upward with more purpose, the angle hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Paz groaned behind gritted teeth, his strokes into your dripping cunt growing heavier, deeper, his hips rolling in perfect counter to Din’s.

The stretch, the fullness, the relentless pressure of it all—it was too much and not enough.

“Fuck,” Din rasped, his voice low and broken with restraint. “You feel that, sweetheart? Every inch of us in you… you’re so damn tight like this.”

Paz’s thumb never stopped working your clit, and the way his hips began to meet yours now—grinding, thrusting, claiming—had you seeing stars behind your eyes. You reached forward, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body rocked with theirs, helpless to stop the growing fire inside you.

“You’re shaking, baby,” Paz murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. “So close again, aren’t you? You gonna come for us?”

“Please,” you whimpered, breath hitching on a sob. “I—Paz, Din—I can’t—”

Din’s palm slid up your spine, his breath hot against your shoulder.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “You will.”

And then they moved together—deeper, faster. Paz’s hips snapped forward as Din thrust up into you from behind, and the sensation of both of them, synced and relentless, pushed you right to the edge.

You cried out, back arching, every nerve ending sparking as they drove you toward your next release, tension coiling impossibly tight as their rhythm pounded into your core.

“Come on, cyar’ika,” Paz urged, voice frayed, “Let go. Give it to us. Show us how good we make you feel.”

Din was behind you, bare and steady, his hands gripping your hips with reverence, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin as he moved inside your tighter heat. The strength in his arms kept you grounded, held, secure — even as his pace quickened, coaxed by the soft, broken sounds spilling from your lips.

His breath was hot against the nape of your neck, lips parted as he whispered low, heady praises just for you.

“That’s it, cyar’ika,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “So perfect like this. Wrapped around me… takin’ all of me so good.”

Paz was in front of you — towering, solid, kneeling between your legs as he pushed deeper into your slick, swollen cunt. One broad hand cupped your lower belly, palm spread wide, feeling the swell where they both filled you completely. His other hand worked slow, precise strokes over your clit, circling with just enough pressure to keep your body fluttering at the edge of release.

“Look at you,” he rumbled, watching your face with a hunger softened by devotion. “So little… but takin’ us both. Me and him. Just like you were made for it.”

You whimpered, spine arching under the weight of it — the rhythm of Din’s hips behind you, the way Paz’s girth stretched you open in front. Every muscle in your body trembled, straining between their bodies, your lips parted on a gasp.

“Gonna fill you up,” Din groaned, his voice unraveling. “Gonna watch your belly swell, nice and round… make you ours. Our riduur. Our future.”

Paz leaned closer, his forehead touching yours as he smiled, soft and reverent despite the rough edge in his voice.

“You’ll grow strong sons,” he said, thumb sweeping over your clit again. “Big and proud, just like us. And daughters with your heart. Gonna build a clan from your womb, mesh’la. From love. From strength.”

That was what undid you.

The promise of it. The image. The way they spoke it like a vow — not just lust but legacy. You cried out, the sound caught between a sob and a moan as your body seized, locked tight in their hold. Your orgasm hit with blinding heat, your walls clenching down around both of them, fluttering with each pulse of pleasure.

Din’s grip on your hips tightened, his breath catching just before he buried himself deep with a guttural sound — head tilted back, jaw slack with bliss. His seed spilled inside you in hot, possessive waves, and still he held you like you were something fragile and sacred.

Paz wasn’t far behind.

Your release had triggered his own — his rhythm stuttering, hips thrusting once, twice more before he groaned your name into your throat. You felt the warmth of it — his thick, endless flood joining Din’s, your body filled to the brim with them both.

For a moment, the three of you were frozen.

Panting, trembling, held together in the softest kind of storm.

Then Paz leaned down, kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips, his voice warm against your skin. “You were made to carry us. To build something bigger than war.”

Din pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then the curve of your spine, and whispered, “We’ll give you everything. A whole clan. A home. A legacy.”

Their stress, their anger, the heavy weight of leadership — it had all melted off, poured into you with love and purpose. You had grounded them. Healed them.

And now they would build a world with you — one heartbeat at a time.

No one moved.

Not right away.

Your body trembled in their hold, soft little aftershocks pulsing through you as Din’s hands loosened just enough to soothe instead of grip. His chest pressed to your back, breath warm against your skin, lips brushing lazy, lingering kisses along the slope of your shoulder.

He was still inside you, nestled deep, the fullness of him making you ache in the sweetest way. He made no move to pull out, and you didn’t want him to. Not yet. The way he held you — tender, possessive, grounded — it felt like safety itself.

Paz’s broad frame hovered just in front of you, his cock still thick and buried deep in your slick, overstimulated core. His hands had wandered from your waist to your thighs, then your hips, then your stomach — stroking, grounding, claimingwith each gentle pass of his palm. He leaned in again, lips ghosting over yours, not kissing — just breathing with you. Matching your inhale. Calming your exhale.

You whimpered softly when Din shifted behind you, hips rolling ever so slightly. He whispered a gentle apology against your spine, but didn’t pull away. His voice was low, wrecked and reverent.

“Still with us, sweet girl?”

Your nod was faint. Your voice was smaller. “I don’t want to move.”

Paz smiled against your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

For a few moments longer, you stayed like that — strung together in a perfect, breathless silence. Their cocks still inside you, twitching occasionally with the lingering echo of release. Their touches soft now — lazy trails of fingertips along your thighs, your ribs, your belly, their palms firm against your skin like they needed to be certain you were real. That you were still there. That this moment hadn’t slipped away.

Paz let his forehead rest against yours, lips brushing against your temple. “You took us so well, cyar’ika. Both of us. You were perfect.”

Din pressed another kiss between your shoulder blades, his voice more hushed this time, almost like prayer. “Made for this. Made for us.”

The air smelled like sweat and earth and warmth — like sex and salt and something deeper, something older. Something like home.

Neither of them pulled out. Neither of them wanted to break the spell.

And nestled between them, stuffed full and held gently, neither did you.

Din was the first to move — barely.

A small shift of his hips, a slow exhale through his nose, one hand splaying wide across your stomach while the other slid around your ribs to hold you steady. He didn't pull out all at once. He didn’t need to. He just eased back an inch, then paused, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You okay?”

You nodded weakly, breath still unsteady. “Mhm.”

He kissed your shoulder again. “Talk to me, cyar’ika.”

Your voice cracked just a little. “I feel full.”

Paz chuckled softly from in front of you, still inside you himself, one hand stroking up and down your side with the gentlest touch. “You are, mesh’la. Filled right to the brim.”

Din’s hands massaged slow, soothing circles over your belly and hips. “We’ll take care of you, alright? Always.”

Only when you gave a soft hum of reassurance did he finally ease out, moving with deliberate care — like pulling away from something holy. He helped guide your hips forward, pressing a kiss low on your spine as he withdrew completely, then moved to the side, keeping a warm hand on your back.

Paz stayed for just a moment longer.

His forehead rested against yours again, his voice husky and warm.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured. “I’ll move real slow.”

He did.

Even with his size, even after all the pleasure he’d wrung from you, he withdrew with reverence — not a drop of arrogance in the movement. Just soft patience, a silent promise not to hurt you, not to rush you, not to leave you wanting for anything.

When he finally slipped free, your breath hitched. Not from pain. From loss.

And they both felt it.

The room was still thick with the heat of your shared bodies, skin slick with sweat, muscles trembling from the aftershocks. But neither of them left you—not completely. Din’s hands stroked slow patterns across your lower back while Paz pressed kisses into your shoulder, the center of your spine, the top of your head.

“You did so good for us,” Din murmured, voice low and warm in your ear. “You still with us, mesh’la?”

You gave a soft hum, too boneless to do much more.

Paz’s hand ran soothingly down your side. “Think she needs a bath,” he rumbled, already moving to rise. “C’mon, cyar’ika. Let us take care of you.”

You barely nodded, pliant as Paz swept you into his arms without effort, one arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back. Din followed close behind, palm pressed to your thigh, grounding you as they crossed into the bathing chamber — the stone floors warm beneath their feet, the air rich with the faint scent of dried herbs and oils.

The bath had already been drawn — likely earlier that day by one of the keep’s attendants — but Din moved to refresh it anyway, turning the gilded faucet to add another stream of steaming water. A few drops of calming oil followed, and soon the surface was dancing with gentle ripples and soft citrus-lavender mist.

The tub itself was massive, a custom build the three of you had designed when the castle was restored — deep enough to submerge, wide enough for three bodies to relax in comfort, sculpted from smooth obsidian and lined with golden fixtures. Everything about it had been crafted with intention. For rest. For healing. For you.

Paz lowered you into the bath slowly, letting the water rise inch by inch across your skin, one hand never leaving your back. Din stepped in behind you, settling into the curved edge with his arms out wide — an invitation you instinctively leaned into. Your back met his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist.

Paz followed, sliding in at your front with a deep groan as the heat enveloped him. One of his hands found your thigh beneath the water, the other coming up to cup your cheek.

“You alright, baby?”

You opened your eyes, just barely, and gave a dazed smile. “Perfect.”

Din pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re everything.”

Paz nodded in quiet agreement, brushing damp hair from your face. “You’re the reason we breathe peace.”

They didn’t ask anything of you now. Just held you. Just touched. Din rubbed slow circles into your hips, occasionally dipping a hand beneath the water to draw a gentle caress up your stomach. Paz kept his forehead pressed to yours for a while, eyes half-lidded as he traced the outline of your jaw.

For a long time, the three of you didn’t speak.

Just the soft sound of water lapping against skin, the occasional sigh, the slow return of breath to normalcy.

And then, when your head started to dip a little more with each passing second, Din whispered, “She’s falling asleep.”

Paz smiled. “She earned it.”

The water lapped quietly around the edges of the great stone tub, steam curling into the air like smoke trailing from the end of a long, exhausting battle. Din’s arms were still wrapped securely around your waist from behind, his chest a solid anchor to lean against. Paz had shifted just enough to cradle one of your legs in his lap, big hands kneading lazily at your calf beneath the surface.

Your head rested on Din’s shoulder, eyes fluttered half-closed — but not entirely gone. Not yet.

It was a soft moment. A calm one.

And it made space for the question you’d been holding back, even as you melted into them.

“…How bad was it?”

Your voice was quiet. Not scared. Just… aware. You hadn’t needed to be in that war room to feel the fury radiating off their bodies when they found you. It had come with them like storm clouds clinging to their armor.

Din hummed low behind you, his nose brushing your temple. “Bad enough.”

Paz exhaled, the sound deep and tired, one hand rising to trail along your thigh now. “Old wounds. New pettiness. They talk about unity, but they’re still clawing for scraps of land and titles like they mean something.”

You turned slightly toward him, enough to catch the frustration that lingered behind his eyes. “What started it?”

“Us,” Paz said plainly. “You.”

Your brows drew in.

Din’s hand moved up, fingers gently splaying over your belly like he needed the reassurance of your presence. “You being in power with us still rubs some of them wrong. They don’t care that you helped rebuild this planet. They don’t care that you’ve given them peace, food, water. You don’t wear beskar, so they think you haven’t earned your place.”

