Summary: Presumably post-fight Steven needs a little medical attention and a little love as well.
Warnings: oral (I mean....come on). p in v. this is very tame. so tame. sorry. primarily steven being in love with you so if you don't like love (who hurt you?) and you came here for other stuff... we get to it eventually.
AN: I am in love with Steven Grant. I would die for him. I imagine he is a little lost. Please, someone, teach this man how to kiss properly. Also, apologies for disappearing for a while. I happen to be a very stressed very busy very perfectionist aka procrastinating student. I am working on other things. Those other things being a novel and a PhD thesis proposal at the same time. This is my cry for help. Anyway, enjoy.
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“Stop moving so much.”
Steven hisses in pain. “It hurts. You’re hurting me.”
“Well, you wouldn’t let me take you to a hospital, so this is what you get,” you reply, dabbing at the split across his nose with a cotton ball dipped in rubbing alcohol.
“No, Marc wouldn’t let you take us to a hospital. Don’t blame it on me.”
“This is the last one. Just sit still for one more moment.”
You smooth a plaster over the bridge of his nose as he looks up at your face from his chair. You’ve convinced him to sit long enough for you to stand over him and care for his wounds, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off your face for one moment, not even when they narrowed at the pain, his nose scrunching up at your touch. Like this, he looks diminutive; like this, you know he loves you, even if Marc has trouble saying so.
Steven says it with his whole body, not just his eyes. He’s always leaning toward you, unconsciously into your touch, nearly stumbling over his own feet or sliding right out of his chair. His smile is lopsided, a grin that widens when you laugh and catches your eye from across the room just to make sure you’re having a good time. Steven looks like Marc, and feels like him, mostly, but hunches his shoulders and wrings his hands when he’s nervous. You know he loves you because he lets you hold those hands that he seems so afraid of.
He lets you use those hands. In the shower, you guide his fingers between your legs and into the warmth of your cunt. In bed you grind against the heel of his hand or let them grope you in the dark, placing them on your chest and telling them with your own to squeeze.
Steven is shy. He’s nervous. He wants to touch you so badly it aches but he’s more afraid to do it wrong than he is excited to do it right. At first it was a game of teaching him what to do, now it’s a game of teasing the sensitive man until he’s so devoured by need it overcomes his fear of doing it improperly. You like Steven when he throws caution to the wind, when he loses all sense of correct and incorrect and does what makes him feel good.
But you can’t help but be gentle with the man. Dropping the last bloodied cotton ball on the table, you lift his chin with a finger and give the end of his nose a kiss. The hand of his that rests on his knee, that gripped it tightly through the pain, barely moves, just shifting enough so his fingers brush against the outside of the thigh you have placed between his. It’s absentminded but timid, the farthest his unconscious mind is willing to go without some encouragement.
“I should go,” you say. In reality, you have no reason to go. Tomorrow’s your day off work. The cat has been fed and she couldn’t care less about your presence or absence from the flat. But you want Steven to ask you to stay. You like when he hesitates until the last moment, battling his inner desire with his nervousness, until you’ve collected your purse and have your hand on the doorknob. Every time he makes some new excuse—"it's too late for you to take the bus” or “you’ve had a few drinks, you shouldn’t be walking home alone”—and every time you give in. You know before he asks that you’ll give in.
You don’t really pay attention to tonight’s excuse—something about a morning coffee—as you’re already shutting the door and dropping your purse to the ground again. At this point, you should just move in together, but Steven doesn’t have the guts to ask, and you’re too reluctant to give up this flirting game. You’re afraid the relationship will lose its magic if you do.
It’s a silly fear. If anything, it’ll give you more opportunities to tease him. Maybe it’s the finality of it that scares you most.
Steven lends you a t-shirt, a soft, salmon pink v-neck that was probably bought by Marc, and heads to the washroom while you change. It’s pointed. He’s still too shy to openly watch you get naked. The one time he walked in on you showering he’d apologized for a week.
But it’s the little things, you notice, that he likes best. When you nudge him aside at the sink so you can brush your teeth next to him (you even have a toothbrush at his place for God’s sake), his gaze drops to your breasts in the mirror, like he’s forgotten you can see him in the reflection staring at your nipples beneath the shirt. His methodical brushing slows when you lean against the sink, one hip cocked to the side, your underwear peeking out from beneath the hem, and bare legs crossing in an attempt at a casual manner. Steven does that absentminded thing with his fingers again, brushing them now, lightly, against your bare thigh in a moment of fascination.
Then he recovers his countenance and rushes from the washroom to lay in bed. Steven won’t sleep, at least not much, but you don’t mind. You can fill his restless nights with other things.
He’s fussing at a Rubik’s cube as you emerge from the washroom, solving it and then immediately spinning the faces around afterwards to jumble it all up again, eyes flitting between the colored dots and your figure. You once asked him to teach you how to do it, but it was a process you didn’t have the patience to learn.
“Come, get under the covers,” you say, tugging at the sheet until he wiggles awkwardly beneath it. But it’s enough to drag his attention away from the silly cube and onto you, curling up beside him. His fluttering touch is just a little braver in the dark, a little more solid, a little more roving. It starts on the back of your knee, drawing circles until his fingers meander between your thighs and press into the smooth skin they find there. Without knowing it, Steven has you soaking what was a clean pair of underwear. He doesn’t put any intention behind it, the way he didn’t intend to make contact with your skin while seated at the kitchen table or in front of the bathroom sink. He is only following the path his fingers like best, instinct and subconscious and a little bit of Marc as their guide.
This is how it starts, absentminded, leisurely, hesitant.
Steven’s fingers dance around your backside and across your stomach. You roll away, onto your back, and his body follows, mirroring, matching, leaning forward and over you. His touch chases his gaze, pointer finger dragging over the clothed nipple he gazed at through your reflection. It pebbles beneath his circling finger, and he watches, fascinated, like your body is a mystery to be explored, new each time he sees it. Every night together seems like the first with Steven. He is good, now—oh God, too good—but he hasn’t lost that first-time captivation. You let him explore, let him test and appraise and investigate the physiological changes that overcome you in response to his attention, the quickening heart rate, the shallow breath, the hooded eyes. Your gaze stays on his face, watching the watcher.
Steven takes his job seriously. He hasn’t even reached beneath your shirt—his shirt—to feel your bare skin, simply palms your breast through the soft fabric, squeezing, pinching between forefinger and thumb, rolling. He is archaeologist, discovering, uncovering; he is anthropologist, analyzing, studying. You shudder—it is too much and not enough all at the same time, overwhelming, excruciating, addicting, longing—and he shudders as well, breath stuttering in time with your heart.
“Steven,” you breath his name. He whispers yours in return. You drag him into a kiss because perhaps he can take it a bit longer, but you cannot. It’s still slow, one kiss after another with a pause for breath between each, but at least he understands your need. You realize that maybe he’s not the one overcome with teased out longing. It’s you.
You reach blindly in the moonlight of the flat’s narrow windows, find his hip, then the bulge in his thick sweatpants. You’re not so meandering as him, instead finding quickly the span of his cock and running your nails up the length of it. It twitches and he groans against your mouth.
“Yeah? Like that?” you nearly whimper, lips mere centimeters from his. “Want me to do it again?”
If his half-shut eyes are any indication, then yes, he does. But he manages a nod as well and you repeat the motion, down with your nails and back up again. Steven’s brain has shut down, propped up beside you on one elbow, fingers rolling at your nipple, forehead pressed to yours. You tug at the tie of his sweatpants, tugging it loose so you can slip your hand past the waist band.
“You want me to touch you, Steven?” you whisper, and he gulps out a yes, fuck yes with an uneven breath. His cock is thick and hot beneath your touch, the head swollen and sensitive. There is an ache between your thighs triggered by the remembrance of just how thick he is, an ache relieved only by him. It’s not a race to have him inside you but you wish it was. You smear a bead of precum down his shaft, taking care to learn every pulsing vein with the memory of your touch. Steven kisses you again as his hips jerk, bucking towards your hand in an involuntary movement to be even closer, to find friction.
You work him under his sweatpants. He works his way down your stomach back toward your thighs. You don’t even wait for him to get there, just spread your legs in anticipation. It hasn’t got the smooth confidence of practice, the way he drags the thin strip of lace to the side and finds your clit, but it is full of wonder and admiration, that touch. It finds the heat of your arousal and he glances down between kisses to take in the sight of his fingers gathering the sweet stickiness and dragging it through your folds.
Steven watches as his fingers sink into your cunt, his thumb pressed against your clit. Its slower than you want—need—to get off, but this is how Steven rolls. Marc is the fast one, the hard one, loving but always approaching a breaking point. Steven does not break. He is the calm, the reassurance, the steadiness.
He also doesn’t last long, and he drags his hips away from your hand because he can’t find the words to say he’d rather come between your thighs than in your hand. You don’t want to stop touching him. You like the reassuring weight of him in your palm. But Steven wants to taste you, devour you, and you can’t deny the poor man his dessert. That instinct comes into play, the same instinct that dragged his hand against your backside and made you slick with a simple touch. Marc doesn’t like to share details—when you’re his, you’re his alone—but this, this he did share, your sensitivity, your weakness.
The sheet has gone…somewhere. You’re not sure where. There’s a chill in the air that you feel most against your cunt, amplified by the stickiness of your arousal. It is pleasantly replaced by the heat of a flat tongue and sharp nose, the former dragging through your folds, the latter pressed against your clit. But it’s the hand on your stomach and the addition of two fingers sinking, curling, as he works your clit that warms you from the inside out. That’s the detail Marc shared, the trick that surprised you the first time Steven used it, that rolls your orgasm from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
Now it does feel like a race. Steven is dragging the aftershocks from your body—he likes when your back arches from the mattress involuntarily and your thighs twitch and squeeze his head—but now, for you, it’s urgent, that race to have his cock buried in your cunt. You push Steven’s sweats down with your feet at his hips and at last, he helps you, the head of his cock still flushed pink and glistening from your earlier attentions. You both scramble in the twisted sheet, finally tossing it to the floor along with the rest of your clothes. It’s stumbling, this urgency, awkward and unrehearsed. It’s never like this with Marc; he always knows what to do, how to do it, moving you into place and position. That’s nice, but this is nice too, the way you can’t move fast enough but the harder you try the harder it gets, your arms tangled in tugging off your shirt. When it's gone, Steven's face is pressed to your neck, breathing in the scent of your skin and asking for permission while you tug less than gently at his curls. Your hips jerk and your legs wrap around the backs of his with impatience, but he has to hear you say it.
"For Christ's sake Steven, fuck me with your cock or I'll suffocate you with my tits."
"Doesn't sound like a bad deal," he says but it works because he presses his cock into you smooth and fast before he comes at your words alone. You choke.
What was a rushed moment has suddenly come to a standstill. Steven sighs in relief when he sinks into you, the warmth of your cunt pulling him in. But you cannot breathe, though your lungs and your head and your heart burn with need. It is so right, it is all things perfect, being filled by him. That emptiness, which felt so urgent a moment ago, completed with a self-satisfied groan.
"You alright love?" he says, worried something's wrong like he always does.
And then your soul rushes back into your body and you practically beg him to move, beg him to fuck you because you need to be one with this fiercely gentle man.
"I got you," he says, barely pulling out. His eyes find yours as you pull him back in, your nails up his back and tugging at his hair. There’s a desperation in his voice as he whispers—to you, to himself—but he never loses his composure. Not like Marc does. Not like—
No. Steven is reverent.
“Look at you—” He stutters over his words. “Fuck—you’re pretty, love. I love—I love you.”
There's a knot in your belly, pulling tighter and tighter. And then the heal of one hand is back on your lower stomach, fingers brushing over your clit, and the knot unravels.
“I love you too.”
He smiles that lopsided smile and then kisses you as he comes, his lips and his body and his cock all impossibly hot on and around and inside you. His heat penetrates your skin and sinks into your bones and yet somehow you shiver. It’s probably the way he’s looking at you.
“Cold?”
You shake your head.
“Yeah, well I am,” Steven says and pulls the sheet back on the bed. Its mangled and doesn’t cover you properly but he’s so earnest about it you giggle. And then you wrap your legs around him and hold him there, trap his throbbing cock inside you because you can’t let go of the warmth just yet.
“Don’t go,” someone says. It could be you or him at this point because both of you are thinking it.
Summary: Steve Rogers decides to disappear, take some time for himself in the solitude of a small town where he meets you.
Warnings: p in v. oral fem receiving. size kink (reader is much smaller than Steve in more ways than one). soft (very very soft) fem dom.
AN: This is stupid soft. Just simping all over the gd place. I'm so sorry but my baby Steve deserves nothing but the purest, sweetest form of love and that's what he's getting, though I imagine he likes to be ordered around. Took me way too long to feel good about this.
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There had been the snap. And then the resurrection. Steve had lost everyone he loved and then had most of them returned, and it felt good to go back to normal, in some ways. In other ways, it was stifling.
As the world reeled and tried to figure out how to "be normal" in a time that was anything but, normalcy felt forced, rushed, exaggerated. He wanted to be in this world, of course. The 1940s were no longer his home, and Steve had everything he wanted here. But he didn't feel complete. A piece was always missing, something from a past life, that he couldn't quite name but knew he had to find.
So he disappeared. Went undercover as some might call it. Bucky knew, of course, and Sam on some level. But to the rest of the world, he had slipped quietly back into the past to live the rest of his life. In reality, he'd slipped into Herrington, Massachusetts, a small coastal town where he was invisible to the world.
He'd found a little house, a cottage on the beach, and settled in completely. He didn't need a job, the government was more than willing to pay him a severance check of some sort, but he took one anyway, stocking the local grocery store and delivering groceries to the elderly when they ordered. It was just antiquated enough to remind him of a faraway time, of the past, but didn't force him to give up his wifi and color television. That was something he'd come to love.
And that was where he met you. You, the petite spitfire with a bone to pick with the entire world. Fierce, loyal, and slightly terrifying when double-crossed. The first time he met you, you had come out of your great-aunt's house shaking a fist over the groceries.
"I told Mr. Pierce," you were yelling, "not to skimp me on the meat." Mr. Pierce was the grocery store owner. And the meat in question was a roast, for what purpose, Steve wasn't sure, but one that apparently did not satisfy your desires.
You hadn't been the one to answer the door, that was your great-aunt Agnes, a kind, leather-faced woman who liked to tip Steve a healthy amount for "carrying all those heavy groceries for a silly old lady like me."
"It's no problem ma'am," he'd replied and stepped back toward his motorcycle, recently decked out with a basket on the back to transport deliveries. Then you'd chased him down the road until he noticed you and stopped, shouting all the way.
"When you see him," you said, your finger wagging in his face, puffing and out of breath from your yelling and running, "tell the bastard that's the last time he gets away with making me pay for his shitty cuts of meat."
Steve didn't really know what to say, but then your face softened, your voice calmed, and you took a deep breath. Maybe the panicked look on his face had made you have a change of heart. "I apologize for yelling at you, I know you're just the messenger. But that slimy son-of-a-bitch is going to get what's coming for him someday."
"I'll let him know," Steve replied with half a smile on his face.
"You aren't from around here are you?" you had asked, a sudden look of curiosity in your bright eyes.
Steve nodded. "Just moved here."
"Look, I'm really sorry." You stuck out your hand and introduced yourself, and Steve had found that hand to be surprisingly supple and calloused for its tiny size. "Let me make it up to you. Aunt Agnes seems to like you. We're having a potluck tonight, her place. Why don't you come by and meet the neighbors? I'm sure they'd love a new face, especially one as handsome and friendly as yours. Maybe make some friends, even."
You were being surprisingly friendly and sincere, and Steve had no choice but to accept the invitation.
So that's how he ended up in an old lady's backyard, handing off a bowl of his mother's jello salad (it was a potluck after all), and accepting a beer from a man who looked similar enough to be your brother (a cousin, it turned out). You didn't even notice his arrival, flying about, getting everything set up, taking part in the appropriate amount of small talk. Earlier, when you'd chased Steve down the road, your hair had been flung all about your head, wisps of it sticking out from all directions and looking positively a mess. You'd been wearing jeans with mud on the knees and a t-shirt that had more holes than necessary for your arms and head. Now, your hair was pinned back and tamed and you floated about in a soft blue sundress, revealing a delicate plane of skin across your shoulders and tan arms and legs.
The calloused hands and muddy jeans made sense now as well. The backyard of Aunt Agnes' house was primarily a garden, not only beautiful rose bushes and creeping wisteria but rows and rows of fruits and vegetables, cucumbers, tomatoes, watermelon, strawberries. The work was obviously the product of a talented gardener.
Aunt Agnes was the one to welcome him in, having noticed Steve before you did and taking his arm. She began to talk, of you and the neighborhood and her many, many family members. She introduced them one by one, though most of the names he immediately forgot. But it was a blessing to not be recognized and he relished the feeling. Sure, he'd grown out his beard and his hair was a bit longer than the standard military high and tight, and he wore a flannel with the sleeves rolled up instead of red, white, and blue spangles, but it still amazed him that he could pass through the world like this.
Eventually, the conversations became too much, and Steve excused himself to the kitchen to find a drink while he waited for the food to be ready. Really he just wanted some silence, a relief from society. But you'd beat him there, and, ever the busy bee, were scrambling to fill a cooler with more ice.
"Steve!" you exclaimed when you saw him, pleasant surprise plastered across your face. "I'm so glad you came."
You reached out and gave him a hug that took Steve so much by surprise he almost forgot to return it. It was shockingly warm, your arms around his neck, and though he had to stoop down to your level, he wrapped his arms around your waist anyways.
"I hope they didn't overwhelm you out there. My family can be a lot."
"No, not at all. Just needed some quiet. I'll let you get back to work."
"I could actually use your help if you don't mind."
You directed him into the front room toward a stack of boxes, cases of drinks he assumed. When Steve returned to the kitchen, all four boxes piled in his arms, you nearly dropped the glasses in your hands in shock. You recovered quickly, trying to remain polite despite your poorly hidden astonishment, but Steve could already tell you were trying to compute how he had managed to carry over a hundred pounds of drinks in one go.
"You can, um, put them on the counter I guess," you managed to stutter out. Your sudden flustered state was amusing, and Steve noticed he liked the way you seemed almost embarrassed, cheeks flushed pink, though he had no idea why you should feel that way.
But then you picked back up with your normal bubbly chatter, and Steve found himself lingering longer and longer in the kitchen with you until he realized neither of you were doing anything but talking, the work abandoned in lieu of discussions about the town, your stall at the farmers market, and eventually, very naturally, the passing of your parents. The slip into deep conversation was easy, surprisingly easy, easier than it had ever been with anyone else, even though Steve felt himself having to lie a bit about his past. Sure, he could admit to being from Brooklyn and having no family and his stint in the military, but that was about the extent of it. He found himself wanting to tell you more but refraining.
When your cousin called that food was ready from the backyard, the jolt back to reality was abrupt and almost unwelcome, until you smiled and allowed him to put a hand on your back, pulling Steve out to enjoy some food.
As night fell, lights twinkled on in the backyard, and the summer heat reduced to a light thrum as the breeze from the ocean swept through the town. Fireflies glowed in the darkness of the low trees behind the house and you seemed to glow as well, good food and friendly conversation lighting your face up with joy. You caught Steve's eye several times during the night, noticing him watching you from across the garden, but he didn't care. He liked that his attention made you smile.
Finally, the party began to dwindle, as parents with young kids trickled out, followed by the older folks, heading off to bed. Soon, even Aunt Agnes turned in and only the cousins close to you in age remained. They pulled out the stronger bottles of alcohol, sitting in plastic chairs and passing shots around the barbeque that still glowed hot with coals. Steve accepted every pass of vodka that came his way, despite knowing it wouldn't get him even remotely drunk. But the camaraderie of the moment helped ease a bit of that gaping hole in his soul so he clung to it as best he could. And you were sitting next to him, insisting he take a sip, and again he couldn't turn you down.
"And then Jack nearly sunk the boat in the bay," you were saying, telling the story of one of your cousin's finer moments. "Your dad almost killed us."
"Oh you want to bring that up?" he teased. "How about the time you snuck out and Aunt Agnes caught you making out with Michael on the beach."
You blushed bright red at the reminder but protested that was years ago. Then another cousin brought up his own late-night escapades and you devolved into a fit of giggles, leaning so far out of your chair that Steve had to catch you before you slipped right to the ground. Your hand gripped his to recover but, to his surprise, you never removed it, even as you righted yourself in your seat. Your hand just remained in his, your small fingers wrapped in his large ones, as you turned to pester him into telling a story.
"What about you Steve? Tell us an embarrassing story."
He looked around at the group and they leaned in expectantly, curious to know more about the stranger who was quickly becoming a friend. Steve didn't know what to say, most of his stories involving things he wasn't yet ready to reveal about himself. So he picked one from long ago.
"I once picked a fight with a guy at a bar. He was a bit of a Nazi. Got my ass kicked. Fortunately, I had a friend to back me up or he definitely would have killed me."
Everyone looked shocked. "But you're so strong," someone spoke up. "Look at you. How could anyone beat you in a fight?"
Steve shrugged, not wanting to admit to it being a pre-serum story. "Guess I'm a bit of a pacifist."
He turned to you to gauge your reaction. Your eyes were wide, sparkling with mischief and curiosity and a hint of disbelief. For a moment Steve thought you had figured it out, figured out who he was, but then you started giggling again and the only thing keeping you in your seat was his hand in yours.
"That's not embarrassing Steve, that's just the most fucking noble thing I've ever heard. Making us all look bad."
Your teasing words made his heart flutter in his chest and he felt like he could get used to this crowd.
Eventually, the coals of the barbeque started to wink out, and the cousins excused themselves for the night, heading home on foot to the various houses they had come from. It seemed no one lived too far apart in this town. Suddenly, the backyard was quiet.
"Can I give you a hand cleaning up?" Steve asked, not wanting to leave you with the job that looked a bit overwhelming to him.
You looked around and shrugged, a little tipsy but fully aware that it was a big mess. "I'll probably just take care of it in the morning. Can you just help me get the dishes inside?"
Steve obediently gathered up plates and cups, filling the dishwasher in several trips. Finally, the last were inside and you stood in the kitchen filling the sink to wash the pots and pans while Steve tried awkwardly to find a way to say goodbye.
"Um, thank you," he said at last, "for welcoming me into your community. It means a lot. I'll, uh, see you later I guess. Have a good night."
You stopped your scrubbing to look up at him, bubbles up to your elbows, your face flushed from the warm night air and the alcohol.
"Steve?"
"Yeah?"
You paused, hesitant, eyes searching his face for confirmation of a mutual feeling. "Do you ever feel like you were meant to meet someone? For a reason?"
The question hit him like a ton of bricks, and he realized that this night had made him feel exactly that way, that somehow he was meant to end up here and meet you, of all people. Why else had there been an instant connection unless this was just the way you were with everyone?
But your question made him think otherwise. You had to be special. Steve, in that moment, could do nothing but nod in affirmation. And then, like you had both had the same thought at the same moment, you were meeting him halfway, rising on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck, and kissing him. Really, truly, kissing him.
It was like that missing piece had found itself. You slotted your soul into his and Steve was pressing you to his chest, wrapping his arms around you, and lifting you so he didn't have to bend down to reach you. Your wet hands tangled into his slightly too long hair, pulling him impossibly closer, tasting one another's tongues.
And that was the start of it, of late-night motorcycle rides down the causeway, of Saturdays spent on the beach that tapered into drinks with friends, of dinners filled with your chatter and smiles and laughter, and Steve couldn't believe how lucky he was. He was not used to this feeling, of building friendship and companionship and perhaps even love. And he certainly wasn't used to the intense desire to reach out and pinch your ass every time you showed up at his house wearing those gardening jeans, high-waisted and tight and so goddamn cute.
But he never did, was never sure how you'd react. You kissed him, a lot in fact, every morning that he came over and every night that he dropped you off at home. And you never shied away from telling him how handsome he was, how much you liked his hands and his arms and his short beard, how sweet he was and kind and soft and gentle. So many words, words that made his head spin and his world wobble and sway. But it never came to be more than that, never late at night when he was thinking of you most. And oh lord, did he think about you, how your small frame might fit against his in bed while you spooned and slept, or how tight you'd be if he fucked you until the sun rose. He didn't particularly like sleeping in bed, it was too soft for his taste and he tended to take the couch or even the floor most nights, but he would sleep in bed for you if you would just tell him that was what you wanted.
It was like you were waiting for the right moment. And apparently, that moment was July 4th, during the annual celebration. Steve had whispered to you that it was consequently also his birthday, and had begged you to keep that a secret, but it seemed you had simply forgotten the fact entirely. The day passed without mention that Steve was turning 39 (105 if he'd been really counting) and you kissed him as the fireworks exploded over the ocean, sitting in the sand, hands tangled together. He thought the two of you would sit through the show, but then you were standing and pulling him to his feet as well and slipping away as everyone else's faces were turned to the sky.
At your house, you pulled a small cake from the fridge, just big enough to split between two people, and lit a couple of candles as you sat next to him at the kitchen table. Of course, you hadn't forgotten.
"Make a wish," you said with a happy smile. So he did, hoping this summer would never end. "What did you wish for?"
"Can't tell you, otherwise it won't come true," he replied. But then you pouted and he lost all resolve. "How about I show you instead?"
The look on your face said it all, shock mixed with intrigue and the mischief he had noticed that first night almost a week ago. So he reached down and tugged your chair closer, forcing you to face him with your knees between his. And then he leaned over and kissed you, taking your small cheeks in his large palms, putting all the power of his suppressed feelings behind it. He hoped you understood that he wanted more than to just kiss you, he wanted to occupy space inside you, fill you, complete you. Steve could feel your smile against his lips.
You pulled away. "Did you wish that I was dessert instead of the cake?
"I might have. Should we make my wish come true?"
Again you smiled, bright and guiding like a lighthouse torch, and something in your demeanor changed. Instantly, you were relenting to his touch, letting him pull you further into his lap, straddling his waist and settling into him like that was where you were meant to be. The quiet house, probably as old as him in this New England town, creaked in the silence of the night, only occasionally disturbed by the bang of a firework. But it all faded away with you in his arms.
You fit perfectly, just as Steve had hoped.
"You gonna be gentle with me, big man?" you whispered, that same brilliant smile on your face, wiggling as close to him as possible, the fingers of one hand tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, the others tracing down the point of his sharp nose and pressing against his soft lips. "You gonna fuck me good? Be a good boy?"
Oh, Christ. Steve nearly lost his mind with your hips so tight against his, lost it at your words that made his heart race and color rise to his cheeks. He could be good. Really damn good. You seemed to know something about him that Steve didn't even know about himself, of how much he liked your praise, your commanding tone. If there was anything he was good at, it was taking orders.
"You just keep telling me what to do and I'm all yours," he mumbled against your fingers, the thump of his heart beating in time with yours somewhere deep in your chest, echoes of one another in the silence of the house. Your hand came to grip his chin, pushing another kiss against his mouth, a kiss with lips parted in a sigh, the mingled palate of you and him, like a glass of wine on the beach and chocolate melted on the tongue, sweeping over taste buds and breathed into starved lungs.
"Mm, you taste so good. Like you were created just for me, don't you think?" you asked.
"Built from the best material, just for you." Built to love you, he wanted to say. Steve shut up instead.
You hummed with pleasure and the hand on his chin gripped a little harder, a little more suggestively. He opened his mouth obediently as you slipped your thumb between his lips, and he let you press it against the soft muscle of his tongue. You wanted him to taste you, so he did, his teeth biting gently down on the pad of your finger, another pleasant hum running down your body and straight to his groin.
He waited for your instruction.
"Undress me."
He complied, obediently. Steve's large hands hiked your sundress up around your waist, revealing the softness of your hips. His fingers smoothed up the length of your thighs, kneading at the flesh of your ass that he had so longed to touch. Your reaction was music to his ears, a soft moan leaving your lips and breathed against his, and Steve closed his eyes, arousal spreading through his body at the thought that he was making you react this way. His length hardened, tight in his pants, pressed against the thin layer of fabric that covered the heat of your core. The thought that he might not fit flickered through his mind but it dissipated at the feeling of your fingers pressing into the rough stubble of his jawline.
Steve's hands continued to travel further up your body, taking time to release the zipper of your dress down the length of your spine, and you answered his quiet, "can I?" by pulling slightly away and lifting your arms over your head. The dress landed somewhere in the kitchen and Steve dragged you close again, arms wrapped around your back to encompass you completely, his lips finding purchase against the skin of your neck.
"Look at you, so perfect," Steve mumbled, face pressed into your hair. If he had looked up he would have seen you blush, but he was too preoccupied letting his senses discover every piece of you he could touch, smell, or taste. He wanted to envelop you, inch by inch, roaming and discovering and satiating his curiosity, but you dragged his attention back to your face.
"Hey, eyes up here," you said, pulling his face toward yours and locking gazes. The intensity of your eye contact was stunning, but there was something else behind those eyes, something other than intense attraction and unsatisfied arousal. Was it doubt? Insecurity? The reason why you kissed him for so many nights and never asked for more? You were searching for something, and it came in the form of a question. "You won't leave me after this, right?"
There it was, the bit of insecurity, a fear of loss, of transience, of lacking control. Someone had hurt you before. Maybe that's why you approached everything in life with such ferocity and sincerity. But Steve would never hurt you like that, never let you feel that way again. He hoped you could see it in his eyes the way he felt about you, but words would be more reassurance. "I'm yours tonight. And tomorrow. And the day and week and month and year after that, if you'll have me that long. Whatever it is you need, I'll give it to you."
You blinked and then smiled and pressed another quick kiss to his lips before murmuring, "touch me" against them. So he did, trailing his hands over every sliver of skin before him. He felt the goosebumps rising in their wake, the downy hair on your legs and arms, the heat of your core against him, grinding almost imperceptibly to find some kind of friction, any friction. He wanted to touch you so desperately, but he got the sense that you needed to take the lead, that it would give the control you felt you lacked. So he slid a hand down the plane of your stomach and stopped just shy of dipping into your panties, waiting for your word. But you were no longer interested in playing games. Your hand found his and pulled him lower, using his fingers to press into the seem of your cunt, and he found you slick and warm with desire.
You urged him forward. "Rub my clit, baby. Slowly. Gently."
Slowly and gently. That he could do. His fingers crept absentmindedly closer to the swollen bundle of nerves and when he landed there, touch soft and circling, you jerked against him, your whole body moving with the force of anticipation and a cry leaving your lips. And though it seemed to burn, seemed to be torture for yourself, you demanded he do it again. Your forehead leaned against his, eyes shut tight, and Steve watched as your face contorted in pleasure as he flicked and circled again and again and again.
"Yes, baby. Perfect. So good. So. Fucking. Good."
Every bit of you was soft, from your neck where he placed his kisses to the curled hair hiding the swollen bud of your clit where his fingers played gently and rhythmically. Even the orgasm that gushed from your smooth cunt and stuttered from your lips was soft. You came with a choked cry as your hand pulled him closer by the back of his head, your tits pressed to his chest. Steve looked up to watch you devolve into pleasure, eyes squeezed tightly shut, your hair messy and swirling about your face, the straps of your bra slipping from your shoulder.
"Bed. Now. Right now," you demanded before you even had a chance to come down from your high. He would have been just as happy to have you in the kitchen, just like that, but Steve picked you up, with you latched to his chest like a koala, and carried you upstairs. You felt feather-light in his arms, easily tossed onto the mattress, your hands reaching out to pull his white t-shirt overhead and grab at the plane of his chest. Even as Steve kissed you again you couldn't stop tracing your fingertips over the lines of his torso, the ridges of his abs, the v-line that led tantalizingly toward the waistband of his pants. He felt his cock twitch and strain against the fabric of his boxers, the rough cotton not enough to stimulate him but enough to make him ache for your pussy. Your fluttering hands were not helping and Steve pictured your thin fingers wrapping around his length.
"Look at you," you said. "You're fucking perfect." It was Steve's turn to blush.
Steve wasn't...inexperienced. But it had been a while, to say the least, since he'd had the time or energy or capacity to even feel attracted to anyone. And even longer, perhaps never, since he felt the way he felt about you, like a bee to a flower, drunk on sweet nectar and high on honey. That was you, the delicate flower, so small and tender beneath him, yet as stunning and resonating and thunderous as the fireworks bursting somewhere overhead.
Fighting to survive was all Steve had known for so long, standing up to the bully and helping the fallen to their feet, that it was a relief to not have to be that man for you. You didn't require protection or help or anything from him at all, and yet you welcomed his presence endlessly. Steve realized he was not a need for you, but a want, and for the first time he felt valued for something real, something that wasn't just his brute strength, but something almost bordering on love. This he understood as he stared at your sweet face, caging you beneath him in bed.
"Earth to Steve," you said softly as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling his pelvis down toward yours and dragging a deep groan from his lungs. He hadn't noticed he'd stopped kissing you and was getting lost in drinking you in amidst his reverie until your small hand pressed to the back of his neck and gently guided him back to your lips. But you stopped just shy, your eyebrows knitted in concern, taking his leisurely manner for uncertainty. "We can stop if you want."
"No, definitely not."
"Good. Then stop staring and kiss me."
"Where?" he teased.
"Everywhere, big man."
Everywhere was doable. So he started at your lips with one so big and breathless it rivaled Mount Everest. For a moment he let himself forget about everything except how long he could go without oxygen against your lips. But there remained more of you to taste.
Steve's lips connected with your chin and slid down your jawline, taking time to kiss the pulse of your neck and the dip of your clavicle. The fan of his breath tickled across your skin and you giggled, the purest sound of joy bubbling from your lips at his touch. More of that he wanted. So he continued down to the valley between your breasts, full and round despite your stature, removing your bra as he did so, nibbling lightly at the peaks of your chest before replacing his teeth with his pinching fingers and moving lower again. Lower toward the edge of your ribs, arched upward to meet the movement of his mouth, toward the slope of your hips, his sharp nose following each kiss as your underwear joined your bra into the abyss.
Your thighs he kissed, top to bottom, left and right, but it was your ass he couldn't get enough of, filling his grip with handfuls of your flesh, using it to pull you toward the edge of the bed where he kneeled, lifting your hips toward his face, your legs slung one over each shoulder. Steve sunk his tongue into your folds without warning and you gasped, your thighs suddenly squeezing tight around his head.
"Yes, right there," you hissed between ragged breaths.
