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Your little brokerage sits at the end of a cramped corridor in the lower levels, tucked between a medical clinic that asks no questions and a noodle shop that opens at dawn. It's not much. A few terminals, a back room filled with datasticks organized by sector and sensitivity, a bed you sometimes forget exists in the other room behind closed doors. But it's yours.
You have always had a way of talking to people, getting information out of them. No wonder you ended up making a living out of it. If somebody needed information or intel that was hard to find, you were the person to go to.
Your prices weren’t exactly fair, but what was in this galaxy? The people still paid for it, because they knew you were telling them the truth, however harsh it was.
People came to you for all kinds of reasons.
Some were looking for information about lost loved ones, clutching old holos and fading hope clear on their faces. Bounty hunters came chasing leads on targets that had disappeared from the ground. Spice dealers wanted routes, names, and warnings about rival operations. Criminals sought weaknesses – security schedules, shipment manifests, anything that could be turned into an advantage.
You dealt with all of them. For some of them, the price was even higher than standard – the more awful the person, the higher the price.
The only people you ever turned away were Imperials. They never announced themselves, of course. They came in plain clothes, with polished manners and carefully crafted cover stories. But you always knew and always sent them away.
The only other exception you'd ever made was for the Mandalorian. Your Mandalorian. You'd refused to sell intel on him, no matter how many people came asking.
He wasn’t really yours, though.
You've known him for four years now. He started showing up after a job went sideways on Ord Mantell, found you through a whisper network you didn't realize had reached that far. He took your intel, left more credits than it was worth, and disappeared into the black.
Then he came back. And then left again.
Sometimes weeks passed between visits.
At first, he was just another client. A quiet one, admittedly. But efficient and professional, judging by the reputation he had.
Then you started noticing things.
He never questioned your rates. Never tried to haggle. Never treated you like a convenient source to be squeezed for every scrap of information you had. If you said a lead was solid, he trusted it. If you told him something couldn't be found, he accepted the answer and moved on.
In your line of work and the kind of people you usually worked with, respect was rarer and meant to you more than credits. Most people saw information brokers as necessary inconveniences. Useful when needed, forgettable the moment they weren't. A means to an end. Some treated you like a servant. Others like a criminal.
The Mandalorian treated you like a professional.
Over time, you learned his habits. The slight tilt of his helmet when he was considering something. The way he would stand motionless for long stretches, making people underestimate just how closely he was paying attention. The rare occasions when dry humor slipped through the cracks of his carefully controlled exterior.
And whenever he walked through your door, a small part of you was always glad to see him.
So yes, you did make an exception for him at times when he was wanted, and lied through your teeth when someone came in, looking for intel on him. Fabricated fake leads with precision to make sure it could never be traced back to you. And it worked.
It felt like it was eons ago now, and sometimes you missed the rush of lying to someone about something. But you didn’t miss the fear you felt when someone looked at you like they could see straight through your lies. They didn’t, thankfully.
The security system on the street hasn’t alerted you to anyone heading toward your office in hours. It's late – past the time when even the most desperate clients come looking for information – and you're nursing the same cup of cold caf you poured three hours ago.
The clang of beskar against your doorframe is the only warning you get. Of course, Mando always comes in unannounced, somehow passing your system.
He stands there, silhouetted by the corridor's dim lighting, and something in your chest tightens the way it always does when he appears. The Mandalorian.
"Got anything on the Corellian trade routes?" That was the first thing he ever said to you.
You've lost count of how many times he's come back since then.
Tonight, though. Tonight is different. He steps inside, and the door slides shut behind him, and you can see it in the way he moves. It’s slower and heavier. The beskar catches the light from your terminal, all edges and gleam. He doesn't speak. Just stands there, a dark shape against your dusty shelves, breathing.
"You're late," you say. It's what you always say, no matter the time of day he comes in.
He doesn't answer. That's not unusual. What's unusual is the way he doesn't move toward your terminal, doesn't reach for his belt where the credits sit. He just stands there, and the silence stretches between you, and something about it feels fragile. Like one wrong word could crack it wide open.
You set down your caf. "You hurt?"
"No."
"You need medical?"
"No."