“But I’m not leading them alone—”

“They don’t care,” Paz interrupted, not harsh, just honest. “They’re scared of change. Scared of what it means to let someone like you—someone who speaks gently instead of with a blade—have a voice that matters.”

You swallowed.

Din kissed just behind your ear. “They don’t understand that we’d burn that council to the ground before we let them take you from it.”

“They questioned your right to rule,” Paz added, voice low with lingering heat. “Called you soft. Called you outsider. I’d have cut the tongue from one of them if Din hadn’t stopped me.”

That made you look up, blinking at Din. “You stopped him?”

He smirked slightly, the first real crack of warmth since the meeting. “Only because I wanted to be the one to knock the next idiot’s teeth in.”

You laughed softly, a sound that broke the tension like light through smoke.

“They’ll come around,” you murmured, nudging your nose against Din’s jaw. “Eventually.”

“And if they don’t,” Paz said, brushing a thumb along your ankle, “they’ll still bow to what we’re building. They’ll see it grow strong — grow real — and they won’t be able to ignore it.”

You shifted then, moving just enough to reach a hand out, pressing your palm to Paz’s chest. “You two make it real.”

Din kissed your shoulder. “You make it real.”

Another pause, this one heavy with something unspoken. Then Paz leaned in, pressing his lips to your damp forehead, lingering there.

“We’ll always come back to you,” he whispered.

You let your eyes fall shut again, your fingers tracing small patterns over Paz’s heart as Din’s hands smoothed up and down your sides. The tension still flickered in both of them — but it was dull now, softened by your presence, by the bath, by the way they were both anchored to you.

By the time silence returned to the room, it wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was healing.

The water had gone still long ago.

Now it clung to skin in glittering beads as they rose from the bath together, reluctant to leave the warmth but soothed enough to follow the pull of each other rather than the pull of gravity. Din reached first for the soft woven towel set aside just for you — drying you with a gentleness that said he was still coming down from battle mode. His hands moved slowly over your shoulders, down your arms, catching droplets from your collarbone with his mouth more than once just to hear your breath catch.

Paz followed, dragging a larger towel across your back, one massive palm spreading heat as he helped smooth it down your spine. His voice was gone, spent on earlier fury and later praise, but his eyes stayed locked on you — quiet, grateful.

By the time you stepped onto the plush rug beside the tub, your limbs were loose and pliant, and they didn’t speak when Paz bent and hooked one arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned into his chest and felt Din’s hand steady you from behind.

The walk to the bed was slow. Sacred.

The castle halls, usually filled with movement, had fallen into hush. The light from the tall windows had dimmed into the cool blue of evening, and the distant gardens glittered with lantern glow and starlight.

When Paz laid you down in the center of the vast bed — one built to fit three, always — you reached instinctively for him, curling into his side, cheek pressed against his chest.

Din followed, sliding in behind you, his bare chest flush to your back, one arm wrapping low around your waist as he pulled the covers over all three of you with the other.

No armor. No titles. No war.

Just warmth.

His nose found the soft curve of your neck. Paz’s hand settled over your thigh, a protective weight.

Your fingers found both of theirs beneath the blanket, and without words, they closed around yours.

Sleep didn’t come all at once. It came in waves — breath softening, heartbeats syncing, the press of familiar bodies anchoring you all to the moment. A moment that wasn’t built on blood or fury.

Just peace.

And the knowledge that you had built it together.

You weren’t sure who fell asleep first.

Maybe it was Din, his breath evening out against the slope of your neck, the strong line of his arm still wound around your waist like he couldn’t quite let go — not even in sleep. Maybe it was Paz, his chest a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, one hand absently stroking your thigh as though muscle memory alone kept him tethered to you.

Maybe it was you.

Drifting between them, skin still warm from the bath, soul still pulsing with the weight of everything they’d poured into you. But here, in the hush of your shared bed, there was no more need for performance. No more sharp edges, no more titles, no more commands.

Just the soft press of two hearts against yours.

Outside, the winds whispered through the upper balconies. Somewhere below, the night birds had begun to sing — soft, low notes that echoed across the gardens you’d brought back to life. Mandalore was quiet now, not in ruin, but in rest.

Paz shifted slightly beneath you, a protective arm curling tighter.

Din hummed, a sleepy sound, and pressed one last kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Stay with us,” he murmured, barely more than a breath.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.

You meant it.

Not when the world you helped rebuild was finally at peace.

Not when your clan — your strange, beautiful, fierce little family — held you like the most sacred thing they'd ever known.

And in the warmth of their arms, with hearts beating slow and sure beside you, sleep came like a promise.

The morning sun filtered through the loft window, soft and golden—oblivious to the fact that you’d declared war sometime around 3 a.m.

You woke up draped in his sheets, satisfied and smug, the echo of your own moans still lingering in the air like smoke. You hadn’t bothered being quiet.

Because the point was for him to hear it.

For him to know exactly what he left behind.

And now? Now you are going to dress the part.

You climbed out of bed, showered, and pulled on your last clean pair of jeans. A fitted tank. Easy. Comfortable. But not enough.

You padded over to the corner where his laundry basket still sat half-unfolded—grabbed the same soft flannel he’d worn two nights ago, the one that still smelled like engine oil and aftershave and sweat. And you shrugged it on like it was a dare.

“Next time you come down in my clothes, make sure you’re ready to earn it.”

His words echoed in your head.

You smiled at your reflection. Fine. Let’s see how ready you are to take it, then.

You cuffed the sleeves. Left the top buttons undone. Let the collar hang off one shoulder in that perfectly effortless way that would infuriate him.

And then you went downstairs.

Kylo was already working—shoulders tense under the hood of some beat-up Dodge, sweatpants slung low on his hips, jaw tight.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at him.

Just walked right past like nothing happened. Like the sound of your moaning his name hadn’t bounced down the loft stairs like a ghost haunting the walls.

But as soon as you stepped through the doorway into the office, you felt it.

That stare.

Hot. Focused. Unyielding.

He didn’t call after you. Didn’t bark some order or snarky comment. But you knew—without a doubt—that he was standing there behind the car, eyes glued to the swing of your hips, the hem of his flannel, the slight imprint of your nipples through your tank.

You didn’t glance back. Didn’t flinch. Just let the door swing shut behind you and went straight for the desk like it was any other morning.

You slid into the chair, adjusted the flannel at your shoulders, and started working.

Invoices. Parts logs. Vendor emails from some janky Yahoo account you still hadn’t bothered cleaning up. You clicked through each one with practiced boredom, as if you hadn’t been practically feral under his hands twelve hours ago.

Your thighs pressed together on instinct.

But you ignored it.

You had a job to do. Technically. Whatever this was.

You heard a soft clang from the garage—a wrench dropped harder than necessary. A hissed curse. Footsteps pacing past the office window.

He was close.

Watching, maybe.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

Instead, you tugged the flannel tighter around yourself, like it belonged to you. One leg crossed over the other. Your foot bobbed lazily under the desk as you returned to sorting paperwork he should’ve cleaned up months ago.

The stack of invoices was still a mess. The printer tray was still jammed. And his schedule was, somehow, double-booked for Tuesday.

You made a little noise under your breath—half annoyance, half amusement—and muttered, “Jesus Christ, it’s like a toddler runs this place.”

You didn’t mean for it to carry.

But it did.

And from the other side of the thin garage wall, something went very, very still.

Good.

Let him stew.

You clicked a pen. Jotted a note. Leaned back in the chair and opened a new spreadsheet.

All without so much as acknowledging him.

Because the war wasn’t in words now. It was in silence. And you were winning.

The deeper you got into his email, the worse it got.

Unread messages stacked into the triple digits. Half of them flagged. Most with no subject line. One labeled simply “Part?” from two months ago. You scrolled, eyebrows lifting higher with every page.

“Jesus,” you muttered, dragging the mouse across a dozen spam offers for off-brand carburetors and erotic car calendars. “You’ve got a PhD in ignoring shit.”

You started unsubscribing. Sorting. Deleting. Every click was another little stitch in the tapestry of chaos he’d built and ignored.

The satisfaction? Immaculate.

You didn’t hear the bell above the garage door at first.

But you did hear the voice.

“Afternoon.”

Your stomach dropped. Then twisted.

You looked up.

Tucker was standing in the doorway again—shoulders relaxed, grin already halfway formed, and a fresh white tee stretched across his chest like it had been put on just to be noticed.

He looked even more pleased with himself than yesterday.

“Don’t suppose the new office manager’s still around?” he asked, eyes scanning the room before landing on you—seated, composed, draped in flannel that was very clearly not your own.

His smile widened.

“Well hey there, darlin’.”

You kept your expression neutral.

But only just.

“You’re back,” you said, not quite a question.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he replied, sauntering closer. “Still need that tire rotation. But I’ll admit… might’ve been hoping you’d be the one to check my pressure.”

You blinked slowly. “Wow.”

He chuckled. “Too much?”

“Little bit.”

But you didn’t shut it down.

Not immediately.

Because his gaze dropped to the flannel then trailing the way it slipped off your shoulder, eyes lingering on the line of hickeys blooming across your neck and chest.

It looked unmistakably borrowed. And even more unmistakably his.

He tilted his head. “That his?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The door to the garage slammed open.

Kylo’s boots hit the floor heavy. Purposeful. No announcement. No pretense.

Just presence.

He walked past the desk without looking at you—straight to where Tucker stood—and stopped just close enough to make the air go sharp.

Tucker gave a tight smile. “Still doing rotations?”

Kylo didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked him over like he was measuring how deep he’d need to dig the grave.

“Appointment’s at eleven,” he finally said.

“It’s ten thirty.”

Kylo turned slowly. Looked at the office clock. Then back at him.

“Then you can wait.”

You sat perfectly still for a beat.

Then—casually, almost sweetly—you pushed back from the desk and stood, smoothing the front of Kylo’s flannel like it was some apron in a 1950s kitchen. You didn’t glance at the man fuming just a few feet away.

You looked right at Tucker.

“You want some coffee while you wait?”

He grinned, instantly charming. “I’d never say no to a beautiful woman offering me caffeine.”

“Good answer,” you said, already turning toward the dusty coffeemaker tucked into the corner of the office.

You felt Kylo’s stare on your back like a second sun.

Every step you took was intentional. Every movement is deliberate.

You opened the cabinet. Reached high—just enough that the flannel rose up your back, flashing a sliver of skin as you grabbed a mug. Poured. Stirred. Hummed under your breath like the world was light and easy and not currently full of deadly testosterone energy about to detonate.

“Hope you like it strong,” you said, turning back and handing the cup to Tucker with both hands, your smile a little too wide, a little too inviting.

He took it with a wink. “I like everything about this place more now that you’re here.”

You laughed—light, airy, hand brushing his arm as you walked past him to return to the desk.

Kylo hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

Just stood there, watching, jaw clenched so hard you could see it flex.

You sat back down in your chair, gently crossing your legs and sipping your own mug like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just poured gasoline on the slow-burning fuse he left last night.

“Customer’s all yours,” you said to Kylo, flipping a page in the appointment book without looking up.

Then, almost lazily:

“Try not to scare him off this time.”

