Valox

As a couple.

Your suggestion. Thrown into the room half-heartedly during briefing, more as a strategic afterthought than anything else. It had made sense - less suspicious, easier access, natural cover in a setting like this. Your supervisor had agreed almost immediately, sealing your fate before you had even fully considered the consequences.

Before you had realized who you would be paired with.

Javier Peña.

Of all people.

Your gaze flickered briefly to him now, watching the way he tipped his glass toward his lips, the faint curl of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth as he reacted to something the man in front of you had just said. He looked entirely at ease, like this - like he belonged here, like this was just another night for him. His thumb shifted slightly where it rested against you, a subtle pull that drew you closer into his side, the motion so fluid it barely registered to anyone watching.

To anyone but you.

Because this - this version of him - did not match the reality you knew.

Reality had looked very different back at the precinct.

Reality had been the way he hadn’t even tried to hide his reaction when the assignment was handed out. The groan, low and unrestrained. The tight clench of his jaw, teeth grinding together as if the mere idea of this partnership was already testing his patience. And then the way he had left the room the second he was dismissed, not sparing you so much as a glance.

If anything, that had been consistent.

Your interactions with him - few as they were - had always followed the same pattern. Brief. Minimal. One-word responses if necessary, silence if not. Not unkind, not openly dismissive… but not welcoming either. As if you occupied a space somewhere just outside of his concern, not worth the effort of forming an actual opinion.

You had been fairly certain, at one point, that he barely registered your existence at all.

Which made this - his arm around you, his body angled toward yours, the occasional brush of his fingers that felt far too deliberate to be accidental - all the more disorienting.

Especially considering his reputation.

Javier Peña didn’t do indifference. Not with women. Quite the opposite, actually. The man flirted like it was second nature, like breathing. You had seen it often enough, the way his attention lingered, the way his voice dipped just slightly when he spoke, the way he knew exactly how to make someone feel like they were the only person in the room.

Just… never with you.

Not that you had cared.

Not really.

You had noticed him, sure. The first time you had crossed paths months ago, something about him had caught your attention - sharp edges wrapped in charm, something restless underneath the surface. It had been enough to make you look twice.

But that was it.

Mostly.

Still, you couldn’t deny that it had… irritated you, just a little, that he seemed to extend that effortless attention to practically every woman in the precinct - except you.

Which was ridiculous.

You didn’t want him to want you.

God, no.

Well.

Maybe - only in the sense that it would have been satisfying to turn him down. To be the one exception. The one person he didn’t get.

Probably.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Because tonight wasn’t about any of that.

Tonight was about the act you were both playing, about maintaining the illusion well enough to avoid suspicion while you did your job. And that alone required enough focus as it was.

No need to complicate things further with one-sided interest - real or imagined.

“Wouldn’t that be something for our next holiday, cariño?”

The endearment slipped in so smoothly it almost didn’t register - almost. It caught somewhere between your ribs instead, sharp enough to pull you clean out of your thoughts. For a second, you weren’t in the room anymore, weren’t tracking faces or exits or the subtle exchanges happening in the corners of your vision. You were just… there. Aware. Of him.

“Iceland, maybe?” Javier added, his tone easy, conversational, clearly picking up on something the man in front of you had been rambling about. His attention, however, shifted - down to you, expectant of your reaction.

You forced yourself back into the role, smoothing over the brief disruption as if it had never happened. The irritation the pet name had sparked settled somewhere deeper, masked beneath a soft curve of your lips as you met his gaze.

“I think I’d pass on that,” you said lightly, your voice warm in a way that wasn’t entirely meant for the conversation partner anymore. “I prefer somewhere with a bit more sun.” A slight tilt of your head, a subtle emphasis. “You know… something hotter.”

The act. That was all it was.

You knew it. He knew it.

You leaned into it anyway.

The dress you wore clung in all the wrong - or right - places, depending on perspective. Short enough to draw attention, tight enough to hold it. Your hair, left open in loose, unruly waves, brushed against your bare shoulders every time you moved, a deliberate departure from the practicality you usually favored in the field. Even the lipstick - deep, almost sinful red - felt like part of a costume you had stepped into for the night.

You played your part.

Even if Javier Peña had, up until now, given no indication he had noticed.

“Is that so?” the man across from you drawled, his grin stretching just a little too wide as he leaned in closer than necessary. You could practically feel the calculation behind his eyes, the way he assessed, measured, reduced. He was exactly what you had expected - sleazy, self-assured, the kind of man who thought proximity alone was permission.

Unfortunately, Mateo Vasquez was also the contact. Weeks of dead ends had led here, to this moment, to him.

Which meant you couldn’t afford to react the way you wanted to.

Still, before you could respond, Javier’s grip on your shoulder shifted - tightened. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that you felt it, the pressure of his fingers digging in just slightly, anchoring you in place.

Possessive. Unnecessarily so.

And yet, it sent a flicker of something sharp down your spine.

“There’s always room to try something new,” Javier cut in smoothly, his tone laced with an easy confidence that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Whatever you prefer, mi corazón,” you murmured, letting yourself lean into him just a fraction more, playing into the dynamic, into the picture he was painting.

It was a mistake.

At least, your body seemed to think so.

Because the closer you got, the more aware you became - of the heat radiating off him, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your arm, of the faint, familiar scent of his cologne. You had noticed it before, in passing. Lingering in a room he had just left, catching on the air when he brushed by you in the precinct without more than a passing glance.

But this - this proximity - was something else entirely.

It settled under your skin, distracting in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

Your breath hitched. And to your utter discomfort you felt something else too. A dampness in your panties that had no right being there.

“Lucky man,” Mateo muttered, his gaze dragging over you in a way that made your stomach tighten. “Where’d you find her?”

The phrasing landed wrong immediately.

Not how did you meet. Not even a half-decent attempt at politeness. Just that. As if you were something picked up, acquired, owned.

For a split second, you considered stepping in, redirecting, salvaging the moment before it tipped too far.

But Javier moved first.

His hand slipped from his pocket with an unhurried ease, coming up to your face - fingers brushing your skin before settling beneath your chin. He tilted your head up just slightly, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Pure luck, I guess. You’re something else, you know that?” he said, his voice dipping just enough to feel private, despite the company. The smile he gave you was almost unfair - too easy, too warm, too convincing.

For a second, you forgot it wasn’t real.

“Yeah?” you shot back, a grin pulling at your lips as you leaned into the moment, lifting your chin just a touch higher under his touch. “Still not sure how you got this lucky.”

“You know,” Mateo went on, his grin widening as he leaned back just enough to look between the two of you, “there are a few… unused rooms upstairs. Big house like this, always something tucked away.” He let out a low laugh, pleased with himself. “I know the host. I could arrange something for you two tortolitos.”

That was what made both you and Javier actually look at him.

Not the offer itself - no matter how deliberately you tried to shove that implication somewhere far, far out of reach - but the casual way he dropped that connection. Being invited to a place like this was one thing. Moving in circles where you knew the host, where you could casually offer access in a house owned by someone high up in the regional narco structure… that was something else entirely.

“That right?” Javier asked, tone loose, almost disinterested.

Mateo puffed slightly at the question, pride slipping easily into his posture. “Yeah. We go way back,” he said, lifting his glass as if that alone proved it. “Got history.”

“Do you?” you echoed, your voice light as you tipped your head, lashes lowering just enough to soften the edge of your gaze. “And where did you find him?” The words came sweet, almost playful - his phrasing turned neatly back on him.

Javier’s reaction was immediate, a flicker at your side. Not disapproval - no, not quite. Something closer to surprise, threaded with the faintest hint of amusement.

Mateo, however, didn’t take it quite as smoothly.

The irritation flashed across his face for the briefest moment, gone almost as soon as it came, replaced by that same slick grin he seemed to default to.

“Careful,” he muttered, though his tone stayed light. “Sounds like someone still needs to teach you some manners.” His gaze slid back to Javier. “Like I said - room’s there if you want it.” He raised his glass in a lazy half-salute. “But I’ve got a few more friends to see. And who knows…” His eyes flicked to you again, lingering just a second too long. “Maybe I’ll get lucky myself tonight.”

The wink he threw your way made something in your stomach turn.

You held the smile anyway. Just convincing enough.

And the second he turned his back, it dropped.

“Pendejo…” you muttered under your breath, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

Beside you, Javier’s grip loosened slightly - but didn’t disappear. His hand still rested against you, grounding, present in a way that felt… intentional.

“But we got something out of him,” he said, quieter now, his voice losing some of that performative ease. “Thanks to your… act.”

You blinked.

That was more than he had said to you in the last week combined.

“Not exactly difficult,” you shot back, the defensiveness rising before you could check it. “Men like him make it easy.” You pressed your lips together briefly, holding back the rest of what you might have said.

Javier hummed, a small nod accompanying the sound, his fingers shifting against your skin almost distracted. You prayed he did not register the goosebumps it caused.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you -”

He stopped mid-thought. Something beyond you had caught his attention.

You followed the shift instinctively, watching as his expression tightened, the ease from moments ago replaced with a sharper, serious focus.

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely audible.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up, instinct urging you to turn, to follow his line of sight - but he moved faster. His hand slid from your shoulder, guiding - no, turning - you with a firm urgency that left no room for argument. You stumbled slightly into him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

“What?” you asked, low. “What is it?”

“It’s not what,” he said through clenched teeth, already moving, already steering you through the crowd. His hand found the small of your back, pressing you forward, the touch controlled but insistent. “It’s who.”

You let him guide you, adjusting your pace to match his as you wove through bodies and voices, away from the center of the party. The shift was subtle enough not to draw attention, but fast enough to matter.