You wait. He doesn't elaborate. The moments tick past, and the air in your little brokerage feels thicker, warmer, charged with something you've been pretending wasn't there for years. The tension.
You know about the tension. You've known about it since the third time he came to you, when his gloved hand brushed yours as he passed a datastick, and neither of you pulled away quite fast enough. You've ignored it because ignoring it was safer. Because he's Mandalorian, and that comes with rules you don't fully understand, and because you've built a life here that doesn't have room for a man who could disappear at any moment and take a piece of you with him. You chose to think of him as your trusted client while he was away. But the second he steps back into your office, you feel the tension rise again.
Ignoring it feels impossible.
He takes a step forward. Then another. You don't move, don't breathe, watching him cross the small space between you until he's close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off the armor. Close enough to touch, if you reached out. Close enough that you can hear the soft rasp of his breath through the helmet's vocoder.
"I don't need intel tonight," he says. His voice is low, rougher than usual, and something about the sound of it makes your stomach flip.
"What do you need?"
The question hangs there. You watch the helmet, searching for any clue, any hint of what's happening behind that visor.
The seconds stretch, endless and terrible and electric. He could leave. He's left a hundred times before. This is what he does – he takes what he needs and vanishes, and you're left with nothing but credits on your table and the ghost of his presence in your air.
He doesn't leave.
His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and you feel the worn leather of his glove against your jaw. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, and you realize you're shaking.
You've imagined this, late at night, alone in your bed, in the weak hours before dawn when you let yourself want things you shouldn't. But imagination is nothing compared to the reality of his touch.
"I know." The words are so unexpected that it takes you a second to understand them.
"Know what?"
"About the fake leads,” he says, tilting his head slightly.
Your stomach drops. For a brief, horrifying moment, you wonder if one of them traced back to you. He didn’t need to elaborate. You both knew exactly what fake leads he was referring to. The ones you told all the people hunting him down, trying to protect him.
You stare at him without words. He stares back, his hand still on your cheek, as if he wanted to hold you in place.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say eventually. It’s a terrible lie. You couldn’t lie to him even if your life depended on it.
"You lied for me when you didn’t have to, protected me.”
Heat crawls up your neck at his words, at his tone he said it in.
“How long have you known?” you ask simply, but your voice nervous.
The silence that follows is long enough that you think he won't answer. That's his way –deflect through stillness, let the question die in the air.
But then he shifts his weight, almost imperceptibly, and when he speaks, his voice is slower than usual. Like the words cost him something.
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
He's quiet for another moment. Then: “A few days.”
“Why did you come here?” you ask another question. Your mind is buzzing, his hand still on your cheek, making you drunk on his touch.
The helmet tilts down.
"I had other places to be," he says, and the words come out halting, like they're being dragged up from somewhere he doesn't usually reach. "I came here instead." A beat. "I don't know why. I just–" He stops. Starts again. "I needed to see you."
Suddenly, you realize that you know for a fact he feels the tension too. You know exactly what he wants from you right now, and maker, you want it too.
"This is a bad idea," you whisper, grasping at the straws of the last sensible part of your brain, but your voice gives you away.
"I know,“ he says, but doesn’t sound aware of it.
"You'll leave,“ another straw gone.
"I always leave."
Your hand finds his wrists. The leather of his glove is warm beneath your fingers. "Don't leave this time."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. He leans down, and the helmet presses against your forehead, and you feel the shudder that runs through him. It's not a kiss. It can't be a kiss. But it's something. It's more than you've ever had from him, and your eyes close as you stand there in your little brokerage and you let yourself feel it. All of it. The years of wanting. The loneliness you've pretended didn't exist. The way he's always felt like the only person in the galaxy who saw you, really saw you, even though you've never seen his face.
"Behind the door at the back," you breathe. "My bed."
He follows.
The walk across the office is quiet, and when the door to your bedroom shuts behind him, you turn to face him.
The bed behind you is narrow, the sheets still rumpled from this morning. The whole room is cramped and cluttered and nothing like the polished sterility of the ships he's used to, but he doesn't hesitate.
His hands find your waist, pull you against him, and the beskar is hard against your softness. You gasp at the contact, at the sheer solid weight of him, and the sound you make tears something loose in both of you.