Tucker had finally left.

Not without trying every last line in his dusty little playbook—grinning, lingering, even touching your wrist once when you handed him the invoice like he wanted to leave his name on your skin. He flirted with the full force of someone who thought he was making progress.

And you let him. You weren’t interested. Not really. But you let him. Because someone else was listening.

And now?

Now it was quiet again.

The office was still warm with the lingering scent of coffee and engine grease. You’d returned to your seat, tapping the edge of a highlighter against your lips, flipping through a dusty old service ledger like nothing had happened.

But you could feel it.

The energy had shifted.

Kylo hadn’t said a word since Tucker pulled out of the lot. Not when the door shut. Not when the car roared to life. Not when the flirtatious goodbye echoed behind it.

He was somewhere just outside the office—close enough to watch, close enough to hear. But he hadn’t crossed the threshold. Not yet.

The silence stretched.

Until—

The office door swung open behind you.

You didn’t jump.

Didn’t even flinch.

You flipped a page in the ledger and looked up casually, lips curling into a soft, polite smile. Like this was any other morning.

“Hey,” you said, bright and chipper. “Everything good with Tucker?”

Kylo didn’t answer.

He stood just inside the door, chest rising slow and deliberate, eyes locked on you like you were the problem and the solution and the fucking fire he couldn’t stop touching.

You tilted your head, blinking innocently.

“He seemed sweet,” you added, tapping your pen against your lips. “Talkative.”

No reaction.

Not with his face.

But his fingers curled into fists at his sides, slow and tight, like he was trying to physically hold something back.

You leaned forward in the chair, arms resting on the desk. His flannel shifted on your shoulders, slipping just enough to flash the strap of your tank top.

“Don’t suppose you scared him off again, did you?” you teased lightly.

Still nothing.

The air crackled.

You could practically feel the effort it took for him to stay silent. To keep standing there, still, while you played this little game with his clothes on your body and someone else’s name still echoing off the garage walls.

You clicked the pen.

“Need something?”

That was it.

That was the snap.

He moved.

Fast.

Crossed the room in three long strides and slammed his hands down on either side of the desk, caging you in before you could even lean back. The whole desk shuddered beneath his weight. You gasped—genuine, this time—and looked up into eyes that were blazing.

“Is this a joke to you?” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you can walk around in my shit, moan my name loud enough for the whole fucking block to hear, then bat your eyes at that hillbilly and act like nothing happened?”

You stared up at him, breath catching—but not in fear.

In thrill.

In victory.

Because he was unraveling.

Because you liked it.

You blinked up at him slowly, tilting your head like you honestly didn’t understand what the problem was.

“...What’re you talking about?”

His nostrils flared.

The vein in his neck twitched.

Your tone was perfect—light, curious, baffled. Like he was the crazy one. Like you hadn’t spent the morning humming around the office, covered in his scent, while another man flirted with you like you were available.

Kylo leaned in further, arms tense, breath hitting the desk in short bursts.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You bit your lip thoughtfully, eyes wide.

“No, I really don’t,” you said, voice soft and syrupy. “Did I forget to file something?”

He made a sound. Half growl, half scoff, pure frustration.

“You fucking—”

His hand slammed down beside the appointment book.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

You just… smiled. Sweet. Pursed-lip. Deadly.

“I thought you told me to get to work,” you said quietly, flipping to the next page in the ledger. “So I did.”

Kylo straightened like he was trying to physically distance himself from you—like getting any closer would mean losing something he hadn’t intended to give.

But his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, voice ragged, “you’re trying to break me.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Would I do that?”

He stepped back once. Twice.

But he didn’t turn.

Didn’t leave.

He just stared, hands flexing at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to grab, to own.

You let the silence hang for a beat longer before turning back to the screen.

“Well,” you sighed. “Let me know when you’re ready to be professional again.”

You didn’t hear the first step.

You felt it.

The shift in the air. The way the silence snapped in half.

And then—his hands were on you.

Not gentle.

Not tentative.

Just there, wrapping around your arm and yanking you up from the chair so fast your breath caught in your throat.

“Hey—” you started, but he already had you spun around, bent forward against the desk, the sharp corner pressing into your hip.

His chest was at your back in seconds. His voice hot in your ear.

“You wanna pretend nothing happened?” he growled. “Fine. Let’s make something happen, then.”

You gasped as his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat—already marked, already bruised from the night before.

“You think you can play games in my shirt, at my desk, moaning my name and then smiling at him like you didn’t soak my sheets six hours ago?”

You whimpered—just once—and his other hand slid around your front, dragging up under the flannel, pushing your tank top higher.

“Bet you’re still wet,” he muttered, voice full of dark satisfaction. “Bet you never stopped thinking about it.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

His hand dipped lower, into your jeans, beneath your panties—and fuck if he wasn’t right.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You liked that, didn’t you? Making me listen to you fuck yourself in my bed.”

You let out a strangled sound, hips rocking against the desk as his fingers slid through your slick, slow and punishing.

“You wanted me to lose it,” he said, pressing harder. “You wanted this.”

He pulled your jeans down just far enough. No teasing. No ceremony. You heard the sharp click of his belt and the rough drag of denim as he shoved his sweats down just enough to free himself.

“You wanted to be fucked like a problem?” he said, teeth grazing your ear. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Then he drove into you in one hard, brutal thrust.

You cried out—loud, shameless—as your hands flew out to brace yourself, the desk groaning beneath your weight.

“Kylo—”

“That’s right,” he snarled. “Say it again. Scream it this time. Let the whole fucking block hear you again, since you like putting on a show.”

He set a pace that was ruthless. Relentless.

Your thighs shook. Your eyes blurred. And still—he held you there, bent over the desk, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned it.

“Next time you moan my name,” he growled, “it won’t be in my bed with your hand down your panties.”

He snapped his hips harder, deeper.

“It’ll be like this.”

Another thrust. Another gasp.

“Where I put it.”

Your breath hitched—sharp and high—as he slammed into you again, deeper this time, grinding in slow and cruel at the end of it. The desk shook. Papers scattered. Your moan punched the air between you like a challenge thrown back in his face.

And that just made him fuck you harder.

“You think this is a game?” Kylo growled, hips snapping into you so hard your thighs burned against the wood. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

You clawed at the desk—nails dragging across the grain—searching for anything to ground yourself while he kept you split open, stuffed full, wrecked on the same desk you’d ruled from all morning.

“I told you to be ready to earn it,” he snapped. “And you come down in my flannel like you want a fucking prize?”

He yanked you upright by the hair, flush against his chest now, one arm banded around your waist as he drove into you from behind with brutal rhythm.

You gasped, head falling back against his shoulder.

“Was this your plan?” he snarled. “Make me break first? Make me fuck it out of my system?”

He laughed, low and dangerous in your ear.

“You’re not that smart, baby.”

You whimpered at that—half frustration, half fuck you, and it only spurred him on.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say my name again.”

You bit your lip.

He grabbed your throat.

“I said—say it.”

“Kylo—”

“Louder.”

“*Kylo—*fuck, please—”

“That’s it,” he muttered, letting go of your throat to drag his hand down to your clit, working you in tight, fast circles between each savage thrust. “Let’s see if I can fuck the brat out of you.”

You cried out, knees starting to buckle as your orgasm clawed its way up your spine. You were so close. So close. Everything was sharp and hot and his—the smell of him, the sound of skin on skin, the way he gripped you like a punishment and a promise all at once.

“You feel that?” he hissed, voice ragged against your ear. “That’s what happens when you push me.”

Your body shattered around him, hips jerking as pleasure tore through you, raw and wild, your moan long and broken and perfect.

Kylo kept going through it, pace rough and relentless, chasing his own release with growls ripped straight from his chest. You were trembling, gasping, nearly folded over the desk again when he finally spilled into you with a snarled curse—hands gripping you so tight you knew you'd bruise.

And still… he didn’t move.

He stayed there, breathing hard against your back, hips pressed tight to yours, hand still curled around your waist like you might try to escape.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You just lay there, wrecked, trembling, completely silent now.

The office was silent now— except for the hum of the old ceiling fan and the sound of both your breathing.

Heavy. Shallow. Wrecked.

Your palms were still flat on the desk, fingertips curled, legs trembling so hard you weren’t sure they’d hold you if he let go.

But he didn’t.

Kylo stayed behind you, chest pressed to your back, hands still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to release you. Like he wasn’t done.

His breath ghosted against your shoulder. Hot. Quiet.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

There was no need.

Because your body was shaking.

Because his was still buried inside you.

The sky above the Resistance base stretched wide and open, streaked with contrails and the faint shimmer of deflector fields. Below, the flight deck buzzed with quiet tension—everyone knew when Gold Leader and Commander Dameron ran drills together, it wasn’t training. It was a dogfight with bragging rights.

“Gold Leader to Black One,” you said sweetly over comms, pitch-perfect mockery in your tone. “You lost back there?”

A pause. Static. Then: “I’m letting you tire yourself out.”

You laughed and yanked your A-wing into a tight roll, the move cutting clean across Poe’s path and kicking up enough turbulence to jostle his X-wing. “Sure you are, Commander. That why your targeting system’s been chasing my tail for the last four klicks?”

Poe’s exhale crackled through your headset. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You banked hard left, pushing your fighter just past safety parameters to thread between two low-orbit beacons. Your sensors screamed—too close, too fast—but you cleared the gap with room to spare and pulled into a sharp climb.

“Gold Leader, that was reckless as hell,” Poe snapped, his X-wing lagging behind as he took the long way around.

“Aw, worried about me?” you crooned. “That’s sweet.”

“Just don’t want to scrape your remains off the nose of my ship.”

You laughed again, breathless from the speed, the adrenaline, the thrill of knowing—really knowing—that he couldn’t catch you unless you let him.

“Maybe I’ll slow down,” you mused. “Give you a chance to admire the view.”

“You really think I haven’t been watching this whole time?”

That shut you up.

Just for a second.

Your cheeks heated beneath your helmet, jaw tightening as you swerved into a lazy barrel roll. He was behind you now, closer than before—but still not close enough.

“You like watching, Dameron?” you said lowly. “Thought you were more of a hands-on kind of guy.”

“Keep talking, Gold Leader,” he warned, voice gravel-edged now. “See where it gets you.”

You pulled a sudden dive—steep, aggressive, aimed directly at the canyon below the base. Poe cursed and followed. The rock walls closed in, tight and jagged. One wrong move and you’d both be vapor.

But you didn’t miss.

You skimmed the canyon floor, sensors howling in protest, and burst back into open sky like a rocket—leaving him behind in the dust trail.

“Shit,” he muttered, still winded as he climbed out behind you.

You smirked. “What was that, Commander? Didn’t catch that last part.”

“Training run is over,” Poe snapped. “Back to base. Now.”

“Copy that,” you chirped, already guiding your ship into a graceful arc toward the hangar.

You landed first, of course—touching down with the smooth control of a born ace. Poe’s X-wing followed seconds later, harder, heavier. He practically launched out of the cockpit.

Your helmet came off just in time to see him storming across the deck, curls damp, eyes dark with something that wasn’tjust frustration.