“Cristian Romero.”

The name meant nothing to you.

“Who?” you pressed, glancing back at him as you hit the base of the staircase, your steps quickening as you started up without fully understanding why.

“A nobody,” Javier said, scanning ahead, his focus already shifting beyond the conversation. “Small-time dealer.”

That did not explain the urgency.

“So?” you asked, turning more fully now even as you continued upward, forced into a backward step to keep your eyes on him.

“I had him in a room two weeks ago,” Javier replied, his voice pressed. “Questioned him for hours. Pretty sure he remembers the face of the cop, that had bodyslammed him to the ground.”

He didn’t need to spell it out. It clicked into place all at once.

“Oh, shit…”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, catching up to you in two quick steps. His hand closed around your wrist. “That about covers it.”

At the top of the stairs, the atmosphere shifted. The noise of the party dulled, fewer people lingered here, the space stretching out into dim hallways and half-lit corners. A couple stood pressed together in the shadows, oblivious to anything but each other, their closeness suggesting they were seconds away from crossing a line they wouldn’t walk back from.

Javier didn’t slow.

He guided you past them, deeper into the quieter part of the house, his grip steady, his movements purposeful. The light thinned the further you went, shadows swallowing details until the hallway ahead lay mostly in darkness.

“Javier -”

No answer.

Just movement.

And then - an open door, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

He didn’t hesitate.

One sharp pull, and you were inside before you could protest, the shift from dim hallway to near-dark room swallowing you both whole. The door shut behind you with a quiet click, sealing off the noise, the light, the world outside.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the faint, muffled pulse of music drifting up from the party below.

“What now?” you asked quietly, more to ground yourself than anything else, your mind already running through the options. None of them were particularly appealing. Having your cover blown in a place like this wasn’t just inconvenient - it was dangerous. Walking out now, risking a direct encounter with someone who could recognize Javier, felt like stepping straight into a trap. And yet… staying carried its own risks.

“We wait,” Javier said, his voice low.

He moved through the darkness, crossing to the window and slipping two fingers beneath the curtain just enough to glance outside. The fabric fell back into place almost immediately after. His gaze flicked over you then - quick, assessing - lingering just long enough to make his conclusion obvious.

Climbing out wasn’t an option.

“Party’s still filling up,” he went on, already turning away from the window. “Give it a little time. More people means more cover. Easier to disappear.”

You nodded, even as your pulse refused to settle, thudding a little too fast against your ribs. You told yourself it was the close call, the narrow miss of being recognized. Not the fact that you were suddenly alone with him, shut away from everything else.

You pushed off the door, letting your attention drift through the room instead. Even in the dim light, its purpose - or lack thereof - was obvious. A fireplace dominated one wall, framed by towering bookshelves that stretched up toward the ceiling, filled more for show than use. Two armchairs sat arranged in front of it, positioned just so, as if someone had once imagined quiet evenings here but never quite followed through. Across the room stood a heavy desk, polished to a shine, cluttered with decorative pieces that leaned more toward expensive than tasteful.

A room built to impress. Not to live in.

You pulled a random book from one of the shelves and sank into one of the armchairs, draping yourself across it in a way that felt far more casual than the situation warranted. One arm rested along the side, your legs shifting over the opposite edge as you flipped the book open without really reading.

Javier lingered by the door for a moment longer, listening, before a quiet chuckle slipped from him.

You glanced up over the edge of the book. “What?”

“Just thinking,” he said, pushing off the wall and crossing toward you, “about Mateo’s face if he’d seen us slip up here.”

A small huff escaped you at that, the image coming together easily. “He’d probably think you’re the luckiest man alive.”

You dropped your gaze back to the page, missing the way Javier’s eyes settled on you, lingering just a fraction too long.

“Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now. “Something like that.”

The tone made you look up again, a question already forming - 

But a sharp knock at the door cut it off.

Both of you were on your feet before the second knock landed.

Javier moved before you could think, his hand firm at your side as he pushed you subtly behind him. The shift was instinctive, protective in a way that felt far too natural for a man who, up until tonight, had barely acknowledged your existence. Your own body followed suit just as quickly, your hand drifting toward where your firearm would usually rest at your hip - only to meet nothing but fabric. 

Right. Not tonight.

The handle turned before either of you could adjust and the door opened. One of the evening’s security filled the frame, broad shoulders blocking out what little light spilled in from the hallway. You felt the change in Javier immediately. The subtle shift in his stance, the tension coiling beneath the surface. One wrong move away from action.

“That part of the house is off-limits,” the guard said, his tone flat and final. “I’ll have to ask you to return downstairs.”

Javier took a step forward, already preparing to handle it - but something in the air sharpened, the edge of the situation turning just enough to make your pulse spike.

“We just had -”

So you moved first.

“- we were just looking for somewhere quiet,” you cut in smoothly, slipping your arms around Javier from behind before he could react. The contact was intimate at best - and for the briefest second, you felt him still beneath your touch. 

Your cheek hovered near his shoulder, your body pressing into his back in a way that sold the picture effortlessly.

The guard’s gaze flicked between the two of you.

“That’s not the place for it,” he replied, unimpressed.

You let a soft pout pull at your lips, your fingers drifting idly over the front of Javier’s shirt, toying with a button as if you had nowhere better to be. Then, just enough to push the line - 

“You sure?” you murmured, your voice dipping lower, suggestive without tipping into anything overt. “You can stay... watch, if you want.”

That got a reaction.

From both of them.

The guard’s expression shifted first, something uncertain slipping into his posture. Javier, however stiffened even more - then he recovered faster than you expected.

“Mateo sent us,” he added, stepping into the opening you’d created without missing a beat. “Said we might find a little privacy up here.”

The name landed exactly where it needed to.

The guard hesitated, his attention pulled right back to you as your fingers traced a slow line along the skin just visible beneath Javier’s open collar. You felt the warmth there, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing - felt, too, the way it changed, just slightly, under your touch.

“Could get in trouble for this,” the man muttered, though his voice had lost some of its earlier certainty.

You slipped out from behind Javier then, letting the movement carry you naturally into his space, turning so that you fit against him instead of hiding behind him, hips pressing into him. His arm came up around you - whether by instinct or intention, you couldn’t tell - but it completed the picture.

“Wouldn’t want that,” you said lightly, your gaze lifting to Javier as if he were the only one that mattered. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Javier agreed easily, a grin tugging at his mouth as he looked back at the guard. “Wouldn’t want to cause problems.”

He was already starting to guide you toward the door when - 

“Ten minutes.”

The words came quick, almost reluctant.

You both stilled.

The guard glanced down the hallway, then back at you, a faint, conspiratorial smile breaking through. “Been there once,” he added. “Fresh love, I mean.”

You let out a small, delighted sound, the reaction easy to play.

Javier clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Knew you’d understand, amigo.”

The man waved it off, already stepping back, pulling the door shut behind him. His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving you alone again in the dim quiet of the room.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then reality snapped back in.

You shifted, instinctively trying to step out of Javier’s hold, the awareness of him suddenly too much - too close, too present. Your fingers still tingled faintly from where they had touched his skin, your mind unhelpfully replaying the moment.

You didn’t get far.

His hand caught your wrist, pulling you back before you could fully withdraw. The motion was quick - turning you, pressing you back until you felt the solid surface of the door at your back and him in front of you.

Caging you in.

“The hell was that?” he asked, and the first thing you registered was the edge in his expression - irritation that bordered on anger.

But it didn’t quite match the rest.

His voice came out rougher than usual, breath just slightly uneven, something tight threaded through it that didn’t sit cleanly with anger alone.

“Relax,” you shot back, lifting your chin despite the position he had you in. “It worked, didn’t it?” You tipped your head faintly toward the door. “Bought us time.”

“That’s not -” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply as his free hand dragged over his face, thumb and forefinger pressing briefly at the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I meant.”

Confusion flickered through your irritation. “Then what… I’m sorry,” you said, the words coming out a little more uneven than you intended. “For… that. Getting that close. It was just part of the act that we...”

You trailed off when he looked at you again.

“Was it?” he asked quietly.

His hand shifted, leaving the door beside your head - only to settle at your neck instead, enough to guide, to tilt your head upward just slightly. The movement sent a sharp awareness through you, your own hand lifting to his chest to hold space that felt increasingly fragile.

“You sure about that, cariño?” he added, softer now, the petname placed deliberately.

Your breath caught.

You were certain he saw it.

The way your pupils widened, the way your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

His grip adjusted, just enough to bring you a fraction closer as he stepped in, closing what little distance remained between you. Heat pressed into you again, familiar now, overwhelming in a different way.

“Just an act?” he murmured, his voice dropping low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “Tell me it didn’t do anything.”

Your thoughts tangled, words catching somewhere on the way out. “I - Javier, we should -”

You lost the rest when he leaned in, close enough that his warm breath brushed along your cheek.

“Tell me,” he continued, quieter still, “you didn’t want him to stay. That you weren’t hoping I’d have to keep playing along.”

Your chest tightened.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, waiting.

And when your gaze flickered - betraying you for a split second, dropping to his mouth before snapping back up - you felt it. The moment it slipped.

“I can’t…”

“I know…”

The words barely had time to settle before he closed the distance.

Whatever line had existed between you snapped clean the second his mouth found yours, his body pressing into you with an urgency that knocked the air from your lungs. The kiss was all heat and intent, nothing tentative about it - like he had been holding back for far too long and had finally decided he was done with restraint.

You answered him without thinking.

Your lips moved against his just as fiercely, your fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in something that felt both overwhelming and undeniable. His hand slid along your side, anchoring you, while his mouth worked over yours with a hunger that should have startled you more than it did.