He responded by burying deeper, gripping you harder, and moaning with delight at your overwhelming taste and scent bombarding his senses. You squirmed but didn't pull away as Steve's hands worked their way back up your stomach to cup the tissue of your breasts, the width of his palms capturing the flesh in one big handful. Your hands covered his, holding them there, forcing him to press you into the bed while his mouth left you twitching and bucking beneath his touch.
And in spite of the urgency with which Steve wished to devour you, he continued on leisurely, doing his best to build you up slowly and gently pick you apart bit by bit the way you had asked him to do it before. Your body betrayed its delight, evidenced enough by the way your legs hooked around him and held him down, but you praised him anyways, rapture falling from your lips between sporadic moans of pleasure.
"Fuck, Steve, you're so good, oh God yes, baby, you're doing so good, taste me like that," you cried, and the words spurred him onward, hurried his movements just slightly, his tongue circling your clit, fingers circling your areolas. He would do whatever you asked, jump off a cliff, take a bullet to the chest, drown himself in a river, if only to please you. But you would never ask anything of him that he couldn't give, and Steve knew the moment you asked for his heart it would be his heart you'd receive. And with that intent in his mind, he made you come undone with a silent cry.
Eventually, the trembling ceased, even as he continued to drink your release with the ministrations of his tongue.
"Oh fuck, you like the way I taste baby?" you asked. His affirmation came out muffled and sloppy between your legs. Even you were breathless, barely getting out the words, but you pushed him nonetheless. "I wanna hear you say it, Steve. You like eating me out? Like drinking my juices?"
"Fuck, yes, you taste like goddamn heaven, darling."
"Kiss me, Steve."
"Yes, ma'am."
He complied without a second thought, crawling back up your body to lean over you, giving you a taste of the heaven he had just dipped into. When your fingers found his belt, he helped you remove the rest of his clothes. And then your hands were roving down his chest again, searching blindly until they found what they were looking for. Steve groaned at your touch on his swollen cock.
You gasped. "Oh, God."
Before Steve could respond you pushed him over onto his back and straddled his thighs, eyeing the length on display before you, fingers around it as if testing the girth and finding them unable to wrap all the way around.
"Oh God," you repeated. A short laugh bubbled up from your throat, the controlling front you'd managed to maintain this whole time slipping from your tone.
"Something wrong?" he asked, feeling slightly inadequate under your scrutiny. Steve sat up to meet your eyes, hands finding their place on your hips.
You gazed at him, eyes wide and glassy. "You're gonna split me in half with that thing."
"We don't have to. Not if you aren't comfortable."
"Oh baby, I'm gonna get real comfortable sitting on your cock." Your sultry grin was back and you rose up on your knees to look down at him. Your other hand swiped between your legs, two fingers gathering the warm, wet juices of your orgasm, before joining the first around his cock. You pumped, rolling a drop of precum off the tip with your thumb and rubbing it down his length, mixing the release of your pleasure with his. Steve barely held back from bucking his hips into your hand. He would save that for your pussy.
"I want you to fill me," you whispered. "I wanna be so fucking full. Just go slowly, okay?"
"Slowly. I got you, baby girl. You can take me. Let me fill you."
Steve lifted your hips and guided you forward, aligning your entrance with his length. You moved at a crawling pace, letting gravity sink your pussy around him, pausing every inch to adjust to his intrusion. His biceps stung with the grip of your fingernails in his skin, but it was a welcome distraction from the rush of pleasure threatening to tip him over the edge prematurely. Agonizingly you dipped further, a cry falling from your lips, until you were fully seated, the tip of him pressed into the cavity behind your cervix. You were warm, so, so warm, and soft and tight and you fit perfectly, just like he knew you would.
"Fuck, Steve, you're so big."
"Am I hurting you?" he asked, wiping away a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
"No, fuck, no, you feel so good. I just--I can't move."
"I got you, darling," Steve whispered, his face falling to your chest and burying it in the soft flesh of your tits. And then he wrapped his arms around your waist and did all the moving for you, lifting you up and sinking you down again, just fast enough to make you gasp for air and whine his name. With every thrust, you cried out in pleasure.
"Don't stop, Steve, please, baby, don't stop."
The fingers of one hand tugged at his hair dampened by sweat, nails scratching lightly across his scalp, as the other fell between your legs. You pressed your fingers around your clit and along your entrance, feeling where Steve's thick cock was pushing in and out of your tight pussy, feeling how big he was, how much he filled you. The meandering touch of your fingers almost sent him straight over the edge.
But it was the slick warmth of your cunt that was too much, and Steve found himself resting his forehead more and more heavily against your chest, willing himself to give you everything you wanted before he even thought about himself. The satin scent of your skin, like talcum and rose and his cologne, intoxicated him with every breath, and he sucked and nibbled on one breast and then the other, mindlessly attending to the most sensitive parts of you. A drop of sweat rolled down your sternum and Steve chased it with his tongue, licking a warm stripe up the center of your chest.
"Tell me what you need, darling."
"Fuck, that's perfect," you whined. "You fuck me so good, baby. Don't stop. Gonna make me come--make me come so hard."
Your fingers pressed against your clit once more and then you were clenching around him, your already tight pussy settling into a pulsing vice grip, your body shaking against his while he kissed the sweat from your collar bones. Steve felt you pumping the life out of him, riding out your orgasm and dragging him closer to his. The hand that had been on your clit moved to cup the weight of his balls, pinching and massaging as they pulled in heavy with the need for release.
"Where do you want me, darling, you gotta tell me."
You practically ordered him to come inside you, told him you wanted to feel him sticky between your thighs all night and it was suddenly Steve's turn to come undone, his hot seed pumping deep inside you, his twitching member finally finding release. He moaned your name against your lips, pulling you into a final searing kiss.
When, after a good twenty minutes of not moving from that position, of breathing heavy and kissing softly, you finally pulled away to lean down and lick his cock clean, the sticky mingling of you and him on your tongue, and he had to fight the urge to get hard again. And when you kissed him again, he tasted that mingling, two souls becoming one, as they were meant to be.
He slept next to you for the first time that night, your small frame encased in his, even though there was no need to share body heat in the dead of summer. But he actually slept, no dreams, no nightmares, no waking up in the middle of the night. Just deep, heavy sleep, your head tucked beneath his chin, back to his bare chest, his hands holding your breasts, and your hands holding his. Tangled together. Souls as one.
Rating: 18+ only (here children have a fruit snack *yeet*)
Summary: It's been a while (aka a few days) and you're both getting antsy. So it becomes a competition, of course.
Warnings: various forms of dirtiness, light choking (because he has a metal arm why not), and... self-denial? Idek if that's a thing but it is now.
A/N: This is technically a continuation of "Doll" but you don't really need to read it first (that's how little plot there is in this). Reader has invisibility powers.
___
Is this what withdrawal is? Barnes usually can't keep his hands off you but it's been six days since he touched you in any meaningful way and it's driving you mad.
It's not because you and Barnes haven't fucked since that night. It's because you have. The more nights he spends in your bed and the more nights you spend in his, the harder it gets to spend them alone.
And the withdrawal is not for lack of trying. He corners you in the hallway and slides a hand up your thigh only to have some member of IT walk by and ruin the moment. Or he follows you to the showers after your workout just to find it already occupied and giving neither of you privacy. And every night there's been something--Stark needing your help, Parker with a million questions, an errand for your mom--and every night you go to bed exhausted but so very unsatisfied. It's almost as if at the very moment you fall into an easy rhythm with someone the universe decides it's too much and you need to pay for the pleasure she's given you.
Sparring releases about half the tension that sparks between you two like an electrical cloud. It threatens to shatter the windows with shockwaves if it isn't tended to immediately. But the sparring is only just barely enough to tide you over until the next day.
Now that he knows, has confirmation of the fact, that you think about the way he fucks you into the mattress every time he pins you to the mat, Barnes has stopped letting you win. You barely get the opportunity to stand before he slams you to the ground again in some position or another, either with your hands pinned overhead or your face shoved into the ground.
"Again," he says, "again," disguising his intentions with thinly veiled excuses that you need to level up your training.
Eventually, it makes you tired. Not muscle tired, that would come regardless, but brain tired, from the thoughts of him constantly battering to the forefront of your mind with no outlet for release. When you're apart you wonder when you'll see him next and when you're near you wonder when you'll get to fuck him again. You're not exactly sure how it got to this point but his hunger is as insatiable as yours without that release.
Which is why it shouldn't surprise you when he finally breaks. Is it smackdown number six? Or is it seven, when he lands a blow to your stomach, knocks you forward off your feet, and rolls you onto your back to immobilize you? You groan in pain and frustration, your heavy breath puffing across Barnes' face.
He closes his eyes tight like he's the one in pain. "You have to stop making those sounds, doll. Driving me mad with that pretty mouth of yours."
"You're the one knocking me down, Barnes. I've got so many bruises I can't even count them anymore."
"I thought you liked getting a little rough."
You flush pink, dazed and speechless as his eyes open again and bear down into yours with a familiar intensity. You wiggle your hands to test the strength with which he's holding your wrists but they don't budge, only succeeding at making you squirm like a dying fish.
"This is crazy."
"Yeah, it is," he says, and then his gaze is flickering to your lips and it gives you just enough warning to suck in an anticipatory breath before Barnes is crashing his lips to yours and unleashing the beast of temptation. You respond, just as greedy, with a bite to his lower lip that pulls a growl from his hungry mouth.
He wastes no more time in holding you down; instead, he lets go of your hands to push roughly at your sports bra, lips still locked to yours. Barnes doesn't even remove the thing, just shoves it far enough up to reveal your chest and trap your arms overhead with the unyielding material. His hands are everywhere at once, spreading across your stomach, cupping the soft tissue of your breast, twisting one nipple and then the other. He leaves your lips behind to latch on, nibbling and sucking at the tender buds of flesh to make you squirm even more.
A choked cry leaves your lips. If anyone were to walk in right now...
And then a hand is down the front of your spandex where you know you aren't wearing underwear, because who wears underwear under spandex, and his fingers are gliding through your folds. Barnes sucks in a ragged breath at finding you so wet and warm from the exercise and he starts finger fucking you right there, in the middle of the training room, like he's willing to risk getting caught if it means he can make you orgasm.
This time it's quick and rushed but no less glorious, the way he expertly circles your clit with a finger and attends to the sensitive peaks of your chest with his tongue. He matches every one of your moans with one of his own, so lost in the thrill of finally touching you again that he doesn't care if you're being loud. Swiftly and suddenly you're coming hard around his fingers, gasping his name, eyes rolled to the back of your head. You're gorgeous, he thinks.
Barnes pulls his hand away once you've stopped bucking beneath him and looks into your eyes. He shoves his fingers in his mouth and sucks at the slick remnants of you, groaning with delight like your taste is enough to satisfy his insatiable hunger, and then kisses you to share in the ecstasy.
And then he stands, helping you to your feet and readjusting your clothes.
"I'll see you later," he says and leaves you standing alone on the sparring mat.
"You don't--that's...what?" You're left speechless and dazed for the second time today and it's only eight in the morning. What the fuck just happened?
---
You find Barnes at the breakfast counter, swallowing down what looks like half a dozen eggs and four pieces of toast before heading out into the field to do... well actually you don't know what he does between breakfast and lunch. Something classified.
He doesn't notice you until you reach out, grab his arm, and pull out a sharpie. Before he can demand to know what you're doing, you've drawn something, dropped his arm (the real one, of course), and left the way you came.
He studies your marking. It's nothing more than a single tally, small and black, on his inner forearm.
---
When Barnes gets back you're waiting. Not that he can see you. But he can see the indent of you on his bed where you must be laying.
"Not doing such a good job at hiding. We'll have to work on that one," he says while he unloads a surprising number of guns from an even more surprising number of places all over his body. And a knife.
"Not trying to hide," you say.
"Oh? Did Stark make you a better suit?"
"Not wearing a suit."
That gets him. Barnes turns with a sly smile on his face, momentarily frozen as you shift back into the visible spectrum. And then he's raking his eyes over the deliciousness of you, those curves a full course meal, and his stomach starved for a week straight. His cock twitches at the reminder that despite giving you an earth-shattering orgasm at eight o'clock this morning, he did nothing about his own needs.
You beckon him onto the bed with one finger.
"I have fifteen minutes until Parker needs my help."
Barnes doesn't care. He'll take fifteen minutes. Damn, he'll take two if it means touching you until you scream his name. It's more than he's had all week. He's devouring your lips in seconds, your hips melting to his touch as you roll over to straddle him, knees gripping his waist seeking out any kind of pressure you can find. You're conveniently naked and he's far too dressed but you don't need anything but his shirt off and his pants at his knees to make this worth your while.
You're sinking down around him before he can even ask to go down on you, your tight pussy fluttering around the rock-hard length of his cock. From this angle, you can feel his tip push against the sensitive tissue of your cervix, and it forces a curse from your mouth. You don't move but Barnes does, using his impossible strength to lift you by your hips and slam into you, leaving more bruises on your hips that you gladly add to your collection.
You rock when he rocks, meeting each of his grinding thrusts with a cry, your hands on his chest to give you support. He can feel you tighten around him, your walls contracting with each slam of his hips to yours, so he rests one hand flat on your pelvis, grounding you and rubbing at your clit with his thumb. The other presses to the small of your back, stabilizing you to hit that same spot you like so much over and over again.
"Come for me baby," he groans, the words smooth in the languid air of this shared moment.
"No," you manage to say, and it's like a punch to the chest. No? Why the fuck not? And suddenly he feels your resistance, you holding out against rapture, against the inevitable. "You first."
Your eagerness abruptly takes on a competitive tone and he can't know for sure what your intentions are but Barnes can picture them. This is no longer a shared moment but a one-on-one match that ends in sudden death.
"Not until you do."
You can't hold out. Not when he touches you like that. When you orgasm all over his cock his movements stutter and he joins you, pulling out just in time to spill his seed over the two of you. You finish it off with a desperate kiss that feels more like the start of something than the end of it.
"What the fuck was that?" he says as you pull away with a giddy smile, more confused than angry, relenting to the gentle touch of your hands smoothing across his chest after having driven into you like a railroad spike.
"A challenge," you giggle, and then he pulls you to his chest and you slump forward, entwining yourselves in one another's limbs to seek that extra bit of skin-to-skin contact that you're both fortunately so fond of. You glance over at the clock on his nightstand, only 12:23. Seven more minutes to snuggle. Seven minutes for Barnes to contemplate your sudden change in behavior and wonder if it has anything to do with his own actions this morning.
Finally, you get up to leave without having provided any reasoning. You simply peel your sweaty chest away from his. And then, strangely, the sharpie is back and you take his arm to add another little tally to the first. And then you add a single one to your own arm and suddenly he understands.
This isn't just a challenge. It's a game. He's in the lead and you're one behind, but if there's anything he can count on it's that you like a challenge and always rise to meet it.
He's fucked.
---
Then there's the broom closet. Barnes wasn't aware Avengers HQ even had these. He thought it was far too high-tech for regular old cleaning supplies.
But inside, you even the score, sinking to your knees and sucking him dry before he can protest. You're sure by now he's figured out the game so you don't mask the glee on your face as he spills hot and thick down your throat. You love the weight of his balls in your palm as they twitch and contract, the way Barnes gathers your hair away from your face to watch you better and kisses you deep afterward to get a taste of himself. But you pull away quickly and slip right back out the closet door before he can get any ideas.
---
What are the rules? There are no rules, really. No indication of how long this could go on and no idea of what the prize might be at the end. It's competition for competition's sake, something you're both far too good at. That means it's not possible to cheat. No rules mean nothing's off the table.
And that's why it confuses you that Barnes lets you pull ahead in the game with not one, but two, handjobs, book-ending dinner with the Stark-Parker joint family dinner in Peter's apartment. Somehow, no one's noticed the absurd amount of time you and Bucky spend together, if they had Aunt May would have said something at the table, let alone your little charade of sneaking off to the bathroom together while the others do the dishes.
So what's his ploy? It worries you. Sure, Bucky's supersoldierness gives him stamina, but it also reduces his refractory period to nothing. He'd tried to had that fact for a bit, worried it might scare you or pressure you but it turns out it's just another one of the reasons this is so fun.
So again, you ask yourself, what's his ploy?
"Give me a hand, kid, will you?" Stark requests that evening. You're more than slightly annoyed at having to delay, or possibly fully cancel, the much more exciting events you had planned after dinner, though you're also indebted to Stark at this point.
"Why can't Parker?"
"He's got school in the morning."
Parker's the real kid. School. Seriously? But Stark has started treating you more like a daughter than anything else. Morgan takes up most of his attention but he makes an effort to check in on you, despite your disappearing acts.
Tonight, he wants to work on his car. Or one of his many cars. The man has access to the most high-tech, brand-new robotic engineering machinery in the world and he still decides to do this by hand. You'll never understand.
"Wrench," he says, and you pass it to him dutifully before he disappears back under the car.
"Look, Agent Hill Junior," you know you're going to get a lecture whenever he starts his talks this way, "I want you to know that if you need anything I'm here for you."
You don't respond, too confused by the sudden expression of concern for you. Stark is the kind of man who makes his intentions obvious, not through words, but actions. It's strange for him to speak to you directly.
"You can tell me if working with Barnes is too much. We can always take your training down a notch. You just need to tell me if you're getting hurt."
You just barely manage to suppress a laugh. So that's what this is about? A one-on-one chat about the collection of bruises you've acquired in the past month? Sure, some of them are from "training" as Stark calls it. But most of them...are not. You can only imagine how much Stark would flip if he knew the extent of your private activities.
"I'm fine, really," you say. "The training is good. I need to get good at hand-to-hand before I can move on to other things."
That seems to appease Stark enough for now. Surprisingly, he lets you go, although it's already nearly midnight by the time you leave the workroom. And you still want to shower, so you debate your options about doing it now or in the morning.
But the decision is made for you. Suddenly, a hand is grabbing your wrist, hauling you along the hallway, and into the elevator that leads out of Stark's workshop. The doors slide open with a ding and immediately you're shoved inside, falling back against the mirrored wall as Barnes joins you. He punches the door closed button aggressively.
When he gives you that look, hungry and insatiable, your hands grab the handrail behind you with more force than necessary to steady the fluttering arousal that spreads through your body.
"What took you so long?" he growls, caging you against the back wall with his metal hand on your chin. The pressure is just light enough to let you speak.
"You're two points down, James. I'm surprised you have anything left in you. Are you sure you aren't ready to give up yet?"
He chuckles at your response, though he isn't amused by your joke. He's amused that you're talking back to him, and he likes it because it means he can punish you for it.
"You know well enough I can fuck you all night," he says lowly in your ear. "But what about you? How many times can I make you come before you beg me to stop? I like a challenge, doll, and you've set one up nicely."
A warmth spreads through your core at the realization that this is why he let you take the lead. He wants to follow one orgasm with another and another and another.
He must know the effect he's having on you because Barnes' face breaks into a sly, lopsided grin that tells you everything you need to know about what he's up to. He's claimed you, claimed your bed, claimed your evening, claimed your thoughts. Now he's even claiming victory. Premature victory.
As the elevator shifts into motion, rising toward the residential floors, Barnes lurches against you, a little rougher in his movements than necessary. He waits, silently, as you breathe in the heat of each other's arousal.
"You're talking some mad talk for a man in second place," you manage to say, your voice coming out much softer than you intended. He's pinned up against you with an unreadable face, the kind he's probably practiced a million times so as not to give away his thoughts to the enemy. Yet, you can't think about anything but the hard length pressed to your thigh, so you release one of your hands from its iron grip on the handrail and reach out to touch it. His cock twitches beneath your palm and the facade falters. Barnes steadies his breath with his eyes closed.
"Not for much longer. I hope you've got that goddamn sharpie because we're making plenty of marks tonight."
The elevator doors open and you're very glad no one's around to see Barnes lift you roughly over one shoulder and carry you straight to his room, not stopping to put you down until the door is closed and you're against it. He must really love pinning you to various surfaces, one knee between your thighs to hold your legs apart.
Immediately, his lips are on yours and he's kissing you in the way that swallows your breath until he's the only air that matters. And then he's dragging his mouth over every inch of exposed skin he can find, pulling off your shirt to give him more space to work with as you gulp down air to stay alive.
The question becomes not where he kisses you but where he does not.
If you're being honest with yourself, half of you wants to just let this happen, let him make you come over and over again, and screw the game. Screw denying your pleasure, screw forgoing your inner instincts, let the way your body responds to his dark gaze, your chest heaving against the thin lace of your bra, convince you to abandon all hope of winning this challenge. As if sensing you edging closer toward defeat, Barnes' hands wrap tightly around your waist, arching your back, pushing your chest forward so he can graze his teeth over the tender bud of your breasts. His hands slide up your spine to release the clasp that contains them.
The other half of you wants to be a little brat.
"You're never going to win fully clothed, James," you tease. Your words are breathless and a little less than confident, and, okay, maybe you just said that to get a rise out of him, but his thigh between yours shifts almost imperceptively in reaction. Almost. That slight movement is enough to push the seam of your pants against the tender bud of your clit, even through your panties, and you realize instigating him is only going to make him push harder against your resistance.
So you push back, hooking the fingers of one hand through his belt loops and resting the other on the bulge in his pants. Barnes doesn't even respond to your touch, just grinds his thigh between yours again, his mouth still abusing the sensitive skin of your nipples. But two can play this game. You squeeze lightly as you run your hand down his length, stopping only when you reach the heaviness of his balls that twitch in your palm.
He's barely reacting, though the weight of him is hot and hard. Yet the rough fabric of his jeans between your legs alone is able to make you tremble, even as he uses his grip on your waist to control the motion. You didn't expect to be so sensitive, but it seems the harder you resist the more torture is inflicted and you can feel the flood of your arousal soaking through the layers of fabric between you. If he keeps this up, Barnes is going to take the lead.
You harden your resolve, suppress your sighs of arousal, but it's so fucking hard. His movements are hypnotic and you find yourself not even paying attention to what he's doing with his mouth. A whimper escapes your lips despite all your effort and he looks up with a smile.
"Fuck, I love that sound," he says. "Do it again."
"Make me."
Bad idea. Very bad idea. He does make you, your whimpers echoing out over and over again until you can't resist the heavenly pleasure of riding his thigh, and your cunt clenches around nothing and you come. It hits you so suddenly, creeps up on you so quietly in spite of your resistance, you don't even know it's happening until it's over and the heat of your orgasm has soaked into his jeans and left a dark imprint of you on his thigh.
"I don't need to be naked to make you come, doll," he chokes out, partly in awe at how beautiful your face is when it contorts into an 'o' of pleasure and partly because your grip on his length has tightened as you came and now he's the one having trouble resisting.
But you don't even get a chance to react to his words before Barnes has your pants on the floor and panties flung somewhere over his shoulder. His mouth is on your pussy, hands spreading your legs even further apart, nose pressed to the curls at the apex of your thighs. Your hands fly to his hair and somehow you can only think about how soft and fluffy it is until his teeth graze against that tight bundle of nerves and you're leaning into him just to stay on your feet.
You'd curse him to high heaven for already closing the distance if your brain could just form the words. To hell if you're going to let him make you immediately come again, though a muttered, fuck you Barnes is all you can squeak out.
"Language," he grunts from between your legs, doing his best to coax you out of your struggle and into surrender. He can feel the tension between your desire to relinquish and your desire to fight when you clamp your thighs around his ears, feel your resistance on his tongue as he savors you bit by bit, feel you torture yourself for the pleasure of the competition. "Relax, doll, let me make you feel good."
"No, not yet, no--"
But your protests die on your lips. This time, your orgasm doesn't surprise you; you feel it coming every step of the way like trying to outrun an avalanche until it swallows you whole. The back of your head thunks against the door and you begin to slide down it as your legs lose their stability with the force of the spasms wracking your body. You only realize when Barnes is standing again and leaning his forehead against yours that he's holding you up.
"I believe that makes it a tie game." And it dawns on you why he likes this challenge so much. You're already wrecked, too exhausted to make much of an effort to try to take control. And he's only just begun. He has you alone, all to himself, and he won't stop until he's done.
Fuck.
Already Barnes is attacking your lips with his again, his hands roaming wherever they please, and you protest your inability to resist his charms with a half-hearted groan.
"Don't give me that, doll. You asked for a challenge so you'll get one."
You want to scream at him that you know you can't resist him, but that would be conceding to the fact, and really, a part of you wants him to push you as far as you can go. Off the fucking edge if he has to. So your tone remains defiant.
"Gonna get creative, James? Maybe move me to the bed instead of fucking me against a door?"
Barnes laughs but there's no warmth in it, only the sensation of his cool metal hand sliding up your sternum, inching toward your neck, sending goosebumps across your chest.
"Just for that, I will fuck you against this goddamn door until you come, screaming my name."
And then he squeezes and your eyes roll back and you nearly lose it again. It takes all your concentration to reel in your orgasm, but he waits. Waits for the surge of pleasure to overtake you, for you to acquiesce to the pressure around your neck, for you to give him that look that begs him to fuck you.
But it doesn't come.
Again, you push back, deny him the pleasure of your orgasm, but it only serves to increase his desire to please you. Suddenly his demeanor shifts, you can see it in his eyes when he stares straight into yours. The look on Barnes' face has changed. It's almost... imploring. When he kisses you again, it's different, no longer commanding and in control, but simply searching for a way to make you happy. He can't stand that you're torturing yourself, can't stand enjoying himself so much while you fight against your own satisfaction. He wants you to come under the skill of his mouth, to tremble and shake against his face as he tastes your orgasm on his tongue, and he wants you to love it, to enjoy it while it happens. Fuck the game, fuck the challenge. You can do whatever you want to him just for a single moment in heaven between your thighs.
"Please, baby, let me take care of you. Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you want, just take it. But let me do this for you. Let me be your release."
You don't know what to say. A moment ago he was ready to fuck you so hard you forgot your own name and now he's begging you to let him please you. So you don't say anything, just tug on the button of his pants, slide the zipper down, and release his hard cock from the confines of his pants. He tries to help you, tries to remove his own clothes, but you stop him.
"You can do that later. Just follow through and fuck me against the door like you promised."
He doesn't need to be told twice. One leg is hiked up around his waist and then he's slamming into you with no preamble. Barnes is no longer concerned with kissing you or tasting you or restraining you by your neck. He is only concerned with driving into your sweet cunt, slick with two orgasms, and muttering how gorgeous you are, how fucking gorgeous against your neck until you're digging your nails into his back to take hold of him.
But he's not deep enough and suddenly your other leg is also around his waist and you know for certain there will be bruises on your back and thighs in the morning from the beating you're taking. But the fire in his soul is back and Barnes wants to hear his name on your lips.
"Does that fucking feel good? Is that what you need, doll?" he questions through clenched teeth, his words punctuated with desperation. You manage to gasp out a confirmation between the involuntary cries that escape your mouth every time he hits your g-spot.
"Who makes you feel this way baby? Who fucks you this good?"
"You, James. Only. You." Your thighs tighten around his waist and the blood rushing in your ears makes it difficult to concentrate on the sound of his voice guiding you through your orgasm, but he keeps going, keeps slamming into you, keeps speaking, say it again, baby, say it again.
James, James, James, Jam--
You barely remember the rest, your staggering orgasm, his release inside you, and somehow making it to bed. You just know it feels so good to let go and fall asleep in his arms.
You slip in and out of the fuzzy warmth of sleep to kisses across your chest and down your stomach, not stopping until his mouth is cleaning your thighs and tasting the sweetness of your cunt and pulling one more, languid, idle release from you, and you stay awake just long enough to ask Barnes what he's doing.
When humans went to space and met other species, we realized we were the biggest species in universe. However we are also the only warm blooded species in the universe and these small aliens won’t stop grabbing us for warmth.
Warnings: P in V, oral (fem receiving), light (consensual) choking, praise, James Buchanan Barnes is a sad boy and only you can make him happy, mutual therapy over past trauma, a couple light spanks, and some sexy sparring
Note: Reader had a run-in with Hydra that gave you invisibility powers. Bucky is tasked with training you. Totally not canon, I just kept the parts I liked. Got the idea from a tiktok but I can't find it anymore oops. I'm thinking of turning it into a series of all the places you can fuck Bucky Barnes at Avengers HQ. Enjoyyyyyy....
---
"Alright, so I'm thinking absolutely the first thing you need is a suit. Because we can't have you sneaking around in clothes that give you away."
Tony Stark and Peter Parker stand before you at Avengers HQ, furiously tossing ideas back and forth, trying to come up with ways to build you the best possible suit. Last night had been...interesting, to say the least.
"Who's that?" Stark had said when you appeared all of a sudden from your room. "Come on Agent Hill, don't tell me you're taking in lost kids nowadays."
Your mother had only laughed, slightly inebriated and feeling loose because of all the drinking that was going on in your penthouse apartment. She was hosting one of those parties where too many superpowers drank too much alcohol and got a little too rowdy. "That's my daughter."
Usually, you stay away from such events, go out with friends, and avoid the house until it's all over. For the past four years, you hadn't even been in the house to need to avoid it. But now you're 22 and a recent college graduate and something about the party was drawing you in so you had emerged from your hideaway to join in the fun.
"Alright, Maria, how'd you manage to keep that one a secret?" Romanov spoke up.
Until this point, you'd remained silent, in shock at the sudden attention a group of superheroes had focused onto you. But you couldn't help yourself from responding now. You'd managed to hide away long enough. It was time to come into the open.
"I'm a ghost," you said jokingly, approaching the couch and stealing the drink your mother had been drinking to take a sip. It was strong and burned on the way down. The group laughed at your words, unaware of how true they really were.
It was then that you'd performed your little trick, the one that only a few of your closest friends had ever seen. You became invisible.
The laughter had immediately stopped. The girl who suddenly appeared out of thin air had disappeared right back into it. They could still tell where you were of course. The glass in your hand remained visible, floating in mid-air, giving away your position. And your clothes were still perceptible, not being able to change with you. But your features were otherwise undetectable, not even a shimmer revealing your face. You took another sip of the drink, liquid disappearing into an invisible mouth.
"I want her. On the team," Stark had said.
And that was it. The start of your superhero career.
"Explain again exactly how this works?" Parker asks.
You sigh and start from the beginning, again. "I can distort the absorption wavelengths of my cells so that the reflected light is in the invisible range, usually infrared."
"And how long can you hold it for?"
"About seven minutes now," you explain. "It's sort of like holding your breath. You can go underwater for a while, and you can practice holding your breath longer and longer, but eventually, you need to come up for air. Eventually, I have to 'recharge.' But I've been working on extending it."
Stark turns to one of the many holograms of his supercomputer, working with Friday to design a brand new suit to accommodate your skills. You're so engrossed in watching his process you don't even notice the shadowy figure appear in the doorway that leads to the training facilities.
"How'd you get these powers? Agent Hill isn't lacking in skill but it certainly isn't supernatural."
You knew Stark's question would come up eventually. It always did. Over time, it became easier to tell the story, but now you really don't feel like explaining fully, so you tell the short version.
"Hydra. When I was seventeen. They used me as a bargaining chip against my mom in a mission gone wrong and decided to experiment on me in the process. Left me with a lot of scars and a lot of therapy. Almost dropped out of school."
You don't remember much from the experience. But enough for it to leave lasting damage.
"Hydra?" a familiar voice asks behind you. Only now do you notice that Barnes is behind you. How long has he been watching?
You remain silent, just like you did the night before when he'd arrived late to the party, unable to speak under his gaze.
You had planned to leave not long after you joined the festivities. But when the elevator doors opened, a pair of blue eyes halted you in your path. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. You'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Crystal clear and icy, freezing you under their gaze. He wore a leather jacket and leather gloves, concealing his metal arm, but you knew it was there, hiding behind the layers.
Barnes had always been the one that caught your eye during your mother's briefings. His transition from the greatest warrior Hydra had to offer, and thus S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest enemy, to the trusted companion of Captain America and official Avengers member intrigued you. At first, he had been more of a schoolgirl crush, the little girl grappling with her new powers seeking guidance in someone who didn't even know she existed. But age had not reduced your admiration of him. Barnes' face was hard set in serious determination and his glance barely grazed over you before turning to the rest of the group. He paid you not a single ounce of attention, yet you felt dumbstruck in his presence.
But Bucky had noticed you that night. Noticed you in a way he wanted desperately to hide, so he disallowed his eyes from lingering on you. Who were you and why were you wearing pajamas at a party and how did you make them actually look good?
And not only did he notice you, but he recognized you. He wasn't sure how, but something at the back of his head buried beneath decades of blurred half-memories told him he knew you. It was a stupid thought, though. How could he know you?
From the doorway, his eyes narrow in concern, making you feel smaller than ever beneath him. How is that 5 o'clock shadow so enticing? You just want to run your fingers across--
Stark gestures at Barnes, completely ignoring his comment. "Good, you're here. Our young Agent Hill needs to get started with her training immediately. I want her in the field but she can't be going in inexperienced. Teach her the works."
It's rather bold of Stark to assume you have no combat skills. And to assume you even want to go into the field. But you follow behind Barnes in silence anyway toward the training facilities. It doesn't matter what you know and don't know. He's going to kick your ass anyway.
"Feet wider," he says, coaching you on your swing. His blue eyes have somehow darkened, and along with the faint beard, he looks positively dangerous. "Not too wide."
"I know how to punch, Barnes," you whisper under your breath. He's not meant to hear your words, but he does anyway.
"Oh yeah? Punch me then. Go for it." His voice is challenging in the way that reveals he knows he could block any swing that comes at him. But he wants to see what will happen. Your mention of Hydra loosened a memory in his brain somewhere, and though he can't quite place his finger on it, the memory told him you're anything but the kid he's treating you like. He wants to know what you really have inside you.
Your annoyance gets the best of you. You aim for his face, the way your mother taught you. And she taught you well, teaching you all the self-defense skills you might need moving through the world as a woman. But she did not teach you how to fight super soldiers. That's an entirely different world.
Unsurprisingly, Barnes predicts your move and his metal arm comes up to meet your human one, halting your punch mid-swing. His palm fully engulfs your fist, your knuckles slamming into the metal with a ringing sound.
"Fuck, that hurt," you seethe through your teeth, gripping your hand in pain. And yet, you still smile. You mean for your words to sound irritated, but they betray how much you enjoy getting a swing in. "Didn't have to do me like that, Barnes."
He ignores your pain, though secretly it pleases him to find how much force is truly behind your punch. Nothing, of course, his metal arm can't take, but strong enough. "Language, kid. Go again. And this time, try not to be so obvious."