"Tell me to stop," he says. His voice cracks on the last word. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go."
"I want this." Your hands fist in his cape. "I want you.“
He moves then, all restrained power and careful strength, walking you backward until your knees hit the bed. You go down, pulling him with you, and the armor clanks and shifts as he settles over you. Most of his weight lands on his elbows, braced on either side of your head, but you feel the press of him everywhere. His helmet tucks into the curve of your neck, and you feel the warm rush of his breath through the filter, the way his body shakes with the effort of holding back.
"Let me," you whisper. Your fingers find the edges of his vambraces, trace the seam where metal meets leather. "Let me learn you."
He groans. It's a low, broken sound, muffled by the helmet but vibrating through every inch of contact between you. His hips roll forward, and you feel him, hard and thick even through the layers of his flight suit, and the pressure makes you arch off the bed with a desperate little noise.
"Easy," he murmurs against your throat. "We have time."
You don't believe him. You know better. But for tonight, for this one stolen moment, you pretend.
He carefully removes every layer of your clothes until you’re bare under him. He still has his full armor on, which should probably make you feel ashamed, but you find it incredibly arousing. The thought of your bare body, revealing all of yourself to the fully armored Mandalorian.
His gloved hands find where you need him the most, testing your readiness with agonizing patience.
He takes his time – of course he does, because everything about him is deliberate, measured, controlled – but there's a tremor in his touch that betrays him.
One finger slides through your slick folds, gathering the evidence of your want, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy. You don't care.
"Tell me," he says, his voice thick through the vocoder. "Tell me what you need."
"You." The word comes out broken, breathless. "Just– you."
He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, and his finger slips inside. The stretch is slight, but the sensation is overwhelming – knowing it's him, knowing it's the Mandalorian with his helmet pressed to your neck and his hand between your thighs, touching you like you're something precious. Like you're something he's afraid to break.
A second finger joins the first, and your back arches off the bed. The leather drags against your inner walls, creating a friction that's almost too much and not enough at the same time. His thumb finds the swollen bud at your apex, circling with maddening slowness, and you hear yourself whimpering, pleading, words tumbling out that you'll be ashamed of later.
"Please, please–I need–"
"I know." His voice is rough through the helmet's filter, ghosting across your collarbone where his face is tucked. "I've got you."
He works you open with a patience that feels like cruelty. Each curl of his fingers pulls something from you. Little gasps and moans that fill the cramped bedroom.
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, at the beskar that separates you, and you wish you could feel his skin, wish you could see his face, wish–
But no. That's not who he is. That's not what this is. And if this is all he can give you, you'll take it.
"I'm ready." You're panting now, desperate. "Please, I'm ready."
He stills. His fingers pause inside you, and you can feel the weight of his hesitation even through the armor. When he speaks again, his voice is strained.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I've never–" He stops. Starts again. "Not like this. Not with someone I–"
Your heart clenches. "Someone you what?"
He doesn't answer. You wonder what he wanted to say. Someone I care about?
Instead, he withdraws his fingers, and the loss makes you whine. But then he's shifting, sitting back on his heels, and his hands go to his belt. The leather hisses as he pulls it free.
His gloved fingers find the fastenings of his flight suit, working them open with movements that are almost clinical and detached, but you can see the way his hands shake, the way his chest heaves with labored breaths.
He frees himself, and you can't help but look. He's thick and hard, the tip already beading with evidence of his own arousal, and the sight sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.
"Come here." You reach for him, and he goes willingly.
He settles beneath you when you push at his chest, the beskar cold against your palms as you guide him onto his back against your narrow bed. The position feels strange. He's so much bigger than you, so heavily armored, but he yields to your hands with an ease that makes your chest ache.
You straddle his thighs, your slick center pressing against his length, and the groan that escapes him is absolutely wrecked.
"Your hands," he says, and it takes you a moment to realize he's telling you where he wants them.
You brace yourself on his chest plate, feeling the beskar shift beneath your palms as he breathes. His hands find your hips, his grip almost bruising, and you know you'll have marks tomorrow. The thought sends a thrill through you. Proof. Evidence that this wasn't a dream.