It didn’t stop the confusion from clawing its way through though.

Your brows drew together, even as you leaned into him, even as your grip tightened. It was too much, too sudden - too far removed from everything you thought you knew about him.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead nearly brushing his. “The - fuck, Javier…”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look apologetic, either.

If anything, there was something almost assured in the way he watched you, like he had expected this reaction - and decided it didn’t change a thing.

“How - why…?” The questions tangled together, barely formed before he was kissing you again, cutting them off at their root. Your protest dissolved into a sharp inhale as his mouth moved from yours, trailing along your jaw, down the line of your throat, each brush of his lips pulling your focus further away from whatever point you had been trying to make.

“I thought you hated me,” you managed, the words uneven, slipping out between breaths that didn’t quite steady.

A quiet sound left him - something close to a scoff.

“Hate you?” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm where it followed the path of his mouth. “How the hell would I manage that, cariño?”

His hands moved as he spoke, tracing along your sides, mapping you in a way that made your grip tighten on him in response. You hooked one leg around his instinctively, needing the balance, needing something solid to hold onto, while his crotch pushed into your center.

“You avoid me,” you insisted, though it came out weaker now, less certain. “Barely talk to me -”

He cut you off again, his mouth returning to yours, stealing the rest of the argument before it could fully form.

“Because,” he said between kisses, each word brushing your lips, “you made it damn difficult for me to concentrate at all.”

The shift came fast.

One arm slid around your waist, the other braced beneath your thigh, and before you could fully process it, he lifted you, turning with you in a single motion. The world tilted for a second before you felt the solid edge of the desk beneath you as he set you down.

Something clattered softly as a piece of decoration was nudged aside, but neither of you paid it any attention.

Not when his focus was entirely on you.

“All I wanted,” he said, stepping back just enough to take you in, his gaze dragging over you, “was this.”

There was something raw in it now. Less polished. Less controlled.

“Just you,” he added. 

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a scoff, though it lacked any real bite. “Funny way of showing it.”

Still, you didn’t stop him when he stepped back in, pushing your legs open with his. Didn’t stop him when his hands found you again, when he shifted closer, pressing into you just enough to pull another unsteady exhale from your lips.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice roughened at the edges. “I’ll give you that.” His hand came up, fingers brushing along your jaw, guiding your attention back to him. “Let me fix that,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

You just slid your arms around his neck, pulling him down into you again, your lips meeting his before he could say anything more.

Javier braced himself with one hand against the desk, steadying both you and the precarious edge you were balanced on. The other moved with far less restraint, sliding up along your thigh, gathering the fabric of your dress as it rode higher against your hip. You shifted instinctively, helping him along, your breath catching.

For a moment, he pulled back - just to study you.

“Look at you…” he exhaled, something almost disbelieving threading through his voice. His gaze dragged slowly over your body, taking in every detail like he had been waiting for this exact moment. “We’re not going to need the full ten minutes.”

A breath of laughter slipped between you, light but edged with something sharper. “Shame,” you murmured, your lips curving.

Javier’s focus snapped back to you entirely, his hand moving with quiet certainty to your center, cupping you before hooking into the side of your panties and unceremoniously pulling it aside.

“Guapa…” he murmured, his voice threaded with something almost reverent now as he slid two fingers along your seam, collecting your arousal. “All this… for me.” He grinned against your lips. “If only i had known earlier.” 

You could do nothing but moan softly as he sank two fingers into you, letting your velvet walls pulse around his digits. Instinctively your hips worked against his movements, pushing you further to the edge of the table. 

He watched you - closely. Every shift, every reaction, like he was committing it to memory.

“As much as I’d like to hear you,” he continued, his lips brushing along your jaw before he stilled, catching your gaze, “you’ll have to keep it quiet.” There was no room for argument in the way he said it. “Can you do that for me, cariño?”

You tried to respond, but whatever words you meant to form slipped away, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as your head tipped back, your lips pressing together in an effort to contain the sound threatening to escape, all because he pushed his fingers deeper, knowing exactly what he did to you with that.

His thumb meanwhile started slow circles at your clit and you could swear you had trouble remembering being this fast this close to a climax in your life.

“Dios…” he breathed under his breath, almost to himself. “How I would love to taste you. But again”, without a warning he pulled his fingers from you, leaving you gasping for air, and clenching around nothing, missing his touch dearly already, “clock’s ticking.”

He stepped back just enough to adjust, to free himself from his pants, letting them hang low on his hips. You had barely time to take him in, see him giving his cock a few lazy strokes, before he positioned it against your waiting center.

“Look at me, guapa.” His hand found your neck again, guiding your gaze back to him, making sure you were there with him, as he pushed in slowly, inch by inch.

Your breath caught, the sound barely more than air as you felt him filling you up, the pressure a delightful mix of lust and discomfort.

He stilled for a brief second, like he was grounding himself, like he needed that moment just as much as you did.

Then he moved.

Not rushed - but not slow either. A steady rhythm, controlled but edged with restraint that felt like it could snap at any second. Every thrust sent a shudder through you, the desk beneath you shifting slightly with the impact, something clattering softly to the floor again, forgotten as quickly as it fell.

“You feel…” he started, his voice rougher now. “Perfect.”

Your name might have been there, or maybe just his - something breathed out between you as your arms gave way slightly, your body leaning back against the desk, surrendering to the moment despite everything in your head telling you this was insane.

“Javier…” you exhaled, your voice barely holding together.

He followed with movement, adjusting without breaking rhythm, hooking your legs over his arms so he could fold you and lean over you - the angle sharpening even more as he drove deeper into you. The air left your lungs in a rush as you turned your head, your hand flying up to cover your mouth, stifling the sound that wanted to break free.

“I’m -” you started, but the words barely made it out.

He caught it anyway.

“Hey - ” His tone shifted again. “Look at me.”

His hand moved, guiding your face back toward him, then resting softly over your mouth, forcing the quiet from you. “I want to see what I do to you.”

And he did.

He saw it all. Every flicker, every reaction, every shift of your body beneath him as he pushed you closer to the edge with his thrusts, hips snapping against yours.

The final moments blurred - you muffled against his fingers, eyes rolling back, as you clenched around his cock and the climax took you fully.

The sight of you coming so purely undone, moaning his name between his fingers, let him follow shortly after. In one final thrust, Javier’s hip snapped forward, pushing deep and spilling into you, both your pulsing muscles twitching against the slightest sensation or movement.

The room fell quiet again, the only sound left your uneven breathing, the faint echo of the party below reminding you that the world outside hadn’t stopped.

For a second, it didn’t feel real.

“Fuck, cariño…” Javier’s voice came out rough, low against your skin as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath still uneven. His body hadn’t quite settled yet either, his hips shifting in a slow, absent rhythm like he hadn’t fully come back to himself. The sensation pulled a quiet, lingering response from you, your legs tightening around him almost instinctively as your fingers slid into his hair, threading through the dark strands and holding him there for a second longer.

You exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and a breath you were still trying to steady. “Think we’ve got time for another round?” you murmured, your voice light but edged with something that betrayed you.

He lifted his head, just enough to look at you properly, something amused flickering in his expression. “Yeah?” he muttered, a hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “You really asking that?”

There was no real answer to that - only the shared awareness of what had just happened and how easily it could tip right back into it.

Instead, he pulled out slowly, carefully even, helping you sit up properly on the desk. The shift brought the room back into focus - the scattered objects, the quiet, the faint pulse of music below.

You slid off the desk, your legs unsteady for a second before you found your balance again. The fabric of your dress followed your movements as you adjusted it back into place, smoothing it down your thighs like that might somehow erase the evidence of the last minutes. The cum dampening your panties certainly played a good part as a reminder of it.

Javier wasn’t far behind. He straightened himself with the same efficiency he brought to everything else, though there was something less composed about it now as he puled his pants back up.

Before you could step away, his hand found your chin again, tilting your face up just slightly. His thumb brushed over your lower lip.

“Careful,” you murmured, a small grin tugging at your mouth as you reached up, mirroring the gesture, wiping the faint smear of your lipstick from his lips. “Wouldn’t want to get caught because of that.”

He huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s not push it.”

You stepped back just enough to create space between you. “We should get out of here.”

He nodded once, already moving toward the door.

You followed, acutely aware now of everything - of your body, of him, of the lingering heat that hadn’t quite faded yet. It made your steps feel just slightly off, your movements not as controlled as they usually were.

Javier noticed.

Of course he did.

His hand found yours without hesitation, fingers threading through yours, grounding you as he eased the door open. He checked the hallway first, before pulling you along with him.

The difference ten minutes made was almost staggering.

Where before the party had been busy, now it was packed - bodies pressed together, voices louder, movement tighter. The kind of crowd you could disappear into.

Javier pulled you closer again, guiding your arm around his waist, keeping your joined hands in front of you as he navigated through the mass of people. To anyone watching, it looked natural. 

Only you could feel the tension still coiled beneath it.

You scanned the room as you moved, your focus sharp again despite everything. Faces blurred past, voices blending together - 

And then - 

A flicker.

A man turning.

For half a second, your pulse spiked.

Cristian Romero.

You reacted before you could confirm.

Your hand tightened around Javier’s, pulling him sharply, turning him toward you and into you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that came out of nowhere but landed seamlessly into the role you’d been playing all night.

Javier huffed a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound warm and amused. “Careful,” he murmured. “I might start thinking this is part of the job now.”

You pulled back just enough to glance over his shoulder, checking again.

Not Romero.

Just someone who looked close enough to set your nerves off.

“All clear,” you breathed, more to yourself than him.