“Don’t even,” you warned, holding up a gloved hand before he could speak. “If you’re here to lecture me about protocol—”

“I’m not,” he cut in, voice low. “I’m here to tell you if you fly like that again…”

He stopped, stepped closer. So close, your shoulders nearly brushed.

“…I’m going to drag you into the nearest supply closet and remind you who’s in charge off the flight line.”

Your pulse spiked.

Oh.

Stars help you.

The mess hall buzzed with movement—trays clattered, laughter rolled, and the scent of something vaguely edible hung in the air. Most tables were packed, but one corner pulsed with louder energy than the rest: yours.

You were perched at the edge of a bench, flight suit rolled to your waist, tank top clinging to your still-warm skin. A tray of rehydrated protein sludge sat untouched in front of you, but you were far too busy basking in your post-victory glow to bother eating.

“So,” you said, spearing a piece of bread and popping it in your mouth with mock innocence, “how’d it feel to lose to me again, Dameron?”

Across the table, Poe’s jaw flexed. He was hunched forward, elbows on his thighs, trying very hard to not look like he was one strong word away from snapping a fork in half.

“Wasn’t a race,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Oh, baby. It always is.”

Several pilots around you let out low whistles and a chorus of ooooohs. Even Snap Wexley choked on his ration bar, coughing behind his fist.

Poe looked up slowly, meeting your eyes with a warning that made your stomach flip. It said stop. It said you’re pushing it.

It also said keep going, and stars, were you listening.

“I mean, I get it,” you continued sweetly, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. “You’re used to everyone followingyou in the air. Must be hard, watching my ass fly circles around yours.”

“Hard’s a word for it,” someone mumbled under their breath.

Poe’s gaze didn’t waver. But his hand flexed around his cup. You noticed. You always noticed.

You leaned forward on your elbows, voice dropping just enough to toe the line. “Maybe you just need a different kind of training. Something a little more… hands-on.”

Silence.

Then the scrape of his chair as he stood, slow and controlled.

The table went dead quiet.

He didn’t speak. Just stared down at you with that look—the one that made your skin tingle and your thighs clench. Like you were something wild he was barely keeping caged.

“Walk away, Commander,” you teased, chin tilted, smile sharp. “Before you embarrass yourself again.”

He bent down, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“I’m going to take that mouth of yours apart tonight.”

Your breath caught.

He straightened, grabbed his tray, and walked off without another word.

And you?

You sat there, smiling like you’d just won a medal.

But your heart was racing.

Because you knew damn well—this time? You really had pushed him too far.

By the time you had returned to your bunk, with a sore neck and pure exhaustion threatening to take over your body, you had completely forgotten the games you had played earlier in the day. Well, not forgotten as much as it isn’t a thought in your mind.

It wasn’t until Poe came up behind you, just as you swiped your card and the door to your bunk had opened. He gripped the back of your neck and followed you in. He waited until the door closed and locked to begin speaking.

“You’ve been begging for this all day, sweetheart. Thought I’d be a gentleman and wait ‘til we were alone.”

His voice was low, menacing, and so smooth that it made your knees go weak. But you wouldn’t let that show. Couldn’t give in that easily.

“Is this about earlier? I figured you’d be over it by now… or at least used to losing.”

The grin you had plastered on your face is what did it. Poe could see it in the reflection of the window—the smugness. The brattiness.

His hand moved from the back of your neck to the front, turning you to look him in the eyes. He squeezed, not too hard, but hard enough to let you know he’s the one in control.

“You really don’t know when to shut that pretty mouth, do you, Gold Leader?”

His voice dragged over the title like a curse. Like a joke. Like something he was going to take from you and make you beg to earn back.

His nose grazed yours, his grip just firm enough to command your attention—and still, that mouth of yours didn’t quit. He could see it in your eyes: that glimmer of challenge, the fire you used to fuel your flying and your teasing, now barely contained behind the clench of your teeth.

You bit your cheek to stay steady, lips twitching like you wanted to smirk again. You didn’t speak.

That was cute.

Poe’s hand slid a little higher, thumb stroking your pulse.

“Still got something to say?” he murmured, soft, coaxing. “Or are you finally starting to realize…”

His other hand came up, trailing down the front of your flight vest, fingers hooking beneath the collar.

“…that all those little games you played today? All that attitude you threw around in front of the squad? That was foreplay, sweetheart.”

Your grin returned, wicked and slow, blooming across your face like sin itself.

You leaned into his touch—into the hand still wrapped around your neck—and tilted your mouth toward his, just enough to let your words hit exactly where he didn’t want them to.

“Foreplay?” you whispered, lashes fluttering with mock innocence. “Aw, Commander… you really think that was me trying?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh—dangerous. Deliberate.

“If I wanted to tease you, I’d do it in your lap. Slide my hand over that flight suit mid-briefing, act all sweet while I’m palming your cock under the table.”

“I’d sit on your thigh during takeoff and bounce like I needed help stabilizing.”

“I’d ask if I was your favorite girl to ground… while I’m dripping all over your fingers.”

You licked your bottom lip, slow, on purpose.

“That?” You nodded toward the bunk behind you. “That was just me flying circles around your ego.”

He didn’t move at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours like he was trying to decide whether to fuck you or punish you.

But then—he growled.

Low, deep, primal. His cock twitched against the seam of his flight suit, aching at just the idea of your mouth. Of that sharp little tongue of yours finally put to better use.

And that was it.

His hand dropped from your throat, fingers trailing down your chest as he released you, the sudden absence of pressure sending a dizzy rush of blood to your head.

You barely had time to blink before his voice snapped the air between you.

“On your knees.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

His tone was gravel and thunder and ownership, every syllable soaked in heat and control.

“Now.”

You hesitated—not out of defiance, but from the sheer electricity buzzing through your spine.

Your knees hit the floor with a soft thud, flight suit bunched around your waist, heart pounding like a live weapon in your chest.

Poe stepped in close, towering over you, the bulge in his suit thick and straining, the muscles in his thighs flexing under the tension.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, voice low.

“You wanna talk shit, sweetheart?”

“Let’s see how cocky you sound with your mouth full.”

You looked up at him from the floor, breath shallow, pulse still pounding in your throat.

He was a fucking vision—towering, flushed, fists clenched at his sides to keep from tearing that suit open.

Your eyes narrowed. Your lips curled.

And then you laughed.

Soft. Dangerous. Dripping with wicked glee.

“Aw, Commander…” you cooed, tilting your head with mock innocence. “You sure you can handle me down here?”

You leaned in, dragging your hands up the inside of his thighs, slow enough to make him shudder.

“’Cause from where I’m sitting… you’re the one about to come undone.”

And then, right before your fingers brushed the bulge in his flight suit, you glanced up with a smirk that could start wars.

“Or do you want me to beg first, Daddy?”

Your lips had barely formed the word “Daddy” before he was moving.

Not in a rush. Not out of control.

But with a calm that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

His hand slid into your hair again, not yanking—just holding. Firm. Unyielding. Like he was anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

His other hand worked at the zipper of his flight suit, slow and steady. Controlled.

You could hear the rasp of it sliding down.

You looked up, mouth parted, eyes wide—but he didn’t give you time to speak.

He leaned down, thumb brushing your cheek, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to tilt your head the way he wanted.

“Shhh,” he murmured, voice like silk drawn over a blade. “That mouth’s done talking now, baby.”

His cock freed with one practiced motion, thick and flushed and already aching for your attention.

“You’ve said enough for today,” he whispered, guiding you down toward him. “Now use that mouth for something better.”

You gasped, and he just smiled.

Dangerously sweet.

“Open up, Gold Leader.”

You licked your lips, slow and deliberate, keeping eye contact like a smartass—just until his grip in your hair tightened. Just until he gave the smallest jerk of his hips, nudging your mouth closer.

There’s that control again.

But this time? You didn’t test it.

You parted your lips and let him slide in.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The weight of him made your eyes flutter almost instantly, the stretch of your jaw chasing a high you hadn’t even earned yet.

Poe let out a sound—not quite a groan, not quite a curse—and his fingers twitched against your scalp.

“Fuck, baby…”

You looked up through your lashes, already glassy-eyed, and hummed around him just to feel him twitch on your tongue.

His hips rocked forward, shallow and tight, just enough to feel but not enough to lose it. Not yet.

“Always got something smart to say,” he muttered, voice low and rough, dragging his cock out halfway before easing back in. “But you get like this…”

Another slow thrust.

Another hissed breath.

“…and that pretty mouth forgets everything, doesn’t it?”

You whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

It earned you a low laugh. His other hand cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“You love this,” he whispered. “On your knees. Being so fucking good for me.”

You nodded—eyes wide, throat full.

And he loved that.

With one hand still tangled in your hair, Poe guided your movements—slow at first, deliberate—his hips barely shifting as he coaxed your head up and down along his cock. His breath hitched, a raw, sinful groan tearing from his throat as his gaze stayed locked on yours.

Your lips stretched wide around him, spit gathering at the corners of your mouth as you struggled to take him deeper, the ache in your jaw blooming into something sweetly unbearable. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t look away. You blinked through them—held his stare—because you knew exactly what it did to him.

And he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

His grip in your hair tightened, fingers fisting at the roots—not cruel, but commanding—and then he started to move faster.

Not frenzied.

Not out of control.

Calculated.

Filthy.

The glide of your mouth over him grew wetter, sloppier, slick sounds echoing in the space between your bodies as he fed you more—deeper—each stroke rougher than the last.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growled, voice guttural, nearly broken. “Look at that pretty mouth—taking me so well.”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating down his length, and he shuddered—hips jerking forward just a little harder, a little less patient now.

Your throat fought to keep up. Your eyes spilled over.

And Poe just watched.

Watched you fall apart at his feet—spit coating your chin, lashes damp with tears—as he used your mouth like it was the only thing that had ever made him feel this fucking good.

Every thrust was filthier than the last, the slap of his hips against your face a perfect rhythm of ruin.

“You wanted to talk shit?” he hissed through clenched teeth, pace now brutal. “Let’s see you say something now, Gold Leader.”

But you couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not with your mouth so full of him.

And he loved it.

His hips faltered, just once, but it was enough.

You felt it.

The sudden tremble in his thighs beneath your hands. The sharp, guttural inhale that broke past his clenched teeth. The way his fingers fisted tighter in your hair–possessive, desperate, trembling with restraint.

You didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

Your mouth stayed wide, cheeks hollowed, tongue working every inch of him like a fucking prayer.

And then—he pulled out.

A slick, wet pop echoed off the walls as his cock slipped from your lips, flushed and twitching, glistening with your spit and his self-control hanging by a thread.

Your jaw hung open, chest rising in short, sharp bursts as air finally filled your lungs again.

You blinked up at him, lashes wet, mouth glossy, lips stretched and swollen—and you knew.

He wanted to come. Right then. Right there. Down your throat. But he didn’t.

Because Poe Dameron didn’t finish early.

Not with you.

He stood there for a moment, towering over you–cock in hand, still leaking at the tip–eyes dark and wrecked with hunger. Jaw tight. Knees locked.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and vicious. “Too soon.”

His cock jerked again–angry, flushed, aching–but he didn’t let it go. Didn’t give in. Didn’t give you what you wanted.