"Slowly," he murmurs, though you can hear how much it costs him. "Take what you need."
You rise onto your knees, reach between your bodies to position him, and sink down.
The stretch is intense. Your body resists at first, even after his careful preparation, and you have to pause, breathing through the pressure. His hands tighten on your hips, but he doesn't push. He doesn't move. He lets you set the pace, lets you control the depth, and when you finally bottom out with him fully seated inside you, the sound that escapes from beneath the helmet is raw.
"Okay?" His voice is rich with lust.
You can only nod, overwhelmed by the fullness, by the way your body is stretched around him, by the impossible reality of having the Mandalorian in your bed, beneath you, inside you. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his helmet, and feel him shudder.
Then you move.
It's slow at first – experimental rolls of your hips that make you gasp, that make his fingers dig harder into your skin.
He guides you even as you set the rhythm, his hands sliding from your hips to your waist to your back, pulling you closer, pulling you down against him with each rise and fall. The armor is unforgiving against your softness, but you don't care. You don't care about anything except the way he fills you, the way his breath hitches through the vocoder, the way he says your name like a prayer.
"Feels–" He breaks off, groans. "Fuck."
You smile against his helmet, breathless. You start to roll your hips harder, faster, chasing something that's building deep in your core. The angle shifts, and suddenly he's hitting that spot, the one that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and your rhythm falters as pleasure whites out your thoughts.
"There," you gasp. "Right– there–
He holds you steady and thrusts up into you, taking over, and it's so much, too much, everything you've wanted for four long years compressed into this single overwhelming moment. Each snap of his hips drives you higher, pulls sounds from your throat that you've never made before.
The loft fills with the obscene sounds of your coupling, skin against leather, the wet slap of your bodies meeting, your mingled breathing, moans, and desperate little cries.
"Look at me." His voice is rough, commanding. "Look."
You raise your head, meet the dark visor with your gaze, and something passes between you. Something that goes beyond the physical. You feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with his hidden eyes. You feel known.
"I'm–" You can't finish your thought. The pressure is building to a breaking point, your body tightening around him, and he must feel it because his pace quickens, his grip tightening.
"Let go." His voice is almost tender. "I've got you."
And you do.
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave, pulling a cry from your lungs as your body clenches around him.
He follows you over the edge moments later, a guttural moan escaping the helmet as he buries himself deep, pulsing inside you, holding you so tightly you know you'll bruise.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The silence of the loft is broken only by ragged breathing, by the settling of armor, and the hum of the terminal in the next room. You collapse against his chest, his softened length still inside you, and feel his arms come up to wrap around your back. Holding you. Keeping you.
"Stay," you whisper against his neck, sleep pulling you in already. You were absolutely spent.
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't pull away either and keeps his arms around you. And for now, that's enough, so you let yourself slip away to the darkness.
The first thing you notice is the cold.
Dawn creeps through the single window of your bedroom, grey and thin, casting long shadows across the small space. Your hand reaches out instinctively – searching, seeking the warmth you fell asleep against, but finding nothing but cool sheets.
Your eyes snap open.
The bed is empty. The space beside you is neat, the blanket flat as if no one had ever been there at all. You sit up slowly, your body aching in ways that make last night rush back in vivid detail. The weight of him, the sound of his voice through the vocoder, the way he held you afterward like you were something precious.
Like he might stay.
You know better now.
The bedroom and office next door are silent.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the soreness between your thighs, and pad barefoot to the door to the brokerage.
The room is exactly as you left it. Terminals dark. Caf cup still sitting where you abandoned it when he walked in.
Your eyes go to the table where he always leaves credits. Where he's left credits every single time for four years.
Nothing.
Not a single credit chip. Not a note. Not a trace.
Well, at least he didn’t pay you for sex.
You stand there in the early morning quiet, naked and cold and hollowed out, and you feel something crack inside your chest. The damage is done. He’s gone.
Of course, he's gone. This is what he does. This is who he is. A man who takes what he needs and vanishes into the black. You knew this. You've always known this. You let yourself forget for one night, and this is the price.
Stupid. So incredibly stupid. Just another client.
Your hands shake as you pull on clothes that smell like him, like leather and beskar and something warm underneath. You should burn them. You should scrub every inch of your skin until there's nothing left of his touch.