This time, you took the lead.

Your hand slid down to his wrist, tugging him after you as you cut through the last stretch of the crowd, past the entrance, out into the night.

The air hit differently outside, cutting through the haze of heat and noise you had just left behind.

You didn’t stop walking. Not until the sounds of the party dulled behind you, until the cluster of waiting cars and taxis fell out of immediate reach.

“Next time,” you said over your shoulder, a grin slipping back into place as you glanced at him, “maybe we skip the hiding and the countdown.”

Javier caught up easily, falling into step beside you before his arm slipped around you again as he had done so many times tonight. Only difference was that the act could easily end here. It didn't though.

“Don’t know,” he replied, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “Kind of liked the pressure.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning into him, enough to feel the shift in him.

You tilted your head, catching the glint in his eyes under the streetlights, something darker settling there now.

“What do you say...,” you asked, “debrief at my place?”

His grin didn’t falter.

If anything, it deepened.

“Lead the way, guapa.”

My Masterlist

Taglist

The power still teased you, pulsing beneath your skin, whispering of things you were meant to touch, to wield, to unravel. Every lesson left you buzzing, frustrated that the magic you could feel so clearly remained just beyond your reach.

Today had been no different.

You had arrived for your afternoon session brimming with energy, hoping to finally bend the elements a little more boldly than usual. And yes, your exercises had been successful. The fire dance, the hovering flames, the faint sparks that had jumped from your fingertips to hover in the air like tiny embers - it had worked. It had really worked.

And yet, when you turned to the matron of your class - the one everyone called the Arcanist, the head of your junior circle - her smile was patient, almost indulgent. “Very good,” she had said. “Promising. But remember: control before ambition. You mustn’t overreach.”

Control before ambition. Those words had rolled around in your mind like chains as you had trudged back to your dorm. You had tried to keep your excitement in check, tried to remind yourself that rules were part of the process. But the spark still buzzed beneath your skin, relentless and impatient, and all it took was a glance at the empty corridors and the flickering candlelight of your dorm to make you ache for more.

You sighed and collapsed onto your bed, letting your notes spill across your lap, the inked pages filled with today’s successes and instructions, each line a reminder of just how safe, how measured, how… mundane, your life here really was.

The room itself didn’t help. It was cozy, practical, lined with bookshelves of careful volumes - nothing that would satisfy the hunger curling in your chest. The scent of herbs and incense lingered in the corners, too light, too domesticated to match the dark thrill you craved. You let your gaze wander over your possessions: jars of dried petals and moss, a carefully bound grimoire that smelled faintly of mildew and magic, the polished silver tools for scrying and drawing glyphs. Each item whispered promises of power, and yet, in this dorm, they felt inert, restrained. You longed for chaos, for danger, for the sharp tang of forbidden knowledge.

Perhaps the library could oblige.

The thought brought a spark to your chest, a shiver along your spine. The coven’s archives were vast, shadowed halls where candles flickered and dust motes danced in the air like living things. The forbidden section - demonic, theoretical, never to be practiced - called to you in particular. You had only glimpsed it once under the strict supervision of a senior, the smell of old parchment and something darker curling in your nose, but you had remembered every title, every cryptic symbol.

Tonight, perhaps, you would visit it again. And maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t leave with merely curiosity this time. Maybe tonight, you would touch the edges of something you were never supposed to touch at all.

You made your way to the library, the quiet of the late hour settling around you like a soft, expectant fog. The halls were empty, save for the occasional rustle of a nocturnal scholar or the distant tick of a clock somewhere deep in the building. Most were long gone to their dorms or tangled in the careful monotony of their studies; hardly anyone stayed late to wander these corridors. You found the solitude comforting. It meant freedom.

Stepping into the main hall, you allowed yourself a glance around. The candlelight flickered across the polished floors, casting long shadows between the shelves, stretching and twisting as if the room itself were alive. With quiet, deliberate steps, you moved toward the restricted section at the back. Technically, “restricted” was a polite fiction. A simple chain partitioned the area, paired with a sign in neat, officious lettering: “Books in this section are not for rental. Study only - practice heavily discouraged.”

You exhaled, bitter and amused. Careful. Mundane. Boring.

Ignoring the faint twinge of guilt the sign provoked, you stepped around the chain and let your fingers drift across the spines of the old tomes. Leather, vellum, polished wood - a slow, hypnotic rhythm as you traced centuries of magic and knowledge that had been folded into these pages. You had no plan; you had only the need, the itch under your skin that demanded to be scratched.

And then you felt it. A texture unlike the rest: cold, almost metallic, with weight that tugged at your arms when you lifted it. The book seemed alive in your hands, resonating with a pull you couldn’t name. You paused, tracing the sigil engraved into its front - a crest of interlocking shapes, jagged yet precise, as if carved by a hand both human and something else. The design made your pulse quicken: angular lines forming a sort of T-shaped mark, flanked by twin crescents, the edges faintly gleaming as if catching the candlelight itself.

The book’s presence throbbed beneath your fingers. You could feel the magic, dormant but eager, waiting to be awakened. Your mind screamed to open it right there, to dive into the forbidden, to let the darkness spill into your veins. You imagined the pages, the diagrams etched in ink that shimmered faintly in the low light, and the whispers of incantations that promised power you weren’t supposed to touch.

But restraint, however thin, still held you. You shoved the book under your coat, feeling the surprising weight against your side, and began the careful retreat back toward your dorm room. Each step echoed in the empty hall, a metronome to the pulse thrumming in your chest. The magic hummed against your ribcage, vibrating in rhythm with your heartbeat, insistent, impatient, demanding.

By the time you slipped through the dorm’s door, you were shaking with anticipation. In the sanctuary of your room, you could set the book on your desk, breathe, and let your fingers explore without fear of curious eyes or prying warnings. The library had been a gate; your dorm, the threshold where the real work could begin.

Tonight, at last, the waiting would end.

Hours passed. You sat cross-legged on your narrow bed, the book spread open before you, its pages no longer the chaotic riddle they had been at first. The symbols had started to move in your mind, not literally - though you could swear sometimes the ink shimmered - but meaning began to coalesce. You weren’t reading anymore; you were understanding.

It had taken time. At first, you caught fragments - archaic phrasing, strange dialects that blurred the line between prayer and curse. But the longer you traced the curling script, the more it seemed to adjust to you. The words found rhythm in your breath, their meanings sliding into place as though the book wanted to be read, wanted to be known.

Most of it spoke of things your tutors had only ever alluded to in whispers - the art of protection, not through barriers or charms, but through bond. Of summoning, not as calling something forth, but as awakening what already watched. It told of a presence, an entity bound to balance and vengeance, a creature of discipline and silent wrath. He was described as neither wholly beast nor god, but something between: a guardian forged in violence, a keeper of ancient pacts.

The texts named no form, no image - only that his armor was not made of metal but of purpose, and that his gaze could pierce through untruth like a blade through cloth. His domain was the border between obedience and rebellion, and his summoners were few - those who desired both control and absolution, and found neither.

You swallowed hard, tracing the sigil again where it was printed in the margin - that same shape of interlocking lines, sharp and resolute. It called to something deep in you.

You turned another page, and your pulse kicked when you found it: The Rite of Manifestation.

Honestly, it didn’t look that complicated. A few runes. A blood mark. The invocation itself short, almost elegant. You frowned, surprised at how… accessible it seemed. This couldn’t be the kind of thing the coven was so afraid of. Fire magic had burned half the northern wing once, and that had been considered safe study.

Your eyes skimmed the ingredients list.

A circle of salt.

A single offering -"something of warmth.”

Your own blood -"the bridge between worlds.”

You had all of it. Of course you did. Any witch worth their name did.

You hesitated - for formality more than fear. The book hadn’t listed any real dangers, not beyond the usual sermonizing. Demons feed on intent. Never promise what you can’t deliver. Those who summon must command, or be consumed. It all read like the kind of warnings teachers wrote into curriculum to keep students away from the fun stuff.

And besides, whoever summoned a demon became their master, didn’t they? That’s what the old stories said. Control through will. That didn’t sound so bad.

You closed the book with a soft thud and stood, rolling your shoulders. Enough of hesitation. Enough of caution. You’d waited long enough to feel something real.

You cleared the small table by your bed, pushing your books and candles aside, then drew a circle of salt across the worn wood, your movements precise but quick. It glittered faintly in the low light, catching the flicker of your single candle. You cut your palm with the ritual knife - shallow, more sting than pain - and let a drop of blood fall into the center. It spread into the salt like ink into water.

You murmured the opening lines. The words were soft, slippery things, rolling off your tongue like you’d known them all your life. The air shifted. The candle flame shivered, though no breeze touched it.

You continued. Your voice grew steadier, the rhythm more certain. The shadows in the corners of the room thickened, curling inward, drawn to the pulse of your voice. The symbols carved into the book’s page began to gleam faintly, reflecting light that didn’t exist.

You felt it before you saw it - a pull in your chest, like something vast had turned its attention toward you. The air grew dense, humming with energy. The circle’s edge began to glow faintly, as if reacting to the heat of your intent.

A thrill ran through you. This was it. Real magic - not the measured rituals of the coven, but something raw, alive, answering.

You reached the final line of the incantation, your voice a whisper and a command all at once. The air cracked - sharp and electric - and the candle went out.

Darkness swallowed the room, heavy and absolute.

And from within it, something moved.

For a few heartbeats, there was only the silence - the kind that seemed to listen back. And then you felt it, before your eyes could adjust.

A pressure, like gravity itself had shifted. The air had weight now, the small room no longer yours but his. You couldn’t see him yet, but the sound reached you first - the low, steady rhythm of metal shifting, faint but distinct. Armor. The subtle scrape of something heavy brushing against the floor.