Despite his advice, it's impossible. He predicts every one of your strikes and counters them with four times as much strength as you possess. You give him everything you have, and nothing lands.
"This would be a lot easier if you let me use my powers."
So far, Barnes has refused to let you fight invisible, not that it would have done you much good without a proper suit. But you're tired and sweaty, your hair falling from its ponytail and sticking to your face, your muscles aching and your heart beating fast. Barnes hasn't even broken a sweat.
"Unless you learn to fight without your powers, they'll do nothing more than level the playing field. You need to be at an advantage if you're going to survive."
Survive. You've done plenty of that already. You want better than survival. Barnes recognizes the look on your face, the one that expresses the desire plainly. He knows the feeling, drifting from one day to the next and wanting more than that.
His voice softens a bit. "We can call it quits for the day. Get some rest. We'll go again tomorrow."
He didn't intend to be so kind. It just sort of happened, drawn out of him by the not-so-innocent girl who still has a lot to learn but can hold her own better than most.
---
Tomorrow. Tomorrow's8 like the day before, 9 am at HQ, wait for Parker to get his ass up the elevator so Stark can begin, get sidetracked by coffee, and then finally return to the task at hand.
"Give this a shot," Stark says, handing you what looks like nothing more than a vaguely human-shaped paper suit. "Not exactly protective, but it's a new technology. Should conform to your abilities."
"You did this overnight?"
"Of course. Get changed."
The suit has little support and definitely no protection. You feel like a fingernail could rip a hole through it if you pull on it wrong, let alone a knife coming at you from an angry enemy. But it's a start. An impressive start. You stare at yourself in the mirror of the bathroom as you shift, the suit shifting along with you.
Back in the training facilities, where you know Stark and Parker will be waiting, you remain in your shifted form. They don't look up as you enter, somehow having not heard you, and instead are engaged in a heated discussion with Barnes about something you don't understand. So you creep up behind Parker, lean in, and whisper into his ear.
"I think it works."
You feel a little bad, but only for a moment. Parker jumps straight out of his skin, screaming a scream you didn't know was possible from the kid. Stark lets out a laugh as you rematerialize, and Barnes even cracks a smile at your prank.
"Yeah, yeah, I'd say so." Parker's voice quivers.
"Well, what do you think?" Stark asks.
"Very thin," you say, aware that much more is visible than you really want. "I feel like it's going to rip at any moment. And there's not a whole lot of support in this area."
You gesture vaguely at your chest, not knowing how best to explain to a group of men that a sports bra is a necessity for fighting, but knowing you have to make them aware all the same. You can feel Barnes' eyes on you, a little less polite than the others, and you find you like the way he eyes you up, a bit like a puzzle to be solved or a strategy to be devised.
"Right, right, I'll get on that. Only a prototype anyway," Stark responds nervously. "Back to work, Parker. Hill, Barnes, back to training."
Bucky tries his best not to picture what you might look like without that suit, but it leaves little to the imagination as you saunter away to change again.
And so the days move forward. You've never before been so busy or exhausted in your life. You just graduated college, which is a feat in itself, but all the training, all the work, keeps you on your toes so that by the end of the day, both your brain and your body are tired.
Still, you improve and get better at sparring Barnes, even taking him down a couple of times on your own, though you suspect he's going easy on you.
"Again." Barnes is already on his feet and helping you to yours. Today the sparring room is particularly warm, and you've long forgone your sweats for shorts and a sports bra. Barnes has lost the shirt as well, and his chest glistens with sweat beneath the fluorescent lights. Maybe it's the heat or maybe it's him, but the whole thing feels a bit dreamlike. Here you are, sparring with a man who could take you to the ground with one arm alone, and he's letting you kick his ass every once in a while.
But there's no way you can do it again. You feel destroyed by all the slamming onto the mat.
Barnes is doing his best not to be distracted as well, but those tight shorts and the top that reveals your midriff have to be on purpose. It's easy to admit to himself that he likes you, might even be attracted to you. You fight hard and relentlessly, rising to every one of his challenges and not backing down even when you're tired. You've already come a long way since that first encounter, and Barnes has come to look forward to the two hours a day you spend together in the gym. He had tried to tell himself it was the fun of having a new sparring partner, but in truth, he knows it's the determined glint in your eyes, the way you bounce on your feet in excited anticipation of the fight, the way you collapse on the mat after a hard session, chest heaving deep breaths in and out. But what he likes most is your heated gaze when he pins you to the ground, or even better, you pin him.
"Knock me down one more time and you can be done," he challenges. The familiar determination returns, though a flicker of doubt remains behind your eyes. He can tell you need encouragement. "Remember to use your size to your advantage. Don't let me get ahead of you. Keep me guessing."
You do your best. You really do. You hold your own for almost two minutes, but it's obvious you're only barely staying ahead of him. As soon as you falter, Barnes has you flat on your back on the mat without much resistance, immobilized by a knee on your thighs and his metal arm trapping your hands over your head. His free hand plants by your head and holds him up to prevent him from actually hurting you.
You gasp underneath him, trying to disguise the weird flicker of desire with breathlessness. He looks good from down here, all sweaty and dark and serious. But you're also a bit too tired to care. "I'm out, Barnes. Let me go."
Let me go. Please.
And that's when the memory returns. The full, real memory, the one that has been tickling the edges of his brain since he first saw you. You, a kid, his mission. Kidnap, don't kill. A small voice, your voice, begging. Please, let me go. What has he done?
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, standing up quickly.
"Language, Barnes," you say teasingly. But he doesn't laugh, simply exits the sparring room, abruptly leaving you, speechless and alone on the floor. What just happened?
After a moment of confused silence on the mat, you brush it off and stand, heading to your room for a shower. Stark offered you a place to stay at HQ, and you happily agreed. Though you loved being back with your mother after four years away at college, you cherish your independence. A room at HQ offered you just that.
A nice shower would certainly make you feel better after that confusing interaction. You pull on your robe and shower shoes, leaving your clothes behind so as to carry one less thing. But as you pass down the hall toward the showers, you can hear Barnes' voice drift through the slightly open door to his room.
"I remembered," he says. "It was her. I'm the reason she's--" He cuts off, appearing to be interrupted by whoever he's talking to on the phone. You pause by the open door.
"I know that's not me anymore but I'm still responsible," he continues. "I have to tell her."
Again a pause. By now it's apparent he's talking about you.
"No, Steve, we aren't a team. We aren't partners. I'm helping Tony out. I don't care if she doesn't want to work with me anymore, this is part of my redemption. I have to tell her."
The conversation seems over. You rush to the showers, not wanting Barnes to realize you were listening the whole time. Apologize, he said. Apologize for what? You've known him for a whole of four days and he's been nothing but polite to you. Cold, at first, but he warms upon acquaintance. And then he's downright sweet.
So sweet, you realize, for someone so damaged. He has every right to hate the world, and though he walks through it with a healthy dose of cynicism, he never lets that cynicism touch you. If anything, he's outright positive around you, an undeserving brat. A kid, really, though you don't like when he calls you that. You know you can be naive, positive on the verge of artificiality, and yet he never tries to burst your bubble. In fact, he seems to relish it.
The shower feels nice, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. Maybe it's you who has done something wrong? Now you're spiraling. You have to find out what's going on or it's going to drive you crazy.
You know what you have to do. You have just about seven minutes of invisibility before your shifting gives out. In those seven minutes, you can duck from the showers, sneak into Barnes' room, snoop around, and make it back to the showers unseen. Plenty of time. But you have to go nude. Now would be a great time for the suit, but no such luck. Naked it is.
Out in the hallway, all is quiet. Barnes' door is still ajar, but when you peek your head in, the room is empty.
Easy.
Where to start? His phone is a dead end, being one of those ancient flipping kinds rather than a new, high-tech smartphone. He has few personal belongings, the bed is made perfectly, and his closet contains only clothes.
The drawers of the nightstand are empty. Or nearly empty. At the back of the top drawer is unceremoniously shoved a small booklet with a pen stuck between the pages. It's worn and supple, as though held a thousand times and read a thousand more. You flip through, finding a list of names, some crossed out, others not. Your name does not appear, but something about the list tells you these are not ordinary names. These are the names of his victims, people Barnes hurt as the Winter Soldier. Your heart aches and your stomach clenches, the reminder of his past jarring against the kind demeanor you've come to know. But deep down, you know this isn't him, know he's a good man, despite it all.
You know better than most the first-hand horrors of Hydra's super-soldier experiments. Of anyone, you can relate best to the experience Barnes has been through. Your memories of that long week are blurry, but the pain remains, forever seared into your mind. You can only imagine a lifetime of that pain.
The sound of the door opening jolts you from your reverie and you close the drawer quickly. But you soon realize your mistake. Barnes would know he left the door open, would know exactly how he placed his book in the drawer, would recognize something was off. Unfortunately, you're right.
"Hello?" he calls into the darkening room. The evening is coming on fast and the sun dims to barely glimmer, casting the space in shadow despite the large windows on the south wall.
Bucky knows something is off the moment he finds your room unoccupied, having gone there with the express purpose of confronting you about his actions earlier in the afternoon. And though he has no way of truly knowing, he suspects you are now here, in this room with him, invisible to his gaze. Bucky shuts the door behind him and waits.
You're trapped. You don't have long before your powers give out; already the suffocating feeling that begs you to take a breath is coming on. And Barnes has closed the door, effectively sealing you in, as you can't open it without him knowing for sure that you're here. On top of that, you're clothingless. You've run out of options and Barnes seems to sense this. So, he waits, drawing out the moment of tension, building the suspense.
"I know you're here," he says finally, his voice soft and barely audible. "You can't hide that well. Next time, dry your feet off before you go leaving wet footprints all over the place."
Oops.
"I--" you begin, and immediately Barnes' eyes snap to where your voice originates from. "I'm sorry. I overheard your conversation with Rogers. I shouldn't have but I know it was about me."
Barnes sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, you're right. I have some things to explain. Though I'd much prefer talking to you if I could see you."
You hesitate. "Only a slight problem there. I'm not wearing any clothes."
If it had been any lighter in the room you would have seen Barnes blush. Instead, you watch him pull his shirt over his head. He hands it to you blindly, the shirt off his own back, soft with wear and long enough to cover the tops of your thighs. It smells of him, salty with sweat and sweet with the scent you've come to recognize only as him. You shrug it on and shift back.
"I'm sorry," you say again, having trouble concentrating with Barnes' bare chest at your eye level. Is that an old bullet wound on his shoulder? The reminder of a knife across his stomach? You can't look away, even at the seam where man meets metal.
Barnes shakes his head. "No, I should be the one apologizing."
He pauses for a moment and tries to begin several times before finally forming a complete sentence.
"It's my fault you're like this, that Hydra tested on you. It was me who kidnapped you, it was me who followed orders, it was me who completed the mission and got you hurt. And I'm so sorry."
You're so frozen in shock that the absurdity of the situation doesn't even register. There's nothing under this shirt, no underwear, no pants, no bra. And here you are standing in the bedroom of your greatest inspiration, listening to him apologize for being the one that facilitated your kidnapping, for being responsible for all the injury, the pain, the nightmares, the isolation, the...
It all comes flooding back, the things you had forgotten, or simply chose to not remember, and one of those things is his face.
You thought you'd dealt with impact. So many hours with a therapist, and you realize all you did was suppress the feelings, not confront them. And then you break, all the anger and sadness and frustration flowing from you at once.
"You piece of shit." Your voice begins as a whisper but soon amplifies nearly to a shout. "You monster, you bastard, how could you? How could you?"
All this time you forgave him for the damage he'd done, excused it as brainwashing and manipulation from Hydra. But now that it's you he's involved, you have somewhere to direct your anger, and you take it out as a shove straight to his chest.
He didn't expect that one. The words he understood. He accepted those, accepted that you would hate him forever. But then you're pushing and hitting him with all your force. Barnes could fight back, could hold his ground. But you need this, so he lets you shove him into the wall with a newfound strength. Finally against the wall, with nowhere left to go, you turn to pummelling his chest with your fists, repeating the words over and over, how could you, how could you, how could you.
For a moment, he lets it happen. But eventually, Barnes reacts, grabbing your wrists and holding them to his chest in an attempt to calm the fury that rages inside you. Surprisingly, at his touch, you still, slumping against him once the anger is replaced with nothing but sadness. That anger, one you never truly realized you'd harbored since your capture, bled from you all at once, leaving you exhausted.
You don't notice you're crying until a soft thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Barnes releases your hands and wraps his arms around your sobbing body, pulling you close. "I'm so sorry," he repeats in your ear, his words a whisper against the rage inside your head.
Is it hours, or only minutes, standing like that, wrapped up in him, his skin so soft against your cheek? Time has ceased to exist, melting into the nighttime that encompasses the room in near pitch-black darkness. Your breath calms, your heart rate slows, the tears dry. He's only a man, a broken, misplaced, lost man. But he's also impossibly kind to you, caring enough to train you day after day, to pick you up when you fall down, to ensure you're happy here at all times. That's the man you know and rest your cheek against and seek out for comfort in this moment, despite him being the reason for your anger. But he's not truly the reason for your anger, only an easy outlet standing right before you.
This is not how Bucky had expected this to go. Perhaps to never see you again, yes. But to hold you in his arms, certainly not. And not just hold you, but comfort you. It surprises him how much he finds he likes it. And he can't ignore the fact that you're here in his room, wearing his shirt and only his shirt. He doesn't try anything improprietous, just wraps his arms around your waist, but it's not lost on him that your supple chest is pressed against him and the delicious scent from your still wet hair is filling his brain with a flowery cloud. His stomach clenches at the thought of burying his face in that smell for the rest of the night but he pushes it aside. That's not why you're here. That's not what you want.
But your next words surprise him. You pull slightly away, tilting your splotchy face upward towards his to look him in the eye. You take a ragged breath and speak.
"I forgive you."
Bucky is taken aback. That's not why he made this confession, not to seek your forgiveness. "You don't have to do that."
"I know. But I do. And I know you think I'm just a kid--"
Barnes lets out a short laugh, cutting you off immediately. "Jesus Christ, that's not true. You're not a kid. You're smart and strong and capable. And you've seen the ugly world for its true self and choose to remain good and happy all the same. I'm not like that and that makes you wiser than I'll ever be."
He takes a deep breath, unsure if he should admit to the feelings he desperately wants to express to you. The way you're looking at him, with a mixture of hesitation and admiration, makes the words tumble from his mouth without a second thought.
"But somehow being around you makes me want to be good again. Not for my sake, but for yours."
"James, I--" You've never used his first name before, but it falls deliciously from your lips, the sound of it nearly distracting him from the finger you run across the stubble on the cleft of his chin. Nearly. He captures that hand in his own, holding it there against his face.
"You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve it," he repeats, eyes falling shut to the feeling of your thumb pressed to the corner of his lips. He still holds you close, the other arm wrapping tight around you, and though verbally he rejected the comfort your warmth offered, his body says otherwise, desperate for the acceptance his brain refuses to give into.
"Stop punishing yourself," you whisper. For a moment, he almost feels that he could.
And when your lips find his, soft and delicate, he forgets why you're even here in the first place, forgets his guilt and your anger, forgets even to react.
His lack of response has you pulling away, worried you've done something wrong, but then he's chasing your lips with his own, leaning forward to meet you halfway, gathering you impossibly tighter to his chest. He pauses, mouth mere centimeters from yours, eyes still shut, a deep breath heaving from his chest. He wants more, wants to kiss you again in all the places that count, but he can't quite yet.
"What was that for?" The question's not an accusatory one but simply curious. Have you always looked at him in this light since day one? Has he just not noticed?
"Are you blind, Barnes?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "None of that last name shit, doll, we've moved on to a first-name basis."
But your words are enough to surge him forward, this time capturing your lips in a dominating kiss that leaves you gasping for air. He takes advantage of your open mouth and presses his tongue to yours, seeking to fill his soul with your all-consuming warmth, to wrap it around him like a cocoon of your scent. His fingers slide down your back and slip under the shirt you wear, his shirt, grasping at the bare skin of your ass, filling his hands with your supple flesh.
You moan softly under his touch, relishing in the feeling of being encompassed by someone so large and so strong. The vibranium arm, which you expected to be harshly indelicate against your relative fragility, caresses you with the same gentility of the other. The intense contact sends your heart racing like it did all the times you were pinned below him on the sparring mat. Will he pin you like that in bed? Hold you down while he fucks you within an inch of your life?
The thought rouses a heat between your legs and stirs butterflies in your tummy. You don't even know if that's where this is going, but it invades your brain anyways. You're sure Barnes can feel your racing pulse beneath his lips when he kisses your neck, sending your nerves haywire as he creeps toward the neckline of your shirt. He inhales your scent, the hot air of his breath fanning your cool skin.
Everything about this is sloppy, the wet kisses dragged across your skin, his tongue tangled with yours, your fingers tugging at the hair that brushes the nape of his neck. Even his hips against yours are messy and rough, the heat of him leaving your core feeling slick, the wetness of it rubbing between your naked thighs. And then Barnes is sliding his hands back up your body, this time under your shirt, and tugging it over your head, his lips leaving your skin just long enough to toss the item to the ground.
You expect him to keep surging forward, to lift you in his arms and take you to bed like you want him to. But he pauses instead, hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes staring intensely into yours. Or you think he's staring into your eyes.
"Are you okay? Is this okay?" His voice is full of concern but raspy with arousal all the same.
"Yes, James, yes, I need more."
"Well, I would, it's just that you've disappeared on me again." One look at your hands and you know he was looking right through you, not at you. The swirl of emotions--pleasure, arousal, timidity even--sent you shifting without your knowledge. You can't help but laugh.
"Let me see you, doll," he groans, sounding exasperated that he can't rake his gaze across your naked flesh or find all the places he wants to touch you because they're invisible.
"You first."
A heated understanding lights up his eyes, still vibrant in the darkness of the room. Slowly, he releases his grip on you, relenting to not knowing where you are in space. You take an invisible step back to get a better view of the specimen before you. With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, sliding the leather from his pants and dropping it to the floor with a thunk. And then his pants are gone and he's left in his boxers, tight against the bulging muscles of his thighs.
And other bulging things. He doesn't hide his attraction to you. But still, you do not reappear.
Bucky begins to worry you're never going to, that maybe he's taken things too for. But then, a soft finger trails across his neck and he jerks in surprise. You're tracing the plain of his chest with a feather-light touch, dipping into the indent between his collarbones, feeling along the puckered scar of a bullet wound and the long slice of a knife. He feels healed beneath your touch, but it's not enough to satisfy the insatiable hunger building in the tightness of his groin. This entire evening has been a long, drawn-out, build-up of tension, and if he doesn't release it soon, it will snap like an overstretched rubber band.
He makes his move.
Apparently, Bucky's senses are just as perceptive here as they are on the sparring mat. His metal hand shoots up and wraps around the wrist of the hand on his chest, despite being unable to see it. The other reaches out and grapples at your invisible body in the dark, somehow finding your waist. He doesn't need to see you to manage to flip you around and press your back against his chest. In your surprise, your invisibility falters, and you flicker out of your shifted form with a flustered squeak, one hand suddenly pinned between your back and Bucky's rock-hard chest.
He holds on with an iron grip and walks you toward the bed, holding you up to prevent you from tripping in your ruffled state.
"You're taking too long, doll," he mumbles into your ear, and you feel his chest rumble with the vibrations. Your free hand flies to the one around your waist, which is slowly creeping upward toward your breast to twist at the sensitive nipple. "I know you like it when I pin you on the sparring floor. I can see it in your eyes. I'll take you like that right now if you give me the word."
Fuck, you want nothing more but you can't breathe enough to get the words out, opting for nodding vigorously instead. But Bucky wants words, gently prodding you forward to get a verbal commitment out of you. He will never take you against your will again. So you manage a long, drawn-out please and suddenly you're face-first in the sheets, bent halfway at the waist, your ass grinding against the delicious bulge pressed against your aching cunt. It pleases you that he has been thinking the same wicked thoughts as you when he slams you to the mat over and over again in training.
Bucky pulls your arm out from underneath you, joining it with the other and holding them together with his metal fist at your lower back, forcing your chest further into the mattress and your ass higher in the air. There's no way for you to move, no matter how hard you try. But you don't try, won't try. Bucky has you right where you want to be.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs in your ear and you breathe an affirmation. His teeth nibble suddenly at your ear lobe and you squirm, the sensation of his breath fanning your skin sending goosebumps along the trail of kisses he leaves down your spine. Somehow, you know this is only the calm before the storm, the gentle caresses of a man who's about to rearrange every organ in your body, all the way up to your heart if you aren't careful.
It doesn't matter to you that it's pitch black in the room; you wouldn't have been able to see anything with your face shoved into the comforter, even if the lights were on. But Bucky's starting to regret having left the lights off, wishing he could better see the curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs, or the bloom of his handprint on your ass when his hand comes down with a smack. He resigns to being satisfied by the mewling gasp that escapes your lips and your soft pleas to Do it again, harder.
So he does. Smack.
And then he's sinking to his knees and you can tell because he leaves a wet stripe of skin with his tongue over the globe of your ass and blows a shock of cool air across the rawness of your skin. He replaces the sting of his hand with the bite of his teeth and then a kiss to soothe you again. The rollercoaster of sensations has you moaning against the mattress and rocking your hips toward his face and Barnes chuckles at your movement, your actions giving away the desperation you feel to have his tongue move to more sensitive places.
He is happy to oblige. You hadn't even noticed you'd been squeezing your thighs together until he slid a hand up between them, forcing them apart. It's a blessing your legs aren't doing any work to keep you up anymore because they feel like jelly under his touch. The hand between your thighs moves higher still until you feel his thumb pressed to your sensitive clit, warm and twitching with anticipation, desire coursing through your veins and dripping from your wet cunt. Your ears barely register that he's speaking, the blood is pumping so hard in your ears, but his words are exalting.
"Look at you, so wet for me." The hand around your wrists tightens just slightly. You are surprised by the extreme control he has over the cool metal fingers, and you almost wish he'd use those on you instead. And then he says, "you like it, don't you, doll, being at my mercy," and you forget all about the arm and decide it doesn't matter what hand presses down with a gentle strength on your clit as long as he doesn't stop. And he doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't flinch or twitch or falter, just holds steady until your gasping mewls die down just enough for you to say, "yes, all for you, all for you, all..."
With those words, his thumb slips, between your slick folds into your pussy, finding the soft spongy flesh and pressing down again and you cry out with a careening moan that tapers off into a silent sob. He's taking his time, picking you apart, pulling at the laces that bind you together, and undoing them to release the tension he knows you harbor. But what about him? Is it not torture for him?
You breathe in a rough gasp, enough to squeak out a few more words. "I thought we were going too slow for you."
He laughs, he actually laughs, at your words, but relents.
"I hear you, doll."
I hear you. Oh wow. His tongue replaces his finger and you lose all coherence, able only to blubber some iteration of his name as the smooth muscle traces circles around your clit, finally allowing your orgasm to build with a steady contraction in your pelvis. Barnes moans between your legs like he's never tasted chocolate or buttercream or any of those other wondrous flavors and there's only you. And that moan sends you overboard, the vibrations diffusing down your legs and you tremble into your first orgasm. Your first orgasm.
He keeps going, riding out the waves of your high until you're crying that it's too much, James, too much and he pulls his tongue away from your oversensitized clit only to move down your legs. He's working you up again, teasing the smooth skin of your inner thigh with gentle nips and kisses until your body is craving release again, your cunt clenching around nothing but the memory of his mouth. He is deliberate in his ministrations, methodical in the way he must be with his missions. The flood of your first orgasm has dripped steadily down your thigh and he cleans you with his tongue, dragging upward along the sticky trail of your musky release until his tongue makes contact again and he pulls an orgasm from your desperate body once more.
He still hasn't released your arms.
"You know how long I've wanted to do this?" he groans, as you shudder again into the pleasure of his touch. He kisses back up the length of your spine while you twitch under him, his free hand dragging shock wave after shock wave from your cunt. It strikes you that this man is truly 106, not 26 like his body suggests, and you absentmindedly wonder if that's why he's so good at it, that he's had years to practice. And then his cock is pressing against your folds and you forget the notion halfway through thinking it. "You're so good to me doll, so good for opening up for me. Wanna feel your tight pussy around me."
You push backward, or do your best to without the employment of your arms, wanting desperately to feel him inside you. He is warm and all-encompassing and part of you thinks his cock spilling his seed inside of you would complete you like nothing else. But you know that's a bad idea and you can hear him already unwrapping a condom (where did he get that from?) and your body trembles with the anticipation. You haven't even seen him yet but you know he must be big, the way he grunts when the tip of his erection teases your entrance.
When he enters you it isn't gentle like the stroke of his tongue. It splits you open with a rough thrust, the laces of your heart fully undone and releasing you from their confinement. You choke on your own air.
And then he's releasing your arms, and before you can react, Barnes has you lifted, your back to his chest, your knees shoved roughly into the mattress so he can stand and fuck you from behind. The metal arm finds your neck and forces your head back, his lips dragging hot against your soft skin and muttering filthy praise into your ear, his hand gently on your throat to hold you there. Your hands fly to his, not to pull him away, but to convince him to squeeze, just a little bit harder. The pressure is grounding, and then the hand around your waist is trailing toward the bud of your clit and rubbing in urgent circles and you let out a silent gasp as he thrusts into you at a pace astounding for the position you're in.
You come hard, over his hand, around his cock, and for the first time Barnes falters, stunned by the intensity with which you clamp around him and if he hadn't made you come two times already he might have held out a bit longer to pull another one of those stunning orgasms from your slick cunt. But you're sagging, using him to hold you up against the exhaustion of repeated abuse so he releases, riding the wave of pleasure you started. Bucky groans out your name, surprising you with the gentleness of it on his tongue despite the rough hand around your neck.
When he releases you softly back onto the bed, you sink heavily into the mattress, feeling high on pleasure and drunk on his hands. He pulls away and shuffles around the room, and if you had had any energy left you might have complained at the loss of him but as it sits nothing will rouse you from the intense desire to simply fall asleep.
He continues to move about and then... the lights go on? You groan at the harsh treatment of your eyes as they adjust. But Barnes returns and pulls you against him and apologizes for the rude awakening.
"Sorry, doll," he mutters. "Wanted to get a better look at you." His fingers glide along your back and his face nuzzles into the top of your head, breathing into your hair as you press your forehead into his chest. Despite being exhausted himself he trails his hands all over your body, exploring the side of you that has been shoved into the sheets for the better part of the evening. You let him, although your nerves feel fried and oversensitive to touch.
"Watch what you do with those hands," you giggle as his fingertips brush over a nipple, "unless you're ready to go again."
"Already looking forward to next time?"
"You wish," you tease, but already you know for certain that there will be a next time.
Do you think you could tag your reader fics with "x reader" or just "reader" since those are the common tags? Or that you could put them under the cut so that people who don't want to interact with reader fics don't have to spend 45 seconds scrolling past them, if you don't want to tag them?
thank you for the feedback and for being nice! i'm still learning y'all give me a second to catch up with the world of tumblr lol (i'm a genz who missed out on a lot)
What starts as just a job as an informant quickly turns into an attraction to Agent Javier Peña.
Essentially what I think it's like to dance with Javi. Plus having sex.
If you want to listen to the song I picture them dancing to it's called Dos Gardenias by Buena Vista Social Club. I know it didn't come out until the 90s but I really don't care.
___
You didn't like this part of the job. Hated it, actually. Your feet hurt in your heels and the humidity was making you sweat. But tips were tips, even if it involved fake flirting with old men.
The music ended and José spun you into a dip as the small crowd clapped. José was an excellent dancer and he made for a good partner when it came time to actually perform for the guests, rather than try to drag them onto the dance floor. Most people assumed you were a couple you danced so in sync, but it wasn't like that.
He was a good friend though. He'd gotten you the job at the bistro, and for the small pain of three choreographed dances a night plus a few private salsas, you were paid handsomely. Of course, this wasn't your dream, performing in a smoky, humid bar for tourists and old handsy men. You would rather be on the stage as a professional, performing only for the people who could afford a ticket, not just a watered-down tequila. But work was work and money was money.
Now your least favorite part. You leaned an elbow on the bar, sweeping the crowd for whatever gringo looked the least gross. The manager insisted you interacted with the customers, reeling them in with a sexy pose and a few awkward steps on the dance floor. They tended to drink more when you did that, which was good for the bar, and you usually ended up with a couple of extra bills in your hand, which was good for you. So you complied.
An older, slightly less creepy-looking gentleman had caught your eye, and you were about to approach when you felt a gentle hand on your elbow.
"Mind teaching me a few of those steps you just did?" The music was starting up again with a bolero, your cue to find the dance floor, so you figured you'd comply with the request. Except when you looked into the face of the stranger who had spoken those words, you were taken aback. He was young, or at least younger than most of the men in here, and taller too. Shining from his tanned face were chocolatey brown eyes, surprisingly sincere and kind. His dark hair was combed into place, though a few stray curls peeked out from behind his ears and at the base of his neck.
"Sí, señor." The Spanish came out as a force of habit, though he had addressed you in English and a perfect American accent. Men liked it when you spoke Spanish, even if they couldn't understand. It gave them the impression that you were exotic. But the man half expected that from you. He'd been watching you most of the night, analyzing the way you moved, the way you beguiled the guests into a dance and then a drink, the way you controlled a man's mood with the flick of your hips and slide of your hand up his arm. The perfect skill set of a secret plant.
Without any hesitation, the man took your hand in his and led you into the crowd of dancing people. He placed his other on your hip, though he left a respectful distance between the two of you. It was uncharacteristic of the guests to do so; they generally felt they had some right to press up against you as they stumbled around.
But this man was different. He already knew the three-quarter timing. He seemed a bit tense, like he was having trouble letting loose, but he wasn't clumsy at all. "I don't think you need my instruction," you said.
The man smiled, his mustache curling up to reveal a single dimple on his smooth cheek.
"No, hermana, I don't."
Maybe there was some Latino in that tan after all. But his reply caught you off guard. You hoped pulling you onto the dance floor wasn't his attempt at flirting. You'd made a pact with yourself to never sleep with the guests, and so far you'd held true.
But he wasn't flirting, though he desperately wanted to. You were exactly the type of girl he'd pick up on a boring night, or pay to have sex with him and share your secrets. But tonight was strictly business.
"Do you work here every night?" he asked. It was a strangely specific question, though maybe he was hoping to see you again, you thought.
"Only Thursday, Friday, Saturday," you replied. The bistro only ever needed you on the busiest nights of the week, which was fine with you. Three days of work made you plenty of money, and then you had the rest of the week off. "Why? Are you already planning a second dance?"
The man ignored his question to ask another of his own. "Do you make a lot of money?"
His questions were starting to sound a bit bizarre and he wasn't answering yours either. Why did he care what you made?
"Unless you're planning on hiring me and paying me more, I don't see why you need to know." It wasn't good to be snappy with paying customers, but this enigma of a man didn't seem like the average customer to you. And instead of getting defensive at your tone, his mood shifted quickly and he laughed. A deep, throaty laugh, just as gravely and melodious as his voice. He liked your confidence and your attitude. But then he was back to business just as quickly.
The man led you towards the back of the dance floor, away from the crowd and the watchful eye of the bartender, a move that made you worry and caused you to doubt his intentions. His eyes had gone serious, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows and crowding out the kindness.
"Actually, I would like to hire you."
You came to a stop in surprise but the man pulled you forward, urging you to continue dancing so as not to draw attention to the pair of you. He drew you closer so he could speak directly into your ear, forcing you to breathe in his scent with the proximity, cologne and cigarettes and the saltiness of a light sweat.
"You have a club or something?"
He didn't answer your question, just asked more of his own. "Do you know runs this place?"
You shrugged. "I think his name is Manuel, but I've only met him once."
"Keep an eye out for him, will you? See when he comes and goes, if he gets any shipments or deliveries. I'll pay you for providing information."
It was your turn to finally get some answers. "Who are you?"
"My name is Javier Peña." Javier spun you out before pulling you back into his chest.
"Well, Señor Peña, I don't know who you think I am, but I am not a spy and I don't give a damn about what my employer does. So why do you care what he does?"
"Let's just say the government has a special interest in your employer. But we'd like to keep this little piece of knowledge under wraps."
You eyed Javier suspiciously. Why would the government be interested in what your boss did with his bistro? And why would this man, Javier Peña, trust you to deliver secrets? But again, money was money. Little did you know, Javier Peña was aware of your lack of loyalty to anyone, as long as they were paying you, and he gambled on this fact to ease you into a deal.
"How much are you offering?"
"I'll double whatever you make now."
Double? Mierda. "Bueno, double it is. Not sure what you expect me to find, but I'll keep my eyes open."
That full smile returned, white teeth and all. "Un secreto, sí?"
You nodded in return as the song came to an end. Letting go of your waist, Javier pulled a pair of aviators from the deep vee of his shirt and slipped them on before handing you a business card from the back pocket of his jeans. He instructed you to call him if you saw anything, anything at all. Javier gave you a salute and turned to leave, though not before asking you one more question.
"And your name?"
Now is when you usually lied, telling whatever slimeball you'd just swayed into oblivion a made-up name, like Rosa or Maria. But something about this time was different. This time, you gave him your real name.
"Adiós, bailarina," he said with a grin.
"Adiós, Señor Peña." It wasn't until you were home that you noticed he'd slipped a small stack of bills into your pocket.
---
Standing in the living room of your apartment, you held the card Javier had given you almost a week ago. You hadn't been exactly sure what he was asking you to look out for. You rarely saw your boss anyway. But then tonight, as you'd arrived at work, a truck had been parked by the employee entrance of the bistro. Manuel was still nowhere to be found, but stacks upon stacks of boxes were being unloaded into the dry storage of the kitchen. And you had taken note of it all.
Finally, you picked up the phone off its cradle and dialed the number on the card, wrapping the thick cord around your fingers as it rang. A moment of silence, and then a deep voice spoke on the other end of the line.
"Javier Peña speaking." It sounded like he had just woken up, his voice softer than you remembered and groggy as well. It was a bit late, after midnight, but you figured this was something he wanted to hear sooner rather than later.
"Hola, Senior Peña, it's me from the bistro." Another silence, some shuffling, and was that a voice in the background? "Did I wake you?"
"No, not at all. What's up?"
"You wanted to know if Manuel had a shipment, right?"
"Yes, yes, what did you see?"