You don’t. Can’t bring yourself to throw away the only thing he left behind – his smell.
Instead, you sit at your terminal and watch the hours bleed together. The security system beeps eventually. Clients, the usual stream of desperate people looking for information they think will change their lives. You give them what they need. You take their credits. You answer questions with a flat voice and empty eyes.
No one asks if you're okay. No one cares. No one treats you like anything more than just a means to their ends.
Days pass.
Then weeks.
The hurt doesn't fade; it calcifies. Turns hard and cold in your chest, a stone where something soft used to be. You stop looking at the door every time you hear footsteps in the corridor. Stop imagining that tonight might be the night he comes back.
You're done waiting for a man who can't decide if you're worth the risk. You lied for him, trying to protect him. You risked ruining your entire life – your business for him. Just to try to help him. There’s not really much more you could have done to show him how important he was to you.
The realization settles in slowly, without fanfare.
You're at your terminal one evening, three weeks after he left, cataloging new data from a Rodian smuggler who paid well for your discretion. The work is routine, automatic. Your fingers move across the keys without conscious thought, and somewhere in the rhythm of it, you understand that you've stopped expecting him.
Your office doesn’t change. The cramped bedroom doesn’t change. But you do. You harden in ways without noticing. Stop wanting his company. Stop thinking about his touch.
Two months pass.
Then three.
You don't count the days anymore. You don't let yourself remember the weight of his hands on your hips or the way his voice cracked when he said your name. You don't think about the way he held you afterward, like you were something precious, like he might stay–
No.
You don't think about it.
You're preparing to close up the office one night, three months and something since the day he left, when you hear it. Footsteps in the corridor, heavy and deliberate. A rhythm you recognize immediately.
Your whole body goes still. Your hand freezes on the table that you were just wiping down.
The footsteps stop outside your door.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and you can feel him on the other side. You can feel the weight of his presence even through the durasteel. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and your palms sweat. Every wall you've built in the last three months threatens to come crumbling down.
Then the door slides open.
He stands there, silhouetted in the corridor light, and something inside you goes cold.
The Mandalorian looks exactly the same. Gleaming beskar. Helmet that hides everything. Broad shoulders that fill your doorway like he was always meant to be there. Nothing about him has changed.
Everything about you has.
You don't move from your place behind the counter. You don't offer him caf, even though you know he always declines. You don't say his name – he doesn't have a name, not one you know, not one he's ever given you.
You just stand there and wait, and you let the silence do what it does best, while you keep repeating to yourself that he’s just another customer. Nothing more. Not anymore.
"Hi," you say finally when the silence starts to annoy you. Your voice is flat. Controlled. Filled with venom.
He doesn't respond. His helmet tilts, just slightly, and you know he's reading you the way he always has. It used to make you feel seen. Now it makes you feel examined.
"You're here late," he says matter-of-factly.
"So are you." You answer him dryly.
The words hang between you, heavy with things unsaid. He takes a step into the brokerage, and the door slides shut behind him.
"I owe you an explanation."
You laugh. You can't help it. The sound is brittle and hollow, and it surprises you both. "You owe me a lot of things. An explanation is pretty far down the list."
He goes still. Even through the armor, you can see the tension that runs through him, the way his shoulders shift, the way his gloves flex at his sides. "I shouldn't have left."
"No." Your voice hardens. "You shouldn't have."
"I panicked."
"I don't care." You snapped at him. The words come out a lot sharper than you intended.
Something in him flinches. You see it in the way his helmet dips, the way his weight shifts backward. Good. You want him to flinch. You want him to feel something of what you've been carrying for three months.
"You asked me to stay," he says quietly. "And I couldn't– I didn't know how–“
"You could have woken me up. You could have left a note. You could have done literally anything other than disappearing like I was just part of the job." Your chest is tight. Your throat is tight. Everything is tight, and you hate him for it. You hate him for making you feel this much.
"Was that what I was? Just a part of the job? After everything I risked for you when you were fucking hunted–" You continued spitting words at him angrily, stepping around the counter.
"No." The word cracks, interrupting you. "No. You were never–that's not what this was."