Then came the breathing.

Modulated, mechanical almost, steady and inhuman in its precision. It filled the room, the slow inhale and exhale of something that shouldn’t need to breathe at all.

You froze. Just for a moment. The thrill that had burned through you only minutes ago flickered into something else - hesitation, maybe even fear. What had you done?

Your fingers twitched, and instinct took over before reason could stop you. You lifted your hand, calling forth a spark of fire in your palm. The little flame sputtered to life, casting long, quivering shadows along the walls.

“Show yourself,” you said, your voice small at first, then stronger as you straightened your back. “You’ve been summoned. Make yourself known.”

The breathing paused. Then - footsteps. Two. Three.

He stepped into the circle of dim orange light.

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

He was taller than you expected - much taller. The room, already small, now felt suffocating with him in it. The flame in your hand trembled, its light skimming over plates of dark armor etched with faint sigils that looked almost alive when they caught the glow. It wasn’t polished, not ceremonial - this was worn, scarred, meant for survival, not beauty.

A metal helmet concealed his face entirely, featureless save for the T-shaped visor that glinted faintly. It was impossible to tell if there was a face beneath it at all - only the steady sound of his breathing told you there was something living inside.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Who are you?”

The answer came low and resonant, the kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command.

“You called me,” he said, the words like a judgment. “Do you not know who you’ve summoned?”

Something about the way he spoke - measured, unhurried, certain - made your pulse stumble. The flame in your palm flickered, and you realized you’d stepped back without meaning to.

His head tilted, visor catching the light. “You break your circle, little witch, and you give me leave to touch your world.”

You froze again.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a reminder.

And as he took one slow step forward, the edges of your flame trembling, you felt it deep in your bones - whatever rules you thought you understood no longer applied here.

Still, you tried to find your composure again - straightened your back, lifted your chin, the motion a fragile act of defiance that almost convinced you. You had read about this in the book. You summon him. You command him. That was the order of things.

So why didn’t it feel like it?

“You shall address me as your mistress,” you said, the words coming out thinner than you’d intended, a trembling echo of authority. “And you will do as I please.”

The silence that followed stretched long enough for your skin to prickle. Then -

A sound.

Not bright amusement, not even laughter. It was a low, rough chuckle, like gravel shifting in a dry riverbed. Dark mockery, the kind that told you he wasn’t laughing with you.

“Is that so, little witch?” The way he said it made your stomach knot. He drew out the nickname, deliberate, almost tender in its derision, as if to remind you that any attempt to control him was a sweet, foolish dream. “Then tell me,” he went on, voice curling through the room like smoke, “what is it that you please?”

You couldn’t see his face. But you could feel the grin beneath the helmet - the faint lilt in his tone, the quiet confidence of someone far too used to being feared. Something in you wanted desperately to imagine a human behind the metal - eyes, lips, something you could understand.

But his questions came slowly, giving you just enough time to realize you had no real answer.

What was it you wanted?

“I… I just wanted to -” you began, words tumbling over each other before vanishing entirely. You weren’t sure what he wanted to hear - or what you wanted to admit. The flame in your palm sputtered again, dipping low until only a faint glow remained. You clenched your fingers, forcing it back to life, the effort leaving your arm trembling.

He turned his head slightly, visor sweeping over your small dorm room. His presence filled every corner, made the air hum with something old and wrong. He took his time, as if reading you through the walls - the piles of books, the untidy desk, the open grimoire. A slow, dry snicker rolled from him.

“Enlighten me, little witch,” he said, his tone dipping low, almost conversational now, “how come an apprentice plays with power she was never meant to touch?”

Your eyes darted to the book on the floor, the one that had started all this. You remembered - faintly - the passage about breaking a summoning. It had been short, no more than a few lines: a sigil reversed, a phrase whispered with intent, the summoner’s will untangling the tether. But it was fragmented in your memory now, scrambled by the heavy pulse of his voice and the crackling energy in the air.

“What is it, cyar’ika?” he asked after a beat. “Cat got your tongue?”

The nickname - it didn’t sound human. It carried a strange warmth that didn’t belong in this room, yet the way he said it made your pulse skip.

“This… this was a mistake,” you managed at last, your voice firmer this time but trembling under the surface.

“Oh, it certainly was.”

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, each movement a controlled assertion of power.

You took one step back. Then another.

Your heel hit the edge of your bed, sending you stumbling until you sat down hard, the flame in your hand guttering out entirely. Darkness rushed back in.

In the dark, his outline shifted - broad shoulders, the faint glint of metal tracing his form. You pushed yourself upright, breath caught somewhere between fear and defiance. He didn’t move, only stood there as though waiting, patient and inevitable, as if eternity itself could afford him the luxury of silence.

“This was… mere practice,” you said at last. “I want you gone now. I’m sorry for disturbing your presence. But… it’s over.”

He tilted his head, the movement sharp. A faint sound followed - something between a hum and a growl, modulated through whatever device lay hidden beneath his helmet.

“It isn’t, though,” he said softly. “Summoning me… costs you.”

You froze. The words scraped through the dark, low and final. The book hadn’t mentioned costs. You lifted your hand, the faint sting of the earlier cut still pulsing across your palm. “But I already… gave.” You held it out like a child presenting proof of honesty.

He chuckled - a sound so deep it felt like it came from the walls themselves.

“You gave as part of the binding, yes. But this -"

His hand came forward. Leather closed around your wrist, cool and crushing, turning it as though testing its fragility.

“This is not the payment I’m talking about.”

You tried to pull back, but his grip didn’t move. He wasn’t hurting you - at least, not in the way that left marks - but the pressure made your pulse race, your breath shallow.

“I didn’t even… wish anything of you yet,” you stammered, searching for a foothold in the conversation that no longer belonged to you. “What is it you need from me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His silence was a calculated cruelty. The seconds stretched long enough for your imagination to fill them: the old lessons whispered in the coven halls about the prices demons demand. Memory, youth, voice. Sight. The soul itself.

But the book had mentioned none of those.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a mortal.”

Your breath caught. The word tasted felt wrong in your mind - too soft, too intimate for what it might mean.

You swallowed hard. “Do you… wish for a sacrifice?” Your mind raced, grasping at ways to make sense of the rules you thought you understood. “I could find something - someone -"

He took a slow step closer. The air changed. Heat rolled from him, dry and suffocating. The next step brought him within arm’s reach, and you had to tilt your chin up to meet the black T-shaped visor that reflected your own frightened face.

“You will suffice,” he said simply.

The words struck with more force than a physical blow. You stumbled backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed again, the old frame creaking as you sat down hard.

“You… you cannot kill me,” you whispered. Your voice shook. “I summoned you. You’re bound to me.”

A pause. Then, a sound like static - laughter distorted through the metal of his helm.

“Bound?” he repeated. “You think the leash runs one way, witchling?”

He crouched slightly, enough that the dull gleam of his armor caught the dim light of the full moon. His hand hovered near your face, not touching yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off it. The air smelled faintly of ash and something older, darker - like storms before they break.

“You see,” he continued, quieter now, almost gentle in contrast to the intensity around him, “the cost is never what you think it will be. And sometimes, it’s less about giving, and more about surrendering.”

He stepped closer, the cold metal of his cuisses pressing against your thighs. A shiver ran through you, part fear, part something sharper, something hungry that had nothing to do with terror.

He nudged your legs apart just a fraction, the pressure sending heat surging low in your belly. You could feel it, and yet it wasn’t just desire - it was the awareness of surrender, of offering yourself completely to him.

“How…” your voice cracked, dry and tentative. “How will it even… work?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, a slow, deliberate motion nudged your shoulders back, a command without phrasing, a challenge without negotiation. “Show me yourself as I have shown you myself.”

Your trembling hands rose instinctively, fumbling for the buttons of your dress. One by one, you released them, each small click a tiny surrender, your gaze locked on the dark visor that hid his face. You could almost feel his attention burning through the thin barrier of helmet and shadow, studying every motion, every hesitation.

When the last buttons yielded, you shimmied the dress down to your hips, revealing bare skin to the chill of the dorm air. Goosebumps rose instantly, nipples tightening in sharp contrast to the warmth pooling low in your core. The cold only heightened your awareness - every nerve, every inch of your skin, alive to his presence.

“All of it,” he said simply.

Hands that had grown accustomed to trembling obeyed. You pushed the dark fabric from your body entirely, letting it fall to the floor. Your chest rose and fell, breaths quickening as anticipation mingled with fear, with awe, with that impossible tangle of arousal and submission. Your mind raced, a frantic litany of disbelief and fascination: You summoned a demon. A real one. And now… what? First thing you come up with is to let yourself be fucked by him?

A hot, shuddering breath escaped your lips, though it was not fear alone. You had come seeking the edge, the thrill, the pulse of dark power at your fingertips. This - this proximity, this surrendered posture, the brush of armor so close - was more intoxicating than any lesson you had been taught in the coven.

“Kneel before me, little witch.” The words were not harsh, not rough - they were a demand that left no room for negotiation, a quiet assertion of dominance that had your body sliding instinctively to obey.

You dropped to your knees, feeling the weight of him above you, the presence that filled the small dorm suddenly impossibly vast. Your palms pressed to the worn floor and your eyes stayed on the worn floorboards, though your ears tracked every sound. 

The shuffle of his armor against itself made your pulse skip, the quiet metallic rasp echoing in the small room. Then, softer, his gloved fingers found their way to your face. The touch was gentle, almost intimate, and shockingly human compared to the hardness of his armor. His thumb traced along your jaw, tilting your head up so your gaze met the dark visor, the impossibly commanding presence that had consumed your thoughts since his arrival.