“Not like this,” he ground out, voice hoarse. “Not when I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

You whimpered, thighs rubbing together instinctively as your body screamed for friction, for pressure, for anything.

But all he did was crouch.

One hand still tangled in your hair, the other sliding under your jaw, cupping your face like it was the most sinful treasure in the galaxy.

His thumb smeared the mess from your chin. A slow, dragging motion. Gentle. Intentional.

He leaned in, breath fanning against your cheek, nose brushing yours with devastating control.

“You want it?” he asked, soft now. Mocking. Devastating. “Wanna feel me come down that pretty throat?”

You nodded before you even realized you were moving. Desperate. Breathless.

“Not yet, baby.”

His thumb traced your bottom lip. Then dipped into your mouth. You sucked without thinking.

That earned you a sound. A dark one.

He grinned—barely.

Then his hand slipped lower.

Down your throat. Over your chest. Between your breasts, pausing to feel the frantic thrum of your heartbeat beneath his palm.

“First…” he whispered, now at your waist. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

Then everything moved.

He stood, yanked you to your feet like you weighed nothing, spun you with force that made your knees buckle.

“Up.”

You stumbled—your legs barely working, trembling from the high you were just pulled from—but he didn’t care. Didn’t pause.

One large hand landed at the nape of your neck, guiding you with slow, heavy steps toward the bunk, each one echoing like a countdown.

You caught your breath just long enough to smirk.

“Thought we were done?” you breathed out, voice ragged and stained with satisfaction. “You taste so good, Commander… if I’d known you’d make that noise, I would’ve dropped to my knees weeks ago.”

That was it.

He shoved you down onto the bed—face-first, not violent, but with force—just enough to knock the air from your lungs and the smug from your voice.

Your upper half slumped against the sheets, flight suit half-peeled from your body, hips still lifted like an offering. And Poe?

Poe was already unzipping further—already stepping between your legs—already losing his fucking mind.

“Keep running that mouth,” he growled, breath hot against your spine. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say after this.”

You bit your lip.

Too hard.

Your panties were the next thing to go—dragged down your thighs in one fluid motion, strings of wetness clinging to the fabric as it slipped free.

And just as you opened your mouth to fire back—

He shoved them between your lips.

Stuffed your own soaked panties into your mouth with a calm, brutal kind of precision—thumb pressing them behind your teeth, fingers tying the waistband around your head like a gift wrap gag.

“What—”

You didn’t even finish the question.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear like a kiss of danger.

“Shut the fuck up,” he murmured—quiet, sharp, tender in the cruelest way. “If you won’t do it yourself…”

He pressed down between your shoulder blades, forcing you flat.

“…I’ll do it for you.”

Your hips bucked, breath punching out of your nose, whimper muffled around the soaked fabric in your mouth.

And behind you?

Poe laughed.

Low. Filthy. Smug as fuck.

“That’s better,” he said with a grin you could feel in your bones.

“Now lie there… and take it.”

He kept one hand tangled tight in your hair, a fist of control at the base of your skull, while the other pumped slowly along the length of his cock—slick with your spit, flushed and heavy and aching for you. He stroked himself once, twice, letting his thumb smear your saliva down the thick vein beneath the head, hissing through his teeth at the sight of you still gagged on your own ruined panties, lips stretched, drool trailing down your chin.

Then he lined himself up with your soaked, trembling cunt.

“Bet you’re soaked for this,” he gritted out, voice like gravel dragged through honey. His grip in your hair tightened, tilting your head back just enough for him to see the desperation glinting in your eyes.

“Bet you’ve been wet since I made you kneel.”

You nodded the best you could, gagged and drooling, your cheeks flushed with heat and humiliation. You could taste what he was talking about—the arousal soaking the cotton stuffed between your lips, the proof of just how wrecked you’d already become. And he knew it. Of course he fucking did.

Behind you, Poe shifted closer. Solid. Bare. Heavy cock pressed to your entrance, thick and waiting. His hands slid from your waist to your hips, then lower, palms spanning the soft curve of your ass as he held you there—open, vulnerable, ready.

He breathed out slow. Measured. Dangerous.

And then—he pushed in.

One inch. Then another. Then another.

Stretching you wide. Filling you to the brim.

Your back arched with a startled jolt, a strangled moan breaking around the gag. The stretch of him was unbearable—hot, thick, and so fucking deep it made your head spin. Your knees buckled, your elbows trembled, and your cunt clenched instinctively around him.

He grunted above you, voice raw.

“Fuck.”

His hips rolled back just slightly, teasing you with a shallow withdrawal before he drove in deeper—slamming the rest of the way home until his thighs were flush against the backs of yours, until his cock was buried to the hilt inside your slick, pulsing cunt.

“Always such a tight little brat,” he growled, bending over you now, voice brushing the shell of your ear like sin. “Until you’re full of my cock.”

He stayed there. Still. Deep.

Just… inside you.

Letting you squirm. Letting you feel every damn inch.

Soaking in the way your body fluttered around him, helpless and wanting, needy to the point of pain.

You tried to move. Just a little. Just something to make him move with you. The need coiled in your stomach had become unbearable. You needed friction. Destruction. You needed him to ruin you.

But Poe didn’t budge.

Instead, his grip on your hips dug deeper, holding you down like prey. His other hand tugged your hair just enough to make you freeze.

“Impatient little slut,” he muttered, like he relished it. “Can’t even wait to be fucked properly.”

You whimpered around the gag, trying to nod, but the movement only tugged harder against his grip. Your scalp burned. Your thighs twitched.

Then—

His hand came down hard on your ass.

A sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the bunk, followed by a rush of heat that bloomed beneath your skin.

You choked on the gag, biting down on the soaked fabric as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. Spit spilled freely from your lips, dripping down your chin to the mattress below.

Poe smoothed his palm over the red print he’d just left behind, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah…” he breathed. “That’s better.”

Without warning—without so much as a breath of warning—he slammed forward.

One sharp, devastating thrust.

Deep. Full. Merciless.

You cried out around the gag, the sound punched straight from your lungs as your body jolted under him. Your hands scrabbled uselessly at the sheets, legs kicking against the mattress as the force of it rocked through your spine.

It wasn’t just the stretch this time.

It was the shock.

The sheer dominance of it—like he’d waited for the exact moment you thought he was going to play nice… just to remind you who the fuck was in control.

The pressure had you gasping, moaning, arching into the pillow like you could take more—even when your body was still struggling to recover from that one perfect drive of his hips.

And then?

He stilled.

Cock buried deep inside you.

Again.

The veins of him pressed against your inner walls, pulsing with restraint. You could feel it—the barely held-back desire trembling through every muscle in his body.

But still—he didn’t move.

“Yeah,” Poe rasped, leaning forward just slightly, the words dragging hot and filthy over the curve of your back. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

His hand slid down your spine, slow and reverent. But before you could answer, before you could even blink—

Smack.

His palm cracked down against the same spot on your ass again—raw, stinging, punishing.

Your entire body jumped, gag muffling your cry as more drool spilled from your lips. Your thighs clenched around his. Your back arched reflexively.

“Brat,” he hissed, massaging the heat into your skin, fingers pressing into the tender handprint like he was branding it deeper.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before running your mouth.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust—didn’t even offer the illusion of mercy.

His hand slid from your hair, releasing its hold with a slow, deliberate drag that made your scalp sting from the absence. For a second, you thought he might ease up.

But no.

That hand was just moving.

Before you could catch your breath, he grabbed your wrists—both of them—yanking them behind your back and locking them there in a single, iron-tight grip. His fingers wrapped around your forearms, holding you in place like he owned you, pinning you down with the sheer weight of his presence.

Then—

He pushed.

Flattened your chest against the mattress, forcing your back into a deeper arch, angling your hips up even more obscenely. Your ass was fully exposed now, legs shaking from the position, cunt still stretched wide around him.

And then, without a word—

He snapped his hips forward.

One last, devastating, all-consuming thrust.

It ripped a muffled scream from your throat, your breath catching on the gag as your body convulsed around him. The sound that tore from Poe’s chest was pure, filthy satisfaction—that’s right, it said. Feel it.

He buried himself to the hilt and froze again.

No rhythm. No pace. Just pressure. Power. Punishment.

You twitched beneath him, overwhelmed. Helpless. Your fingers curled in on themselves, pinned tight in his fist.

And then?

Smack.

Right over the same mark.

Again.

The same burning heat bloomed across your already sore skin, forcing another choked moan through the gag. You bit down hard, trying not to cry, trying not to whimper at how badly you wanted more.

Behind you, Poe groaned.

Low. Deep. Proud.

“That’s three,” he muttered, massaging the sting with rough fingers. “One for every fucking time you disrespected me today.”

He leaned over you now, cock still buried to the base, voice so low it felt like thunder in your bones.

“And you’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Gold Leader…”

Poe didn’t release your wrists.

Didn’t shift. Didn’t whisper any warnings. Just… started moving.

A slow drag back.

His cock pulled almost all the way out, the wet stretch making you whimper against the gag—your slick coating him in thick, glistening strings as the air kissed your swollen cunt.

And then?

He slammed back in.

Not as punishing as before.

But deep. Measured. Possessive.

He kept his grip on your wrists tight, holding you down as he found his rhythm—grinding his hips against your ass in a pace that was slow enough to make you ache, rough enough to keep you gasping for every breath.

The sheets rustled under your body. His skin slapped against yours, the sound obscene and wet.

Each thrust was a statement. A claim.A reminder of who you belonged to.

“That’s it,” Poe groaned, teeth gritted, voice low and strained. “This is what you needed, huh?”

His fingers tightened around your wrists, using them like reins to keep you right where he wanted.

“Not so mouthy now.”

You whimpered, head turned to the side, eyes rolling as every deep stroke hit that perfect spot inside you. The gag muffled your cries, your thighs trembling, drool soaking the sheets beneath your cheek.

“Fuck,” he growled, hips stuttering just slightly. “Tight little hole’s still trying to talk back.”

He fucked you harder then—still slow, still deliberate, but now with an edge. A warning. A threat that maybe, maybe, he’d unravel all that control and break you for real.

His free hand gripped your ass, spreading you wider, fucking you deeper.

“You wanted this, baby,” he murmured, right against your ear. “Now take it.”

Your body was wrecked.

Your skin burned where he’d spanked you, where his fingers dug into your hips, where his cock speared into you again and again—slow and thick and merciless.

You were unraveling, nerves shot, sobbing into the gag with every pulse of pleasure. Your wrists twitched helplessly in his grip, pinned tight behind your back as he fucked you like you were nothing but a toy in his cockpit.

He felt it.

The way your pussy clenched—tight and desperate.

The way your legs started to tremble.

The way your moans pitched just a little higher, begging without words.

“Getting close, aren’t you?” he rasped, voice hoarse from restraint. “That little cunt’s trying so hard to squeeze me dry.”

He fucked into you harder now, still keeping that unrelenting pace—but the angle shifted. He angled his hips just right to make your entire body jolt with every thrust, your cries growing more frantic with each pass.

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mock sympathy dripping from every word. “Been bratting all day just to get used like this, huh?”