"Then what was it?" You step closer, and he doesn't move. You can feel the heat radiating off his armor, the same way you felt it three months ago in your bed. "What am I to you?"
The question hangs in the air between you, sharp and demanding. You can see the way his whole body stiffens, the way his fists clench at his sides, the way his chest rises and falls with breaths that are suddenly too deliberate. The helmet stays perfectly still, but you know him now. You know the tells he doesn't realize he has.
"Tell me," you press, and your voice cracks on the words, tears welling up in your eyes. "Tell me what I am to you, Mandalorian. Because I'm done guessing. I'm done reading between the lines of your silence and your disappearing acts and your–"
"You're everything."
The words hit you like a physical blow. His voice is raw, stripped of its usual roughness, and it rises in a way you've never heard before. Desperate. Devastated.
"I didn't want you to be." He takes a step forward, and then another, and suddenly he's close enough that you can feel the heat pouring off him. "I spent years making sure you weren't. Telling myself you were just a contact. Just someone useful. Just–"
"Just another part of the job, means to an end?" Your voice is bitter, but it wavers.
"No." He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion. "Never. You were the only place in the galaxy that felt like–“ He stops. Breathes loudly through the helmet a few times.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely controlled. "I panicked because I wanted to stay. I wanted to wake up next to you and keep waking up next to you, and that terrified me. The Creed was supposed to protect me from wanting things I couldn't have. But it doesn't. It never did. And you–"
He stops. His whole body is shaking now. You can see the tremor in his hands, the way his armor shifts with each labored breath.
"My name," he says, and his voice breaks completely, "is Din Djarin."
The words knock the air from your lungs.
You stare at him. At the visor that hides everything, at the man underneath you've never seen and never will see, and something inside you cracks wide open. He's never told anyone. You know he's never told anyone. The name is sacred, guarded, the most precious thing he has, and he just handed it to you like a confession torn from his chest.
"Din," you whisper, not bothering to hide the tears that are now sliding down your cheeks.
He shudders. Actually shudders, his whole body rocking with the force of it.
"Say it again."
"Din."
The silence stretches between you, but it's different now – charged with something new. Something fragile and terrifying and desperately hopeful. Your anger hasn't disappeared; it still burns low in your chest, but it's tempered now. Softened by the weight of what he's given you. Din Djarin, you hear in your head.
"What do you want?" you ask quietly.
"You." The word is immediate, certain. "I want to make this right. I want– can I– " He falters, and you realize he's nervous. This man, who faces down warlords and bounties without flinching, is nervous with you.
"Let me show you. Let me make it up to you."
"How?" You ask, even though you know. You can feel it in your bones, in your blood.
He reaches up slowly, deliberately, and your breath catches. But his hand doesn't go to his helmet. Instead, he reaches into a pouch at his belt and pulls out a strip of dark cloth.
Well, you certainly didn’t know this.
"I can't– " His voice is rough. "The helmet stays on. But I want–I want to kiss you. I want to taste you. I want–" He swallows audibly. "Let me blindfold you. So I can– without you seeing– I need you to trust me."
Your heart pounds against your ribs. This is more than he's ever offered. More than you ever thought possible. He's trusting you with something sacred.
"Okay," you breathe. "Okay. Yes."
He moves slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. The cloth is soft as he ties it around your eyes, and then everything goes dark. You hear him step back. Hear the click of latches. Hear the soft hiss of the helmet being lifted away, and then it’s thrown on the ground with a loud thud.
Then his mouth is on yours in a matter of seconds.
The kiss is desperate and consuming. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, moving against yours with a hunger that steals your breath. He groans into your mouth, and the sound is different without the vocoder. It’s raw and human and devastatingly intimate. You drink it in. You drink all of him in, hungrily, like you can’t get enough.
"Bed," he murmurs against your lips. "I need– I need to taste more of you."
A whimper of anticipation slips past your lips at his words.
You let him guide you to the bedroom. You can't see anything. Just darkness and the warmth of his hands on your waist, the sound of his breathing close to your ear. When your knees hit the mattress, you go down willingly, and he follows.