"Hm, I could tell you. Or I could get my mi dinero first."
Javier sighed on the other end. "Right, of course. How much do I owe you?"
"Let's see, including tips, I made 300 this week."
"Fine, 300 pesos it is. Where can I meet you?"
"You want to meet right now?"
Apparently, he did. You gave him the address to a twenty-four-hour diner you liked and he hung up, saying he'd meet you there. You gathered your purse, double-checking that the small handgun you carried for self-defense was still there. Not that you were worried the mysterious Javier Peña was someone to be scared of. But better safe than sorry.
Ten minutes later, you stepped out into the heat of the summer air. The darkness of night did little to reduce the temperature, but the humidity had dissipated enough that you rolled the windows of the car down and blasted your music into the silent night.
Though you were sure you looked a bit frazzled and worn out when you parked, Javier only noticed the flush on your cheeks and the curl of your windswept hair as he watched you step out of the car through the window of the diner. You hadn't bothered to change out of your dress and heels from work, which left little to the imagination in the way of your long legs and curved waist. When he'd first approached you last week, he'd been polite and reserved, only letting his hands fall where they were meant to in a dance. But tonight, the ruching of your dress at your hips called out to be touched. Javier knew it was all part of your job, but part of him wished you'd dressed up like that just for him. He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.
A little bell jingled over the door as you drifted into the warm restaurant.
Javier steadied his hands and composed his face, not wanting to reveal the true thoughts running through his mind as you plopped into the booth seat across from him. He looked ready to get down to business, but you were hungry and held up a hand to silence him before he could begin to speak. The waitress came and took your order, a burger and fries, before turning to Javier. He relented to whatever game you were playing and ordered as well in perfect Spanish.
"Where are you from?" you asked as the waitress left to place your orders.
"This little meeting isn't about me," Javier replied, sounding a bit preoccupied, distracted even. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the smooth skin of his neck and chest, as if he'd dressed in a hurry.
"Eh, that's not very polite. Did I interrupt a little midnight date with your amorcita?" You were pretty sure that had been a woman's voice in the background when you called him earlier. His response, or lack thereof, told you everything you needed to know. Emboldened by his reaction, you continued on with your one-sided conversation.
"I love American food. Are burgers better in Texas? That is where you're from, no?"
The look of shock that flitted across Javier's face was enough to satisfy you and you leaned back in your seat with a smile. You tried your best not to show how pleased you were with his reaction, but your comment got you thinking about what he was like in bed. That was not a direction you needed your mind to wander, especially when it caused butterflies to flutter in your stomach.
"Okay, detective, I think that's enough. You want your money or not?" Though he acted annoyed, Javier was secretly impressed. What had given it away? His accent maybe?
"Sí, sí. Although I am a bit interested to know where my money is coming from."
"I told you. The government."
"You haven't really proven that to me though. Besides, what if you're trying to put my boss out of business? Then I'm out of a job. A good-paying job."
"I am trying to put your boss out of business." The withering look you gave Javier didn't put him off, though you wished it did. If looks could kill and all that. But it did provoke him to pull something from his back pocket and hold it up to your face. "DEA. You know what that is right?"
"Mierda, was it drugs in those boxes?" You couldn't help the shock that spread across your face.
"Maybe."
You pulled a notepad from your purse as the waitress returned with your food. In between bites, you read off of the notes you'd taken.
"I got to work at 4:30. The truck was already there. Manuel was not. Some men unloaded the boxes into the kitchen."
"How many."
"I don't know."
Javier raised his eyebrows. If he'd learned anything from this conversation it was that you were an observant person. He doubted that you hadn't bothered to count them. He had only to wait for you to continue on your own.
"Bueno, forty or so. This big," you indicated with your hands, about the size of the box the tomatoes came in.
"And it wasn't just food in there? You're sure it was something different than normal?"
"Come on, don't you trust me?"
"No," was his swift reply, though it was said with a smile.
"Alright, then. I looked in one. Not food, for sure."
Javier nodded in understanding and pulled a billfold from his back pocket, ready to hand over your cash.
"Espere, Señor, you think that's all I've got?" you said teasingly as you finished your fries and sucked the grease from your fingertips. "You really have no faith, dios mío."
Javier watched you intently, scrutinizing the way your tongue licked away the grease from your thumb. He took a deep breath that sounded like exasperation to you but was really meant to release an uncomfortable knot building in his stomach as he tried not to imagine what else your tongue could do.
"At 5:30, a woman named Victoria called looking for Manuel. No one answered the phone so I did. She left this message." You read directly from the notepad. "I like chocolate ice cream better than vanilla. Maybe you can take me to la heladería tomorrow."
"You're joking."
"Not at all. She said that," you said defensively. "Even gave me an address."
You ripped the paper from your notebook at handed it to Javier as he rubbed a hand along his strong jaw.
"So what are you going to do? Maybe a stakeout, arrest some people, wave your armas around?"
Javier rolled his eyes. "The DEA isn't all about stakeouts and guns. But no, we aren't going to do anything yet. There's no need to reveal our plant. And we don't want you to end up dead so don't get caught either."
"How reassuring. I'm glad the United States has me in their best interests," you deadpanned.
"Just keep doing what you're doing."
"Oh, so you want to see me again? Next time you can buy me a drink."
"Don't flatter yourself."
You laughed in response. Sure, this was all about money, but it was nice to have a real conversation with someone who was witty enough to keep up with your banter. But he was still too easy to tease and you took advantage of it. You liked the way his eyes narrowed and his brows creased when you got under his skin.
"You know, I'll just take it as a compliment that you're only paying me for information and not sex as well," you said as you stood, placing a couple of bills onto the table as a tip.
Javier groaned in frustration. Talking to you was like walking through a hailstorm of bullets. He was bound to get grazed no matter how careful he was. "Eh, mujer, give me a break, por favor."
And yet, despite his protests, Javier liked your sharp tongue. It intrigued him. Normally, he didn't care much about who his informants were or where they were from. But Javier was curious about you. You were smart, skilled, and good at influencing people to comply with your desires. And yet you spent your weekends on a sticky dance floor, performing for gringos like him.
The glittering smile you gave him as you left him sitting in the booth lit a small flame in his heart.
"Buenas noches, Señor Peña," you said to him as you left, almost out the door before he called your name. You turned back. "Qué pasa?"
"Javi. Just call me Javi."
---
Several weeks went by like this, with you calling Javier late at night to let him know what you'd seen. The check-ins came every Saturday, as the shipments had been consistent and seemed to run on a schedule. Eventually, you got comfortable enough to let Javier come to your apartment and exchange information for cash on your couch. You had no idea, but Javier was beginning to expect your calls, anticipating the ringing of his phone around midnight and hearing your voice on the other end.
But when you didn't check in one week, he began to worry. It was past one in the morning. Surely you would have called by now. Maybe he had missed it? There was no way; he'd sat next to the phone all night. So Javier did something he never did. He called you instead. When you didn't answer, he started to suspect something was wrong. Javier told himself to calm down, that you had probably just forgotten, or that maybe nothing of note had happened this week, or you were already asleep. But he couldn't get it out of his mind that something had gone wrong, that you'd been found out and someone had hurt you.
It was nearly two when you finally got home. For some reason, the Saturday crowd had been extra lively tonight, keeping you much later than you wanted. As soon as you unlocked the door and stepped into your apartment, you pulled off your heels and unzipped your dress, peeling it from your sticky body right there in the living room. You needed a shower and you needed to call Javier, but all you wanted was sleep. It could wait until morning.
At last, you were ready for bed, windows pushed open to let in a breeze, sheets turned down, and in nothing but your dressing gown, when a knock sounded at your door. Who would be up at this time of night and disturbing your peace?
Looking through the peephole, you were shocked to find the last person on earth you expected to be standing in the hallway of your apartment building.
"Javi?" you said in confusion as you opened the door. He was leaning against the door frame, one hand on his hip, as if trying to look relaxed but totally failing at it. On Javier's face were written lines of worry, but they relaxed at the sight of you. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Oh, good, you're home. I was worried."
Maybe it was the exhaustion fogging your brain, but he sounded genuinely distressed. The normally confident, almost arrogant Javier had been replaced with someone entirely different. "Sí, of course I'm home, where else would I be?"
"Well, you didn't call. And then you didn't answer your phone. So I was worried something had happened." Javier had managed to miss the state of your dress, or lack thereof, when you had first opened the door. But now, he noticed you wore a cream-colored dressing gown and little else. One sleeve had slipped off your shoulder in your hurry to dress, revealing the lack of anything beneath.
Javier's breath hitched in his throat as he desperately tried to tear his eyes away from your shoulder. It was a just shoulder, for god's sake. It's not like you were standing naked in front of him. But then he was thinking about you naked and that was an even bigger problem.
For a whole month, Javier had gone without a woman in his bed and it wasn't until he saw you that he realized why. He wanted you, but in a way that was different from the way he wanted anyone else. He didn't want you for information or even a quick release, but something more intimate and intense. What was wrong with him? He had to leave before he said something he might regret. You were an informant, a contact, a player in this long game of chess, and nothing more.
"I'm gonna go," Javier said, finally looking away. He was acting strange, even your tired eyes could tell. He looked disheveled, the buttons of his salmon pink shirt left open at the top and half-tucked into his jeans. His hair was no longer combed flat, the way it usually was when you saw him. Instead, it stuck up in all manner of directions, curly and unruly. Javier rubbed the back of his head as he turned to go. You weren't sure what exactly compelled you, but you called out to him before he could leave.
"Do you want a drink?" So much for sleep.
Javier had been in your apartment plenty of times. So why did he suddenly not know what to do with himself? He stood stiffly in the living room, eyeing the discarded dress you hadn't picked up yet. When you handed him a glass of whiskey he barely noticed. His mind was clearly not in the apartment, though his body was. Finally, he sat on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees, the glass balanced precariously in one hand.
Javier's thoughts drifted from one place to another, relief that you were fine, embarrassment for having thought that you weren't, bliss at your invitation inside, and then shame for having accepted.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.
"Only if you share," you replied, sitting next to him on the couch with your own drink. The pair of you sat like that for a while, in complete silence, passing a single cigarette back and forth. Javier had no way of knowing but your thoughts followed a similar path to his, a rollercoaster masked by a sense of calm.
Your fingertips lightly grazed his as Javier passed you the cigarette. He watched you take a long draw, pulling the smoke deep into your lungs and letting it numb the strange feeling inside you. You were hyper-aware of Javier's presence beside you, his shoulder and knee barely grazing yours, even though you stared straight ahead at the clock on the wall. Three in the morning, it read. Perhaps it was something about the early morning hours, or the dim light of your living room, the only source from the kitchen, but the next words out of your mouth were the most sincere you'd ever spoken to him.
"Are you alright, Javi?"
"Sí."
"You don't seem alright." His voice was too calm. "Is it work?"
"No."
"Friends? Family?"
"No."
You paused, pretending to contemplate for a moment.
"Ah, I know. No pretty girls to warm your bed?" You couldn't help it, falling back into teasing him like that. But he didn't want to talk and it was the only way to draw him out.
"It's disturbing how observant you are," Javier said. It wasn't a true answer, but it was answer enough. He sighed and put the cigarette out before placing his head in his hands. "We aren't friends, you know."
It was a strange comment, almost like he was trying to convince himself of the fact, not you.
"Wow. I should be offended. But for your sake, I'll pretend like I'm not."
"That's not what I mean," Javier tried to explain. "I mean-- I mean I shouldn't be doing this." He waved his hand around as if it indicated anything about what 'this' was. But you understood. He shouldn't be accepting drinks after midnight and sharing cigarettes in dimly lit apartments. It was unprofessional. Then again, everything about your relationship was unprofessional, even the work only parts.
It had taken you a while to admit to yourself that you were attracted to Javier. But when you actually started to look forward to Saturday night, to your conversations, even though they revolved around your work, that's when you knew. It was something in the way he looked when he was listening to you, his eyes holding contact with yours, eyebrows furrowed, hand on his chin, that made you think maybe he felt the same way. His hands, what was it about them? They were big and strong and you hadn't yet forgotten the way they had held onto your waist as you danced the night you met.
Dance. You knew how to communicate with that. It was second nature. Perhaps it would let you both open up. So you stood and moved to the record player. The space wasn't big enough to truly dance, but you kept plenty of records on hand to practice new choreography alone. You pulled out your favorite, a gift from José, and carefully placed down the needle.
"The bolero is danced in 3/4 time," you said, holding out your hand to Javier. "But I think you knew that already."
Javier seemed to understand and only hesitated a moment. The music swelled and he took your hand in one of his, the other finding its place on your back between your shoulder blades. There wasn't much space to move, but he led you through the steps anyway. Rock forward, step right, rock back, step left. Repeat. Tonight, Javier held you close, your hips and chests pressed against one another in a way that was much different from the first time you'd danced. He was more relaxed as well, allowing his hips to move in time with yours. Javier leaned his cheek against yours.
When you'd invited him in for a drink, Javier hadn't been sure what your intentions were. He still wasn't, though something in the way you let his fingertips glide up and down your spine as you danced gave him an idea.
And yet, he couldn't read you at all, though it seemed he could have no secrets around you. You had picked up instantly on his strange mood and though he hated to admit it, he liked the way you were persistent in trying to draw him out from his shell. He found you alluring. You were beautiful, yes, and he imagined as he fell asleep at night what you might look like under your tight dresses and this deliciously thin robe. But he also liked you, liked talking to you, liked being around you, liked your incesant teasing.
The song ended and the next one started up again, but neither of you moved away. Somehow so starved for physical contact, you were drunk on one another's touch, swaying gently in the dark. "We shouldn't--" Javier tried to speak but you interrupted him.
"Stop with the should or should not, Javi. It's too late for that."
"Why did you invite me in?" Javier figured it was worth asking, just to be sure.
"Why did you show up at my apartment, uninvited, in the middle of the night?"
"Fuck," Javier cursed under his breath. "I'm tired of this. Your half-answers, my unanswered questions, dancing, literally dancing, around whatever truth there is between us. I just want to know what you're thinking and it's impossible to tell."
You were taken aback. You had been so preoccupied deciphering Javier for yourself you'd forgotten he was probably trying to do the same with you. The look in his eyes was desperate, needy, and untamed.
The sensible thing to do would be to kick him out, to end it here because this wasn't right. It wasn't professional. And it was breaking your biggest rule: never sleep with the customer. But you were anything but sensible with a drink swirling around your veins.
You pushed Javier away gently, and he looked slightly crestfallen before he saw what you did next. The drink may have given you a boost of confidence, but this desire was all your own. With a gentle tug at the tie of your robe, you let it fall from your shoulders, the silk pooling at your feet as you stood bare before him. Javier was frozen in place, but then his eyes widened in surprise before raking up and down your body unabashedly.
"Well, I guess that's some type of answer," he whispered. The clock ticked on the wall, counting down the moments.
"Your move, Javi." Your words stoked the flame in his heart that you'd lit so many weeks ago. But his brain struggled to keep up, still in shock at the sudden sight of you naked for him and him alone. He wanted to take in every inch of you and ravish you all at the same time.
Javier reached out a hand, hesitating slightly as if unsure if you were real or just a golden vision before him. In the dim light from the kitchen, you seemed to glow, wild hair swept behind your shoulders, chest rising and falling with anticipation. Finally, Javier's fingers made contact with your skin, the back of his knuckles gently grazing the plane of your stomach. You trembled when he finally offered you his touch, goosebumps following the path of his hand as he moved up your body toward the curve of your breast. His thumb brushed across your nipple, causing you to gasp and nearly jump out of your skin. But his hand didn't linger, instead tracing the lines of your sternum to your collarbone and up your neck.
Javier's hand found its place on your cheek, his thumb sweeping across the ridge of your cheekbone. You closed your eyes softly, relishing in the sensation of his skin on yours. His hand was calloused but surprisingly smooth, as if worn by years of the same work. You turned your face toward his hand, pressing your lips to his palm.
You kept your eyes closed, expecting him to kiss you, your lips burning with apprehension. But the kiss didn't come, only the soft sounds of him moving and his hand leaving your face. You opened your eyes, worried he'd changed his mind and was leaving you there vulnerable to the world.
Instead, you found him kneeled before you, like a subject before his queen.
A shiver had run down Javier's spine when you'd kissed his palm as he pictured placing his own lips to yours. But something about the way you looked in that moment, ethereal, celestial, divine, forced him to his knees in worship. He wanted to taste every inch of you, learn every curve and crevasse of your body. You were just as beautiful--no, even more beautiful--than he'd imagined alone in his bed at night. And here you were, offering up that smooth skin, those thighs, those lips. And he would fucking worship you.
One hand found your waist, gripping gently but firmly to hold you in place. The other pulled a knee over his shoulder, causing you to stumble forward and forcing you to grab onto Javier for stability. But his hands held you firmly as his fingers sunk into the flesh of your ass, pulling you closer to his face, mouth sinking into you fluttering lips.
You gasped, fingers tangling into Javier's unruly hair and holding on tight, the sensation of his tongue against your clit making your legs go weak. A groan came from between your thighs, sending vibrations through your core and twisting your stomach into knots.
"Fuck, just like I imagined," Javier mumbled under his breath.
Like he'd imagined?
"You've pictured this?" you managed to ask between breaths. You could barely speak, the moans tumbling from your mouth leaving little oxygen in your lungs for anything else.
"Amor, you send me to sleep at night and wake me up in the morning."
Oh mierda, his tongue was continuing to swirl around your clit, leaving you unable to control your thoughts or your movements. Your hips shifted of their own accord, grinding against Javier's face as he ate you out. At some point, he would need to come up for air, but for now, he was perfectly content to suffocate between your captivating legs, drinking in your scent and swallowing the taste of you.
Javier was guiding you languidly toward your climax, savoring every shudder and twitch he pulled from you. The muscles of your pelvic floor seized and you let out a delirious moan. The tension that preceded your orgasm curled up through your stomach and into your lungs, drawing the strength from your limbs. Suddenly unable to hold up your upper half, let alone stabilize your legs, you slumped forward, chin hanging heavily against your chest, hands sliding down Javier's back and gripping the fabric of his shirt.
"Javi, please, I can't hold on." You needed to sit, lay down, anything, before you collapsed in ecstasy here in the living room. At your words, Javier picked up the pace, taking you from a gradual climb to a swift ascent. His acceleration told you everything you needed to know. Come for him, and he'd take you to the bedroom.
So you did, your orgasm shuddering through you at a staggering pace. It rushed through you, searing and urgent, and something told you this was only the beginning. A warm-up of sorts, leaving you unable to stand yet shivering for more. The last waves of your orgasm spread through you, Javier drinking them from you until your trembling subsided and your breathing came back to normal. He caught you as you eased back into your body, picking you up by the waist and slinging you over his shoulder. You giggled at the sudden change of perspective, now hanging upside down with an excellent view of Javier's ass.
"What are you doing?"
Javier didn't answer.
With a flop, you landed on the bed on your back. Javier stood over you, taking in the sight of you. Little did he know, you were doing the same, even though he was still fully clothed. You sat up on the edge of the bed and tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his tight jeans. Javier undid the buttons, letting out a soft groan as you took advantage of his proximity to palm the bulge in his pants. You wanted a taste.
His shirt now discarded, you worked at the button of Javier's jeans, placing a soft kiss on his stomach as you tugged them down. No underwear, why weren't you surprised? Javier's fingers curled into your hair, taking hold with a gentle yet solid grip as you freed his cock from confinement, precum leaking from the swollen head.
You looked up through your eyelashes, wanting to watch Javier's face as you swiped your tongue across the tip of his length, savoring the taste and earning a strangled moan from Javier's mouth. His eyes sunk shut and the image of you in the diner, licking the grease from your fingers danced behind his eyelids. He realized he was about to have that fantasy fulfilled, about to know exactly what your tongue could do.
The expression on Javier's face and his tightening hands in your hair made your stomach flutter. The absolute control you held over this man was ten times more satisfying than manipulating those men in the bistro because you were enjoying this too. Lightly, you dragged your tongue up his quivering cock, causing Javier to buck his hips and let out a hiss of dissatisfaction.
"Mierda, princesa, you gonna take me or just make me beg for it all night."
"You know I like to tease you, Javi." But the time for teasing was over. With one hand wrapped around him, you took him into your mouth, lowering your head as far as your gag reflex would let you. You began to move slowly, Javier's hands still in your hair and guiding your movements. Your other hand reached up and fondled his balls, pinching and massaging the tender skin. The sensation sent Javier hurtling toward the edge and he began to thrust into your mouth, matching your pace. It was good, too good. He was going to cum soon if you kept going.
Suddenly, Javier pulled away with a grunt, panting your name.
"Fuck, princesa, you're gonna finish me off fast like that." His voice was ragged with hunger. He wanted to taste you again, feel himself inside you as you came. "I'm not done with you yet."
Javier untangled his hands from your hair and placed them tenderly on your shoulders before pushing you back onto the bed again. He grabbed your ankles and hooked them over his shoulders, giving him full access to your cunt which was aching in anticipation of his cock, the size of which you had just fucked with your mouth.
You could feel the heat of him, so close, but Javier took his time, kissing his way down your thighs, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin until your legs shook. And still, he didn't slip inside you, instead caressing the tenderness of your stomach with his mouth. He'd kissed all the way up your body, from the jut of your hip bones to the freckle below your bellybutton to the supple fullness of your breasts. Javier's attentions left you squirming under his touch, but he wasn't done. He wanted to taste every inch of your exposed skin, both salty and sweet under his tongue.
Suddenly, Javier's touch left your body and he flipped you over. You squealed at the abrupt movement, your face in the pillows and hands gripping the sheets. Behind you came the sound of a condom opening. And then you could feel Javier hovering above you, his cock teasing your entrance, one hand on your hip and the other in your hair. And then his voice spoke next to your ear.
"Are you ready, princesa?" Javier asked, his voice heady and ragged.
"Fuck me, Javi." That was all the invitation he needed. Without a moment's hesitation, Javier lined himself up with your entrance and slammed into you. Your gasp of surprise, and all the screams that followed, dissipated into the pillows, muting the sounds that you knew would have been heard by the neighbors otherwise.
Javier crashed into you again, stretching and filling you more with each thrust. He started slow, savoring the feeling of your walls clenching around him. The hand in your hair pulled your head back, releasing the sounds trapped in the pillow to mingle with Javier's moans. The hand at your waist wrapped around to find your clit, his calloused fingers teasing the delicate bud, and Javier leaned over to run his tongue up your spine, chasing the shivers he was causing.
The combination of sensations, his tongue on your skin, fingers on your clit, cock buried deep in your pussy, built you again toward orgasm. You rose up onto all fours, trying to find that angle you knew would hit your g-spot, and Javier seemed to understand. He began to thrust harder and faster, rushing toward the edge he had narrowly avoiding sailing over when his dick had been in your mouth. But this was better, so much better. Javier's untangled his hand from your hair and wrapped his arm around your chest, lifting you so you were on your knees and pressed flush against his back.
This was it, the perfect angle. A tumble of incoherent Spanish curses flew from your mouth as Javier reached up to squeeze your tit in his large hand.
"Fuck, Javi, right there," you mumbled in between breaths. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
"Cum for me, princesa," Javier growled into your ear. "I won't cum until you do."
Javier's tongue flicked along your neck and up toward your ear, where he nibbled lightly. He thrust, deep and strong, into your trembling pussy and you came, in a searing white light of ecstasy. You choked out your sounds of pleasure, unable to breathe properly. As your walls clenched around his cock, your orgasm rushing in waves against him, Javier could hold it no longer. With a groan, he fell apart, grunting your name over and over as his twitching member spasmed inside you.
The two of you held still for a moment, unwilling and unable to move. Finally, Javier slipped out of you, leaving you feeling cold and empty. It didn't last long, however. Javier laid on the bed and pulled you down with him, holding you close to his chest. You curled against him, relishing in the warmth of his skin against the cool breeze drifting in through the open window.
"I have to admit, this isn't how I thought my night would end," Javier said. You giggled, still high on the euphoria of your second orgasm. The dopamine that clouded your brain began to clear and you looked into Javier's face, the tension and worry absent and replaced with a languid look of satisfaction and pleasure.
And then you realized something that made you sit straight up in bed. "You bastard," you said accusingly, pointing a finger at Javier's chest. He dragged a hand across his face.
"Oh mierda, what did I do now?"
"You never even kissed me."
It was true. He hadn't. He'd been so preoccupied with tasting the rest of you he'd failed to do the one thing he actually desired most.
"Alright, that's a valid accusation," Javier said, dragging you back down and rolling on top of you, pinning you to the bed. "I am a bastard, a lucky one."
Finally, with one hand on your face and the other lacing his fingers in yours, Javier kissed you. A real, proper kiss, teeth scraping your bottom lip and tongue gliding along yours. He kissed you until he could hold his breath no longer and then came back for more, tasting of your orgasm and the shared cigarette. At last, he pulled away and buried his face in your neck.
You pulled the covers up and over the two of you. And then you wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him to your chest as tightly as you could.
"Have any plans for tomorrow?" you asked.
Javier grinned into your shoulder. "Ready for round two already?"
Din pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, believing you to be asleep, but needing to say these next words anyway.
"I know I won't always be around. I can't always stay. But I'll always come back. I promise."
But you weren't asleep and you heard every word, though you didn't acknowledge what he'd said. Don't make any promises you can't keep, you thought.
In the morning he was gone, likely off to train with Zena. You'd woken long enough to catch him slipping away at dawn, watching in the twilight as he dressed. Din held your hand a moment before he left, kissing your knuckles gently and then tucking you back into the sheets.
You weren't sure why, but after last night, something in you had changed. Din was right, you didn't want to be alone anymore, but that realization didn't relieve you. It only made things harder. He would have to leave eventually, one way or another, and he was under no obligation to return. Falling even more for him than you already had was foolish.
And yet, what you truly wanted was to reach out and grab hold of him, let your sensibilities and affections wrap around him like vines, entangle yourself with him and grow roots at his feet. It didn't matter to you where those roots grew as long as they grew alongside his.
These were your thoughts as you slipped back into a restless sleep, too chilly without his warm body next to yours to be content. When you awoke again, several hours later, instead of feeling comforted by the clarity of your feelings, you felt guilty. Nhora was your home, these were your roots; this is where you grew and prospered and this is where you'd always stay. How could you even think about abandoning it all, especially for a man you hardly knew? Yet somehow, Din's arms were as familiar as your own, like you were meant to fall asleep in them every night, and the thought that you wouldn't scared you.
You resolved it was best to not get too close, to hold him at arm's length as long as you could. His company was enjoyable and nothing more than that. You couldn't let it be any more than that.
You were ashamed by how painful that thought was to you.
Instead of dwelling, you sat up in bed to shake yourself from your reverie and realized you needed a shower, though not to wash yesterday away. There was something exhilarating about still wearing Din's smell, musky and evocative. But your skin was a little sticky everywhere, your arms, your legs, your chest, and somehow between your thighs--
And then you remembered asking--no, demanding--he come inside you. A thrill went up your spine at the reminder of how good it had felt to have him under your spell and listening to your desires. He hadn't wavered or questioned, just found release beneath you. The memory of his searing lips and calloused hands making trails across your skin made heat rise on your face and your thighs clench together beneath the sheets. Thank the Maker for injections because you were ready to do it all over again.
A knock at your door brought you back to the present, too polite to be Zena but too assertive to be Din, and then the voice of your maid asking if you were awake. You had nearly forgotten about today, the fertility festival, the religious functions, the diplomatic dinner. You flopped back onto the pillows again with a groan.
"Yes, I'm awake," you called out half-heartedly, and your maid took that as a sign to enter. You'd completely forgotten about your state of dress, or more accurately the lack thereof. The poor girl froze in shock at you nude in bed, your nightclothes still strewn about the room from last night's escapades.
"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty," she said, covering her eyes with one hand. "I've brought your tea. Would you like me to help you dress?"
"A shower first, Madi. Then yes, I'll need something appropriate for today."
---
Din had a hard time getting up that morning. What he really wanted was to be the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes, to kiss you good morning and taste what lingered from last night on your tongue. But he knew Zena would be suspicious if he bailed, and that was the last thing he wanted, someone knowing about what had happened.
Not that he was ashamed. But it didn't seem like his secret to tell.
He did his best to remain focused on the task at hand, sparring Zena and the others she practiced with. Din wasn't sure who they were, he only knew he was getting his ass handed to him because he couldn't pull his thoughts away from you. Twice now you were a distraction and a liability that had him losing a fight he should have easily won. And he didn't care.
What he needed to do was rely on his instincts and his senses the way he normally did. But every time he tried, you overcame them, your voice in his ear, your touch on his arm, your image flickering in his periphery.
At last, battered and bruised, he gave up trying to ignore you and let you in instead, let you occupy space in his head alongside his instincts. And somehow, it worked. Din doubled down hard, finally taking down the three warriors attacking him without his trusty blaster or vambraces and with his hands alone.
There was something to be said about leaning into his weaknesses.
---
You stepped out of the shower, warm and clean, to find your maid again frozen in shock, this time in the middle of your room, staring at the door frame. Or rather, what occupied the door frame, leaning against it with one shoulder, arms crossed. The Mandalorian was patiently waiting for you to finish your shower but to the poor maid, he looked severely threatening in his armor and helmet. To you, however, his presence did not ignite dread but desire. One glance at him at your door and your resolve to hold him at a distance had completely dissolved. Way to go, you thought.
But it was easy to soften under Din's gaze. Beneath his stoic demeanor you knew was hidden something softer and in desperate need of caring and guidance. The thought of such a powerful man leaning into you, following you, relenting to your hand, was a little too exciting to be decent.
The maid yelped when you said her name, breaking her fear-stricken stare. "It's alright, Madi. You can leave. I'll get dressed on my own."
The girl did not hesitate to sprint out the door and disappear down the hallway, but Din hardly noticed her. He was accustomed to people fearing him. What he did notice, and felt no shame in eyeing up, were your glistening shoulders, still wet from the shower, and the just-too-small towel wrapped around you. He basked in the warmth you lit inside him, the invasive thoughts that had plagued him all morning materializing before him in the image of you.
"Are you going to come in or just stand there and ogle me like some kind of pervert?"
"You have no idea what my eyes are doing under the helmet," Din said, his voice even and modulated. "I could be...admiring your face."
Despite the obvious lie, Din did step into the room and close the door behind him, locking it as well, just in case the maid decided to return. Din hadn't expected to find her in your room when he returned from training. He'd hoped you would still be in bed and he could join you. But this was in some ways even better, he thought.
Though you'd turned away from Din to rummage through your underwear drawer, you watched him through the mirror above your dresser as he stepped closer, removing his gloves as he did so. You pretended not to notice his advancement, pretended not to notice as he dropped them, landing with a smack on the floor, sending your heart into freefall. There wasn't anything inherently sexual about the move, but your mind flew there anyway, to those big hands roving all over your body.
You turned your attention back to the task at hand, knowing without seeing that Din had taken another step to stand right behind you. When you glanced up again, underwear in hand, his presence sent a jolt of electricity across your skin. Through the mirror, you could see just how much he towered over you, intimidating and immovable, and how small you felt beneath him. Anyone else would have immediately cowered in fear, but you were drawn to that power, like a magnet to his beskar armor.
Din pulled off his helmet with a hydraulic hiss, placing on the dresser beside you with a thunk, and then his hand found the back of your neck to move your wet hair to the side. You knew by now what he was doing, that his intentions were to inflame you the way you did to him. He had you trapped between his armored body and the dresser, a hand leaning on either side to cage you in. Your eyes tried to flutter closed in anticipation of his touch but you forced them open again, wanting to watch in the mirror as Din lowered his lips to your shoulder and kissed all the way up your neck, only stopping when he reached the tender point behind your ear.
Goosebumps rose in the wake of his lips, which were so incredibly warm against the coolness of your wet skin. His comforting presence was back, along with his musky sweet smell, and you were relieved to be enveloped in it after washing it away in the shower.
"I can't stop thinking about you, Angel," he whispered, the tickle of his unshaven face against your ear sending warmth rushing through your tummy. "It's not even nine in the morning and you've already occupied every one of my waking thoughts."
"Oh Maker, if you keep that up I will fuck you again," you gasped. Where did that come from? The words slipped out of your mouth before you even had the chance to think about them. Fuck, just his voice had you clenching your thighs to suppress the heat building between them.
"I'm not opposed." Din's voice was a low growl, a baritone you hadn't heard from him yet.
You turned around to face him so you could place the hand not holding up your towel in between his chest and yours. Big mistake. The panties you'd pulled from the drawer were still in that hand, now pressed against his chest plate. He fingered the fabric with a smirk.
"These are nice," he said, the smirk evident in his tone. He had the upper hand in this battle of words, a blush creeping up your cheeks and revealing exactly how he was making you feel.
"Picture me wearing them if you like them so much."
You withdrew your hand and hid it behind you, snatching the lacy fabric from his fingers and trying to regain some control over the situation. You hoped the action would stall his advances long enough for you to steady your breathing.
But it only gave him better access to kiss your lips. The hesitation you'd felt from him last night was gone, his timidness replaced with confidence. Din savored each kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth, taking the time to memorize it inside and out. And despite your better judgment, you allowed him to keep going. The position did little to stop his obstinate hands from slipping under your towel and caressing the supple curves of your ass, his big palms gripping handfuls of flesh and dragging your hips to his. You pondered momentarily the consequences of him leaving his mark on your ass cheeks, then decided you liked it.
You shivered, almost relenting and taking him right then and there, but decided on a different tactic, one a bit less gratifying in the short term, but in the long run, would have him on his knees for you. And that was far more satisfying than fucking him as soon as it took to get his armor off. Din was welcome to get you all flustered, but two could play this game. So you let him press you against the dresser and grind his hips against yours, his hunger written in the bulge in his pants. If he was offering, you would take it, and you gladly palmed him through the rough fabric of his pants.
"You're a fucking tease," he breathed against your mouth. Din had thought he held control over his arousal but your simple existence was enough to get him riled up.
"You like it, don't you, baby?"
With your words, the dynamic flipped, and Din was melting at the sound of his pet name.
"Yes, Angel, keep going."
He was doing an impressive job at staying composed despite your tormenting, despite the fingers unbuttoning his pants and pulling down the zipper. Your hand slipped around his semi-hard length, still trapped by his underwear, and gave it a gentle stroke. Finally, his resolve seemed to break a bit and he breathed a ragged moan, repeating his pleas for you to continue.