“Will you give yourself willingly, little witch?” His voice resonated through the helmet, each word a tether binding your attention. “To seal this pact with your openness… and my readiness? Will you obey so that I may bow to your will thereafter?” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, nudging it down just slightly, testing the limits of your submission. You felt the tug of instinct - the desire to show him - but you held back, biting the edge of your own restraint.

Instead, you gave him a nod, slight, but enough. Enough to grant him the permission to proceed.

His hand lifted, leaving your skin longing for contact that remained tantalizingly absent. Then came the subtle shuffle, a rustle beneath the armor, and the sound of straps and fabric moving. You caught only glimpses, sensed more than saw, until the unmistakable weight of his cock was freed in front of you, solid and heavy. His gloved hand guided his length, strokes that were measured and precise.

“Open up for me, cyar’ika,” he commanded, the word of power and ownership resonating in the air. You obeyed immediately, lips parting, anticipation sharpening every nerve. His tip pressed against you, warm, flesh against flesh, more human than his armored form had suggested. You took him into your mouth, letting your tongue explore, coax, and pleasure in ways entirely your own, even as the size and dominance of his form demanded careful attention.

At first, he allowed you to dictate the rhythm, a quiet encouragement through grunts and deep, low sounds, each one confirmation that your effort pleased him. You felt your confidence grow, feeling good to take him to a good two-third of his length.

And then, his gloved hand returned, gripping your hair with firm, but not painful, authority. 

Each tug, each guiding motion directed him deeper, teaching you without words how close you could come, how far you could stretch your limits. A sharp desire to pull back flared instinctively - air restriction, the tightness, the near impossibility of escape - but the pressure in your stomach, the surge of heat through your core, anchored you.

“Give in, little one,” he purred, voice low and commanding. Your fists unclenched, your eyes fluttered closed, tears prickling, and slowly, your body began to obey its instinct. You took him fully now, saliva dripping at the corners of your mouth, every nerve strung taut with pressure, tension, and the strange, thrilling euphoria of surrender.

He offered no praise - not in words - but the rhythm of his guidance, the pressure of his fingers in your hair, communicated approval. Each slight deviation of speed or depth met with subtle correction; every precise motion received reward in the quiet language of touch and sound. You learned quickly, body and mind attuned to the cadence he demanded.

Then, without warning, he pulled his cock from your lips, leaving you gasping for air, chest heaving, eyes searching his visor for any sign, any acknowledgment.

“Stand,” He didn’t offer a hand, only waited, his armor shifting faintly with his patience. Your legs trembled as you rose, knees weak from the hardwood floor, yet your body thrummed with anticipation. The slight tilt of his visor signaled he was scanning you, taking in every line, every curve, every pulse of exposed skin.

“You mortals… so fragile,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. The touch was almost gentle, but the words carried something darker, something that made your pulse quicken. Did he intend to break you? To test you? To claim you? Your mind spun, and you realized, with a jolt of excitement, that part of you wanted exactly that.

“We’re tougher than we might appear,” you replied, voice shaky but defiant. It earned you a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the visor.

“We shall see about that, little witch,” he said. “Turn around.”

Goosebumps rose across your skin, but you obeyed without hesitation. The moment your back faced him, you felt him close. His presence enveloped you, the metallic cold of armor against your bare skin sending a shiver through your spine. His hands traveled slowly over your shoulders, tracing the tops of your arms, gliding down to your hands. Then, in a single, controlled motion, he pulled your wrists behind your back, holding them firmly in one hand while the other began to explore freely.

Cool leather brushed over your stomach and belly, gliding upward between your breasts with careful pressure. A flick at your nipples drew a soft, involuntary moan from you, betraying your composure despite the thrill of restraint. He leaned closer, his hand moving upward, fingers closing softly around the delicate flesh of your throat, guiding you back against him. Your gaze lifted, drawn by his subtle pressure and command, and you realized the air you breathed felt borrowed, as if he dictated even that.

The hard length of him pressed against the curve of your back, suppressing any urge to move on your own, keeping you under the precise control he had claimed from the moment you summoned him. His grip on your wrists tightened slightly, just enough to remind you of your place, while the other hand drifted from your throat back down, sliding across your belly until it found your center. Wetness pooled immediately at his touch, your body already answering him without hesitation.

Gloved fingers parted your folds, gliding carefully, exploring with deliberate mastery. You tilted your head back, pressing against the cold hardness of his breastplate, letting the sensation heighten every nerve. Circling your clit with precision, he coaxed another small, shivering moan from your lips.

“So eager, already,” he murmured, voice vibrating deep in his chest, reverberating through your bare skin. You only managed a slight nod, lips pressed together in submission, body responding fully to his command.

His fingers moved deeper and more insistent, drawing soft sounds from you, sounds that were rewards and guidance all at once. “Still ready, little witch? To take it all the way?” Another flick, another shiver, and you nodded again, surrendering fully to the dark, magnetic control he wielded.

His foot stepped between your legs, nudging your heels open until you were open enough for him, cold air brushing your wet cunt. You wobbled, nearly losing your balance, but his grip on your wrists held you steady.

Then he pushed you forward. The sudden loss of his hold forced your palms to brace against the wodden bedframe. You barely had time to exhale before his hand traced your spine, the glide of leather over skin making you shiver.

“Hold on,” he murmured. “And take willingly.”

The words sank into you like a command from somewhere deeper than his voice. You rose onto your toes instinctively, body arching in invitation, in preparation. Behind you, he moved with quiet precision - the sound of armor shifting, the faint intake of breath through the modulator.

You felt him line himself up. His hands settled on your hips, his tip on your entrance spreading warmth through the cool air between you. He stayed there for a moment, letting you feel him, the anticipation that curled between one heartbeat and the next.

When he pushed forward, it was slow and steady - testing the limits of what you could take. The pressure built, sharp and sweet all at once, and your breath fractured into short gasps. His hold on your hips tightened until you thought you might bruise, but his control never slipped. He dragged himself forward, relentlessly pressing inch by inch into your wetness, that took him so willingly.

And yet. He was big. Without a lot of preparation it nearly felt like he split you in half right here and now. Your breathing came in ragged parts, trying to adjust, but as he reached his end, you jolted forward just a bit.

“Remember the deal,” he said in measured tone.

You nodded, though you were not sure he could see it; your words dissolved into a quiet, trembling sound instead. He stilled then, letting you adjust, letting the ache turn into something else - something that made your pulse quicken rather than falter.

“You are just…” You swallowed, your voice breaking into a breath. “So much.”

He drew a slow circle over your lower back with his thumb, the motion strangely gentle. “Not as tough as you thought you were?”

A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Tough enough still.”

That earned you his first thrust - steady, controlled, a testing of how far he could push you. You bit down on the sound that wanted to rise, but it came out anyway, muffled against your own arm.

A gloved hand covered your mouth, silencing you completely. “Shh,” he breathed, leaning close enough that the helmet brushed the curve of your shoulder. “This is a pact between only the two of us.”

You nodded against his palm, trembling from restraint and need. He shifted his hand, fingers sliding down to your throat, guiding you upright without losing the rhythm that had started to claim your senses. Your back met the cold press of his armor, the contrast of heat and steel making your body arch further as he slammed harder into you now, the angle not as forgiving.

“So good, so willingly,” he murmured. 

Your body strained against the position he forced you into, the tension in every muscle humming like a taut wire. His hand at your throat was the only thing keeping you upright; his strength, the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment. You reached back blindly, searching for something - anything - to hold onto. One hand caught his wrist, the other met cold armor, the edges of the metal pressing into your skin as he slammed even deeper into you.

His words echoed in your mind, fragments of a passage you had translated, one that warned: The demon draws his strength from order, from obedience. And in that moment, a thought pierced the haze - Was this what that meant? Were you feeding him through surrender, giving him what he required to remain in control? Or had you mistaken the deal entirely, and it was you who was being consumed?

Your thoughts were disturbed by a sudden movement - he pulled out in one swift movement, leaving you clinging to air and missing his cock inside you already. Before you could draw another breath, his hand closed around your throat again. He spun you with startling ease, and the room blurred into motion until your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle your breath loose.

The world narrowed to the pressure of his hand, the wall behind you, and the heat between you. It wasn’t pain that stole your air - it was the thrill of being overpowered, of letting someone else write the rhythm.

“Hold on to me.”

The words cut through the haze. You obeyed before thought could intervene, arms wrapping around his neck, your legs curling around his hips when he lifted you. You could feel the power in him, how easily he carried you, how steady his breathing remained even as yours came apart. One hand rested on your hip to keep you up, the other guided his cock back to your leaking pussy, already anticipating him again.

He pressed you higher against the wall, the cool surface grounding you as everything else spun and he glided into you with ease. The position left you utterly at his mercy; every thrust, every breath belonged to him. Your forehead found the cold edge of his pauldron, the steel biting against your heated skin. You reached for something softer, instinctively seeking the touch of hair or flesh, but there was only armor - unyielding, inhuman, a reminder of what he was and what you weren’t.

And you could feel an orgasm building up. The tension coiled in your stomach, making you clench around him already.

He drew back just enough to speak, voice low and threaded with dark restraint. “You will hold,” he ordered. “You will wait until I tell you.”

The command wrapped around you like a spell. You wanted to resist, to shake your head, to tell him that your body had already reached its breaking point - but the sound that escaped you wasn’t defiance. It was surrender.

“I can’t…”

“You can, cyar’ika.”