He strips you slowly. His hands are gentle, but his breath is ragged as he peels away each layer, exposing skin to the cool air. When you're bare beneath him, he goes still for a moment, and you can feel his gaze on you even through the blindfold.
"Beautiful," he whispers. "I've thought about this for so long. Every time I left– every time I came back– I thought about having you like this."
His lips trace down your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. He takes his time, learning every inch of you with mouth and tongue. When he finally settles between your thighs, the first touch of his mouth makes you cry out.
He's not teasing. He eats you out with single-minded focus, his tongue working through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you with a desperation that makes your thighs shake. The sounds are obscene, wet, and hungry, and mingled with his groans of pleasure, like he's the one being pleasured.
"Din– " You clutch at the sheets. "Oh, fuck, Din– "
He hums against you, and the vibration pushes you over. The orgasm crashes through you without warning, your back arching off the bed as you shake apart beneath his mouth. He works you through it, gentle now, lapping at you until the aftershocks fade.
But he doesn't stop.
His tongue finds you again, softer this time, and you whimper at the overstimulation. Your thighs try to close, but his shoulders keep them spread. He's relentless, patient, building you back up with agonizing slowness.
"I need one more," he murmurs against your swollen flesh. "Give me one more. Please,
mesh'la"
The please and the unknown word in Mando‘a undo you. His tongue finds that spot again, the one that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and he works it with perfect pressure. You're babbling now, pleading, your fingers twisted in what must be his hair because he groans against you, and the sound vibrates through your whole body.
The second orgasm is deeper, slower, rolling through you in waves that leave you breathless and wrecked. He kisses you through it, gentle and reverent, and when you finally go limp beneath him, he presses his lips to the inside of your thigh.
"Good," he whispers. "So good for me."
You're trembling. You can't stop trembling. And when you feel him shift above you, hear the rustle of clothing being removed, you reach for him blindly.
"I need– I need you inside me. Please. Din, please–" you manage to say.
He groans, a ragged sound that seems torn from somewhere deep. "Okay. Okay. I've got you."
He turns you over. The position is sudden, and you gasp as your chest presses against the mattress, your hips pulled back toward him. His hands are everywhere. Your waist, your hips, your thighs. He’s positioning you exactly how he wants.
Then he's pushing inside.
The stretch is intense. He's thick and hard, and he fills you completely, inch by inch. He pauses when he's fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, and you can feel him shaking.
"You feel–" His voice breaks. "I dreamed about this. About you. Every night for three months."
He pulls back and slams forward, and the pace he sets is brutal. Each thrust drives you further into the mattress, his grip on your hips bruising, the sound of skin against skin filling the small bedroom.
You can't see anything. You can only feel, hear, and taste him in the air, but that somehow makes it more intense.
"Harder," you gasp. "Please– Din–"
He gives it to you harder. His hand finds your hair, pulls your head back, and you feel his breath hot against your ear as he fucks into you with a desperation that steals your breath.
"Mine," he growls. "You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours. Din– I'm yours–" you cry out, tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks.
He shudders and stills. Then his hands are turning you over, gently but firmly, and he's settling between your thighs again.
You're still blindfolded, still in darkness, but you can feel him hovering above you, feel the tip of him pressing against your entrance once more.
"I want to see you cum," he says roughly. "Even if I can't see you. I want to feel it.“
He pushes inside again, slower this time, and the angle is different. Deeper. His weight settles over you, his arms bracketing your head, and you can feel his face hovering just above yours.
"Kiss me," he whispers.
You blindly grab his face and pull his lips to yours, desperately. Like a drowning person reaching for air.
And he's kissing you back with the same urgency. Deep and slow and devastating, his tongue sliding against yours as he rolls his hips in a rhythm that builds you back up.
His hands find yours, pin them to the pillow, and he whispers against your lips.
"Come for me. I want to feel it. I want–please–“
He's begging now. The most powerful man you've ever known is begging you, and the realization tips you over the edge for the third time today.
You cum with his name on your tongue, your body clenching around him, and he follows you with a groan that you feel more than hear, spilling into you with a shudder that shakes you both.
He stays inside you when it's over. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands cradling your face.
"Din," you whisper.
"Yeah." His voice is wrecked. "I know. I'm here. I'm not leaving."