"I could keep going. But I have things to do today." You pulled your hand away, leaving Din hard and unsatisfied by your touch. He groaned pitifully in protest and you almost continued. Almost. "We have things to do today, obligations to which I expect you to attend. And I'm clean and you're not and you're making me all dirty again with your post-workout sweatiness."
"Fuck, Angel, why?" Kiss. "Why do I have to go?"
"Because this--" Kiss. "--is what leaders do. They make appearances--" Kiss. "--even when they don't want to. So get in the shower. You can use mine."
"Is that an order, Your Majesty?" Din had a sly smile on his face that made you think he was enjoying this a bit too much, in spite of your taunting and his unfinished problem.
"Yes, Mando, that is an order." You pressed your fingers to his lips, telling him silently to comply, and let your face drop to its most serious, donning the expression you used to direct your advisors and command your guards. "Get in the shower."
He faltered for a moment at your tone and then broke out into a grin. "Your wish is my command."
With an airy kiss to your fingers which had moments ago been used to shut him up, he gave your ass a final squeeze and pulled away to walk into the bathroom.
"Oh, and Din," you called out as he reached the doorway. He turned back just as you released your towel, allowing it to drop to the ground, and finally giving him the view he'd been quietly begging for. "You can think about me all you like. But don't touch yourself. Your cock is all mine."
---
Torture. You were absolute torture. Din would have been fine if you hadn't said those words. But ordering him to not touch himself while you asked him to think about you anyways was too much. And yet, he did what you asked, withholding his touch, even though his blood pumped coarsely through his veins into his swollen member. He breathed deeply the steam of the hot shower, filling his lungs with the scent of your soap, the reminder of you a cloud that fogged his brain, ever-present.
Of course, you were no longer in your bedroom when Din finished his shower, having left him to wonder how long you planned to invade his thoughts and compel him to hold back. And though it was torture, he loved it.
Din was used to being in control. How many had he fought, hunted, killed to maintain it? When he entered a fight, Din could almost guarantee he'd be the one to make it out alive. The moment he stepped into a room, the air would change and shift in deference of him. And yet, here he was, relinquishing to you the control he worked so hard to sustain. The feeling was wonderfully exhilarating, intoxicating even.
He wasn't sure how he was going to make it through this day.
---
"It's going to rain," you said to no one in particular.
You were standing at the entrance to the palace, Zena and a few guards gathered around you in preparation of making the short trip to the temple. Outside, the surrounding grounds and streets that led into the city were bustling with activity, the warmth of the day now in full force and drawing people from their homes and to the market.
In a few hours, people within the capitol and throughout the surrounding sectors would begin flocking to the temple as well, for the religious ceremony that precluded grand feasts and family meals alike. Eating seemed to be the preferred method of celebration on this planet, Din noted.
And why you thought it was going to rain, he had no idea. A few sparse clouds had gathered on the horizon, but nothing that suggested a storm on the way. And yet you stood with your back to Din and stared out toward the grassy plains in the distance and the glaringly bright sky, sure of yourself.
Today, you wore a gown Din had yet to see. In fact, it was quite different from anything he'd ever seen you wear. Normally, several layers of robes and traditional royal garments swept around you and weighed you down. But today, you had donned a single piece, a shimmering silver gown, that floated in the breeze and left little to the imagination. Your headscarf was of a similar fabric, twisted around your head and out of the way. You looked no less regal, no less recognizable, only a bit more comfortable with yourself.
The royal canal boats finally arrived to take the small group to the temple, the Nhoran crest painted bright across its length. You sat towards the front of the first boat along with your guards, hidden partially by the boat's covered top, though it remained obvious who was aboard. People stopped and stared as the procession floated by, some even bowed and a few children waved.
Din joined Zena at the back of the second boat. He wasn't sure what was going on; no one had really cared to explain what was so special about the day or what the ceremony entailed. But he followed along out of curtousy and curiosity.
"Why are we going so early? Doesn't the ceremony not start for a while?" Din whispered to Zena who sat next to him.
"Her Majesty is following tradition. To honor ancestors, those who have come before, it is her duty to begin the day of thanks on her own. Mostly Her Majesty just takes the time to reflect and remember her mother and sister."
That was more of an answer than Din was expecting, and a bit somber too. Perhaps that was why you'd been reluctant about today's events. When the procession arrived, you went in alone, leaving everyone, including the guards, out on the entrance to the temple.
"She'll meet us upstairs. Come." Zena motioned for Din to follow her into the impressive building. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed it before. The temple mirrored the palace, a straight shot by foot or by boat across the marketplace. A tall glass dome sat atop the round structure, which from the inside cast beams of sunlight across the rows of seats.
Din followed up a grand set of stairs to the second floor, where smaller box seats looked out over the main floor and toward the alter. From up here, he could see the entirety of the building. He watched you down below as you crossed the long, narrow walkway that led from the entrance, through the seats, and toward the platform, where an older woman, obviously someone important, was waiting. He couldn't hear your words when you spoke, but you bowed in deep respect.
The High Priestess greeted you as you approached, taking your hand to help you step up onto the alter.
"Nineteen years," she said, and you nodded, usually preferring silence during these times. "Your mother would have been proud."
The priestess handed you the customary candle, and then departed to prepare for the ceremony, leaving you alone on the alter. You kneeled, and began.
Mother. Sister. Legacy. Ask the Maker for prosperity for your kingdom and health for yourself. Repeat ad nauseam until you think that heaven has listened. At one time you had asked for them back. Now, you simply lit the candle in remembrance of two people you didn't truly know.
This was supposed to be a time to reflect, a time to look back and appreciate, to thank and honor. But now, kneeling on the hard wooden floor of the temple, you could only think of the future, not the past. What was to become of your planet, your system, your galaxy? Thoughts of Bo-Katan, Mandalore, Din, the child, all swirled in your brain. It was easy to forget the troubles of the outside world when your own small bubble thrived. But every time you looked at Din, you weren't just aware of how much you were falling for him, but how much change he might be bringing to your planet and your people.
Here, now, this was meant to bring you guidance. It only brought confusion. So many emotions muddled your normally clear thoughts, fear, worry, insecurity. And yet, through it all, one sentiment shown above the others. You no longer felt alone.
---
You had been right. The early afternoon sunshine devolved into an evening storm, thick, expanding clouds collapsing into ropes of rain that washed the world anew. The sky gave a single warning, a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning streaking through the black clouds, before breaking open all at once.
The religious ceremony ended, the priestess said her final words, and the crowd of people surged from the temple, heading home to begin preparing for feasts with family, friends, and everyone in between. At that very moment the rain began, not as a trickle, but as a downpour, heavy and pounding. It was a warm rain, the kind that brings a cool breeze but begins to steam back up into clouds the moment it hits the hot pavement.
Most people braved the storm, running into the downpour and through the market to shelter. Others gladly accepted covered taxi rides through the canals. A few remained in the temple, preferring to wait out the storm.
You stood watching them all from the open window of the private box, breathing in the smell of petrichor, unfazed by the droplets hitting your cheeks as the breeze sent the rain off its gravity-driven course. On your face was that look, the youthful, joyous one, that Din was starting to recognize in these fleeting moments. Zena placed your cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill, but you barely noticed, even when she asked if you preferred to wait for the storm to clear to head back or if you wanted the covered canal boat.
Zena made the decision for you when you remained silent, asking Ming to send for the driver. But by the time he'd arrived, the rain had slowed to barely a drizzle, even as thunder continued to rumble in the distance. The storm blew out as swiftly as it had come, the clouds parting slightly to allow the sinking sun to shine through and refract against the droplets of water clinging to every surface.
"Go ahead, Zena. Take Ming with you. I want to walk," you said, motioning for your advisor to take the boat.
"I can't let you go without protection."
"I'll take Mando," you replied, smiling innocently. Zena looked ready to argue, but then she relented.
"Alright, but if it starts to rain again don't blame me. We'll meet you for the banquet."
As the boat pushed off, you turned away, gathering the edges of your skirts in one hand and pulling your hood over your head. And then you began to walk, staying ahead of Din but keeping him close. You hadn't even asked if he wanted to come along; he simply fell into step behind you.
You were silent as you walked, stepping over puddles and avoiding rivulets that flowed from the street into the canal. Though it hadn't rained long, it had rained hard, and the water level of the canals had risen enough to rush a bit quicker alongside you, drowning out any need for conversation. Not that Din knew what to say. You hadn't spoken to him directly since this morning in your bedroom, and he was starting to wonder if you were having second thoughts. Then again, it was keeping you constantly at the forefront of his brain, trying to decipher each of your moves and glances and touches, and perhaps that was your intention.
The streets were still empty of people sheltering from the rain, and no one passed to stare at the odd pair, the young queen and her Mandalorian guard. You had been hesitant around Din throughout the morning, not knowing how to talk to him without your words or your voice betraying your emotions to the world. Any look you shared, any touch allowed, you felt sure would make the change in your relationship apparent to anyone with even half a pair of eyes, so you resigned to silence, knowing it was the only way to ensure no one suspected a thing.
Except now, you were alone with him. No advisors, no guards, no one even on the street to see you take his hand or walk alongside him. And yet, something about his brooding silence told you the distance you'd held him at for the past couple of hours was having the desired effect on him.
It wasn't intentional, this taunting. At least it didn't start like that. This morning in your bedroom you had really only wanted to make him sweat a bit, get a taste of his own medicine. But you'd liked it. And now you liked the thought of keeping the game going. When you'd told him not to touch himself, you hadn't expected him to comply. But the forced restraint you'd noticed from Din throughout the ceremony suggested otherwise. Your knees brushing in the temple, barely touching, the words spoken not out loud but through fleeting glances at the helmet that hid the face you longed to see, they all built upon the energy you'd electrified between the two of you.
Now, feeling his presence only a step behind you, the electricity sparked again, a thrill climbing your spine where you imagined his gaze to be lingering. The thunk of his boots kept time with your own steps, reminding you at all times that he had a full view of everything accentuated by the dress you'd chosen. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't picked out this exact dress for his pleasure and his pleasure alone. You were fully aware of the way it shimmered and shifted around your curves.
Din followed dutifully behind you all the way back to the palace. The lull was killing him slowly. Never before had he hated the lack of conversation. He was a man of few words, preferring silence over idle pointless talk. But without words, he had no way of knowing what you were thinking. Din was beginning to learn your ways, the habits that indicated comfort or anxiety, the tone of your voice, and the expressions on your face. But in some ways, you were still a mystery, one woman upon her throne, another entirely when stripped down bare.
And now, alone with you, he couldn't tell which you were. It was driving him crazy, this little dance you'd pulled him into, flirting and then leaving him hanging, only to pull him back in again. You consumed his every thought, just like you'd wanted, and he didn't know how to rid you from his brain. Din needed answers. He couldn't wait for you to make the first move anymore. He would know, one way or another, what the goal of your little game was.
The palace loomed overhead as you climbed the stairs and entered the doors. The guards bowed in your presence when you stepped into the grand hall, heading for the stairs.
Din had to act. At the top of the stairs Zena was talking with Ming, waiting for the two of you, and it would only be another moment before she noticed your entrance. He reached out and wrapped a hand around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks and pulling you out of your advisor's line of sight. He didn't know where he was going, simply found himself guiding you through the empty tables and towards the quiet stacks of books. He could hide between the shelves, confront you, beg you to put him out of his misery.
"What are you doing?" It was the first time you'd acknowledged him. But you didn't protest.
Finally, the shelter of books, and hopefully a semblance of privacy.
"You're driving me mad," Din sighed, the modulator in his helmet doing little to mask the frustration in his voice. "What is your endgame? I need you to tell me."
Was he already begging for you? You hadn't expected this to work so well. Din released your wrist but kept you trapped between him and the wall with his looming presence, rows of books to either side preventing an escape you had no intention of attempting.
That innocent smile on your face was back, though Din found himself thinking it was a bit more mischievous than he'd initially thought. Your fingers reached for his belt, hooking under its edge where the leather met the waistband of his pants.
"Have you been good, baby?"
"Fuck, yes. Yes, Angel. I did what you told me to do," he said, voice desperate.
You tugged gently and Din got the message, backing you into the wall, your hands pulling at his belt, in a vaguely familiar position to this morning. Though he was much larger and could probably take whatever he wanted without asking, he acquiesced his control to you.
"Have you been thinking about me the way I asked?"
Din felt too exposed in this place to remove his helmet, so he couldn't rely on facial expressions or a kiss to communicate that he had, in fact, thought about you all day. He couldn't stop thinking about you.
"Tell me," you said when he didn't reply. "Describe it to me."
Despite his ability to hide behind a mask, Din's body language revealed all. He surrounded you, one hand on the wall, the other reaching up to cup your face, his gloved thumb running across your bottom lip. He wanted to kiss you but couldn't, so he memorized your lips with his fingers instead.
"Oh Angel," his modulated baritone rumbled into your ear, "I've been thinking about your delicious pussy. And how smooth you are under my fingers. Your glorious tits and the freckle between them."
Where had he learned to talk like that? Somehow, his comment about the freckle was what broke the dam and you felt the telltale sign of your arousal warming your cunt. That Din had noticed something so small, had taken note in one night the details of your skin, sent your heart rate through the roof. Maker, he was so diligent and observant, it made you quiver to think about what else he'd noticed.
You dropped your voice to a whisper, not because you were afraid of being overheard, but because this felt like an intimate question even the air didn't deserve to hear.
"Do I make you hard?"
Din swallowed a lump in his throat, not knowing where you were going with this but eager to find out. "You know the answer to that."
You did. But you wanted to hear him say it. "I expect you to answer me when I ask you a question, Mando."
Din chuckled softly, the sound barely making its way out of the helmet. "Yes, Your Majesty, you make me hard."
Fuck. There it was again, the sound of his voice enough to make you wet with need and your pussy throb in desire. You hoped the hall was empty, that no one would interrupt what you were about to do.
"Fuck me, Din."
"What? Right now?"
"Yes, right now. Against the wall. Pound me into this fucking wall." Your voice was a soft whisper but there was a force behind the words, quiet but compelling.
Din paused a moment, one hand leaning beside you and the other resting on his belt. And then he was undoing it with one swift movement and you were pulling up your skirts around your waist and he was dragging your panties down and lifting you in his arms to press you against the against the the cool stone. And then he slammed into you and pounded you into the fucking wall.
You cried out. Maker, he was so thick and this time you didn't have his fingers to stretch you first. But the intrusion was a welcome one, even as tears of ecstasy pricked behind your eyes. Din was so strong, his arms easily holding you up, his thrusts battering and rough. But this is what you'd wanted, for him to fuck you so bruisingly hard it was difficult to walk the next day.
All the tension, the anticipation, the expectation of the day had built up inside Din and he let it surge from him and through you. You had done this to him, intentionally. He knew you wanted him in agony, on edge, and he'd let you pull him there. Now he was releasing it, helmet hitting the wall, your arms and legs wrapped tightly around him to pull him even deeper. Every gasp and cry from your mouth was one of surprise, as if you hadn't expected this from him, but hoped for it nonetheless.
Din had been so close all day, just needing that final push to tip him over the edge. He wanted to cum inside you again, to drip from you for the rest of the evening while you shook hands and made small talk. He could feel you clenching around him, ready to milk his seed from his cock with your orgasm.
And then, of course, Din heard the footsteps. Thank the Maker for his helmet to hear that you were about to be walked in on, but damn it as well for forcing him to pull out and step back from you, trying to right himself as quickly as possible and avoid being caught like this.
"No--n-no what are you doing?" you gasped with a suppressed sob. As much as Din wanted this, you wanted it too, and the loss of him was cruel. He pulled away from you despite your protests, letting your skirts fall back to your ankles, and your cunt clenched in protest at the sudden vacancy. But it was only fair, if he should be left on edge the whole day, that you too should have your orgasm snatched from your grasp to be finished at some later time.
"Someone's coming," he hissed, stepping as far away from you as possible and snatching your discarded underwear from the floor to shove them in his pocket, just as Zena walked by the stacks you had hidden in.
She paused, looking suspiciously between you and Din and the oddly wide distance between you two.
"There you are. Did I interrupt something?"
"No, nothing. Not at all," you answered far too quickly. Zena was not convinced, especially when Din refused to face her. He had a pretty obvious problem that he was trying to hide.
"Come on, they're expecting you," she said, holding out her arm for you to take. You slipped past Din without looking at him and linked elbows, letting Zena guide you toward the banquet hall, pretending as if nothing had happened. Except something had definitely happened. You were now pantyless, the wetness of your arousal slippery between your thighs as you walked.
You glanced over your shoulder at the last moment to see Din trying hard to compose himself. His stance was one of incredible discomfort and dissatisfaction. Abruptly pulling away had left him even more frustrated than before and he watched with irritation as you disappeared around the corner.
"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" Zena whispered into your ear. She held you close as you walked.
"Nothing, really."
"He didn't hurt you, right?"
"Why would you think that?"
"You look like you've been crying," Zena said, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and handing it to you to wipe your eyes. "And you've been weird all day. Something happened. You can't lie to me and get away with it, you know."
"We were just-- We were just talking."
She narrowed her eyes at you knowingly, aware that more had occurred but not prying further. "Alright. I'm sure I'll find out eventually."
You stopped at the entrance to the banquet hall and Zena gave your hand a squeeze, smiling coyly.
"Wait here for a moment," she said and left you to announce your entrance.
Din had held back when you left, only following behind when you were out of sight. Now he reappeared, a little more composed but no less tense and he slipped into the hall after Zena to find a seat. Though he didn't glance at you, didn't acknowledge you with a word, his fingertips grazed the curve of your ass as he passed, reigniting your fire and reminding you that he was still focused on you and only you.
And then he disappeared into the crowd and everyone turned to look as you entered. You hated this part, all the eyes on you, all the nobles and diplomats staring at you and analyzing your movements. You were sure your face was flushed, both in embarrassment and excitement. The walk to your seat felt entirely too long and you did your best to avoid making eye contact with too many people. At last, you reached your seat, where someone was already waiting to help you into your chair. You didn't even notice who it had been, your mind was so far elsewhere.
Everyone sat as you took your place at the head of the long banquet table, and it had the fortunate effect of conversations beginning again and eyes shifting to neighbors and plates of food rather than you.
Zena sat to your left, her presence helping ease the social anxiety-induced nightmare that was diplomatic dinners. Directly to your right sat a man you had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing since childhood, Lord Boryn. Usually, that seat was reserved for another of your advisors or an honored guest; how he'd managed to slip in you weren't sure. This was going to be a long night.
And where was Din? You spotted his shining helmet a few seats down, doing his best to blend in with the shadows and not look at anyone. He wouldn't eat, you knew, making this an even more boring and uncomfortable night than it needed to be. And though he was obviously feeling awkward and tense, he still radiated that calm power that provoked his neighbors to scoot their chairs a bit to the side to give him more room.
You tried not to stare.
"What a great ceremony," Lord Boryn said, bringing your attention to him. His voice was loud and overly exalting, making him sound more cynical than congratulatory. He leaned forward in his seat in an effort to invade your line of sight, taking a sip of his wine and then holding up the glass in a mock toast. "And you look as delightful as always, Your Majesty."
"I see you're as bold as always, My Lord. And your father, enjoying his stay on Coruscant, I presume?"
Zena barely contained her snicker. Boryn's father was not simply staying on Coruscant; he was a prisoner there, serving a stint for bribery and money laundering. It was perhaps an unfair jab at the man's family, but you hoped it would hold off his flirting for a little while.
It did not.
Boryn continued the conversation, as if you hadn't just insulted his father, asking several questions at once, only to interrupt you to talk about himself again. This would go on for a while, you knew, so you let your eyes and your thoughts drift back to Din, silent and unmoving down the table.
You unconsciously readjusted in your seat, not knowing what to do with your legs now that your underwear was stuffed somewhere into Din's pocket. Crossing them applied an uncomfortable pressure, but not doing so left you completely exposed, your bare folds rubbing against the rough fabric of the slip under your gown. So you crossed your ankles and leaned heavily on your armrest.
Din watched you shift awkwardly from the corner of his eye as the man sitting next to you blabbed his mouth off. It was hard to hear what he was saying over the boisterous conversations surrounding him, but in a way, Din was glad, as he was sure it would have only made him angry. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that the man was handsome, in the polished, manicured way that made it obvious he was some kind of noble, and you were leaning toward him, your body angled in a way that made it seem as if you were actually listening to the guy. But every once in a while, your eyes flickered toward Din, like you were making sure he was still there.
"Remember Lunar One?" Boryn said with a raucous laugh, now addressing both you and Zena. "When I pranked our fourth level teacher and she thought her classroom was on fire, but I just set off a smoke bomb? Now that was a lot of fun."
"You had fun, Boryn," Zena replied dryly. "You made our lives miserable with your idiotic pranks. We had to evacuate the entire school."
Lunar One had been miserable for other reasons as well, but Zena skillfully avoided that conversation and steered the topic back to something that wouldn't bring up bad memories.
"She was the only thing that made it worthwhile," Zena said, squeezing your hand to let you know she was just as uncomfortable as you.
"You're right, Zena. In fact, I believe it is time for a toast to honor our beautiful queen."
You sighed in frustration. Boryn had his heart set on making a fool of himself tonight, and embarrassing you in the process. He stood and clinked his knife against his wine glass, garnering the entire room's attention, and you glanced at Din to gauge his reaction. Nothing.
"I would like to propose a toast," Boryn announced, his loud voice projecting throughout the hall. "To Her Majesty, never was there a more beautiful, just, and fair ruler of Nhora. May she live a long, prosperous life."
Glasses were raised and you shrunk down in your seat, wishing all eyes in the room would leave you and find elsewhere to land.
When you glanced at Din again, he was gone.
---
"Come, My Queen, once more for old time's sake."
"I already told you, years ago, I'm not interested."
Boryn had cornered you as you had tried to turn in for the night, wanting to run from the reception early and finally fall into Din's arms in private. But the pesky Lord had other plans, trying to coax you back into the old relationship you shared with another drink. At one point you may have been interested. At one point you had been interested. But that ship had sailed, a wrecked, long ago.
Din's embrace was calling, the unsatisfied feelings that stirred in your stomach begging to be attended to. Once upon a time, anyone would have sufficed to fulfill them. Not anymore.
---
Din had to get out of there. That silly excuse of a man was making toasts and flirting with you shamelessly. It didn't hurt his ego. He knew where he stood with you. But he couldn't take it anymore, watching him make a fool of himself. Besides, no one wanted to talk to Din, and he couldn't eat anyway, so the solitude of his empty room seemed much more preferable to the solitude of a crowd.
He pulled off his armor and tried to lay down, but the bed didn't bring him any comfort. He was so used to sleeping in his armor, Din had trouble relaxing without it. Unless you were here, that was. If you were here he'd hold you and fall asleep in an instant. Well, he'd make love to you in all the right ways first.
How many times today had you brought him to the brink only to pull back again? Was it really only twice? It felt like an eternity and yet no time at all. Maybe he should just do it. Just step into the shower and find release in his hand like he'd intended this morning. But he couldn't.
He would wait. For you. Like you asked, though at this point Din was realizing it was more of a demand. Din had no idea how long he'd lain there when the knock arrived.
The door slid open a crack, and then Din saw it was you and he opened it even wider, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into the room. Only then did he notice the plate in your hand.
"What is that?"
"Food. For you. You didn't eat."
"I don't need food," he said, exasperated. Din was getting impatient.
"I know for a fact that you haven't eaten all day. You need dinner."
"You're my dinner," Din said, grabbing the plate from your hands and moving it to the side, finally able to pull you in and mold his body to yours, pressing you into a hot, needy kiss. You let him, but only for a moment, before pushing him away again. It was as difficult for you as it was for him, but you couldn't let the man starve.
"Smooth. Now eat, Din," you said a bit more forcefully.
Fine, if this was how it had to be. He sat with a huff and began. He was used to eating quickly, not enjoying his meal but getting it down as fast as possible to avoid any trouble. But now you were sitting across from him, and he did his best to appease you and slow down a bit.
"Maker, that was exhausting," you grumbled. You had already looked tense when Din had left dinner early, so he could only imagine how uncomfortable you felt in the hours that followed. But now, you relaxed fully, letting your shoulders slouch and regal mask fall from your face.
"They all stare at you," Din said, taking a bite.
You tugged at your shoes, letting them drop to the floor. "Who?"
"Everyone. But especially that man who sat next to you."
"Lord Boryn, you mean." You feigned innocence, not wanting to give Din any insight into how you really felt finally sitting alone with him again. Truly alone.
"You know him?" Din's dark eyes searched yours. They were surprisingly unreadable. You were now unbuttoning the cape you had donned to ward against the chill that swept in with the storm, uncovering your bare shoulders.
"Yes." You paused. "Intimately."
"Intimately?" He had no idea what that meant and he watched your movements for any sign of what you were insinuating. But you simply reached up and pulled several pins from the scarf that covered your head and placed them one by one on the table. The scarf unwound and you tossed it to the floor as well, revealing the hair that had been covered all day. Din watched you run your fingers through it, enjoying the sensation of freedom as it fell to your shoulders, shining in the dim light of the room. He realized that was one of the things you shared with few people, as your head was almost always covered. He felt a bit dizzy.
"He was mediocre at best."
Who was what now? Din couldn't remember what you'd been talking about.
"Oh." Lord Boryn. Oh. Now he understood. "So that's why he looked at you like that."
He couldn't help the dark tone of his voice.
"Just because you get to hide behind a helmet doesn't mean you don't look at me like that too."
"No. No, he looked at you like you were a possession. Like he owned you."
"So what, you get to own me but he can't?" You leaned forward on your elbows, challenging him with your eyes, though a smirk flickered across your lips. Din held your gaze for a moment and then looked down at his plate. His answer was honest, sincere.
"I don't own you." Din took his last bite and sat back in his chair. "No one owns you, and usually you make that pretty clear. But he didn't seem to be getting the message tonight."
You remained silent for a beat and then stood, slipping the straps of your gown off your shoulders and stepping out of it so you were, at last, wearing nothing but your slip. Din watched as you moved behind his chair, the fabric shifting against your skin and revealing the rise of your breasts and the dip of your hips. You slipped your hands across Din's shoulders and leaned down to slide them down his chest, your lips grazing softly against his ear and sending chills down his spine.
"Are you jealous?" Your question was barely spoken but it radiated through him anyway. He felt your hand slip into his pocket, wondering what you were searching for, and then watched it reappear with your panties. You held them up with one finger in front of his face. "I missed these."
Din groaned at the reminder of what had transpired hours earlier. He'd been agitated all day, on edge, anticipating the moment he'd get the release he was so desperate for. And now thoughts of that pretty boy noble even having a single opportunity to touch you, the way Din so desperately wanted to, made his heart pound and his adrenaline spike.
"When are you going to end this fucking torture?"
You smiled and nibbled lightly at his earlobe, earning a shiver. "Can you take it a bit longer, baby? I promise I'll make it worth your while."
Maker, he didn't want to wait anymore. But your proposal was too tantalizing to pass up and curiosity got the best of him. "You'll be the death of me, Angel."
You needed no other confirmation. A single word was whispered against his ear. Strip.
He did, standing in the middle of the room, as you watched with an ephemeral smile dancing across your lips. Din stood at attention, hands out as if to say, now what, his cock hard from the on and off torment he'd endured throughout the day. You bent down and grabbed your headscarf from where you'd discarded it on the floor, folding it along its length and testing its strength, before stepping behind him again.
And then his vision went black, the scarf having been placed across his eyes. He felt you tie it securely at the back of his head and then a finger trace slowly down his neck and spine, chasing his shiver.
Din had never been without his eyesight before. In the dark, his helmet switched over to night vision, allowing him to see regardless. He could focus his line of sight, zoom in on a point in the distance, track footprints in any material. This was simply blackness.
What was generally suppressed was his hearing, highly acute and sensitive, yes, but modulated and tinny nonetheless, making the world dull and muted. Now, he had to rely on his hearing unobstructed, the shift of your feet on the floor as they moved around him, your soft breathing, to know where you were. And touch, he found extra sensitive as well, without the layer of beskar between him and his surroundings. He felt the air move, the heat of your body close to his, the drag of your fingers, and oh Maker, your lips.
The overload of the rest of his senses had distracted him from the fact that you were now kneeling before him, your lips barely kissing the weeping head of his cock. You touched him nowhere else, with nothing else, simply your mouth against his twitching rod, tongue tracing the tip and licking away a bead precum with a satisfied hum. Din bucked his hips, fingers reaching out blindly in search of you to grab on to something, but you gripped his hands tightly with your own and held them to his sides.
Tantalizingly slowly, your lips wrapped around his tip and sunk down around his length. Dank farrick, he wanted to wrap his fingers in your hair and fuck your mouth like he'd fucked you against the wall. But you'd also said you would make this worth his while, and his iron sense of self-control won out. Din wouldn't let go unless you told him to.
At last, you had taken him as best you could, and you moved up again, running your tongue from the base of his cock back to the tip. You pulled off with a sucking pop, causing Din to jolt in surprise and pleasure.
And then you did it again, all the way down, all the way up, only slightly fast. It wasn't enough, but it was something, anything, more than before. You kept going, over and over, drawing him inch by inch closer until he was trembling in anticipation of release.
The words left his mouth before he could even think them. "Fuck, Angel, I'm gonna cum."
He should have held his tongue. You immediately pulled away, leaving him cold and bare and shaking with impatience. He whimpered at the loss of your mouth and let out a laugh of disbelief at your audacity. If he hadn't been blindfolded, Din would have seen the sly smile of satisfaction on your face.
He would have also seen you finally remove your slip and take a step closer to him so that your body was barely an inch away from his. He jumped when you gripped his chin softly and pulled his face down to meet yours.
Taste and smell. Those were the senses he'd forgotten completely, the taste of him on your tongue when you kissed him, when he opened up for you and let you inside. You still held his hands in place, but now it didn't matter. He could breathe in your scent and let it mingle with the saltiness of your lips, and it sent his blood pumping through his veins a mile a minute. Anything more and he'd probably lose it.
When you pulled away from his mouth, Din pleaded for you to finish him off, in whatever way you wanted. He didn't care how, just so long as it happened.
You giggled sweetly against his lips, your warm, rapid breath fanning his face, and he felt this wasn't over.
"Make me orgasm with no hands and I'll let you cum wherever you like baby."
A bargain. Din shuddered. "You mean--"
"I mean with your mouth. Is that okay? Tell me if you aren't ready."
"Fuck, no-- I mean-- yes, I want to. But I can't even see. What am I supposed to do?"
You took his hand and guided him to the bed. "You don't need to see. Just trust your instincts."
The back of Din's knees hit the edge of the bed and he collapsed backward, head sinking into the pillows. You shifted somewhere to his right, fingers interlaced tightly with his, and then your leg swung over to straddle his abdomen. He felt your thighs grip his waist and then the weight of you pressing down on him, the warmth of your cunt, slick against his stomach. You were so fucking wet, and he couldn't wait to get a taste.
You leaned down to whisper in his ear. "I'm going to ride your face. Is that alright?"
"Sounds like a dream." The grin on Din's face easily gave away his eagerness.
"Good. And remember, no hands, just your mouth, and then you can have me however you want."
Fucking hell. You hadn't expected him to actually be good at this. You were sort of counting on Din being completely unskilled with his tongue so you could tease him a bit more. But within moments of planting yourself on his face, it became your new favorite place to sit.
His warm tongue sank deep into your fluttering center and he feasted on you like you were the meal he had been denied, the taste and smell and touch of your velvet walls blinding Din's senses. He moved in and out, up and down, following the sounds of your pleasure to make sure he was doing it right. And he must have been doing something right because you lost your ability to speak complete sentences and drove him forward with only single-syllable words.
You had thought his shadow of a beard would be rough against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs but it was soft and tickling instead, only adding to the sensations he was achieving. Din sank his face deeper, nose pressing against your clit, and you let out a soft cry. You had yet to let go of his hands, and at this point you weren't sure if it was to prevent Din from using them or if they were for your benefit entirely, keeping you from collapsing forward and suffocating him.
Din sensed the shift, your moans of ecstasy music to his ears. And your eyes had fallen shut, otherwise, you would have noticed that the rocking of your hips against his face had slid the blindfold right off. Din now gazed up, view unobstructed, at the unbridled look of pleasure on your face, your tits round and bare, your hair wild about your shoulders. His cock throbbed at the sight of you.
And then your thighs gripped tighter around Din's head and your walls clenched against his rolling tongue and your cries reached a new high. He felt your orgasm start to build against his face and he growled into your pussy, sending vibrations through your core.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu--"
You cursed until you couldn't anymore and your words devolved into ragged gasps and sobs. Din pulled you through your orgasm, not stopping his work until the trembling ceased. You had forgotten to breathe, and now you took a ragged breath in as he kissed the inside of your thigh. You could stay here forever.
But as soon as you stilled, Din was pulling you down and flipping you over, ready to fulfill your end of the bargain. He'd done his job, now you would let him lose control. But not until he heard the words from your mouth.
"Can I?"
You weren't even fully aware of what was happening, what he was requesting permission for, still coming down from the high of your orgasm. One moment you were on top and then suddenly the next beneath a very large, very strong Mandalorian. He still held you in his arms but had you pressed into the mattress as well, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance, waiting for your word. But what word you couldn't really remember, and why wasn't he just going for it, and where was the blindfold--
"Fuck, Angel, we agreed, remember. Make it worth my while. Please, I need you to say it--"
Right. You'd been teasing him mercilessly since nine this morning. Finally, your brain caught up with the rest of your body.
"Yes, baby, yes. Fuck me as hard as you need."
Din did not hesitate to sink into you, the urgency from the library back in full force. Maker, he finally had you where he wanted you, and he knew it wouldn't take long to reach that point again, where the restraint and frustration broke him down into an uninhibited mess. But the delicious cries falling from your beautiful mouth urged him to hold on just a moment longer.
Din pressed one hand to the headboard to steady himself, his other arm wrapping around your waist and lifting your hips to hit the angle that made you scream. His thrusts were rough and irregular, sometimes pulling out fully to slam back into you, at other times barely shifting at all. But you were already tender and sensitive from the short-lived pounding you'd taken earlier, and it launched you right back to the edge of your interrupted orgasm and then straight over again with a choked cry. He pressed his mouth to yours and breathed in your moans as you seized around him, fucking the orgasm from him as he fucked you through yours.