The word - soft, foreign, intimate - hit deeper than any order could. Something in it rewired you. The trembling in your limbs found a rhythm again, your breath steadied, and even as the edge loomed, you lingered there - hovering between wanting and waiting.

“You feel so soft… so warm,” he murmured, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip to guide you with steady control. Each movement was measured to test the limits of your body and your will. “I want you to feel everything, little witch. Every mark I leave, every piece I take. Can you do that for me?”

You didn’t fully understand what he meant, but understanding hardly mattered anymore. You nodded, breathless, trusting him to decide what “everything” meant.

His breathing deepened. “You take me so well,” he whispered, the words edged with reverence rather than arrogance. “You are mine now, as I am yours. This is the Way.”

“I can take it,” you gasped, voice trembling under the rising tension. You were teetering on the brink of release, body and mind suspended in that unbearable space between control and surrender.

He lifted his head, visor catching the moonlight spilling in from your window. “Show me, cyar’ika.”

The word - endearment, command, and possession all at once - broke something open in you. His rhythm faltered briefly, the perfect control giving way to something nearly human and unrestrained. He searched your gaze as if he wanted to see the exact moment you unraveled, and when he finally gave the command - "Now… come for me” - it was not a suggestion.

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The release hit like a wave that started in your chest and tore its way through you, shaking every nerve. You barely noticed the sound that left you until his gloved hand covered your mouth again, silencing the cry that would have split the air. Through the haze you felt the tremor in him too, the tightening of his grip, the shudder that rippled through his frame as he joined you in that shared collapse, spilling into you in hard billows.

Then stillness. Heavy, trembling stillness.

He didn’t let go. One arm still supported you as though you weighed nothing, holding you there against him until your breathing steadied. His strength was unreal, yet the touch that followed - when he finally lifted you, carrying you to the bed - was almost tender. He laid you down with care, the armor that had felt cold and forbidding moments ago now a strange reassurance of safety.

You sank into the softness, body boneless and humming with aftershocks. A low, involuntary sound slipped from your throat - a sigh that could have been mistaken for contentment.

When your vision cleared, he was already standing at the edge of the room. Fully armored again, every trace of the being who had just held you now hidden again behind metal and shadows.

For a long moment he stated nothing. Then: “It has been a long time,” he said quietly, “since anyone has given themselves so completely to me.”

You pushed yourself up on unsteady elbows, studying him. “What does that mean… for this… pact?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. The thought of banishment - of sending him back to whatever realm he belonged to - felt absurd now. You didn’t want to undo what had just been bound.

A low chuckle vibrated from within the helmet. He leaned back against your desk, arms crossing over his chest. “Whatever you make of it now, little witch.”

You hesitated, heartbeat quickening again for an entirely different reason. “Can I…” The question felt foolish, fragile. “Can I keep you?”

His head tilted, and for the first time there was something almost gentle in the gesture. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how often,” he said, voice dipping low again, “and how willingly you give yourself to me.”

A shiver coursed through you - not of fear, but of recognition. That was the thrill you’d been searching for when you first opened the forbidden book. The sense of danger you could trust.

Whatever consequences came with your choice, you knew the price was already paid. And as his shadow lingered over you, you realized you didn’t regret a single thing.

Let's start a coven, my witches 🖤 until then, entertain yourself with more:

Continue to Part 2 of the Darkness-Trilogy

My Masterlist

@dotyoureyez

@pedrofan

@foxin5billion

He was a serious man, not talking much, but if he did then it happened only so he can give out orders. Sometimes you wondered if there was a part of him that was yearning for small conversations too, or if he was just trying to keep his distance from you for different reasons. Either way, you still tried to talk to him, even if the only answer was a soft hum coming from under his helmet.

You did your research during your travels, became aware that the helmet was a part of him. A good mercenary told you about the Mandalorians’ history. How their planet became lifeless and what rumors revolved around it.

And in that moment you understood that Din didn’t wear his helmet all the time because he had to — though it’s true that his Creed required it — he wore it because it brought him peace. It wasn’t that heavy beskar armor that kept him safe, it was the helmet because without it he could only feel guilt for breaking the law of the Mandalorians.

You never questioned him when he walked away to a quiet corner of the ship with Grogu at dinner time, instead you settled into the front of the ship so you could give them their space, so he could lift his helmet just for the time he finishes his soup.

But lately you started to wonder what the man really looked like under that heavy armor, and behind the tall walls he built around himself.

Grogu cooed in your lap as you sat in the seat besides Din at the front of the ship. The small creature reached for the small silver ball in your hand, and you held it out so he could take it freely. But instead of taking it like he would normally do, the ball flew up in the air, and you watched, completely mesmerized how it landed perfectly in his small hand.

“Hey, you’re using your powers better and better every day,” you cheered him on, and the Child only leaned against you, playing with his new toy.

Your eyes lifted from his small frame, landing on the man sitting beside you. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw that he was already turned towards you, and you were sure he watched the whole interaction through his t-visor. You flashed a shy smile in his way, and he quickly turned forward, the seat creaking under him.

You got used to this routine, him not saying anything, you sitting there, trying to pretend like nothing happened, but sometimes this silence grew a little too thick, making you confused.

Your thoughts were broken by the loud yawn of Grogu, and you took that as your cue. You took the silver ball from his hand, placing it on the console as you stood up with him in your arms. Din didn’t hear you, or he just pretended like that, so you walked up to him, placing your hand on his shoulder. His body immediately went rigid under your touch before he relaxed again.

“I’m going to put Grogu to sleep, then I think I’ll call it a day too. Try not to crash the ship until then, alright?” you tried to joke, but you only got a nod in return.

Your hand fell from his shoulder as you walked to the back of the ship, the door closing behind you with a loud hiss, and Din let out a long sigh. He hated to pretend like he didn’t care about you, hated to see how well you could bound with the Child, he hated every part of himself that told him to keep away from you. And still, he couldn’t stop his body’s reaction to your touch.

It was like every cell of his body focused on your hand on his shoulder, the feeling spreading in him rapidly.

He tried to focus on driving the ship, but the growing bulge in his pants made it impossible. With a loud sigh he smashed the auto-pilot button on the console, tearing the gloves off of his hands, and letting them land beside the chair. He gripped the armrest of the seat to try and get himself in control again, but the his needs won, his arousal building with each passing second.

His right hand fell to the tent on the front of his pants, and he threw back his head, the helmet clinking weakly as he started to palm himself through the rough fabric.

His thoughts wandered, imagining you doing this to him. That soft hand that was on his shoulder just minutes ago, pleasing him while he was just watching from behind his t-visor. He was sure that he was going against his Creed’s law, but he didn’t care at that moment.

When he felt like he couldn’t take it anymore, he made quick work with the fly at the front. His hand immediately wrapped around himself the moment he freed his cock, and a loud groan left his mouth as he started stroking himself at a steady pace.

He wondered if it would be the same if you were the one stroking him. Surely not, he answered himself, your hands were softer, his were full of callouses that built up throughout the years. And what if you were using your mouth?

Din imagined you kneeling in front of him, his hand replaced by the warmth of your mouth. His hand moved faster on his length, his precum making every movement easier as he chased his orgasm.

He hated the way the glass of the t-visor blurred with every breath he let out, but he didn’t stop.

In just a few more seconds he was on the edge, and with the last stroke he came hard, ropes of his cum landing on the floor of the ship. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, his hand slowing down as he looked at the mess he made. He felt frustrated, but relieved at the same time, a feeling that he never got to experience before.

And this went on like this for three more weeks. Every time you touched him, even for the briefest little connection made him hard, and the moment you left, he never hesitated to relieve himself of the pressure.

Until one night at an inn.

Din was skeptical about it at first when you told him you had a friend at an inn where you could stay, but he had to admit that the thought of a normal bed was really alluring for his aching body.

The problems only started when your friend announced that they only had one room left.

Din immediately wanted to back out of the plan. Being in the same room as you for so long seemed almost impossible to him, especially after everything he has done while you were peacefully sleeping rooms away from him. But somehow you still managed to convince him, saying that it was only for one night.

The next obstacle was Grogu. The small creature decided to start his own little life, finding other children that could play with him, resulting in him not coming back to your shared room.

Din was on the brink of losing it, pacing uo and down in the room despite your tries to calm him down. Eventually you both agreed on going to sleep. At least you tried to, but both of you knew that you were just going to lay awake beside each other.

Din started to feel more uncomfortable at the sudden proximity of your body, and he tried to keep a distance, but it was hard when he felt like he could combust any moment if he didn’t get to touch you.

The helmet wasn’t doing justice to him either, the metal pressing into the back of his head as he tried to remain as rigid as he could. He wondred if he would commit a crime if he took it off and slept like that. The beskar was pushing heavily against his skull, and he was sure that if he continued to lay like this, then he would have to say goodbye to a deep sleep.

“Cyar'ika?”

“Yeah?” you hummed, turning your head towards him in the darkness. His armor shone in the light of the moon, and you were sure that you caught just a small glinpse of his eyes behind the helmet as he moved to push himself to a sitting position.

“Can I… Can I take off my helmet?” he asked hesitantly, and your breath caught at the unexpected question.

“But isn’t that against the law of your Creed, Din?”

“Not if you’re not looking at me,” he answered.

You didn’t wait for further questions, only turned on your side, your back facing him, and that was all he needed as a confirmation. His hands lifted the heavy helmet, the metal being placed on the ground carefully, and he finally took in a deep breath. As long as you weren’t looking at him he was fine with being helmetless.

The moment his head hit the pillow he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.

You woke abruptly in the middle of the night when a hand sneaked onto your waist. Your first instinct was to try and turn around, but you quickly remembered where you were and what happened the evening before, so you just remained on your side. Din’s hot breath landed on the back of your neck, and deep down you wished that you could just see how he looked like while fast asleep, when he didn’t have to worry about anything.