You tried to answer. Tried to nod. Tried to moan.

But all that came out was a choked sob, the gag stealing the words right off your tongue.

And Poe? He loved it.

“That’s it,” he growled, holding you down, grinding into you harder with each passing second. “Go on. Say it.”

You whimpered, drool soaking the gag, hips bucking helplessly beneath him.

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna come so bad? Beg.”

He yanked your wrists higher behind your back, just enough to arch your spine deeper and drive him in harder.

“Beg through that filthy little mouthful like the slut you are.”

You sobbed—tried to plead—mumbling jumbled, desperate cries into the soaked fabric between your teeth. Your thighs shook. Your core clenched. You were right there, teetering on the edge of oblivion, and still he held you there like it was nothing.

“Can’t even fucking understand you,” Poe hissed. “All I hear is a greedy, needy mess who doesn’t know her place.”

He spanked you again—right over the same spot—and your scream was muffled, garbled, utterly helpless.

“But that’s fine,” he said, breath ragged, voice thick with heat. “You keep trying, baby. Keep sobbing for it. Let me hear how fucking bad you want to come.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, cock buried to the hilt as you sobbed beneath him.

“And maybe—maybe—if you’re pathetic enough…”

His hips ground against your ass, slow and deep and taunting.

“I’ll let you.”

You were breaking.

Your body was shaking—quaking—teetering on the brink of a climax so intense it made your vision blur behind clenched eyelids. Your thighs were slick, trembling uncontrollably, and your muffled pleas were barely intelligible around the gag soaking with spit and desperate, sobbed apologies.

But Poe? He didn’t stop.

Didn’t waver.

Still buried to the hilt, still fucking you in those brutal, deliberate thrusts that somehow made your whole body feel like it was unraveling inch by inch. Every drag of his cock inside you, every low growl in your ear, every squeeze of your wrists behind your back just fed the need in your belly until it bordered on pain.

And then?

He shifted.

Pulled you up.

With your wrists still pinned in one hand, he hauled your trembling body onto your knees—never pulling out, never giving you a break. His cock stayed rooted deep inside you, stretching you wide and forcing you to take every inch in this new, punishing position. Your back arched against his chest, head falling back onto his shoulder, gasping around the gag, utterly destroyed.

“Look at you,” he rasped against your ear, breath hot and ragged, filthy and possessive.“Cunt’s still clenching like it’s got something to prove. You trying to milk me already, baby?”

His free hand slid up your belly—slick with sweat—palming your tits roughly, squeezing them like he was checking to see how much more you could take. He toyed with one nipple, rolling it between his fingers until your hips jerked, then moved to the other, pinching until you cried out around the gag.

“Poor little brat,” he cooed mockingly, voice syrupy and sinful. “Talked all that shit… and now you can’t even fucking stand.”

He pressed his palm flat against your chest, feeling your heart hammering in your ribcage like a threat, like you might combust if he touched you just one more time.

You were so close.

Your toes curled, thighs trembling, walls fluttering around him with every devastating thrust. Your sounds were breathless, wrecked—whimpering into the gag, barely able to breathe, unable to think.

And still—he wasn’t done.

His hand climbed higher, sliding up the column of your throat, fingers wrapping firmly around your neck. Just enough pressure. Just enough command.

Your body stilled under the grip—hips twitching, moans strangled.

He leaned in.

Mouth to your ear. Voice low. Intentional.

“Come on, sweetheart…”

His hips rolled up into you—deep, slow, filthy.

“You wanna come?”

You nodded frantically, gagged and helpless, eyes flooding with tears.

His fingers squeezed just a little tighter on your throat, just enough to send your head floating.

“You need to come?”

Another frantic nod. Your whole body was trembling, begging, pleading.

He licked the shell of your ear, voice a weapon.

“Then fucking do it.”

And that was it.

Permission granted. No reprieve. No slowing.

Just Poe, holding you tight—cock buried deep, hand gripping your throat like an anchor—as he fucked you through the edge, whispering pure filth as your body shattered against his.

You didn’t just fall over the edge. You crashed through it.

It hit you like a live wire—blinding and brutal—the kind of release that ripped through your body like it had claws. Your spine arched so hard your knees almost gave out, toes curling against the sheets, muscles seizing tight as wave after violent wave of heat pulsed through your core.

You cried out against the gag—a high, garbled wail, raw and soaked in relief.

Your cunt clenched around him like a vice, walls fluttering so desperately that Poe groaned behind you, the sound guttural and stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to grip him so tight, like your body was actively trying to pull him deeper, milk him dry.

“Fuuuuck, there she is,” he hissed, voice dark and low, praising and possessive.“Look at that—fucking look at you, baby.”

He never stopped moving.

Even as your orgasm shredded you apart—wrecked your control, blurred your vision, had your mouth slack and drooling around the gag—he just kept fucking you through it. Slow. Deep. Merciless.

His hand never left your throat. His grip on your wrists stayed firm, steadying you as your legs buckled beneath the weight of it all.

Your entire body trembled in his grasp—limp and gasping, tears slipping down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of it. Your orgasm dragged on forever, pleasure bordering on pain, your walls twitching helplessly around his cock as the aftershocks rattled you to your core.

Poe leaned in close, breath brushing over your damp skin, voice rough with awe and control.

“There’s my good girl…” He kissed the side of your jaw, still pulsing inside you. “You take it so fucking well, don’t you?”

You whimpered a broken sound, half a sob, half a gasp—everything too much. And still, he held you.

Steady. Claiming. Fucking through it.

Your body went slack. Your knees finally gave. And Poe caught you before you hit the sheets.

Still deep inside. Still holding your wrists. Still whispering praise like a filthy lullaby.

You didn’t even feel it at first—only the rush of air where his cock had been, your walls fluttering around the absence as Poe finally pulled out.

Your whole body jolted with it, oversensitive and twitching, pussy clenching around nothing as your hips tried to chase him on instinct alone.

He leaned in close again, chest pressed to your back, voice a gravel-wrapped growl at the shell of your ear.

“Not done, sweetheart,” he rasped, still gripping your wrists behind you. “On your knees.”

You whimpered—wrecked, dripping, breathless.

“Come on,” he coaxed, lips brushing your skin, tone dark and mockingly soft. “You know where I want you.”

Your legs buckled beneath you as he let go—slowly—releasing your wrists, dragging the makeshift gag from your lips with deliberate care. The soaked fabric clung to your mouth as it came free, strands of spit breaking between your teeth and the panties he’d knotted between them.

He tossed them to the floor without a word, and you collapsed to your knees like your strings had been cut.

Bare. Shaking. Completely ruined.

Poe stepped in front of you, still flushed and throbbing, fist pumping slowly along his cock—your spit and slick shining down the length of him like a brand.

You looked up—eyes glassy, jaw slack, lips trembling.

His fingers threaded into your hair again, anchoring you.

“No running this time,” he muttered, darkly reverent. “You’re gonna take every fucking drop.”

You nodded.

Just once.

And opened your mouth.

Your tongue flattened obediently, lips parting wide, eyes never leaving his. You could see how close he was—his thighs twitching, chest heaving, his jaw tight like he was holding the whole galaxy in his throat.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice strangled. “Fuck—look at you…”

He stroked himself once. Twice.

Then came undone.

A sharp cry ripped from his throat as his cock jerked in his hand—thick, hot ropes of cum spilling straight onto your tongue. The first hit the back of your throat, the second across your tongue, the third still pulsing as he fucked into your open mouth with shaky, shallow thrusts.

“Swallow,” he snarled. “All of it.”

You did.

Choking it down as he kept your head tilted just right, guiding your mouth over his length, dragging the head across your tongue with slow, deliberate strokes.

Your lips sealed around the tip—obedient, desperate, letting him milk the last drops from his cock as your throat worked to take it all.

When he finally stilled, chest heaving, hand still locked in your hair…

Your eyes never wavered.

Not once.

He exhaled—ragged and wrecked—his voice nothing more than a whisper now.

“Good. Fucking. Girl.”

You stayed on your knees.

Slumped. Breathless. Your mouth parted and pink, slick with the remnants of everything Po had given you. The gag was gone, but your lips hadn’t moved since. Only your breathing filled the room– shallow, erratic, fragile.

And Poe just stood there.

Looking at you.

Watching the way your shoulders quivered, how your lashes fluttered like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to close your eyes.

God, you looked wrecked.

And perfect.

And his.

His chest was still rising fast, but his hands were steady now. He reached down—slow, unthreatening—and brushed his knuckles across your cheek. You blinked, leaning just slightly into the touch like you couldn’t help yourself.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “Still with me, baby?”

No words. But your body nodded—barely.

That was enough.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I got you.”

He crouched down in front of you, one hand supporting the back of your head, the other curling around your legs, and with careful, practiced ease, he gathered you into his arms.

You didn’t resist. You just… folded into him, your face pressing into his chest as he stood.

Your body felt boneless. Heavy. But his hold didn’t falter. He carried you like you weighed nothing, cradling you close as he stepped toward the bed.

“You did so good for me,” he breathed against your temple, his lips brushing the damp skin there. “So fucking good.”

You let out a sound—barely audible, somewhere between a hum and a whimper—and clutched the front of his flight suit, fingers weak, trembling.

“I’ve got you now,” Poe said softly, lowering you onto the mattress like something precious, his hand slipping beneath your head to keep it from hitting the pillow too fast.

The sheets were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat still radiating off you. Poe took a moment—just one—to look at you properly now. Your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the softness in your gaze that hadn’t been there before.

All the fire and fight you’d carried earlier had melted into something quieter now.

Vulnerability.

Trust.

He reached down and stroked your hair back from your face with featherlight fingers, tucking the strands behind your ear.

“You okay?” he asked gently, crouching down beside the bed so he could be eye-level with you. “You feel safe, sweetheart?”

This time, your voice answered him. Barely a whisper.

“…Yeah.”

His smile was soft. Real.

“Good,” he breathed, pressing a slow, grateful kiss to your forehead.

Poe stayed knelt beside the bed for a moment, his thumb gently stroking over your wrist—still held in his palm like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

Your breathing had started to even out. Your eyes were glassy, dazed but warm, and when you gave the slightest little nod, he knew it was okay to move again.

He crawled up onto the bed beside you, still fully clothed, still quiet.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, voice hoarse now, all the grit smoothed into something softer. Something sacred.

You didn’t speak—just gave him your gaze.

That was enough.

His hands were reverent now, dragging slowly down your sides, grounding you back into your body as he kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your sternum. One kiss. Then another. Each press of his lips unhurried. Focused. Almost worshipful.

“Still good?” he asked against your skin, his hand coming to rest just under your ribs.

You gave a soft little mhmm, eyes fluttering shut.

“Use your words for me, baby,” he whispered. “Want to make sure you’re really okay.”

You nodded again, breath shaky. “I’m good,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Just… floaty.”

That made him smile against your skin. A proud smile. An affectionate one.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “Then I’ll keep you here. Right in this feeling.”

He kissed his way lower.

Over the dip of your stomach, your navel, the curve of your hips.

His hands didn’t part your legs. He didn’t move too fast. He just rested one palm on the inside of your thigh and waited.