Din followed soon behind. He came hard and heavy deep inside you, hips coming to a shuddering stop as the pent-up energy left his body all at once. He collapsed, melting into you as you pulled him close, neither of you able to speak or move at all.
You hadn't realized it had begun to rain again until only the echoes of your mingled breath filled the room. It drummed softly on the palace roof, a lulling sound that would have sent you to sleep if Din's heavy form hadn't been squeezing the air out of your lungs. You didn't want him to move, didn't want his warmth to leave you, but you needed oxygen.
"Din," you whispered. He hummed into your neck in response. "I can't breathe."
Din wrapped his arms beneath you and rolled, pulling you on top of him. He ran his hands up and down your spine, one coming to rest on your ass, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a kiss.
"You're driving me crazy, Angel."
"You said that already." You smiled against his soft lips.
"It's true." Din closed his eyes as you ran your fingers through his thick curls, dark and graying in some places. He had impossibly long lashes that cast dancing shadows across his flushed cheeks. And his nose, the curve of which you would never tire of running your finger over, cast a shadow over his face in the moonlight streaming in the window.
You hated to ruin the moment. But you had to say it. "About what you said last night--"
Din groaned, eyes still closed. "You heard all that?"
"Din, I want you to know that you don't need to make any promises to me." He remained silent so you continued. "You're under no obligation to put me above your people and your creed. You have bigger things to worry about. This is--" Everything I want, everything I need. "--fun, but..."
"But what?" He opened his eyes to search yours. "It's inefficient? Messy?"
"It's going to make the inevitable sacrifices harder to make. I can't ask that of you. We have obligations to our people before we can make promises to ourselves."
Din was silent again, but this time you waited for him to speak. He sighed and cupped your face in his hands, smoothing the worry lines from your forehead the way he liked to.
"When I gave up the kid the first time, he was worth double his weight in beskar. I thought it was the right thing to do but it was selfish to hand him over to people who would hurt him. The second time was for his own good, and still I regretted it. I worry about him all the time; being away from him scares me. And I could have avoided all those difficult feelings if I hadn't found him in the first place. But that's the one thing I don't regret. Because along with it I got a family, a weird, small, green family, but a family nonetheless. I'm tired of feeling lonely even when I'm not alone. And I think you feel that way too. You don't have to feel a certain way or make any promises, but you're allowed to. You're allowed to put yourself first sometimes."
Tears pricked behind your eyes. Why was he suddenly making you cry? The Mandalorian was just a man, a man you'd met simply by accident, who'd needed help that you could offer, who'd touched your heart in a way no one ever had. That was exactly it though. You weren't sure what he was to you, but he wasn't just a man anymore.
And yet, he was right about it all, except one thing.
The council meeting was where everything started to go wrong. The members of the Neutral Systems were always dismissive and condescending toward you, but the presence of the Mandalorian made it worse.
"These people are not easy to convince, Din," you warned him before stepping into the meeting. "I don't know what your plan for Mandalore is but you are either about to make great allies or terrible enemies."
"I'll follow your lead," he said.
"You brought him here?" General Tarrow questioned incredulously the moment you appeared.
"Is there a problem with that?" you countered. Din sat silently beside you, helmet on, surveying the situation.
"You were always one to flirt with danger, Your Majesty. But I never expected you to court the enemy," Prince Cornith, representative of the Angor system, said. You hated his smug smile and arrogant posture. And his implication stoked an anger in your chest.
"And yet I'm not surprised at your apparent prejudice towards someone you've never met. The Mandalorian is not an enemy. He's an ally in need of assistance to fight for his people."
"How are you expecting this to play out? A little catfight amongst warrior clans who know nothing but to fight?" the General asked. A wave of laughter spread through the representatives. You did not join in.
"My people have seen Bo-Katan on Mandalore. She's gathering the people around her. Readying for battle. She needs to be stopped before this escalates and it spills over into other systems."
"So what you're saying is to prepare for war?" General Tarrow's questioned, jumping to a fairly major conclusion.
"I'm saying we need to be prepared for the possibility of one good Mandalorian having to face a hundred bad ones."
"Why should we even get involved in this? This guy can't be trusted," Cornith said, pointing an accusing finger at Din. "Take off the ridiculous helmet and then we'll see for real. Maybe he's a deformed monster under it all."
You bristled against the blatant insult but managed to remain collected. The Prince enjoyed getting a rise out of you and you knew no one would stand up for you if you fired back.
"If the wrong person ends up on the throne, and Mandalore returns to its militaristic ways, they will encroach on your territory. They used to control entire systems. Bo-Katan can and will take yours."
"We are prepared to deal with that if it happens."
"When it happens, General, it will be too late. None of us are a match for a well-organized Mandalorian army. We need to get ahead of this."
"Who's to say he's even the one we should be backing? We are the Neutral Systems for a reason. We don't take sides."
"Djarin is a good man. I trust him. Societies don't rebuild themselves overnight. We need to lay the right bricks now to build a foundation that won't just fall apart and take the whole structure with it. Djarin is the one to do that."
"I hate to argue with you, Your Majesty--" This was a lie. The Prince loved to argue. "--but I'm afraid your judgment is clouded by your shared history with Mandalore."
"And I'm afraid your judgment is clouded by your selfishness, Prince Cornith."
He stood. "I act only with my people's best interests at heart."
"As do I." You stood as well and stared the Prince down. General Tarrow watched the interaction from his seat, just as distrustful as Cornith but less vocal.
"What happens if Bo-Katan does take control and finds out we've been going behind her back to form an alliance?" Cornith said. "The rest of us are done for. Nhora might have the firepower to protect herself, but we don't."
In a way he was right. If this failed, everyone, including Nhora, would take the heat. Din had remained silent the entire time, unsure if he was even allowed to speak. But finally, he did. "You're right. I can't ask you to put your people on the line. All I can ask is that when the time comes you will support my people and their wishes. I just-- I want to protect my family. You can understand that right?"
Cornith eyed Din with distrust and then shook his head. "I'm out. Whatever deal you're going to try to make, I won't get involved."
"Can you at least promise not to align yourself with Bo-Katan?" you pleaded.
He sighed, almost apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't take that risk. I'll do what I think is best to protect my people. I'm out."
Cornith's hologram flickered and then disappeared. Two others followed, leaving only you and General Tarrow. And though he still hesitated, Din's words had appeared to make a dent in the tough General's shell. If he wasn't going to listen to you at least he would listen to Din. He sat up and leaned forward, completely ignoring you when he spoke and looking only at the Mandalorian.
"How many soldiers are we talking? How many will it take for this little operation of yours."
"Six," Din said.
"Six?" both you and the General exclaimed at the same time.
"At most."
"And here I thought we were arguing over hundreds. Six we can manage." That was far fewer than either of you were expecting. Din hadn't explained to you what his plan was yet. And if he was being honest, he wasn't quite sure himself. But this was a start.
"You do realize what you are up against, Mando," you questioned. "She'll be expecting you to make a move."
"I once took out an Imp base with fewer than that. Bo-Katan doesn't want a war. She needs to defeat me in battle, fairly, to regain the saber. I just need to get in."
"And then what? Kill or be killed?" The thought made your heart constrict.
"I hope not. But probably."
The room fell quiet at the gravity of his words.
"I'm going with you," Zena said abruptly. She had remained silent throughout the meeting but now spoke with determination.
"Absolutely not," Din said. "No offense but I need trained warriors for this."
You could tell by the look on Zena's face that she'd already made up her mind. "It wasn't a question, Mando," she said. "I'm the best warrior on this planet and I'm going with you."
Din was silent. "Okay," he consented, though sounding a bit taken aback. "That's one. I'll need that Jedi too, Skywalker."
"Good luck finding him," the General said. "I'll discuss this with my Lieutenants. We'll see about filling out your team. But I'm not making any promises, Mando. And you're going to have to deal with the consequences of the Angor system potentially aligning with Bo-Katan. Prince Cornith will follow whoever offers him the best price."
And then the General was gone as well. You sighed, finally able to let down the hardened exterior you had put up for the council meeting. "That did not go as well as I'd hoped."
"I hate that Angor guy," Zena said with a huff.
"Me too. Eyed you like a slab of meat," Din said quietly. It was the harshest language you'd ever heard out of his mouth, almost protective of you. But he moved on quickly. "I was expecting the worst. At least we might have the General. I have a...friend on the inside as well. But I'll need help getting in contact with her."
"I'll take care of that," you said, sinking deeper in your chair, now only thinking that Din's plan might be a suicide mission. Din followed your movements, noticing the stress that radiated from you in waves. You'd taken quite the verbal berating from the council. He wanted to reach out and ease your worry the way he had last night but was too conscious of Zena's watchful eye. So he settled on speaking.
"You can back out," he said. His words caught you off guard. "I can go forward without you. You don't need to put your people on the line like this."
"Too late for that, Mando," Zena said, answering for you. "Once she makes up her mind there's no going back."
---
Zena was right. Your mind was made up. You were suspiciously silent through the rest of the morning's meetings and disappeared directly afterward to your chambers, reappearing again only for lunch. You were planning, turning things over in your mind, wondering how best to move forward. The next logical step seemed to wait on the reappearance of the Jedi and his ward.
Din noticed it all, the concentrated look on your face, your abnormal silence. He wanted to draw you out of your shell, tell you it would be alright, but he didn't know how. So he focused on Zena.
"I didn't know you could fight," he said to her. Zena had offered to give him a tour of the grounds of the palace, and you trailed along behind, eager for a distraction from the stressful morning. The three of you had come upon the sparring grounds, piquing Din's curiosity.
"I come from the longest line of warriors on Nhora," she said. "My mother, her mother, her mother... Not that they passed on anything cool like beskar armor. Is it all beskar?"
"Yes. Though mine wasn't passed on either. I got it through more... dubious means."
"And that? Also beskar?" Zena motioned to the staff on Din's back, topped with a sharp spearhead.
Din unclipped the staff from his back and handed it to her with surprising trust. She took it gingerly, feeling out the balance in her hands. "It's very light. Do you fight with this?"
"Is that a challenge, Zena?"
"Hah, I could take you, Mando. You want to go a round?"
Din didn't need to be asked twice. He was eager to see how your royal advisor fared one on one.
You stood above them on the observation ledge of the sparring grounds, watching as they faced each other below, knowing this would be a good fight.
Zena tapped the staff against the ground. "Where's your weapon, Mando?"
"No weapon. Wouldn't want to give you an unfair disadvantage." Though Zena took those words as a challenge they were not said arrogantly. Din's cool confidence was built on experience and success.
But Din was not prepared for what he would get hit with next. Specifically what Zena hit him with next. Zena struck out with the first blow, slamming the staff in a dangerously accurate hit to the side of his head. The beskar sent vibrations through his helmet and he stumbled back in surprise. Taking advantage of his disorientation Zena dealt a second blow with her foot to his side, and Din gasped, bending over in pain. He'd forgotten about rule one, never underestimate your opponent. And rule number two, no distractions. Having you as an audience was a damn good one.
Zena lunged again, though this time Din was ready, taking hold with his gloved hands of the staff and hauling her forward. But Zena anticipated the attack and counterbalanced, shifting her weight down and using the staff as a lever to launch him onto his back.
Din landed with a groan on the ground. Watching a Mandalorian get his ass kicked by your advisor was a very sufficient diversion.
"Unfair disadvantage, Mando? You seem to be the one at a disadvantage," Zena taunted as Din hauled himself to his feet. "Perhaps you're distracted by a pretty woman on your mind."
"We both know you're trying to impress her too."
Your heart began to flutter. He was trying to impress you.
"Ah yes, but the difference is I've already impressed her. You are behind."
That comment finally got to him. Din struck next, easily knocking the staff from Zena's hands and pinning her arms behind her back to immobilize her upper body. The staff went clattering to the ground. But it wasn't the end for your advisor. She kicked out her legs and took both her and Din to the floor, reaching out and taking hold of the staff to swing at his head. Din rolled out of the way, but not without having to relinquish his hold on Zena. She lept to her feet gracefully and lashed out her leg, planting a solid and swift kick to one of Din's pauldrons, sending him back to the floor.
"You should really work on your hand-to-hand combat, Din Djarin. I expected better from a lifelong warrior."
"I'm good enough to get by," Din said with a huff, finally making his way to his feet again.
"Good enough isn't good enough, Mando. You need to be better. The best."
"Fine, if you want a fair fight, you'll get one." Din pulled something from his belt. It was hard to tell what it was, just an oblong object in his hand. But then he pressed a button and the full length of it emerged, glowing and humming with electricity. The Darksaber.
"So when I defeat you, does that mean I'm the new Mand'alor?"
Zena was taking the appearance of the most powerful handheld weapon in the galaxy in stride.
"If you win, yes. But you're not going to."
The saber met the staff with a crash, sending reverberations across the sparring grounds. You felt a jolt of electricity spread over your skin, vibrating your body down to the core. Din suddenly took on a new appearance, powerful, intense, confident. The shift was small but compelling and you thought perhaps the vibrations spreading through your body were not just from the force of the saber.
Din attacked again, forcing Zena backward in a fight that had taken on a new energy. Zena was skilled and agile. She anticipated Din's every move and blocked his strikes. But she was no match to the Darksaber in Din's hands and found herself forced to step back with each blow until she was up against the wall. The staff narrowly prevented the loss of her head.
"How about now, ready to tap out?"
Zena held up a fist in response, letting him know she knew she was done for.
"I take that back. You are good."
In an instant, the Darksaber was gone again, just a hilt in his hands. "No, the Darksaber is good. You were right. I could use some practice. And I wouldn't mind getting it from the best around."
Zena laughed.
"I train at dawn. See you there, metalhead." With an affectionate rap of her knuckles on his helmet, she handed Din back the staff. "I've got work to do. Perhaps Her Majesty could finish the tour."
She bowed toward you with a dubious smile and exited the sparring grounds, leaving you alone with Din. You walked down the stairs and met him in the center of the ring, the power of the Darksaber leaving your skin vibrating slightly with its intensity.
"So, did it work?" Din asked, his tone level and unreadable.
"Did what work?"
"Did I impress you."
You couldn't suppress the shy smile that danced across your lips. "The Darksaber certainly did."
It wasn't the answer Din had hoped for, but he'd broken your silence, which was enough for him. Without Zena around to watch you, he felt a bit more emboldened to pursue your fleeting smile.
"Give me your hand," he said, voice still serious.
"Why?"
"Just--" He didn't wait. Din grabbed your left hand and placed the Darksaber in it, wrapping your fingers around it with his own. "Point it away from your face. And anything else you value. Then press right here when you're ready."
The Darksaber was in your hand. You stood frozen in shock, unsure of what to make of this gesture. Din was putting his most valuable, and most controversial, possession under your control.
"Go on. I know you want to."
"Are you sure I'm allowed to?"
Din shrugged. "I don't really care. I didn't ask for the thing."
You took a deep breath and then held your arm out from your side, worried you would accidentally slice your own leg off. But Din was right. You wanted to. Another breath and then--
Vroom. The shaft of the saber extended from its hilt with a jolt and you took an involuntary step back. The glow was even brighter up close, and if you listened carefully you could hear the crackle of electricity. You weren't sure why you'd expected it to be heavy, it seemed such a heavy object, carrying the weight of a people and a planet within it. But it wasn't.
Din stepped behind you, you thought to get out of the way of your swing, but then he placed a hand on your hip, showing you how to plant your feet and stabilize you. The left reached out and wrapped around yours.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft and guiding in your ear. Oh Maker, he was so close that you could feel his beskar armor against your back. The hand on your hip was gentle but strong, grounding you not to the floor but to him. You couldn't speak so you nodded in reply.
Din brought your hand up to your opposite shoulder and then guided it into a swift slash across your body, leaving a flash of white light in its wake that seared your eyes. The air sparkled, electrified. A gasp escaped your mouth at the sheer amount of power you held. But only one thought entered your mind.
"Can I cut something in half?"
Din laughed, in awe that this was your only request. "Sure, as long as it isn't me. Remember to balance yourself in your hips. Keep your feet planted. And maybe use two hands this time."
He released you and you stepped across the grounds toward one of the sparring dummies. Din watched, and though you walked gingerly, a bit wary of the saber, you held your head high. You were more powerful than you thought.
"Sorry, bud. This is for a good cause," you addressed the motionless dummy. Plant your feet, balance in the hips, and two hands on the hilt. Check, check, check. Draw back and slash. The Darksaber sliced straight through the sack of hay and sand, spilling its guts across the floor.
You squealed in delight. "Oh Maker, I think I could get used to this."
The beaming smile on your face lit the world on fire. Din found himself staring not at the mess you'd just made but at your expression of pure joy, glowing white from the light of the Darksaber. He wanted to make you feel like that all the time, he realized.
---
"What are the people like on Mandalore?" you asked, guiding Din around the palace library. It was quiet today, especially between the stacks, as everyone seemed to be enjoying the good weather outside.
Din sighed, unsure how to answer the question. "They need help. But they're stubborn and won't ask."
"Sounds familiar," you said and Din laughed in response. You wished you could see his face at times like these when the conversation flowed easily and he let you tease him.
"You know, some people on Mandalore don't even believe you're real."
"They don't?"
"They think you're a figurehead. A distraction from the real people in charge. That you only show up to make appearances at official functions."
It wasn't that surprising for you to hear. You rarely left the palace and never left the planet. But there was another reason you suspected their disbelief.
"I think I know why," you said.
Din's silence urged you to continue.
"Meet me outside the palace. At four. I'll show you."
When Din stood at the grand doors of the entrance to the palace, he thought for a moment you had forgotten about him up. He was looking for the regal version of you, the version where you wore your extravagant robes and were surrounded by guards. That is not the version that appeared.
Instead, you were dressed modestly, having abandoned your synthsilk robes for brown linen pants. A dark green cape was wrapped around your shoulders, the hood hiding your face, but the heat signature on Din's visor was clearly yours. The transformation was astounding.
Din bowed as you approached. "Your Majesty," he addressed you.
"Stop that, you'll give me away. You should use my real name."
Your real name? He hadn't yet been offered the privilege of that knowledge, and it embarrassed him to discover what an intense reaction the thought of it elicited from him. His heart rate picked up erratically and he thanked the Maker for his helmet to hide the blush on his cheeks.
You leaned in, beckoning with a finger for him to come closer, and whispered to him in a soft voice. Your name. Your real name. It was a beautiful secret, a name all for himself to possess and wrap around his tongue. It suited you, Din thought.
He repeated it back to you, testing out its weight. You liked the way the syllables rolled around his mouth, even through the modulation of his helmet.
"Come on, we'll start at the market first. I have forty hard-earned credits to spend."
Din trailed behind you through the late afternoon crowds, weaving this way and that over bridges and around stalls. There was no way Din would have been able to find his way around, but you knew the place like the back of your hand, following the paved stone paths, recognizing your favorite shopkeepers, and pointing out the best spots.
Once fully immersed in the throng and away from any guards who may have recognized you, you let your hood fall from your head, tilting your face toward the sun and smiling contentedly. Though your face was no different than it always was, you had changed somehow. No one recognized you or even gave you a second glance, other than perhaps to admire the beauty of the sunlight reflecting from your untamed hair. At least, that's what Din was staring at.
And finally he understood, that beneath it all you weren't just a queen, you were any other person who could blend in with the crowd. He was jealous. He wanted to disappear like that.
"Keep up, Mando," you said, and reached out behind you to grab his hand. You did it to prevent him from getting swept up and lost to the swarms of people, but his heart fluttered at the intimacy and ease of the interaction as you pulled him closer.
"Why are there so many people?" he mumbled into your ear as you paused at one of the stalls to take a look.
"Tomorrow's the fertility festival. After the last day of planting the year's crops, everyone celebrates and prays for good yields. The city will be even more packed tomorrow, so the market prepares for the influx of people." You moved on, dragging Din along behind you. "But today is really the day to come. Fewer people and a better selection."
Selection of what? Din almost asked until you pulled him to a stop. Somehow, you were back at that stall Din had noticed during his first trip here, the one with the delicious smelling food that he'd been in too much of a hurry, and too poor, to buy. Din lingered behind you, eyeing the small pastries and steaming bowls of...something. He wasn't exactly sure what. But it still smelled just as amazing as he remembered, even through the filtered sterile air of his helmet.
"I'll take three of those," you said, pointing at the largest pastries on the top row of the display. The woman running the stall silently slid them into a paper bag, completely oblivious to your identity. You loved the liberating feeling of not having anyone call you by your title or even recognize who you truly were.
"And for the Mandalorian?" the woman asked, glancing slightly nervously at Din's hulking shape hovering just behind you.
You turned toward him. "Are you super hungry or just really hungry?" you asked with a grin.
"Oh, no thank you. I can't afford that."
You pulled a stack of credits from your pocket and handed them over, completely ignoring his comment. "We'll take two more fruit pastries and two of the vegetable ones, thank you."
And then you were off again before he could protest, guiding him further away from the palace and into the market. From the top of a bridge, you flagged down one of the canal taxis, stepping down the bank as it slowed to a stop.
"Now where are we going?"
You didn't respond, just pointed at the flat-bottomed boat, indicating for Din to get in. He did as he was told, jumping in easily, and you moved to follow, sitting on the edge of the stone wall to reduce how far you'd have to jump. But Din stopped you with his hands on your hips, lifting you easily with his arms into the boat so that you wouldn't have to jump.
"Where to?" the helmsman said.
You pointed along the canal in the direction opposite of the city. "Just follow on up that way."
"Lady, you're going to hit marsh. I can't go that far without my boat bottoming out."
"Just go until you can't anymore."
The taxi maneuvered up the canal, at first following the stone walls that lined the waters edge. Soon, however, they turned to grass as you left the boundary of the city, the market fading slowly behind you. The man was right. The canal quickly became more of a creek, marsh grasses and reeds growing up around you.
"This is as far as I can take you. Not sure why you'd want to be here, but I'm not coming back so good luck."
How kind. Din helped you out of the boat, a bit wary of your strange plan. There couldn't have been anything out here. But you were scrambling onto the grassy embankment, paper bag of food in tow, and he followed diligently behind.
"I'm starting to think you're a bit crazy," Din teased. He'd roughed it before, and this was by no means roughing it, but he hadn't expected this from you.
"I know what I'm doing, Din. Just follow me."
The ground leveled out, marshes to one side of the creek, a smattering of trees on the other. The two of you walked along the shrinking stream of water, a soft blanket of grass beneath your feet, until you found what you were apparently looking for.
"When I was a kid, I would hide out here. No one could find me."
Din wasn't surprised. The small clearing was absolutely secluded from the rest of the world, the city skyline was gone, the sounds of the market reduced to nothing. Around him, the chirping and croaking of wildlife was the only noise besides the rushing water of the shallow stream. The air was warm today, warmer than it had been in a while, and though the evening was waning, you pulled off your cape and tossed it to the ground.
Without a second thought, you plopped down on the ground next to the stream, back against a tree, and off came your shoes so you could dig your toes into the sandy bank. You opened the paper bag, fishing around for the first pastry. When Din didn't join you, you patted the ground next to you, inviting him to sit.
"You're sure we're safe?"
"Of course we're safe, Din. I know my way around my own planet."
Finally he sat, looking slightly out of place in all his beskar. But he removed his helmet when you handed him one of the vegetable pies, helping him to look a little more relaxed in these unfamiliar surroundings. He leaned back against the thick tree, looking around to better gauge his environment. You, and the planet you called home, never ceased to surprise him.
"Have you ever left?"
"Where? Nhora?"
"Yeah."
You looked up toward the sky where the sun was starting to set, casting an orange and pink glow through the clouds. But you weren't looking for the sunset. You were looking for the moons, already rising.
"There. See the smallest moon, up and to the left?" Din nodded in the direction you pointed. "It's actually the biggest, only it looks small because it's so far away. That's where I was born. But no, otherwise I haven't."
Din nodded solemly and took a bite of the pie. You weren't sure why he'd posed the question and he didn't seem inclined to explain. You watched as he chewed slowly, crumbs from the crust spilling onto his armor. And then his eyes went wide with enjoyment. The soft buttery pastry melted in his mouth, sweetness contrasting with the salty filling.
"Wow, this is delicious."
You smiled in satisfaction. That reaction was all you'd wanted all day, to see him blown away by the things you called home. He finished the first pastry in silence and then held out a hand, asking you wordlessly for another.
"I once visited a planet with no atmosphere," he said abruptly. It was surprising to hear him speak like this, freely, with no prompting. You held your tongue because it was the only way to encourage him to go on. "Then there was the planet where I couldn't stop moving unless I wanted to be someone's lunch."
He paused, thinking. "I know four languages. Aside from basic."
That one was impressive. You realized this was him opening up. Sharing. It made your heart tingle with warmth. Then Din fell into silence, indicating it was your turn.
"I can fly an x-wing," you said after a moment of thinking. "Not very well. But in a pinch. And I've never punched anyone, though I really want to punch that Angor prince sometimes."
"You can try it out on me."
"I think I'd rather not break my hand on your armor," you said with a laugh. What else? "I'm twenty-six years old."
Din took a deep breath. "I don't know how old I am. Maybe thirty-nine. Or forty."
"You look older than that."
Din glanced at you to gauge if you were joking. You were, in fact, joking, a big smile filling the round apples of your cheeks, mouth full of flaky pastry. "Alright, very funny. Your turn."
"I--" Where did you want to take this conversation? Din's presence next to you made you feel comfortable and warm and something about that inclined you to dig deeper, let him in a little more. "I don't know who my father was. Or is, I guess."
Din let out a quiet breath beside you. You were both watching the sunset, not one another, but you didn't have to see his face to feel comforted by his presence. "My parents are definitely dead if that makes you feel any better. No doubt about that."
The admission was a difficult one for him, and he was glad you didn't press any further. But then suddenly your hand was on his leg, gripping his knee tightly and telling him to be quiet.
"What's wrong?"
"Shh!" For a moment Din thought you were in imminent danger, but then he saw no alarm on your face, only excitement. "Don't move," you whispered.
The final light of the sun had dimmed, leaving you surrounded by a deep blue twilight. And yet, you still managed to spot the creature, sitting on a rock across the stream from you. You stood as quietly as possible, moving slowly so as not to scare it away. Without bothering to roll up the legs of your pants you stepped barefooted into the shallow stream, the cool water rushing around your ankles, not yet warmed by the sun of the warming season. But a little cold water wasn't going to stop you from catching the small creature.
Din watched as you bent over slowly and then snatched as quick as lightning, grabbing at something sitting on a rock. When you stood, triumph on your face, he nearly laughed. "What is that?"
"It's a glow frog, remember?"
Of course, he remembered. The animal you'd compared Grogu to. You were grasping the frog firmly but gently, holding it up for Din to see. It was a comical sight, a woman normally so regal and queen-like, shin-deep in marsh water, wild animal in her hands.
"So is the glow part just for kicks or..." The frog was not living up to its name. No glowing in sight.
"Just wait. It takes a second." The sun had fully dipped below the horizon now, the light from the three moons overhead the strongest source in the night sky. But then it happened. The small creature in your hands began to illuminate, green and fluorescent. It started slow, almost imperceptibly, until it shown bright, casting its glow across your face.
And you were right. The resemblance was uncanny. The frog opened its wide mouth, eyes large, and it croaked, surprising you enough into dropping it back into the water. You giggled, and suddenly Din spotted the youthful shine reappearing on your face the way it had the other night in the kitchen.
"They respond to pressure, releasing a chemical when you surprise them. I used to catch them all the time out here. The only downside is this," you said, holding up your hands which now fluoresced as well.
"That doesn't seem healthy."
"Oh, its fine. Look, it just washes off." You rinsed your hands in the water, the green fluorescence washing downstream, most of it coming off, though not all. When you pushed the hair out of your face with a wet hand, you left green glowing streaks behind on your cheeks. You glittered in the moonlight.
Din had never seen you so happy. What happened to you?
"What did you say?"
Oh Maker, he'd said that out loud. He hadn't meant to. And he could tell by the fallen look on your face that you had definitely heard him, only wanted him to repeat it to be sure. Din regretted the words immediately, watching as the joy faded from your face.
"Nothing. Forget it." But it was too late.
You waded back across the stream, a sudden chill running through your body as the night air cooled. You sat heavily, pondering the implications of actually opening up to the man next to you. You'd spent so long trying to bottle up how you felt, pretending it didn't exist, pretending you weren't attracted to him, that the tender gesture of Din replacing your cape around your shoulders forced it all out in one go.
Once you started speaking, you couldn't stop. And he listened.
"I was seven when the Clone Wars finally came to an end. It was a...brutal, destructive end. After my grandmother died, my grandfather came back to visit sometimes. He promised to protect us, even though it went against our customs. Something about Mandalorian creed. I'm sure you understand," you said, gesturing vaguely in Din's direction. "But Nhora seemed safe from the war. I was still living on Lunar Post 3 with the rest of the kids from noble families. It was easier like that, educating us all together in one place."
You took a breath, coming to the hard part.
"I had an older sister, Tia. She was so...perfect. I looked up to her. She was going to be queen and even though she was eleven years older than me she treated me like the only star in the sky." Tears pricked behind your eyes but you kept going, kept yourself steady by gazing up at the sky. "She and my mother came to visit for my birthday. It was the last trip she would make before her coronation. But everything went wrong. I don't remember it well, but when the explosions hit there was no one there to protect us, not the guards, and especially not my grandfather. The first one killed my mother. Tia died in the second, shielding me.
"The blasts were meant for me and the other noble children, the second borns, the replaceables, the one's who could be eliminated and then played like a bargaining chip to force my mother's hand to help the Independent Systems. I didn't understand. I'll never understand. I was too young. But instead they took out the royal line and left only me. And so began eleven years of non-stop training for a position I was not born to have. I wanted to escape so badly, to any planet as long as it wasn't this one, just to mourn them even. But this was all I had," you said, gesturing to your surroundings.
Din was silent, unsure what to say, but you were grateful for that. You preferred silence anyway.
"The scars have healed with time. Maybe one day they'll be gone."
"Emotional scars never heal," Din finally said. He was watching you, one knee propped up to support his elbow as he leaned against the trunk of the tree.
"Well, that's true, but I don't mean emotional scars. I mean physical ones."
"But you're so... well, you're so whole, so undamaged." He was thinking about your soft hands and how smooth they'd been on his face.
"That's not true. I have scars."
Din narrowed his eyes, prompting you to continue.
You shrugged your cape off again and started to unbutton to top buttons of your shirt. You had nothing to prove to this man, didn't need to do anything to earn his respect. And yet you wanted to show him the most vulnerable parts of you.
"You don't have to--"
You yanked the collar of your shirt down, effectively shutting him up, and putting the scar that sliced along your clavicle on full display. "Here's where the first blast hit."
Then you turned away, kneeling with your back to Din, and fully unbuttoned your shirt, letting it slip from your shoulders and gather at your waist to show him the second scar, another long slice that curved around your right shoulder blade. Both scars were old, softened and faded over the years from having grown much bigger than when they were inflicted. They no longer hurt to touch, though the searing pain of the memories was still there.
"How..." Din couldn't finish his sentence. He was too preoccupied with the sight of your bare back, smooth except for the line that hinted at the intense trauma from your past. And the scars were beautiful; you were beautiful. He realized with a shudder that you were now naked from the waist up, giving the marsh a show he'd been thinking of catching a glimpse of for a while now.
You heard Din move, heard him shift and lean forward, felt his warm presence behind you. You wondered momentarily if he would touch you and found you liked that thought.
You didn't feel him reaching out until a single finger touched your back gently, gliding along the path of your scar and sending a shiver down your spine. The goosebumps that followed his touch did not go unnoticed by either of you. You looked back over your shoulder, watching Din from the corner of your eye as several waves of emotions washed over him, pity, sadness, horror, fascination, admiration. But he couldn't seem to pull his hand away, ungloved, from the skin on skin contact.
"Do you miss your family?" His question was asked in barely a whisper.
"I don't really remember them anymore." It was difficult to admit that you had mostly forgotten what your mother and sister looked like.
"You can miss something you don't remember having." Din was right, of course, though he'd said it absentmindedly, thinking of his own family. His fingers were still tracing along the skin of your back, up your vertebrae, across your ribs. Something else had taken control of his hand, like he didn't know what he was doing anymore, unaware of his movements.
You could have stopped him. Brought him back from wherever his mind was floating up in space. But you didn't. You leaned into his touch, consenting to the reassurance of his presence. You let Din wrap his arm around your waist, place his warm hand against your bare tummy, and pull you in.
He didn't know what compelled him to hold you like this. He'd never wanted to touch anyone this way before. But you leaned into him, your body melting against his, a contented hum spreading through you and into the big hands that held you, and it felt like a piece of him he hadn't even known was missing had been returned to its rightful place.
It was oddly serene, this position of being encompassed by someone so much bigger than you. But he was hot against your naked skin, insulating you from the night air. He pressed his face against your neck, breathing you in, lips barely grazing your skin, and you thought you could sit like this forever, protected, safe, warm.
He didn't try to grope you, didn't try to get a peek at whatever you might look like from the front. It was intensely comforting, knowing that he respected you, knowing he wouldn't take advantage of you the way so many other men tried to do. He only wanted to inhale your scent and never let go of this feeling he had no name for. It was a feeling he'd only ever felt once before, while holding the kid for the last time, knowing he had to say goodbye. Neither of you wanted to move.
The sounds of the world melted away and it was only you and Din and his breath against your skin. You had no idea how long you stayed that way.
"We should go," you whispered. "Before someone realizes I'm gone."
Though reluctantly, Din pulled away, that all-encompassing warmth gone, and he helped you dress. He'd barely even seen you, barely even touched you, and he was craving more. He wanted to be linked to you forever, to hold your hand the way you had in the market, to kiss you. He'd never done any of it before and yet he knew without a doubt you were the person he wanted to be with. He just needed to know you felt the same.
"You don't have to do alone," he said, hoping you would understand what he was offering.
"Excuse me?" You turned back to look at him but the helmet was already on and you couldn't tell what he was implying underneath it.
"Rule. You don't have to rule alone. I know you can. I've seen you do it. But you don't have to."
You stood, suddenly feeling exposed though fully dressed again, like the Mandalorian had just read your mind and discovered every feeling that swirled around in there.
"Don't you dare tell me what I do or don't have to do, Djarin," you said sharply. But your voice cracked with suppressed tears."There are traditions to follow, customs I have to abide by. This is my place."
The words were harsh, more defensive than they should have been and you regretted saying them the moment they left your mouth. But Din had recognized in you what you truly wanted, to not be alone anymore, to have a family again, and it scared you.