Your hand covered his, and he instinctively moved closer to you, his body now pressing flush against yours. You could feel everything. A blush crept on your face when you felt him pressing hard against you, and you tried to put a little distance between you, but he simply pulled you back against him, his head burying into your hair.

You felt yourself grow wet at the thought of him being aroused, and you couldn’t help the small roll of your hips against his groin. He let out a soft growl, his hand tigtening on your waist, and in that moment you knew that you woke him up.

“You’re playing with fire, cyar'ika,” he warned you. This was the first time you heard his voice without the helmet and you couldn’t help, but clench your thighs together at the soft rumble. But you didn’t miss a chance at pushing your ass back again.

He quickly steadied you, pushing you on your stomach and climbing behind you. He leaned close to you, his breath brushing your ear. “You’re not good at taking warnings, huh?”

You were looking at the pillow in front of you, and when you tried to move your head to the side, his hand carefully turned it forward again. His body suddenly disappeared from behind you, and you were tempted to look where did he go and what he was doing as you heard the rustle of fabric and the clink of metal, but he quickly appeared again.

“I’m going to blindfold you, alright? We can’t risk anything here,” he murmured, and he lifted a thin strap of fabric in front of your eyes. Your vision went pitch black as he tied it in a firm knot at the back of your head, and your other senses heightened immediately.

Din lifted you onto your hands and knees, and even though you were still fully clothed, you felt the most naked in your life under his gaze. His palm drew a path on your spine, down to the waistband of your thick pants, and he pulled them down in one swift movement, exposing your panties to his eyes. You were sure he could see the wet patch on it when he let out a quiet curse.

What you didn’t expect though was how suddenly he pulled them to the side, the cool air hitting your pussy quickly replaced by the warmth of his mouth. A moan left your lips, and the sheets bunched up between your fingers as he groaned behind you, the waves traveling up your body.

His tongue drew a path from your clit to your entrance, and he repeated his moves with more firmness, his hands gripping your hips to ground himself. His mouth wrapped around your clit, sucking gently at it, and your moan filled the room.

You didn’t even notice when one of his hands moved from your thigh, but the feeling of one of his fingers dipping between your folds made you aware of it. Before a moan could even leave your mouth, he buried his finger inside you, leaving you completely breathless.

He started to move it at a steady pace, his mouth still connected to your clit, and the feeling was absolutely overwhelming. You’ve never felt anything like this in years, and while in the last few months you often got yourself off at the thought of him eating you out, you never thought that one day it would really happen.

Your thoughts were broken by your own moan of Din’s name as you came on his finger, your body falling forward between the pillows as the waves of your high washed all over you.

Neither of you moved for a few seconds, him waiting for you to recover, and you too spent to even move a muscle.

He was the one to break the silence and peace that settled in. You felt the mattress dip beside you, and you tried to use your hearing to understand what was happening.

“Come here, cyar'ika,” he tapped your side. You weren’t expecting him to let you be on top, and you were slightly intimidated by the task when you clearly couldn’t see anything. He saw your hesitation, so he helped you.

You didn’t expect to meet bare skin, and a surprised moan left your lips when you felt his cock behind you. Your hands landed on his chest, and your palm was met with something cold, almost as cold as his beskar armor usually was. But you didn’t question him, instead you started to move your hips back against him, and a soft groan rolled off of his lips when you covered his length in your wetness.

You reached behind you to take him in your palm, rising slightly from his lap so you could line him up with your entrance. You slowly started to sink down on him, and you felt his hands shot to either side of your hips, helping you. Your mouth opened to a soft moan, and your head fell forward as he bottomed out. You quickly remembered that your top was still on, so you made quick work with the zipper, chucking the fabric to the side, leaving you completely bare for his eyes. You slowly started to move above him, your movements guided by his hold, and the feeling was overwhelming.

Din could only groan beneath you as his eyes were glued to your body. He planted his feet firm on the mattress as he met your moves with powerful thrusts, and you gave control to him completely when you leaned forward, bracing yourself on his chest. He didn’t check twice as his arms wrapped around your body, and his thrusts became faster and harder.

He buried his face between your breasts, kissing up his way to the column of your throat. He delivered a particularly hard thrust at the same time he nipped at your throat, and this was all you needed to fly over the edge again. He felt your walls tighten around him, so he slowed down his movements. Your hands gripped his shoulders as you rode out your orgasm, him softly rocking his hips against yours.

When your grip disappeared from his shoulders, and your body stopped trembling, he started to chase his own high too, speeading up again. He listened to your soft moans as his mouth got closer to your lips, and the moment he sealed them together in a kiss, he came hard, not leaving a moment for him to pull out.

The kiss laste long after he came down from his own high, and you only pulled back from him because of the lack of oxygen. You carefully laid down beside him, the loss of him making you whimper. You felt him shift next to you, and the next thing you knew was that the blindfold was lifted from your eyes. You had to blink a few times before the room came back to you, and your gaze immediately fell on the man beside you — now with his helmet back on.

“Are you alright?” he asked you, and your response was a nod with a weak smile. You moved to lay down on his chest when your eyes caught something shiny. You braced yourself on the bed, your gaze falling to his nipples that were pierced.

“Are these…”

Deep down he was grateful that instead of pointing out his scars, you chose to ask about his piercings. But now he had to explain it all to you. “Piercings?” he finished your question, and you nodded, your fingers lifting to touch the metal.

“Where did you get them?”

“I was young. Got back from my first mission, received my first payment of beskar. I didn’t really think back then,” he explained, stopping for a second as you touched the tiny beskar rod again, goosebumps breaking out over his whole body. “Used most of it up for a new armor, but I kept the scraps. I was curious, so one night I just pierced myself.”

“Yourself?” you asked surprised, propping yourself on his chest and looking straight into his t-visor.

“Yeah. It hurt like hell, and it still doesn’t have any purpose to this day.”

You moved your head down on his chest, leaning to place a soft kiss on the piercing while your gaze remained on his helmet. “Well, I like them.”

“You do?”

“Hm. It was an unexpected surprise, but not an unpleasant one.”

He hummed under the helmet, reaching to pull the sheet over your bodies. He hugged you close to him, feeling the warmth of your body. His hand was resting on your lower back, and you let out a quiet chuckle when you moved, and it fell down to your ass. He didn’t say anything though.

“Din?”

“Hm?”

“What will we do with Grogu?” you reminded him, and he let out an annoyed sigh.

“That damn kid. Sometimes he can be so damn stubborn.”

“He really reminds me of a certain someone,” you teased, and it only earned a playful smack on your ass from him.

“Sleep, cyar'ika,” Din said, and you laid back down with a chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder as he pulled you closer.

Sleep immediately pulled you under, the exhaustion finally catching up with your body. Din made sure that you were alright, studying how your face smoothened, the worries disappearing, and only then did he let his head rest against the soft pillow.

He didn’t even care anymore about the helmet pressing into the back of his head. He had you in his arms, and that was all that mattered to him in that moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stepped forward before caution could stop him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din’s hand slowly curled into a fist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For three weeks.”

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

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

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

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

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

Told.

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

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

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

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

Fair enough. 

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

“Yes.”

“Who?”

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

Not family.

Not father.

Not husband. 

People.

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

“You’re not scared” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is unknown.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wrinkle them” he said.

She blinked. 

“The sheets.” He clarified. 

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

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

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

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

“They think I’m untouched.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I believe this will be enough” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I trust the hour was… sufficient?”

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

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

“I’m interested in purchasing her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is leverage.” He informed the Mandalorian. 

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

Leverage.

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

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

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

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

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

Din moved before the guards did.

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

Female screams followed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay behind me.” He shouted. 

“I am!” She shouted back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when she collapsed. 

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

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

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

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

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

You turned your head slightly, and there he was. 

The Mandalorian. 

Your saviour.

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

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

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

“You’re nobility.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You held his gaze through the visor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For the merchant network.” he said.

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

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

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

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

“And then returned damaged” he finished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“Did the lie help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

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

“I don’t plan to land publicly.”

“And if my father insists on thanking you?”

“I’ll leave before he can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And unofficially?”

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t sleep.

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

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

You couldn’t sleep. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m older.”

You smiled, and stepped into the cockpit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” 

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m not” you confirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

He was nervous. 

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

“Get what wrong?” you asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mistake your kindness” he said.

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

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

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

“That’s a very cautious way to live.”

“It’s a necessary one.”

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

“For bounty hunters?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But when he spoke, his words shocked you. 

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

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

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

“I wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Battle makes sense.”

“And this?”

The Mandalorian took a pause, exhaling. 

“This doesn’t.”

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

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

“I do.”

You smirked. 

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

But before you could moan, he did. 

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

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

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

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

“You feel anything under your suit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

He looked steadier now. Not overwhelmed. Just focused.

“I don’t want to rush you” he said.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Why?”

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

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

“I know i'm not”

“Or because you think you should.”

“I know I shouldn’t”

“Then why?”

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

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

That seemed to settle it.

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

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

“The helmet—?”

“Stays on” he cut you off, immediately. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said let it slide”  

“Huh?”

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

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

He swallowed. “Claim justice”

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

“Aren’t you mad?” He asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why you let me now?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed. “The latter”

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

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

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

He’d found it, and he had sucked. 

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

“Don’t stop.” 

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

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

“Huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t stop” you begged.

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

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

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

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

“Come? Pull out, then” 

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

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

Of course, you didn’t obey. 

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

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

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

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

“How you feeling?” You asked. 

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

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

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

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