“Let me make you come again,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Nice and slow this time. No rush.”

You nodded, legs already shifting open with the slightest tremble.

Poe exhaled slowly, like this was his peace too. Like giving this to you—giving you this—was exactly where he wanted to be.

He lowered himself between your legs, his lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

“You’re safe,” he whispered.

One kiss.

“You’re perfect.”

Another.

“You’re mine.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Soft. Focused. His tongue moved in slow, reverent circles, coaxing more pleasure from you with every pass. He kept one hand on your thigh, the other reaching up to lace his fingers through yours, giving you something to hold onto as your hips arched toward him.

No teasing. No games.

Just his mouth. His breath. His warmth.

All for you.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered between strokes, voice muffled and full of want. “Just let me love on you a little longer.”

oe's breath hitched the moment he felt your thighs tense—just a subtle shift, but he noticed. He always noticed.

His mouth moved with that same worship, his tongue teasing slow, deliberate circles around your clit, never straying, never overwhelming—just enough pressure to make your back arch, your breath catch.

He moaned softly into you, savoring the taste, the heat, the way your hips tilted toward him on instinct. That sound—hissound—vibrated through your core and had your toes curling.

“Doing so good for me,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick, wrecked from earlier, but dripping with praise. “So sweet. So fuckin’ soft like this.”

His hand stayed laced with yours above your thigh, grounding you—his thumb brushing tender little strokes across your knuckles while his mouth kept its rhythm. You could feel your heartbeat in every inch of your body, could hear it in your ears, thudding wild and dizzy beneath the gentleness of his care.

Then you felt it—his other hand slipping lower, slow as molasses.

One finger at first. Just the tip, tracing your entrance. Testing.

“You want more, baby?” he asked quietly, glancing up at you with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. “You can take it. I’ve got you.”

Your walls clenched around nothing at the sound of his voice.

You nodded with a whimper—so wrecked already, but not from roughness. From being seen.

From being loved.

He eased a finger into you, slow and careful, his mouth never leaving your clit. Curling just right. Sliding deep. His tongue kept its steady rhythm, but the addition of his finger had your body jolting, your legs squeezing around his head before they gave out and relaxed again.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me in. Let me feel you open up for me.”

A second finger joined the first—not rushed, not forced. Just right.

He crooked them up inside you, dragging against the spot that made your mouth fall open in a gasp, even gagged and half-spoken from earlier. He could feel you clenching down, could hear the way your breath caught in your throat like a sob.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Poe said, his lips kissing the inside of your thigh before he dove back in. “Been holding it all in for me. Such a good girl.”

The praise. The stretch. The heat of his mouth and fingers.

Your thighs were shaking.

And Poe didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. He just kept whispering into the slick heat of you, tongue lapping you open like you were the only thing in the whole goddamn galaxy.

“I’m not gonna stop, baby,” he said, voice breaking a little with how desperate he sounded now. “Not until you come for me.”

“Not until you fall apart right here in my mouth.”

And gods, you were going to.

It was already unraveling inside you—heat blooming in your belly, curling tight and relentless with every stroke of his tongue and press of his fingers. Your head rolled back. Your fingers tightened in his. Your breath came in soft, shaking pants.

He felt it.

And he whispered it one more time—lips against your clit, soft and sure:

“Come for me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could even catch up.

The orgasm ripped through you with a force that had your back arching off the mattress, thighs shaking around his head as your cries filled the room—muffled, high, desperate. You clung to his hands like they were the only thing tethering you to the world, your nails digging into his skin as you broke apart just like he asked.

Just like he needed.

Poe didn’t let up. Didn’t move. He held his mouth firm against you through the wave, lapping gently, soothing you even as your body twitched and trembled beneath him. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop—easing you down, easing you through. Never leaving you empty. Never letting you feel anything but full, and safe, and held.

You sobbed once, not from pain—just from everything. The pleasure, the care, the crash of release so intense it had your chest stuttering and your lashes wet.

Poe’s grip loosened only when your fingers did.

Only when your body stopped seizing under his mouth.

Only when your hips gave that tiny, breathless jerk that said please, I can’t anymore.

Then—and only then—did he lift his head.

His lips were wet. His chin slick. His brow furrowed like he was still chasing your pleasure with his whole soul.

He exhaled through his nose and kissed your thigh. Then your stomach. Then the curve of your hip.

You were boneless. Soft. Barely able to breathe, let alone move.

“Hey,” he whispered, crawling up beside you, thumb brushing a streak of dampness from your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked slowly, dazed and dizzy and glowing.

He reached for the edge of the blanket and gently pulled it over your chest, tucking you in with one hand while the other stayed anchored around your waist.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, quieter this time.

And then he kissed your forehead.

Not for heat. Not for sex.

Just to say he meant it.

Your body was still trembling.

Tiny little aftershocks beneath the surface—quivering muscles, shallow breaths, your chest rising and falling in shaky, uneven pulls. And Poe… he didn’t move. Not yet.

He just held you.

His body curved around yours, chest to your back, one arm slung over your waist like a shield. The other slid under your head, fingers combing slowly through your hair, untangling the strands his fist had gripped earlier. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, not kissing, just breathing.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked with something quiet and tender. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Your hand twitched in his grip. Not pulling away—just seeking. He brought your fingers to his lips and kissed your knuckles, slow and soft, before settling them back against his chest. His heart was still racing beneath your palm.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no need.

Your heartbeat slowly found rhythm against his, syncing up in the warm dark hush of your shared breath. And when you sighed—finally, finally relaxing—he did too. His shoulders softened. His fingers eased. His lips brushed your hairline.

It was only then that he spoke again, softer this time.

“You need water.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t shake your head. Didn’t nod.

Just let out a tiny, contented hum against his skin.

He smiled, nose pressed to your temple.

“I’ll be quick.”

But still… he didn’t move.

Not yet.

His thumb drew lazy circles over your side, grounding you, reassuring you. He shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher, tucking it around your legs like a barrier between you and the cold air waiting beyond the sheets.

You were safe. You were his. And nothing else mattered.

He waited until your breathing was steady again—until the tremble in your limbs had faded into nothing but warmth—before he finally slipped from the bed.

His absence left a chill behind, but only for a moment.

You heard the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of bare feet across the floor, the quiet clink of glass and water. Still wrapped in the afterglow, still sore and stretched and floating, you let your eyes flutter shut.

He was coming back.

You knew it without needing to look.

Because Poe always came back.

Always.

The mattress dipped as Poe returned.

You didn’t have to open your eyes — the heat of his presence, the weight of his care, all washed over you before he even touched you again. But when you did glance up, you saw it in his face. That softness. That worry still tugging at the corners of his mouth, even as he held the damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“Hey,” he murmured, crouching down beside the bed.

His thumb brushed gently along your cheek, wiping away a dried streak of spit or maybe a leftover tear. “You still with me, baby?”

You nodded — barely. Just enough to let him see that your mind hadn’t drifted too far. That you were still here, grounded in the haze and glow and soreness of it all.

He smiled, faint but real.

“Good.”

Setting the water down within reach, he brought the cloth to your body. And gods — he moved so slow.

Featherlight strokes.

Like anything stronger might undo you all over again.

He cleaned the mess between your thighs with practiced tenderness, like it was holy work, whispering soft nothings with each pass.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve got nothing left to prove, sweetheart… just let me take care of you.”

The cool cloth soothed the burn in your skin, but it was the sound of his voice — low, rasped, laced with quiet affection — that really mended the frayed edges of your soul. You closed your eyes again, overwhelmed, and let him work.

He kissed your knee when he finished.

Then the inside of your thigh.

Then a gentle, reverent press of his lips just below your navel.

“Let’s get you hydrated, yeah?” he murmured, crawling up beside you, back pressed against the pillows so you could rest in his arms.

He reached for the water, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to your lips. His hand was steady. His other arm wrapped behind your shoulders, propping you up just enough to sip without strain.

You drank. Slowly. Gratefully.

When you finished, he set the bottle aside and leaned in to kiss your temple — slow, warm, anchoring.

His fingers traced idle shapes against your arm.

You could feel his breath along your jaw. Soft. Familiar.

“Color?” he asked after a moment, brushing his nose against your hair. “You still okay?”

A few seconds passed. Then you nodded.

Your voice was too spent to answer, but your hand found his — and you squeezed it once. Hard.

Green.

He smiled again, his own exhale shaky this time. Maybe even a little choked up.

He curled around you then — like a shield, like a tether, like he’d never let go — and buried a final kiss in the crook of your neck.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

The quiet settled like a blanket.

Not the heavy kind, not oppressive — this was soft. Clean. The hum of the ship outside barely existed. The galaxy could’ve been lightyears away, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

You were curled into Poe’s chest now, limbs tangled with his under the thin blanket he’d managed to tug over the both of you. Your head rested on his bare shoulder, his skin still warm from the aftermath, and one arm stayed tucked around your waist, holding you close like you might vanish if he let go.

He was tracing lazy lines down your spine — not to provoke, not to tease, just to soothe. Back and forth. Over and over. The kind of rhythm that quieted the mind and made you feel... weightless.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice roughened by exhaustion but softened by something else.

You nodded where your cheek was pressed against his chest. “Mhm. Just… floating.”

He smiled into your hair, brushing a kiss over your temple.

“You deserve to float for a while,” he murmured. “You were perfect.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a gentle hum, your fingers tightening slightly against his side.

He pulled you in tighter.

“Tomorrow’s yours,” he whispered. “You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to flip me off.”

That made you laugh — tired and breathless, but real.

“You’ll deserve it,” you muttered, barely audible.

He kissed your forehead for that one.

Minutes passed like water. Neither of you moved. His thumb traced circles just beneath the hem of the blanket resting over your hip. You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, the rhythm syncing with your own.

Eventually, your body went heavier.

Sleep tugged at your bones, your breath slowing, your grip loosening slightly against his ribs.

And Poe? He stayed right there.

Watching over you. Holding you. Letting the silence lull you both toward the kind of rest you only get in the arms of someone who means it when they say they’ve got you.

His final words were murmured into the crown of your hair, barely more than a breath.

“Sweet dreams, Gold Leader.”

The clearing still echoed with the hiss of thrusters.

Din Djarin stood slowly, breath caught in his chest, armor dented and smoldering where her shot had landed. The impact had been enough to knock him back against the landing strut, and for a moment, he had tasted blood inside his helmet.

But the pain wasn’t what lingered. It was the way she hesitated—the subtle shift in her stance, the near-stumble in her breath. The kind of silence that screamed louder than a battle cry. Not rage. Not defiance. Just something hollow. Regret, maybe. Or resolve. Or both.

He exhaled a sharp breath and looked toward the sky, where her ship was already climbing into the upper atmosphere, a bright thread disappearing into the clouds.

He tapped his vambrace, fingers shaking slightly. "Mando to Razor. She’s gone."

A pause. Then the quiet static reply from the onboard system.

He leaned forward with a grunt, his ribs barking protest. Beskar had absorbed the brunt, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt. She knew that. That shot had been precise—a calculated delay, not a kill.

She didn’t want to hurt me.

But she would if she had to.