"Are you afraid of heights?" he asked unexpectedly, standing as well.
"What are you talking about?" you asked, your words still laced with annoyance and defiance. You were still feeling defensive, but now you were equally as confused.
He repeated the question and you shook your head slowly. What was he planning?
"Good, I'm tired of walking," was all he said before he wrapped his arms around your waist, powered up his jetpack, and shot straight up into the air. Somehow, you managed not to vomit at the sudden change in altitude. But Maker, you were flying, and incredibly fast.
One moment you were frozen in shock and the next you were screaming, your voice lost to the wind that pummeled your face. You hid your face in the crook of Din's next, holding on tight. No, you weren't afraid of heights, but that wasn't the problem here. The problem was you felt like you were going to fall at any moment, no matter how tightly Din held you.
But it was a short flight. You landed less than gracefully at the front doors of the palace, stumbling like you'd just stepped off a boat. Din caught your elbow and righted you.
"Dank farrick, Din! You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry. You were spiraling. I had to do something."
You realized he was right. The shock of adrenaline coursing through your body had completely distracted you from the emotions you had been overwhelmed with only a couple of minutes ago. But now they started to flood back, the loneliness, the fear. Why did you feel these things, but only now, with Din right next to you? Did he remind you of how hard it was to be alone, show you what you were missing? You had to get away, to be with your jumbled thoughts for a moment and collect yourself. You couldn't breathe.
"Thank you for... spending the evening with me. I--" You couldn't look him in the face, even though it was hidden behind the helmet. You didn't finish your sentence, just walked away, leaving the Mandalorian standing in the entrance to your quiet palace.
"You can't run forever." You were already halfway up the stairs when Din called out. You didn't stop, didn't turn around, just ran like the coward you were from the feelings you couldn't hide from him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You were an idiot that couldn't tell the one good man on this maker-forsaken planet how you really felt.
In your bedroom you stripped, changing quickly into your pajamas and then curling up in bed under the covers. Maybe if you pressed your face into the pillow hard enough you could scream in frustration and no one would hear.
Din had watched as you walked, no, ran, away from him. He should have stopped you, should have told you how he felt. How did he feel, though? What words would he have to say to you, other than what he'd already said? And then what, just to have you throw his feelings right back in his face.
He didn't move until you'd disappeared from sight, only then making his way to his room. It wasn't often that Din got the opportunity to sleep without his armor on. He usually didn't feel safe enough. But here, in this palace, he pulled each piece off one by one and stacked it on the floor. Here, he could sleep in comfort, in peace, without anything to bother him--
Except that he knew he couldn't. Not when he felt there was something left unsaid. He hoped you wouldn't be asleep yet, hoped that when he saw your face he would know exactly what he wanted to say.
You didn't get the chance to scream into your pillow. Someone knocked softly at your bedroom door, disturbing your stress relief hours. You swore to the Maker, if it was Zena or one of your guards here to berate you for sneaking out again, you would actually scream, and not into a pillow but in their face.
But it wasn't Zena or a guard or anyone else. It was Din on the other side and you were wearing those damn transparent pajamas again like you knew what they did to him. But he had to focus. He had things he wanted to say. He'd caught a glimpse of the real you deep inside and he wanted it back, all for himself.
"I meant what I said." Din never raised his voice, but now he was becoming insistent. "You put so much into caring for others. But have you ever thought about accepting some help every once in a while?"
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your heart rate. Why did seeing his face like this make you so nervous? It excited you to find the Mandalorian standing patiently outside your bedroom, especially at this time of night.
"I don't need help," was all you managed to sputter out. Apparently, Din had made a stop in his room to shed his armor, the first time you'd seen him without it. You'd expected him to look smaller under it all but he still managed to fill your doorway and block your escape.
"Maker be damned, I'm trying to tell you that I want to take care of you. I'm not offering because I think you need me, I'm offering because you're allowed to need me." Din took a step forward, closing the gap between you even more. Written on his face was an urgency you'd only seen a few times before.
"I--" You didn't know what to say. I don't know how? "I can't think when you look at me like that."
"Like what?" Din's voice was low with earnest gravity.
"Like you care."
"I do care. I care a lot, but for some reason, you won't accept it." His hands found your face, holding your chin to force you to look into his eyes. "Somehow you think this is disingenuous. And I know you don't trust many people but let me be one of them."
Care. Trust. His words rattled around your brain and sent you spinning. He was so close, so warm. The world was hazy with that tingling feeling, the one that pulled you to him, made you reach out a hand to touch the dark fabric of his undershirt. You had no idea what you were doing, no control over the movement of your fingers as they took hold and dragged him closer.
"Stop running," he whispered softly, letting you pull your bodies together.
He cared. Oh Maker, he wanted you to lean on him, to give him some of the burden you carried. So you did, letting your hands find his shoulders and rest there.
"Do you trust me?" you asked in a hushed tone.
"Of course--"
"Then kiss me."
He didn't need to be told twice, closing the last of the distance between you and kissing you with the same urgency that was written on his face.
You were it, the first and last. Your lips were like a siren's song, dragging Din to the depths of a passion he'd suppressed for so long, calling for him to relent to their addictiveness. He would drown in this taste until he succumbed.
Din kissed you tenderly, carefully, as if he was afraid you would disappear the moment he let go. No man had ever kissed you this way. They had all been greedy, triumphant, dominating kisses, as if you were a prize to be won, a conquest to be conquered. But Din, Din kissed like he had everything to lose and nothing to gain in return. He only pulled away when you did, breathless and panting for air, foreheads pressed together.
Your hands were still grabbing his shirt greedily as you dragged him into your bedroom. Din was so lost in capturing your lips with his again he barely noticed being pushed onto the bed until he was flat on his back with your body stacked on top of his. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing your hips flush with his, your knees straddling his waist in return, and your elbows leaning on either side of his head.
No matter how tightly he held you it wasn't enough. He needed to fit that missing piece back into the hole in his heart. But your lips were a start. It was impossible to tell where yours ended and his began and that's how he liked it.
Was this what he was missing out on his whole life? When you prodded your tongue against his lips, he let you sink deep into his mouth, moaning in response and sending vibrations through his chest and into yours. He ran his hands up and down your sides, memorizing every curve and contour, wishing the clothing that separated you two would disappear but not knowing how to make it happen.
You broke away to run your fingers through Din's hair, his really fucking soft hair, and place a kiss on the nose that was simply begging to be kissed. You'd wanted to do that for a while.
"How do you taste so good? Like heaven on my tongue," he mumbled. His words sent shivers down your spine and you pulled away to look at his face. Din's eyes were closed, heavy with bliss and experiencing the greatest pleasure of his life. Your body tingled with excitement.
"Have you never been kissed properly?" you asked teasingly. It was meant as a joke.
"Never been kissed," was his short reply, eyes still closed, a dumbstruck look on his face.
You stopped in your tracks, abruptly pulling away further and sitting up.
"What?" you asked, a bit louder than you'd intended.
Din's eyes flew open. He wasn't sure what to say. He'd thought it was obvious, considering how awkwardly unaware he was of what he was doing. "I've worn a helmet for three decades. Doesn't really aid in building romantic relationships."
Suddenly you felt like apologizing, afraid you'd forced him into something he didn't want. "Oh Maker, I'm sorry, if I'd known I would have--"
"Woah, slow down, Angel." You were speaking too fast, tumbling over your words a mile a minute. Din sat up as well, holding onto your hips to keep you straddling him, grounding you and letting you know it was okay. "Don't apologize. I want you. I need you."
Fuck, he needed you. The sincerity in his eyes and his tender use of a nickname eased your worry. But you were still unsure. What if this was some part of his Mandalorian creed, and you were breaking it? Din seemed to recognize the concern on your face, the way he always did.
"Look at me." You did. "I want this. I promise. I've dreamt about kissing you since the moment I met you. Fuck, you have no idea. I dream about holding you and touching you and making you feel good. I just--I don't know how. Tell me how."
This was...new. Uncharted territory. Men usually knew what they were doing. Or at least thought they did. Generally, they were arrogant enough to believe they were pleasuring you, even when they weren't. Never had anyone asked what you wanted. The fact that this man, the greatest warrior in the galaxy, was absolutely clueless but asking for your help, turned you on even more.
If he thought that kiss was good, you were about to blow his mind.
Din had seen naked women before. Once, he'd chased a bounty into a strip club and shackled the man as he was paying for a lap dance. But nothing could compare to you. The urgency that had dominated your kiss was gone, replaced by a deliberate craving. You guided his hands to the buttons of your shirt, urging him to take it off himself. He did, fingers grazing your skin as he slipped the item from your shoulders, leaving your heaving breasts bare before him. You were breathing rapidly and Din burned, knowing that he was the reason why.
"Tell me if you want to stop."
Din nodded, eyes roving all over you, from your face to your chest to the soft plane of your stomach. Between your breasts hung the round pendant of your necklace and he watched as it swung gently back and forth. You could tell he wanted to touch you but was unsure if he should, or how he should. So you took his hand, holding his fingers gently to place them on the soft skin of your neck.
"Follow your fingers with your lips."
At first, he was confused, but then you began to move his hand, dragging his fingers down your neck, along your collarbone, over the tender flesh of your breasts, across your hardening nipple, and down toward the hem of your pants. Din did as he was told, placing soft, open mouth kisses everywhere his fingers went. He placed his free hand on your back, stabilizing you as you leaned back to give him better access. He lingered on the soft mounds of your areolas, taking each into his mouth and sucking gently. He did it instinctually, not knowing what reaction he would receive from you, but taking immense pleasure in the moans he elicited from your mouth.
Mouth still tasting every inch of your bare skin, Din gripped your hips and flipped you around so that you were laying on the bed. He wasn't sure if it was what he was supposed to do, but it seemed like the right move. He continued to kiss you everywhere he could, meditating in the sweet floral scent that an evening spent in nature had left upon you. You nodded when he looked into your eyes, silently asking to remove your pants for you.
Maker, you were gorgeous. He took a ragged breath at the sight of you, slick with desire, all for him. You whispered his name, pulling his intense gaze away from your folds and back to your eyes.
"Watch," you said. And then you began to touch yourself, a lazy finger gathering your wetness and dragging along your slit. You let your legs fall open to give Din a better view as you pleasured yourself. With your middle finger, you found your clit and circled, easing into the satisfying feeling that you knew would build toward an orgasm. You added another finger, dipping slowly into your cunt and savoring the warmth you found there.
Din could tell you'd done this many times before, knew exactly how best to touch yourself. But now someone was watching you, intently, exploring your edges and lines with his gaze, cataloging every hitch in your breath and twitch of your stomach. He studied your patterns and movements like he did his bounties, learning what you liked, anticipating your reactions.
"Fuck," you cursed under your breath, the wicked voyeuristic sensation lighting something new in your core. What had once been your own dirty little secret you were now performing for an audience, an extremely attentive audience, and it was hot as fuck.
Din watched as your head flopped back in pleasure, a breathy moan escaping your throat, as your free hand came to your breast to pinch and twist the hard bud. Just seeing you this way, writhing beneath your own touch, was making his cock grow hard, but he wanted desperately to be the one to make you feel that way, edging you toward orgasm.
You noticed his need and grabbed his hand to replace it with your own, though not before bringing your fingers to Din's lips for a taste. He wrapped his mouth around your wetness with no reluctance, eyes sinking shut with heady desire and licking them clean.
Like heaven. He wanted you so badly, to know what every inch of you tasted like. He would have to be patient.
Everything about this was irritatingly slow, but it brought your craving for him to a new level. The urgency that had built as you worked toward your first orgasm had subsided to a dull ache without your consistent fingers, begging to be attended to. You knew you could finish yourself off, quickly and easily. But you wanted him to be the one to do. You wanted to know what it was like to unravel beneath the Mandalorian.
Din truly had no idea what he was doing and he couldn't sustain what you'd started. But he was curious, unafraid, and the acute learner in him caught on quickly. You gasped as a thick finger entered you, experimental and slow, and you grabbed onto his shoulders for both his support and your own. He added another finger, testing the velvet softness of your cunt and the ridges of your walls, filling you and stretching you in a way you couldn't do for yourself. He could get the angle right, you knew, better than your own fingers could, but it wasn't enough. You would have to show him.
You peeled open your eyes, unaware that they had even been shut in the first place, to watch him. He was taking you in with his eyes, leaving no part of you untouched by his gaze.
"Din, look at me." His eyes snapped to yours. "Like this."
You showed him how to curl his fingers, how to press his thumb to your clit at the same time. And when he did, Oh Maker, it was the sensation you'd always craved but could never perform for yourself. He filled you so well and only his fingers were touching you. A stifled cry left your lips and you gripped his shoulder harder, trying to ground yourself despite feeling like you were being lifted off into space. He leaned down, fingers still moving magically inside you, and took a nipple between his teeth, nibbling gently and soothing the searing sensation with a soft kiss before doing it all over again.
"Does this feel good, Your Majesty?" he asked against the skin of your chest, voice husky with arousal. It was utterly sinful, using your title while he was finger fucking you into oblivion.
You could barely do more than moan in response. He was catching on quickly, noticing how your hips jerked in response to the pressure on your clit and your walls clenched around his fingers when he simply curled them up and forward. You were falling apart slowly but surely, your breathing erratic, some very unqueenly curses falling from your perfect lips.
This was torture, this build-up, slow, consistent, inching. You could feel it coming, feel the heat pooling between your thighs and your pelvic floor spasming. But it was so fucking slow, like marching straight toward a cliff and not knowing when the edge would come, when the ground would fall out beneath your feet. And you loved every moment of it.
Din's face had fallen to your neck, his lips pressing heated kisses everywhere he could put them. He could feel your erratic pulse beneath his lips, the vibrations of your moans spreading through him. "Does this feel good? I need you to tell me. Tell me."
The words got stuck in your throat as you moaned into your approaching orgasm. You would cum any moment if--
And then, the edge of the cliff gave out and there was nothing beneath you but your crashing orgasm and Din's steady hand, guiding you through your pleasure. Oh Maker, the progress had been so measured and gradual you hadn't even known it was coming, but now you were falling and falling, only to be caught by Din's unyielding touch.
Din's face was buried in your neck as you came, your delicious cries breathed directly into his ear. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard, the sound of you fracturing into a million pieces by his hand. He cursed under his breath and you felt his words against your skin as you came down from your high, twitching and spasming.
"Are you okay, Angel?" he asked sweetly. He brushed the hair from your face to gaze deeply into your eyes, bewildered by what he'd just done to you.
"I'm more than okay," you replied with a giggle. You couldn't help the sound that bubbled up in your throat. "Come here."
You pulled at Din's shirt to drag him into a kiss and realized he was still fully clothed, the bastard. You wanted the shirt off with the rest of his clothes. You wanted nothing between you and him.
"Off. All of this off," you said, motioning to his clothes. Din complied and stood, tossing everything to the floor. You sat up onto your knees on the mattress so that you were at his eye level when he approached the edge of the bed once more. Reaching out to pull him in by his hips, you caught a glimpse of the amazing specimen before you. Broad and thick was the best way to describe him, both his shoulders and his cock. He had smooth, soft skin with hardened muscles beneath, no doubt from the taxing nature of his job, slightly tanned and beautifully scarred.
And he was hard for you. It sent a thrill up your spine to grasp gently at his thick length as he pulled you closer, lips against yours. He gasped into your mouth as he aligned his body with yours, bucking his hips involuntarily into your hand while you stroked him slowly. You took the opportunity to nibble his bottom lip, relishing in how fucking good it felt to press your skin to his. He was intoxicatingly warm, his big warm hands on your back, his big warm cock against your stomach.
"Can I ride you?" you asked against his mouth. Din groaned, eyes fluttering shut.
"I have no idea what that means but yes, please."
"Lay down." Oh Maker, it felt a little too good to tell this force of a man what to do and have him listen. But that was a feeling to be explored at another time. Now there was only fucking him into the next galaxy. You wanted to hear your name, your real name, from his lips.
You climbed across Din's lap, straddling him but not sinking onto him yet, instead letting his cock rest between your folds and tease your entrance gently. You were in no hurry, the high of your first orgasm still leaving you overly sensitive to touch, but you could tell Din was eager for release. He gripped your hips tightly as you leaned down, letting him take each of your breasts in his mouth, one by one.
When you began to grind your hips slowly against his, it took all his effort not to let the dam break right then and there. He'd gotten himself off plenty of times, even going so far as to hold back as long as he could to prolong the pleasure. But your folds were slick and warm against his twitching cock and he wasn't sure he could take the torture much longer. He needed to be inside you and he wasn't above begging.
"Are you going to take me or just fucking tease me all night?" Din huffed.
You smiled and pressed a kiss to his lips, wanting to taste his exclamations on your tongue when you finally sank your pussy around his length. And he did not disappoint. He was just as loud as you'd hoped he'd be, after finally lining your entrance with his length and easing down onto him. What you didn't expect was how good it would feel to have him inside you, your own moans mingling with his at the sensation. He filled you completely, stretching you further than his fingers had. It was slightly painful, but only in the sense that pleasure is often conflated with pain. You took him fully, feeling the head of his shaft press against the sensitive flesh of your cervix deep inside you.
Rolling your hips experimentally, Din jerked below you, trying to speed up your movements, but you wouldn't relent. With a hand on his face, thumb and fingers pressing into his cheeks, you maintained eye contact, the other hand against his chest for stability.
"Let me take care of you, Mando," you whispered with a hazy smile. He wanted so desperately to flip you over and fuck you however he pleased, but he held back, the sight of you beautiful and bare atop him mesmerizing and enthralling. The flush of your skin and the gentle bounce of your tits as you moved hypnotized him into obeying your request. He would do whatever his queen asked of him, he knew, without question.
You slowly picked up the pace, maintaining the rocking motion that dragged his cock along your g-spot and drove Din mad. He groaned and grunted beneath you, his sounds mixing with yours in the otherwise quiet bedroom. You leaned back, placing your hands flat against his thighs, and kept going, loving the way he let loose without inhibition or reserve. His hands gripped tightly at your hips, crashing you back down every time you rocked up, and you felt your second orgasm building in your core. It was now a question of who would come first. You suspected it would be Din.
It was his turn to fall apart, to lose control. You wanted him to relinquish his dignity the way you had to him. Finally, those precious words left his lips, at first a whisper and building louder, your name groaned over and over and over again. Your walls clenched at the sound and he choked beneath you at the sensation.
"Fuck, Angel, I'm gonna cum if you keep that up." You leaned forward again and noticed his eyes were screwed tight like he was holding back as best he could.
"Oh baby, that's the point. Cum for me, Din. Cum inside me, baby." The commanding words tumbled from your mouth, mixed with your shameless moans as you held back your own orgasm, wanting to clamp down around his cock as he came. With a jerk, you felt his cock twitch inside you, and Din cursed loudly with a groan. He seized your hips even harder than he had before, firmly holding you against his own as he came hard, his cum spilling deep inside you. With his heat filling you, you let go, releasing your own orgasm and contracting around his length, milking every drop.
You collapsed on top of Din with an overstimulated sob, not even bothering to pull off of his throbbing member. He wrapped his arms around your back and held you, his ragged breath in your ear slowly steadying and returning to normal.
"Fuck, that was beautiful," Din murmured. "You're beautiful. Oh Maker, you're so beautiful."
Din wasn't sure what was happening to him but he couldn't stop talking. Every thought, praises, rambling, absolute nonsense, that crossed his mind left his mouth, completely out of his control. You giggled, your own cock drunk brain unable to comprehend little else other than how sweet his soft grin was or how he had only one dimple on his left cheek.
"I'm going to just fall asleep like this if that's alright with you," Din said, rolling you over onto your side so he could pull the covers over the two of you and hold you. You giggled again as he rested his chin on the top of your head and you buried your face in his chest, letting his warmth wrap around you. "And then I'm never leaving."
Though he said the words lightly, it was difficult to ignore the finality they carried, so you deflected. "Didn't you promise Zena you would train with her in the morning?"
Din groaned at the reminder. "I did, didn't I?"
When you didn't respond, he looked down at your face. Your eyes had closed softly and your breath was deepening, sleep starting to tug at the edges of your brain. You hadn't realized how tired you were until you were hunkered down, feeling the security of Din's fingers pressed against your back, the rising and falling of his chest lulling you into a sense of safety.
Din pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, believing you to be asleep, but needing to say these next words anyway, needing to make up somehow the failures of your grandfather.
"I know I won't always be around. I can't always stay. But I'll always come back. I promise."
Notes: This chapter jumps back in time a bit from Din's perspective, giving us a glance into his crash landing on Mandalore and his first impressions of You. Mostly just a lot of feels (or the suppressing thereof).
---
"Mando."
Where was that voice coming from?
"Mando. Come on, wake up."
The hiss of hydraulics and Din's helmet lifted, forcing him to squint his eyes while trying to make out the face above him. The glare of a hot desert sun obscured its features and the pounding in Din's head made it difficult to focus.
"Help me get him on the speeder."
Arms under his legs and armpits lifted Din and placed him gently on a hard seat. He slouched forward, unable to sit up straight, the pain so great and so extensive it was hard to pinpoint exactly what was broken or bruised. The vehicle took off across the desert with a lurch, spraying sand in its wake.
A hot wind burned against Din's face, further drying his mouth and making it hard to keep his eyes open. He drifted in and out of consciousness, unaware of how long they sped over the sandy terrain.
Maybe only minutes passed, maybe hours. Eventually, the speeder entered one of the large domes that had been visible from space. Inside it was much cooler and darker, a relief after the harshness of Mandalore's surface. Din continued to drift in and out, dehydrated and covered in sand, unable to comprehend if he was safe. He was too concussed to take in his surroundings or catalog his injuries. Finally, exhaustion hit him like a mudhorn to the chest, and Din fell hard and fast into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, his helmet, armor, and underclothes were removed, leaving him nearly naked. Panic seized at Din's throat and he sat up quickly, surveying the situation and already planning his escape route. In this recently awoken state, Din couldn't remember where he was or what he had been doing. His thoughts flew immediately to the kid, his instinct telling him to find the child, whatever the cost. But then he noticed a neat pile at the end of the bed, beskar stacked alongside his clothes and helmet, and the terror eased.
He was on Mandalore. Din steadied his breathing and dressed. This was where he was meant to be. The kid was safe, Moff Gideon was defeated, the Darksaber was his.
The Darksaber. Din prayed to the Maker that it had survived the wreck. Or maybe not. At least that would have rid him of this devastating responsibility. But there it was, alongside his blaster and spear, hooked into its slot on his belt. The little metal ball was there as well, and Din breathed a final sigh of relief.
He was okay. For farrik's sake, he was okay and he could take a moment to reorient himself. Din looked around, taking in the small bed he had awoken upon, the gray walls of the room, the solid stone of the floor beneath his feet. He seemed to be in some type of infirmary. He reached his arms over his head and stretched out his neck, feeling the lingering pain of broken ribs and compressed vertebrae. Thank the Maker for bacta shots; he probably would have died without them. But even now, his age made it difficult to heal. He would be feeling this for a while.
Din lifted his helmet, ready to place it on his head, but he paused. He caught a glimpse of his face in the reflection of the beskar, of exhaustion, worry, and sadness staring back at him. He wasn't used to seeing his own face so much or reading his own emotions, and it felt like a stranger was glaring back, not his own eyes. He felt removed from the man in the reflection, the man with the scar across his nose, still not faded from the fateful day a droid had saved his life.
Was this the face the child had touched with his tiny hands? Could he love this face, truly?
Din shoved the helmet on before he could linger on his reflection any longer and stepped out of the small infirmary.
The dome was even larger on the inside than he had anticipated. He stood on a walkway that appeared to circle the entire structure, and more paths crisscrossed different layers of the dome, making for a giant maze. From this vantage point, Din could look down to the ground level, which was left open to the floors above. It was incredibly quiet. A few people meandered below, looking like ants from this angle, but not nearly as many as he would have expected in such a large structure. The place felt deserted.
Din began to make his way around the circle, looking for an elevator or some stairs to take him to the ground floor where most people seemed to be. The ache in his ribs had not eased and he found walking to be incredibly difficult. Din's hips and legs had taken much of the impact of the crash, making every movement a painful one. He didn't make it far before a voice stopped him.
"Woah, there Mando, you need to sit down."
The voice came from behind him, unmodulated, soft, old. Din turned to find an ancient woman hobbling toward him. White-haired and wrinkled, skin tanned and spotted from the sun, the woman was not what Din had expected from the locals of Mandalore. And yet she was unmistakably a Mandalorian, strong, back straight as a rod, with the signet of her clan sewn into the sleeve of her shirt.
How humiliating, being helped into a chair by someone who was twice his age. But Din did not complain.
"You need to eat," she said, pulling him into a side chamber and sitting him down at a table. "You're going to hurt for a while. Bacta isn't easy to come by around here and we gave you as much as we could afford. The rest of the healing you're going to have to do on your own."
A bowl of broth appeared before Din and then the old woman sat across from him, taking in his appearance and the beskar of his armor.
"It's been many years since I saw that much beskar on one warrior. What is your name, Mando?"
Din set his helmet on the table and took a sip of the broth. He wasn't sure what it was meant to be made of. It mostly tasted like water.
"I am Din Djarin. Clan Mudhorn." Here he paused, hesitating. "Child of the Watch."
Din wasn't sure how much the old woman knew. Did she recognize the Darksaber at his hip, know the history of his upbringing? If she did, she didn't let on, and Din felt it best not to explain any further. Maybe it was best to keep quiet about his claim to the throne for now.
"My name is Yollil Darron, Clan Kryze. You must be searching for answers," the old woman said. "Is that why you have come? That was quite an entrance to make, crashing through the atmosphere like that."
"There was nowhere to land. Is there no port? No shipyard?"
Yollil chuckled softly. "There is no need when no ships come and go."
"None?"
"Occasionally. Rarely. But those can't be the answers you came here for."
Yollil was right. Din finished his broth before he continued, choosing his words carefully. "There are so few people here. What happened?"
"Ah, child, that is several questions all rolled into one."
"I have time."
Yollil smiled knowingly. "I will start at the beginning then," she said. "The Children of the Watch have long been separated from the Mand'alor, but the wars started before them."
---
The Mandalorian's holomessage flickered before you. You'd watched it on repeat four times now. Listened to it again and again in an attempt to decipher some hidden meaning in his words. Even virtually, the man seemed to fill the space, leaving you breathless. Thoughts of how he'd made you feel last night, even though he was entirely in your head, rushed through your brain. But you tamped them down.
"When you see this message, I'll be gone already. I need to make contact with others scattered across the galaxy." Maybe it was your imagination, or the modulation of his voice through the helmet, but this is where his resolve would begin to waver, each time you watched, each time seeming more and more reluctant to have gone.
"You-- I didn't--." A sigh.
"There's still a lot to do. And I can't do it alone. I'm sure I'll need your help." I'm sure I'll see you again. I want to see you again. You needed to stop putting words in his mouth but with each iteration, it seemed even more like the truth.
You scolded yourself for trying to find a reason to get attached, for searching his words for some type of acknowledgment that he felt the same way. Mandalorians were restless beings, travelers with no home. It was irrational and irresponsible to expect anything more from him. You needed to rein in your temptation. And yet--
Finally, you shut the holopuck off, putting it in the drawer of your desk for safekeeping.
---
"There are twelve other domes on Mandalore," Yollil explained as she guided you slowly around in a tour of the structure. "Many are divided by clan. Tensions run high, but we abandoned the fighting long ago though. It's much easier to survive when you are unified as a larger group. Or at least the illusion of conciliation."
As Din had finished his watery broth, Yollil had explained the history of the Mand'alor, how civil war had erupted over loyalties to the Empire, over who would inherit the throne. Eventually, the group of religious zealots, the Children of the Watch, had split, leaving the planet entirely to start anew, recruiting foundlings from across the galaxy and training them in the original way of the Mand'alor. Those who remained warred one another to ruin, eventually destroying what was left of the planet and retreating to the safety of the domes.
It was becoming apparent to Din that his greatest challenge might be uniting the fractured clans.
Yollil showed you the greenhouses, the armory, the living quarters. Most were nearly empty, dormant as an abandoned pollinator hive.
"About four times a revolution we get a shipment of supplies, distributed among the clans. It's barely enough to sustain us but we have little to give in return. It's the best we can do."
"Who brings the supplies?"
"The Queendom of Nhora. Their ships land in the desert, unload and reload, and are gone." Nhora. A sign of hope in the darkness. "The crew have been asking about a certain Mandalorian. Have you heard?"
Din shook his head and Yollil continued. "They say the queen is in search of the Mandalorian who claimed the Darksaber. Perhaps you know of him."
Din stopped dead in his tracks. So much for staying discreet. The old woman gazed knowingly at the helmet before her, recognizing without needing to see the expression on his face that Din was the Mandalorian this Nhoran queen was searching for.
It could have been a trap. Or it could be an opportunity. Next time the ships came, Din would be leaving with them as well.
---
Twenty-six years. That's how long you'd been alive. Twenty-six years today, to be exact, and eight of them spent as queen.
The Warming was arriving in the northern hemisphere of Nhora, signaling the approaching farming season as well as all the celebrations that came along with it. Fertility festivals, diplomatic dinners, and of course, your birthday. Though your focus should have been on supply distribution and preparations for religious ceremonies, your thoughts lingered on the somber face that graced your dreams nearly every night.
You wanted nothing more than to ditch your own birthday party. They were always the same, too much attention trained on you, on what you wore, on who you spoke to. No one was safe from court gossip, not even you, and by tomorrow every woman on Nhora would be styling their hair the way yours was tonight.
You preferred solitude and quiet, which you would not get tonight. Djarin would like solitude and quiet too, you thought. But you suppressed the thought as quickly as it had come.
"Knock knock," Zena called. She had a tendency to enter and then ask for permission afterward. You were laying on your bed, spread out like a star, avoiding getting up to get dressed.
"If I asked you to, would you put on my clothes and pretend to be me for the night?" you asked without sitting up. It was only a half sarcastic request.
"We aren't twelve anymore, Your Majesty. We can't get away with switching places like we used to."
"We could totally do it, Zena. And then I could not deal with any of it and you can be queen for a night." You and Zena had actually managed it successfully before, trading places without anyone noticing. But she was right, that was years ago and you looked too different now.
Zena flopped onto the bed next to you. "This isn't very regal of us is it, contemplating ditching parties and laying in bed instead," she said.
You were silent for a moment, thinking back on the years before your coronation where the two of you had spent your days doing that exact thing. You'd known Zena since the Clone Wars, since before the attack, since before your mother and sister had died. And then the attack had come, and suddenly she was all you had, and it only seemed natural that she would become your most trusted advisor.
And then she was saying your name, your real name, calling you back to your body and pulling you from your reverie. She knew where you drifted in moments like this, to the thoughts of what life would have been if they were all still alive, if you weren't queen, and the world was yours to explore. "Come on, we can do it together."
The party, or parties in this case, since the festivities lasted over a week, usually culminated in a large banquet. It was customary to feed the entire city for free on your birthday, which you didn't mind. You liked that part, in fact, seeing the prosperity and joy of your people, the excitement as temperatures rose and crops were planted.
What you did mind was having to deal with all the suitors who found it perfect timing to come up to you while you were just trying to enjoy some roasted cherfer meat.
You watched as one particularly bold man approached your table in the banquet hall, trailed by what appeared to be several personal guards. You leaned over and whispered into Zena's ear.
"I don't remember inviting him to my party. I'll bet twenty credits he's a prince from Coruscant. Thirty says he'll ask for my hand in marriage."
"Be polite, You Majesty," Zena said, but she was already smiling and shaking your hand. "I'll give you forty credits if you scare the Dank Farrik out of him."
Zena may have been your best advisor, but she was also your worst instigator.
"Your Majesty," the young man bellowed as he kneeled before you. He was tall and barrel-chested, yet soft and pudgy looking. A shock of yellow blond hair was combed across his already balding head. Barely touching his knee to the ground before standing again, he took your hand and pressed a horrifically wet kiss to your knuckles. And yet, despite the averse sensation, your thoughts drifted toward the Mandalorian, kneeling before you as well, head bowed in respect and gloved hand smoothing yours. The comparison happened before you could stop yourself and suddenly you sized up every man in the room against him. No one compared.
Be polite. Be polite. You barely held back a gag as you discreetly wiped the back of your hand against your skirt.
"And who do I have the pleasure of meeting on this fine evening?" you asked sweetly, lacing your words with the saccharine tone that men liked. You would at least have some fun with this.
"Prince Adbel of Coruscant, at your service." You and Zena glanced at one another knowingly. Twenty credits down.
"Of Coruscant, you say? How many princes there must be on that... large, beautiful planet."
Prince Adbel's face fell, but only for a moment. You applauded his ability to pull the arrogant, smug look right back onto his face even as you bruised his ego.
"Yes, Coruscant is charming. But Nhora far surpasses her in natural beauty. I could pass many revolutions here and never tire of her rolling hills."
Nhora was as flat as a bantha's foot. But you had to give it to him, he was really putting on the charm. Prince Adbel was a slick talker.
"What brings you to Nhora?" you asked. "And on my birthday, no less."
"Straight to business," he replied with an awkward wink. "I like that. How joyful a day, and yet how lonely you look upon your throne, with no one to share it."
You pretended to not know where he was going with this line of thinking. "Lonely? I have the best advisors in the galaxy," you said, squeezing Zena's hand tightly to hold back her laugh and yours.
"No doubt, no doubt. But perhaps you are in need of a man by your side, to rule along with you?"
You stayed silent, waiting for him to say the words that would earn you thirty credits tonight.
"What I mean is, perhaps I could offer my hand to Your Royal Highness."
"In marriage?"
"In marriage."
Score.
Now you were upping the game. Those forty credits would be yours. But how to shock the poor man the best. He would need to be punished for his insolence in not researching Nhoran culture before so blatantly proposing marriage to a woman who had no need for it.
"Have you studied our customs, Prince Adbel?" you asked.
The pale man somehow paled even further. "Of course," he lied.
"Then you'll know what such an offer entails. First, you must travel to the plains and retrieve for me the egg of the nhora serpent. It is a difficult journey. Few survive. She will protect her young with her life, so you must bring warriors who are prepared to die for you, otherwise, you will fail." Prince Adbel's guards were starting to look as nervous as him. But you continued. "Then, you must chop off the fourth finger on your left hand as an offering to the Maker. Only then can our union be blessed."