He lowered himself to a crouch, gloved fingers tracing the faint scorch mark her blaster left on his chest plate. His mind replayed her stance, her posture, the way her fingers had trembled just a second before she fired.

She was scared. But not of him.

He glanced toward the mist still curling between the trees, thick with the scent of scorched chitin and singed earth. The wreckage of a Dathomir spider lay slumped, legs still twitching. One Nightbrother was unconscious beside a gnarled root, groaning lowly.

Din rose again, pain pulling across his ribs.

"You didn’t need to run," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn’t here to chain you."

But maybe she didn’t believe that.

He turned his gaze skyward again, the clouds already closing behind her.

And for the first time in a long time, Din Djarin felt something he didn’t have words for.

Loss.

The smoke curled higher.

And with it came memory.

Blaster fire screamed overhead. Explosions rocked the ridge. A trail of flame lit the night sky like a second sun.

Din ducked behind a jagged outcrop, instinctively raising his vambrace to deflect a bolt that nearly grazed his shoulder.

She was already moving.

Veyla shot forward through the chaos, not waiting for cover. Her armor shimmered with the heat of close calls, her blaster in one hand, her beskad in the other. She moved like a storm given shape—a Mandalorian molded by fury and precision.

"Veyla! Hold your flank!" Din barked.

"Cover me!" she yelled back, voice wild and alive, slicing through the smoke.

He did. Without question. Without pause.

Together, they took the left ridge. Pinned down a dozen troopers. Turned the tide. Back to back in the thickest part of the fighting, their movements became a rhythm—parry, fire, duck, reload. They understood each other in that moment. Not as allies. Not as strangers. But as warriors.

She saved his life more than once that day. So did he. And neither of them spoke about it afterward.

Din blinked the memory away as a breeze swept through the clearing, stirring the scorched leaves around his boots.

He wasn’t chasing a bounty. He was chasing a ghost.

But maybe—just maybe—she was running from the wrong things.

And he wasn’t ready to let her do it alone.

By the time he returned to the Razor Crest, the ramp was already down.

Grogu stood at the top of it, arms crossed, ears tilted back, and the kind of look that could only be described as judgmental.

Din stopped at the bottom, hand on his side. "What?"

Grogu blinked slowly, then let out a small, exasperated sigh through his nose. He pointed at Din's dented chest plate, then made a wide-eyed face of mock shock, little hands waving around like he was pantomiming an explosion.

"Yeah, I noticed," Din muttered. "She shot me."

Grogu narrowed his eyes and turned his back, waddling dramatically into the ship like he wanted no part of this disaster.

Din followed, limping slightly.

"Don’t start. It wasn’t like that."

Grogu stopped just before his seat, slowly turning his head with an expression that somehow communicated: Wasn’t like what? That you let her go again? That she got the drop on you?

Din exhaled. "She’s scared. She’s running. I wasn’t going to bring her in like some bounty."

Grogu hopped into his seat with a huff, arms folded again.

Din plopped down into the pilot’s chair and groaned as his ribs protested. He glanced over his shoulder. "You done judging me yet?"

Grogu tilted his head, then reached forward and poked Din’s chest where the scorch mark still sizzled.

"Ow—okay, now you’re just being a brat."

Grogu gave him the biggest eyes in the galaxy.

Din sighed, pulling his gloves off. "We’re going after her. Not to drag her back. To keep her alive. She just doesn’t know it yet."

The ship hummed to life.

Grogu finally uncrossed his arms and settled back into his seat, watching the stars ahead.

He didn’t smile.

It began with fire.

Not the kind that burned flesh—but the kind that scorched thought. Veyla stood on black stone, mist curling through sulfur and shadow. Lava cracked the earth open in glowing veins. A wind howled across the ruin—and at the center of it all stood a man.

Dark robes. Silver belt. Bare, blackened hands.

And eyes like the void.

Kylo Ren.

He didn’t speak—not at first. He only looked at her, as if waiting for her to see something.

"Why are you here?" she demanded. Her voice was hollow in the dream.

Kylo stepped closer. "Because you called me."

"I didn’t."

"You did. Not with your voice—with your fear."

The lava pulsed underfoot. Her breath hitched.

"You don’t belong with them," he said. "You never did. You’re a shadow walking in sunlight, and it’s burning you alive."

"I belong to myself."

Kylo tilted his head. "Then prove it. Stop hiding in armor. Stop begging for scraps of identity. Come with me—and become what they fear."

She wanted to run. But her feet stayed rooted in ash.

"I know who you are," he whispered. "You just don’t yet. And when you do, you’ll burn this galaxy clean."

The world fractured.

Mustafar melted away.

And in its place—ice.

Cold. Red. Chaos.

Veyla woke with a sharp breath—hand clutching the amulet. Sweat cooled beneath her collar. The shadows of the cave felt heavier than they had the night before.

She emerged from her tent into the mist-veiled grove where the Nightsisters waited. The swamp was quiet, too quiet—as if the world itself had paused to listen. The sisters stood in a wide circle beneath gnarled branches, their expressions unreadable behind bone and paint.

The lead sister turned. "You saw him."

Veyla stiffened. "I dreamed."

"Not all dreams are made of sleep," another whispered.

They encircled her slowly, not predatory—ceremonial.

"You carry him in your mind like a storm," said the lead sister. "But it is not only him we feel. It is you. The tension inside you. The war between what you are, and what you are told to be."

Veyla shifted her stance, fingers brushing her belt as if for comfort. Her voice, when it came, was quieter. "I didn’t ask for any of this. The Force, the bounty, the bloodline. I was born into it. Left behind by it. And now it’s trying to find me again."

A third sister stepped forward, her voice gentler. "You fear being controlled. You fear the choice being taken. That is the root."

Veyla nodded once. She didn’t trust them, not fully, but she could feel the truth in their words. She was exhausted. And she was angry.

"You don’t have to follow the Jedi," the lead said. "Nor the Sith. Nor the Empire. Nor the Rebellion. You are not theirs."

"Then what am I?"

"Untamed."

Veyla glanced down at the amulet still clutched in her hand. It pulsed softly now, no longer burning hot, but warm—alive. Like a heartbeat.

"We will teach you what we can. Not to own you. But to remind you: power is yours to choose."

And for the first time since Kalevala, Veyla felt the weight on her chest begin to lift.

A shriek split the fog.

Then the horn blared—a low, bone-deep groan that shook the trees and sent the swamp birds scattering. The ground vibrated with it, like the planet itself had roared. The Nightsisters froze. In a flash, their circle broke like shattered glass. No goodbyes. No blessings. Just vanished shapes swallowed by the trees.

"What the hell was that?" Veyla whispered, but the silence gave her no answer.

Then came the thunder.

Footfalls. Heavy, wet, pounding the marsh with brute rhythm. The Nightbrothers.

She grabbed her satchel, cinched her helmet tight, and ran.

The swamp blurred around her. Roots coiled like sleeping serpents beneath the underbrush. Branches clawed at her armor, trying to hold her back. Mud sucked at her boots. Every breath burned. Her visor fogged as her heart pounded in her throat.

They’re close. Too close.

The Force trembled around her, warning her of the incoming threat. She veered right—just in time to hear a spear thunk into the tree where her head had just been. A guttural roar followed.

She didn’t stop.

The mist thickened as she plunged deeper, her thoughts frantic. Think. You know terrain. You trained for this. Use it.

But instincts gave way to chaos when the ground gave out beneath her.

She tumbled down a muddy ravine, thorns slicing across her vambrace, her body slamming into slick stones. She rolled hard and landed flat on her back with the wind knocked out of her.

And that’s when she saw it.

A chitter. A hiss. Red eyes.

From the shadows of the marsh, a bane back spider uncoiled its limbs, legs clicking across the wet stone. Its body was massive, all bristle and fang, and it dropped down in front of her with hunger radiating off its frame.

Veyla scrambled backward, her hand finding her blaster. She fired once, twice. The spider shrieked and lunged. Her shot grazed a leg, but it kept coming.

She pivoted and ran, weaving between trees. She could hear the spider behind her, the Nightbrothers closing in from the east. The swamp felt alive, like it was holding its breath.

She dove through low brush, adrenaline cracking through her limbs like lightning. Don’t stop. Don’t die here. You are more than prey.

She summoned everything in her body, every lesson Bo ever drilled into her: Control the chaos. Don't let it control you.

The swamp narrowed. A clearing ahead. She sprinted.

And behind her, the roar of pursuit grew louder.

The spider lunged from the mist again, this time from her flank. She didn’t hesitate.

Her hand dropped to her belt.

The Darksaber hissed to life.

Its violet-black blade carved through the swamp’s haze like a wound. It screamed as it lit the air, vibrating against her bones like it remembered every battle it had ever fought.

The spider reeled.

Veyla ducked beneath its legs and spun, bringing the Darksaber in a wide arc. The blade connected with a sickening crack—one leg, then two, seared off mid-lunge. The spider shrieked, crashing into the muck.

It tried to recover, flailing.

She didn’t give it the chance.

Another strike. Another severed limb.

The stench of burnt chitin filled the air.

Her muscles burned, her lungs screamed—but the fear inside her folded into something else: power. Raw and unshaped, but hers. And for once, she didn’t run.

The spider collapsed into a twitching heap. Behind her, the Nightbrothers howled.

Veyla turned, panting, the Darksaber still crackling in her hand. "Come on then," she muttered under her breath. "Let’s finish what you started."

Blaster fire echoed off ruined walls. The smell of ozone and blood filled her lungs. Moff Gideon stood tall, arrogant, lightsaber in hand—not the Darksaber yet—but his stance rigid with power.

Veyla stood across from him, wounded and cornered—but no longer afraid.

He laughed, cruel and bitter. "You think you can win just because you wear that armor? That crest on your shoulder doesn’t make you Mand’alor."

She didn't speak. She moved.

Blades clashed—his saber against her beskad. Then came the spark. The slip. The moment her hand lifted—not her weapon—but something deeper. Her mind screamed and the Force answered.

He flew backwards, crashing against the far wall.

And then— the saber dropped.

And she picked it up.

The Darksaber hissed to life in her hand. The moment burned into the stars.

It was the first time she used the Force.

And it would never forget her.

The trees trembled.

Her vambrace buzzed.

INCOMING SHIP.

A Nightbrother crashed through the underbrush, slamming a shoulder into her. They grappled. Her saber sparked off his axe. They roared in tandem.

He pinned her against a trunk. “You don’t belong here,” he growled.

“I don’t belong anywhere,” she spat back.

He struck. She ducked. Her vambrace lit with a pulse—an alert.

Din.

She drove her knee into the brother’s ribs, twisted free, and fired a shot into his shoulder. It bought her seconds.

She bolted.

The clearing appeared like salvation. Her ship stood ready. The other ship—his—landed hard across from it.

She skidded to a stop.

Din Djarin.

He raised his hands. “Veyla—wait.”

Her heart thundered.

She didn’t want to do this.

But she couldn’t let him take her.

Not here. Not now.

“Don’t,” she said, voice thick.

She raised her blaster.

Hesitated.

This won’t kill him. But it’ll hurt like hell.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She fired.

He went down.