That one got to him. Should you keep going? This was too fun, and Zena seemed to think so as well. "Lastly, you will need to share me with fifteen other men. Are you capable of that? It is tradition to take many husbands in Nhora, and the queen is no exception."
Prince Adbel nearly fainted. He gulped, a heroic attempt to suppress his fear, before taking a step back from you and nearly hiding behind his guards. "Perhaps... I should reconsider before taking such a serious oath."
"Or perhaps it would do you better to understand the culture of a people you so plainly desire to rule over. Nhoran queens do not marry, Prince Adbel. They never have, and they likely never will." You stood from your seat. And though the prince towered over you, he flinched from your hardened gaze. You knew you were probably taking it a bit too far, but you wanted to put the overconfident egotistical man in his place. "Men only distract. They manipulate. They conquer through fear rather than join through peace. I doubt that you are the exception."
And with that, the prince was gone, fleeing from your presence, his guards on his heels. Your words hadn't been entirely true. Plenty of honorable men made of your group of advisors and counselors, but the best of them knew where they stood.
"Best forty credits ever spent," Zena said with a laugh. "Although part of me is worried you're distracted already."
"Distracted? What on Nhora are you implying, Zena?" You knew what she was implying. You knew it was about--
"The Mandalorian has you in a twist, does he not? Any other day you would have at least considered sleeping with him." It was a teasing jab, though not entirely exaggerated.
"I simply look forward to pursuing a trade agreement with him." At least that's what you were trying to convince yourself, laying in bed night after night, thinking of him.
"You look forward to seeing him again, Your Majesty."
You narrowed your eyes at Zena, trying to appear intimidating. It never worked with her. "Hand over my credits, Royal Advisor."
Zena shook her head. You weren't convincing her, or yourself.
---
The royal crest painted across the side of the Nhoran freighter ships proudly displayed her wealth and beauty. They were less than subtle, Din thought.
He had waited several weeks for the starships to arrive, gathering information and gleaning intelligence about what he was up against. But the information varied widely and it was hard to tell what was truth and what was fiction. The elder Mandalorians described a brutal and ruthless ruler, one who controlled her people through fear and projected an image of prosperity to disguise rampant abuse of power.
Based on Yollil's stories, that sounded more like a reflection of Mand'alor history than an accurate depiction of Nhora.
Others, the younger ones, refused to even believe the queen existed. No one ever saw her, they postulated, unless it was at government functions or festivals. They figured she was just some figurehead, put in place to disguise the real government that controlled the trade routes of the mid and outer rims.
It was useless. He would have to find out for himself. And he had a plan.
According to Yollil and a few of the others who lived in the dome, the freighters were manned completely by a live crew. Not a single droid in sight. And while that meant Din could try to talk his way onto the ship, he also couldn't just resort to outright violence and take out everyone on board. He had to be diplomatic.
The plan was this. Sneak aboard during the short period the freighters spent on the ground, loading and unloading, and try not to get caught. But if he did, Din would have to talk his way out of it. He hoped to avoid too much talking.
Getting on the ship turned out to be the easy part. Staying on was hard.
The crew members of the ship he'd selected to hitch a ride on did not hesitate to open fire. He was discovered pretty quickly among the cargo and without giving him a chance to explain, Din found himself ass down in the sand, watching the ship take off. Damn it.
Sure, he could have gone in with a bit more violence, but he was trying to make friends, not enemies. Time for Plan B.
Powering up the thrusters of his jetpack, he shot off into the atmosphere, following close behind the departing freighter. He landed with a thump along the outer walkway of the ship, hitting the side a bit harder than he'd intended. Great, more bruises to add to his growing collection. Din ripped the exterior door open, knowing it would set off alarms throughout the ship. But discretion was no longer his priority.
There couldn't have been that many crew members on this ship, and yet they just kept coming. Din held back, only sending them into a nice temporary sleep with a knock to the head, rather than take them out one by one. He could have. Part of him wanted to. But he reminded himself that these were just people, doing their best, just like him.
Din worked his way toward the bridge, leaving a pile of unconscious bodies in his wake. The ship's upper deck was a jumble of hallways that looped back and forth on one another and he felt sure he made a few circles before finding what he was looking for. When he arrived, one final crew member stood, brave and terrified, before the doors to the control center.
"Open the door and I won't hurt you."
It was worth a shot. No success. The poor man aimed his blaster, the shots pinging off of Din's beskar. Alright, if that's how he wanted to do this. With calculated aim, Din fired his whipcord, wrapping it around the man's legs and hauling him off his feet.
Din grabbed the man around the neck, pointed his blaster at his head, and slammed the door-open button with his foot, ready to face whatever lay on the other side.
Several more terrified navigators and a couple of blasters trained at Din's head. As expected.
"Look, I'm not here to hurt you. Even though I could. I just want to speak to your queen." Silence hung heavy in the bridge. Even the man Din had taken hostage stilled under his grip. "Take me to her and I promise I won't harm you."
The captain of the ship stared at Din as if he'd just asked him to make Arvala-7 into a rainforest. For a moment Din almost thought those young Mandalorians had been correct, that there was no real queen. But then the captain relented.
"Well, you've taken out most of my ship already. And Her Majesty doesn't object to visitors. But you'll have to stay in the cargo hold."
Din could deal with that.
At least he thought he could. And then the trip through hyperspace turned out to be not hours but over a day. He was tired, in pain, and incredibly hungry. The best Mandalore had to offer was weak broth and yellowish vegetables. Din hadn't had a real meal in what felt like months. Though he tried to sleep through his hunger, he was awoken by the painful pangs of an angry stomach. Above him, the crew was probably having a meal, though he doubted they would want to invite up the man who'd knocked them out one by one.
Finally, after a restless sleep, the sound of footsteps and a voice entered the cargo hold to let Din know they were making the jump out of hyperspace and approaching Nhora. "Her Majesty will receive you at the palace. Though I recommend leaving your weapons behind you. She prizes peace above all else."
The ship landed with a jolt. Din hadn't had access to any windows aboard the ship, so this experience of Nhora was his first. As the loading hatch opened, he discovered with awe a cool, lush, and colorful planet. Though his helmet and armor dulled the sensations of climate and weather to his skin, the temperature here was significantly more comfortable than on Mandalore.
Din stepped from the ship, not bothering to bid the captain farewell, and wandered into Nhora's port. At first, he weaved through only ships, big and small. But eventually, it evolved slowly into a marketplace, lined with stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, smoked meats, and beautifully handcrafted items.
Above, the sun was tinged with warmth, indicative of an approaching warm season. But a soft breeze drifted through the market, keeping the air cool and dry. Around him, Din listened to the chatter of people, all species and languages, bartering and negotiating prices, or just holding an easy conversation. It was incredibly calm and peaceful, with the easy air of a people who did not fear for their lives at every waking moment.
Already, Din could tell all the rumors about Nhora had been wrong.
But how to find the queen? That turned out to be an easier job than he expected. Spread across the skyline was a glittering city with one building obviously much taller than the rest. He headed in that direction, pausing only momentarily at a stall that was selling the most delicious food he'd ever smelled. But there was no time to stop and eat.
The walk was short, along a smoothly paved path that crisscrossed over several canals dug through the center of the market. This must have been their main source of transport, and Din watched from the top of a bridge as a small boat floated downstream below him. It was almost too picturesque and he found himself doubting if this was entirely real.
And yet it was. The palace was bustling with people, moving about in small groups or sitting beneath the tall stone columns. They spoke easily and freely, but with a polite hush that suggested a reverent atmosphere. The lower level appeared to function as a library, with books lining floor-to-ceiling shelves and people studying at tables. Free and open knowledge, it was a novel idea.
No guards accosted him. No one asked where he was going. A few people stared as he went by, but the guards stationed at the main doors let him through, though again letting him know to check his weapons at the guard station. He easily avoided this inconvenience, slipping around groups of people and hiding behind a column as another guard passed. Sure, he could have been civil and done as he was asked, but it didn't seem prudent to have to explain that yes, he was a Mandalorian and yes, this was the Darksaber, and no, he couldn't just check it into a locker with a four-digit code.
At last, up a sweeping staircase and the throne room came into sight. This part of the palace was quieter than the rest, having a more serious and somber mood than the lightness of the lower levels. Din stepped in the throne room and gazed up, unable to suppress the urge to gape in awe at the vaulted ceilings and colorful murals that lined the walls.
The queen, however, was not on her throne and not in the reception hall. So Din resigned to wait and stood before one of the grand windows that cast a glowing light onto the marble floors. The view was spectacular, even from behind the filter of his visor, looking out upon the maze of stalls of the market, the glistening blue canals, and the arriving and departing freighter ships. Beyond the bustle of the city Din could just barely make out flat plains under a setting sun, green and lush and reaching farther than the eye could see.
The world glowed.
Din's helmet picked up voices of discussion and he amplified the sounds, hearing the soft speech of a woman along with the footsteps of several other people. The queen was coming, and not alone.
And then he saw you. You entered the throne room and if the world was glowing before it now positively radiated like the sun. You were dressed in lavender and gold and somehow existed on two planes at once, both as natural as the lush plains of Nhora and as otherworldly as the stars that glittered above, tied to the earth but dancing through outer space. Din had never met an angel, only heard stories of their alluring beauty that trapped spacefarers in their orbit for eternity. Now, standing face to face with a pure embodiment of warmth and light, the stories didn't seem so outrageous after all.
This was a new feeling, one he'd never felt before. Oh, Maker, Din's heart was in trouble.
---
The doors of the throne room opened. Zena entered leading a little green head, wobbling atop a teetering body. "Look who interrupted my sparring practice. Nearly got his little hands chopped off."
"Grogu," you exclaimed with a broad smile spreading across your face. You found yourself intensely happy to see the wrinkly alien baby and reached down to place him on your lap. He immediately reached out to grasp at the metal ball hanging from your neck. Something had shifted since you'd met the Mandalorian, and now with the knowledge of their deep bond, your heart softened with tenderness for the child as you recalled his father.
"So, little one, what have you learned since you went away?"
The child looked up at you with a coo and then giggled, sticking his hands out to demonstrate whatever strange mind-bending trick he'd learned this month. What you didn't expect was to see one of your guards slowly go sliding from his post beside your throne toward the windows. You realized Grogu was the one moving him, though not very quickly and with a lot of effort, across the stone floor. With a grunt, the guard bumped gently into the window. It couldn't have hurt very much, but it was probably a strange sensation. He slid to the ground, not sure how to react.
"Oh, Maker, are you alright Ming?" you asked, barely containing a laugh.
Ming held up a hand. "Yes, yes, fine Your Majesty."
"Grogu, we only do those kinds of things to bad people, not people we like."
You weren't sure why you spoke to the child as if he were an adult, but somehow you felt he understand. He looked up at you again but this time with a pout, his bottom lip sticking out and quivering, ready to cry.
"Oh, alright little one, let's not have that now. Here, how about some good news. I met your father. He was here."
That did the trick. The big brown eyes blinked and the giant ears flicked in recognition. Grogu grumbled out some garbled baby talk that sounded suspiciously like 'Din.' It could have been your imagination.
"You met the Mandalorian?" Luke Skywalker entered the throne room, prepared for his departure already. "So that's why you didn't accost me for information as soon as I stepped foot in here."
"I have a good feeling about him, Skywalker. What's that thing you're always talking about, bringing balance to the force? He is balanced. I can feel it."
"So you're a force detector now?" Zena said with a barely concealed laugh.
"He found the child for a reason," Skywalker replied. "The force is not to be underestimated."
That was for sure. A pint-sized kid had just moved a full-grown man across the room with his mind. That was nothing to be played with.
"I worry though, Your Majesty, that he will attract some less than welcome individuals to your planet if he returns. Bo-Katan feels she is the rightful heir to the throne, and I doubt she'll give up on it so easily. If she thinks you're his ally, I doubt she'll be very forgiving."
"Bo-Katan?" Zena questioned. You felt Grogu sink further into your robes at the sound of the name.
"Another Mandalorian. Fiercely loyal to her planet but not so much to those who would dare challenge her or her power. She prefers martial law to pacifism and has a dubious history with the Sith and the Empire. In the end, there's only one thing she wants, the Darksaber."
---
Din's thoughts drifted back to that first meeting as he punched in the coordinates for Corellia, the last planet he had any desire to visit. He wanted to look upon your glittering city, wander through the market, feel the cool breeze creep under his armor. Or even just sit across from you again and listen to you ramble about the things you loved, namely Grogu. Din realized, before you would, that there was a soft spot in your heart for the kid.
As the ship took off from the loading dock, Din watched the Nhoran moons set, wondering if you were doing the same. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need. But he couldn't. Din was a wanderer, a traveler, with no place to call home and no intention of finding one. But you--
Corellia. Right now there was just Corellia. For many years he'd avoided chasing down a bounty on that planet. Unfortunately, it wasn't going to stay that way. The polluted, cloudy, soggy planet was one Din preferred to avoid. The excessive rain made it difficult to track footprints and there was always someone who needed paying off if he was going to get any information. Bounties on Corellia took twice as long to catch, simply because it was so full of crime itself.
Except this time it wasn't a bounty Din was chasing, but a Mandalorian. So three times as long, he figured.
And he was right. The Mandalorian remained hidden, probably because he knew he was being chased. Din passed weeks in Coronet City, tracking muddied footprints here and there. Begrudgingly, he took on some extra bounties, just to make enough credits to keep his ship parked at the loading dock.
Week four came and went. Today's bounty had been particularly flighty, doing his best to remain just out of Din's reach. He caught him, eventually, but not before a muddy chase through the rainforest. Now, back on his ship, Din hardly noticed the flashing red light on his communicator, telling him he had an incoming message. It wasn't until he'd pulled off his mud-streaked armor and sat down heavily in the pilot's seat that it caught his attention.
The hologram flickered to life.
"Djarin, I hope you're well." He almost didn't recognize you without your royal robes, hair loose and drifting about your shoulders. But your voice, though distorted by thousands of lightyears of space, was unmistakably yours. With surprise, Din found himself instantly relaxed, the soothing sound raising heat to his skin. You'd barely said anything but he longed to hear more.
"I'm not sure where you are, or if this message will reach you." You paused, suddenly distracted by something happening out of view and waving your hands to quiet something down.
"Hush, please, I'm speaking," you said off to the side.
You refocused with a deep breath. "Urgent news has reached me through my trade routes. Bo-Katan has landed on Mandalore. She brings an army and is searching for you. I'm not sure how many she's gathered or how she earned their trust. But it won't be long before she traces your path here. There's no need to worry, it would be foolish to attack Nhora but I'm afraid of what might happen if you do return to Mandalore. Bo-Katan will-- for Maker's sake child I'm trying to speak."
You stopped again, bending over to address the tiny hands grabbing at the leg of your pants. A muted voice garbled some indiscernible words. "I know it's for Din. I know. Come here."
You stood again, this time with the child in your arms. Grogu. He was there, with you, in your arms. "Anyways, be careful, please. And send word if you need anything. Or just to let me know you're alive."
Din could hardly focus on your words. The kid was on Nhora, grabbing at your shirt and waving his little hands. "Say hi, Grogu. Say hi to your dad," you said.
Was that his name Din heard? Did Grogu just speak real, tangible, words? And his name, nonetheless. Din's heart swelled with pride and all the frustration he'd felt today, tracking an unfindable Mandalorian on top of simply trying to stay alive, melted away. He realized with a shock of sadness that all this time he'd been intensely lonely without his son. The ship was too quiet, too empty, but now both you and the child were here, even if only as a hologram, and filling the cockpit with a warm glow.
Din blinked back tears. It was time to get his act together. There were only so many places an old Mandalorian could hide.
Fenn Rau was not a man to be trifled with, Yollil had explained before Din had left Mandalore. If he was going to be found, Din had to think ahead of him, anticipate his moves. Rau had to be somewhere in Coronet City. If he'd left, it would have been much easier to find him.
But, as it turned out, it was easy enough to find Rau when he wanted to be found. The first cantina Din stepped in and there he was, sitting alone in a dark corner, nursing a spotchka, having predicted Din's own moves to meet him here. This was not luck, it was on purpose, and he didn't hesitate to slide into the seat across from the Mandalorian.
Neither spoke, each waiting for the other to explain themselves first. Fenn Rau was as stoic as Din despite his age. His watery blue eyes locked onto the visor of Din's helmet and did not flinch. But this was a game Din could play well, that of silence.
"Why are you looking for me?" The older Mandalorian was the first to break.
"You wanted to be found."
"I outran you for a while. But curiosity tends to be my downfall."
Din didn't respond, only unhooked the Darksaber from his belt and placed it on the table. It was an unassuming object with immense power and Rau recoiled from its presence.
"So you are the one who defeated Gideon." His words made it apparent that everyone in the galaxy knew. "I'm surprised Lieutenant Bo-Katan didn't duel you right there for it."
"Lieutenant?"
"We fought together in the civil wars." So that's why Yollil had sent Din to find Rau. He would know what Bo-Katan's intentions were. "The Lieutenant is a natural leader. She rallies her people like no other. But she has lost that damn saber one too many times and never once recovered it honorably. She will come for it and do whatever it takes to regain power."
"She's looking for me now."
"What will you do?"
Din did not answer.
"Don't tell me you're asking for my advice?" Rau said with an exasperated sigh. "Alright, here's what I think. Take what you will from this. Tarre Vizsla forged that saber. He was both a Jedi and a Mandalorian, and the first to unite them. Since his death over a thousand years ago, Mandalore has not known peace. And it never will until a Jedi rules again."
A Jedi and a Mandalorian. If such a combination were to exist, then there must be a foundling out there that was force sensitive. A foundling that Din would find and--
Grogu. That foundling was Grogu. Din stood abruptly.
"Thank you. May the force be with you."
"That's it? You don't want a drink?"
"I'll be on Nhora if you need me."
Din left the Mandalorian where he'd found him.
---
The Mandalorian was returning. You could barely contain your glee. The message had been short, typed out and sent over the comm system. Returning. Must discuss G. and B. ETA 3 days.
You had no idea what G. and B. meant. It didn't matter. It had been over a month since you'd last seen him. You hoped he was everything you remembered, strong, handsome, stoic, honorable--
No. No, you would not think about him like that. You would treat him with respect and cool composure, as the ally he was turning out to be and nothing more.
On the first day of waiting you managed to steady your nerves by focusing on each task at hand. Sector 3 needed the dams opened to flood their fields. Sector 8 required a delivery of vaccines to prevent an outbreak of the Cardooine Chills. By the second day, Zena was watching you pace back and forth across the throne room, wondering out loud what G. and B. meant. She'd plopped herself down in your chair since you had no desire to occupy it, legs slung over one arm and back leaned up against the other.
But when the third day arrived, you found yourself surprisingly calm. You received visitors from the throne you'd refused the day before, listening intently as your financial head proposed tax hikes and tax breaks and explained where every cent was headed.
And yet, despite the serenity of your outward appearance, every person who entered your throne room sent your heart beating faster, though every time it was someone other than the Mandalorian. Finally, the sun set through the windows, darkness fell, and he had still not arrived.
"I'm just worried. What if he got caught up by Bo-Katan or something?"
"Your Majesty, he's hurtling through hyperspace. I think he's fine." Zena was ever the calming presence at your elbow. "Just get some sleep."
You tried. You really did, tossing and turning in bed to find the most comfortable position. But nothing worked. It was late in the night when you finally gave up and left bed, padding softly in your nightclothes down the three flights of stairs to the kitchens. At least you could have a warm cup of hot chocolate.
It was empty and silent in the kitchen as you set a pot on the stove to heat the drink. You leaned against the counter, drumming your fingers, waiting, waiting, waiting--
"Any idea where a Mandalorian can get a meal around here?"
You jumped at the voice behind you. So much for calm, cool, composure. Heat rose immediately to your face as you remembered exactly what you were wearing.
"Oh Maker, Djarin, you have to stop sneaking in like that."
"Sorry, can't help it that your guards are useless."
"Hey, watch it. Or I'll kick you out again." Though you acted annoyed, Din could tell you were glad to see him, an easy smile gracing your lips. It appeared he'd caught you at your most vulnerable, looking tired and restless, whisps of your hair flying in all directions and in only your pajamas. Your slightly translucent pajamas.
He did his best not to stare. Really. But with a helmet, there was no one to notice that he could tell you weren't wearing a bra or any underwear or--
"I expected you earlier," you said, pouring a second cup of hot chocolate without asking.
"I miscalculated," Din said matter-of-factly, though his nerves jumped at the thought of you expecting him. "What is this?"
"The most delicious thing ever. Rare. Skywalker introduced me to it and I can't get enough. But only he knows where to find hot chocolate so I have to settle for waiting for his visits to get my hands on more."
Off came the helmet, and though you'd already seen the face beneath, it still left you breathless. The black eye was gone, the cut on his lip and cheek reduced to fading red lines that probably wouldn't even scar. You watched as he ran a hand through his unruly hair, eyeing the cup with suspicion, and giving it a sniff. Finally, Djarin relented and he took a sip.
"Very sweet," he said, brown eyes narrowed and plump lips twisted into a pucker. "Not used to that."
Oh, those lips. Every decent thought you'd been trying to focus on since the Mandalorian's reappearance in your palace kitchens immediately flew out the window, replaced by very indecent thoughts about his full lips.
You tried to bring your mind back to his words, realizing he probably ate mostly bland food. Hearty, maybe, but not seasoned with the exotic flavors your kingdom traded for.
"Let me get you some food. You must be hungry."
"The Queen can cook?"
"Oh no, but she can reheat pretty well."
Din sat, watching as you sliced a loaf of bread and eventually placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of him. In the dim light of the kitchen, you'd taken on a different appearance from when he'd first met you. Your features were softer, less angular and commanding, and more tender and delicate. You were young, he realized, and you wore your youth plainly when the opportunity came to relax. You moved with the ease and grace of someone pushed too soon into this position of power.
"What's G. and B?" you asked, sitting across from Din and taking a slice of bread for yourself.
"Not what, who. Grogu and Bo-Katan." Djarin began to eat, and you noticed he kept sipping at his hot chocolate, despite his previous aversion. "Is the kid still here?"
You shook your head. "They only stay for a few hours at a time. And it's hard to know when they'll be back. Skywalker takes every precaution to be untraceable. He'll find you, not the other way around. Is that why you're back? To find him?"
"Grogu is the heir."
"What do you mean? I thought you were the heir?"
Djarin explained his meeting with Fenn Rau, what the old Mandalorian had told him about the Darksaber and its creator.
"And you're worried Bo-Katan will target Grogu and use him against you?"
"Possibly."
"I don't understand. I thought Bo-Katan wanted to bring peace to Mandalore."
"She does. But under her terms. And her rule. That approach never goes over well with a people as divided as us."
You were starting to see his point. But how was a wrinkly green baby going to take over the throne? "Say you hold on to the Darksaber. Bo-Katan backs down, the kid becomes a Jedi. Then what? He'll have to defeat you in a duel to fulfill his destiny?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead.
Of course, he hadn't. Of course he'd rushed back here as fast as possible, thinking only of the child.
"I'll call a council meeting in the morning. Any actions I take they need to at least be aware of. And this time you're staying. Not just for the night."
Din raised his eyebrows at you in surprise. The authoritative tone you'd taken on was impressive, like you had a goal and a purpose and you were going to do everything it took to succeed. And he had to admit, he quite liked the thought of you forcing him to stay, despite knowing he shouldn't.
After he'd finished eating, you led the Mandalorian back up the stairs and through the silent palace to the room he'd stayed in during his previous visit. You lingered at the door, knowing you should say goodnight but having trouble doing so for some reason.
"Don't disappear on me again, Djarin," you finally settled on saying.
Din hadn't been aware of how much you cared for his safety until this moment. Maybe his late arrival had affected you more than you let on. The look on your face was not one of teasing but of genuine worry, eyebrows knitted in concern, unease written in the soft lines of your face. He wanted to smooth those lines, run a thumb across them to tell you everything he didn't have words for. What had been that emotion he'd felt that night on his ship, watching you and the child flicker holographically before him, filling the space with your warmth? He refused to call it home.
Djarin turned toward the door but paused and looked back at you. And then his gloved hand reached out and he ran a thumb softly across your forehead. It was surprising, that soft, leathery touch, but it accomplished what he'd set out to do. Your face relaxed and a smile spread across your lips, bringing the glow back to his world.
"I won't. I promise. And please, just call me Din."
---
The Mandalorian was up early, beating you and Zena to breakfast. He was already waiting for you to arrive, fully dressed in armor, making your heart skip a beat.
"Don't you want to know about everything that's happened since you were gone?" Zena asked, addressing Din with a glint in her eyes.
"I assume you're going to tell me whether or not I want to know."
"Smart man," Zena said with a wry smile. "You missed a very important birthday. You'll never guess how many suitors were ogling Her Majesty from across the dessert table. Although, I must admit the dress was lovely. I would have asked for her hand in marriage too if I was arrogant enough to think I had a chance."
"Zena," you said harshly, trying to shut her up.
"Turned them all down. Even made one of them run to his mother. No one compares to you Mando." She said that last bit with a singsongy voice as if trying to imitate you.
"Zena! Watch your mouth. I never said that." You gave her a little shove to shut her up. It wasn't very appropriate behavior for a queen but you knew she was doing it on purpose. "You're going to embarrass him."
Zena wiggled her eyebrows in your direction before turning on her heel and leaving you and Din alone, knowing her work was done.
"I'm sorry about that," you said.
"Looks like you're the one feeling embarrassed." Though you couldn't read Din's facial expression, his modulated voice was tinged with teasing humor.
Heat crept up your cheeks, flushing a bright pink that did not go unnoticed by the Mandalorian. "Shut up. I don't want to talk about it."
And then the Mandalorian laughed. He actually laughed, a full, whole-hearted laugh that started in his chest and shook through his body until he was bent double, hands on his knees, gasping for air. It was genuine; though sounding unused and in need of practice, it was not strained or tense at all. You wondered how long it had been since the Mandalorian had let loose like this.
"Oh for Maker's sake," you said, exasperated. "I've tried multiple times to crack jokes and that's what finally gets to you?"
Din had finally caught his breath and stood up straight again. "I apologize, Your Majesty. But you were blushing pretty hard."
And you looked pretty when you blushed, he thought. He didn't say that out loud, however, only pressed his fingers lightly against your back to lead you from the room to the awaiting council meeting.
It was already hard enough to focus in his presence. You had no idea how you were going to sit next to the Mandalorian for the next hour without him driving you up the wall. Calm, cool composure, you reminded yourself. Be diplomatic. Be an ally.
Notes: I recognize this isn't actually what season 3 will be like but I just need season 3 to come and its not coming fast enough so I'm taking it into my own hands to write whatever I want. I just want the little green alien baby and his space cowboy dad to have a cute reunion is that too much to ask? Self-insert, with reader as "you" but I avoid Y/N stuff. Narrator's perspective refers to Mando as Djarin, Din's perspective is written as Din. Some back and forth with that. I took some liberty with the characterization as well. The rest is my own!
---
The throne room was silent save for your voice echoing from the high ceiling.
"Tell Mon Tarrow that his trade agreement still stands, as long as he keeps up his end of the bargain," you said to the hologram flickering before you. "We get our shipments, he gets his. That is all."
With a swipe of your hand, the hologram disappeared and you leaned back into your seat. This job was difficult, organizing and controlling the most heavily trafficked trade routes in the galaxy. It was not one you had chosen for yourself. But for generations, your family had been in control of the planet Nhora and its lunar outpost, maintaining its status as a neutral party throughout several civil wars, uprisings, revolutions, and revolts. You had inherited that neutrality. Despite attempts from both the Republic and the Empire, your rule had withstood their attacks, keeping peace with your people and ensuring the wealth of successful trade routes.
Turning to your advisor at your elbow, you began to discuss the redistribution of the year's crops when the large doors across the hall opened. It was uncommon for someone to interrupt your daily briefings, though not disallowed. You had an open-door policy when it came to your people; anything that needed your attention should be brought directly to you. It fostered communication and understanding. But the individual who interrupted you was not one of your subjects and was, to put it simply, completely unexpected.
Your advisor immediately silenced, as dumbstruck as you, and the only sounds came from the creature huffing and puffing his way toward you, mumbling some garbled non-language.
Creature was the best way to put it. He was small and green and wore a sack for clothes. Though you couldn't see his legs, they must have been tiny, for he wobbled very slowly towards you. And his ears, good grief those ears, were so large his head teetered back and forth as he walked. The throne room was already large, but it was made even larger by the tiny figure before you, a child, you realized, as he stumbled closer. You eyed the child suspiciously before giving your advisor a look that said, who is this? She only shrugged.
Perhaps this was one of Skywalker's new playthings, you thought. That strange Jedi was always passing through with some oddity or another to trade for supplies. He knew what you liked, gems and stones from other lands, flowers with unique scents, fabrics spun from the thread of ice spiders (very dangerous to come by). In exchange, he had free access to your palace as he pleased before heading off again to who knows where. But this was new. Skywalker never brought you living things that moved of their own accord.
You stood, gathering the long skirts of your robe and stepping off the dais upon which your throne sat. You weren't particularly fond of children, but the sudden appearance of one purposefully crossing the long marble hall and heading straight for you was intriguing. You met the child halfway, stooping over to get a closer look at him, and noticed a fine layer of hair on his wrinkled head.
As you bent over, the child looked up at you and cooed, a little smile on his face. He was admittedly a bit cute, though incredibly ugly.
"Hello, little thing," you said, addressing the child directly. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer, of course, just gurgled strangely. A tiny three-fingered hand reached toward you as if asking to be picked up. You ignored him and stood up straight instead, turning to a guard and sending him out to look for the enigmatic Jedi who was sure to be close behind.
Apparently, the child didn't like being ignored. You felt a sudden tugging at your collar as if someone had taken hold of your necklace and was trying to yank it from your neck. Looking down, you could see the child was still at your feet, hand in the air, but now his eyes were half-closed. You realized with a mix of horror and curiosity that the little one was pulling at your necklace, though not with his fingers but rather with his mind. Perhaps you could have tried to stop him, withheld the piece of jewelry from him, but you were too dumbfounded to try. Why he wanted the chain around your neck you were unsure, but the child would have it one way or another.
The necklace broke with a snap and flew toward him, which he caught in one green paw. The astonishment hung in the room; most had never seen the force in action like this. But you knew.
The force was with this one. Now, you were certain he had to be with the Jedi.
"Luke Skywalker," you said with accusation in your voice as he finally entered the throne room, following behind your guard. "I am not taking care of this child for you if that's what you're expecting. And I want my necklace back."
Skywalker smiled as he entered and kneeled to address you. It wasn't necessary to bow before you, but the Jedi had always been a bit of a stickler for tradition. You took it as a sign of friendship.
"Don't worry Your Majesty, Grogu and I will be on our way shortly. He just needs a... special diet that I cannot provide for him."
"Grogu?" The little child looked up at you when you said his name. His mouth was wrapped around the metal ball that had hung from your neck moments before. It had been a gift from your mother, a symbol of the planet you ruled over, to be passed on if you had a child of your own. Now it was covered in baby slobber. And yet, your heart softened at the sight of the green child. Relenting to his pleading eyes, you reached down and picked Grogu up, holding him at arm's length as he played with the metal ball.
"Where did you find him?" you asked Skywalker as you led him from the throne room toward the banquet hall, your advisor trailing behind you, just as curious about the creature as you.
"I did not find him," Skywalker replied. "A Mandalorian did."
A Mandalorian? Your heart rate picked up, curiosity piqued at the thought. You had only heard stories about their kind since their fall from the Council of Neutral Systems. And of course what your grandmother had told you of them. They were a conflicted group but you knew one thing for sure, they were not friends of the Jedi.
"I presume you are to train him now."
"To the best of my ability. He is the same species as my master, surprisingly strong despite his size."
In the banquet hall, you sent for a meal, setting Grogu down on the table and sitting before him. He was fascinating, despite his babyish mannerisms and the ball covered in his spit. But what you really wanted to know more about was this Mandalorian. The rumors had not escaped you, spreading swiftly through the trade routes, reports of the Darksaber's resurfacing, of those who tried to claim it. The planet Mandalore itself was relatively uninhabited, having been ravaged by years of war and conflict. Your trade routes were one of the only ones that extended that far to the outer rim as most didn't find it worth the trouble.
But if the Darksaber was truly back, and someone had claimed it, the Mand'alor may make a recovery. That could mean many things for your people, possibly a surge in trade or a new rival that was willing and able to fight for space. Mandalorians were known to be the greatest killers in the galaxy, after all. But you were getting ahead of yourself.
"The one who found Grogu, are they the one who claimed the saber?"
Concern flickered across Skywalker's face. "Yes, I believe his name is Din Djarin."
The baby's ears perked up at the name, glancing back and forth between the two of you. His giant eyes blinked slowly as he eyed your face.
"Is the Mandolorian worthy?" You were of course talking about the inheritance of the Mand'alor throne.
"He delivered the child. And refused the saber, at first. There is hope for those who are given the chance of ultimate power and deny it."
Refused it? So ruling a creed and a planet had not been his choice. Much like you. Perhaps there was a chance for the Mand'alor after all. You watched as Skywalker traded your necklace for an entire laas fish, which Grogu swallowed whole, fins and all. It was a disturbing sight.
---
Din Djarin could be a man of stealth when necessary. After saying goodbye to his son, he had accepted a ride through hyperspace from Boba Fett and Fennec Shand. But they had only been willing to go so far as Wobani, and he would have to make his way alone.
Though Bo-Katan had let Din leave with the Darksaber in tow, he could tell it had been with reluctance, and Din was sure this wasn't the last he'd see of her. Cara Dune had offered to follow him, but Din declined. This was a trip he had to make on his own.
Wobani was not the most welcoming of planets. The abandoned labor camps that had once been full during the reign of the Empire stood crumbling to dust. Some people had taken root here, making do with what was available.
But this was not where he needed to be. Din needed to keep moving, keep his eyes on the future, keep his mind off of the sad look on the little one's face as he'd been whisked away by a Jedi. Din felt empty without Grogu on his hip, hidden in his satchel or tucked away in his crib. Sure, Din missed having his ship, but he missed the child so much more.
The metal ball at his belt weighed heavy. He should have let him keep it.
But there was no turning back now. Din would allow himself one night of rest before moving on. There were no boarding houses on Wobani, though he'd asked around. And it wasn't like anyone wanted to house a Mandalorian. So Din settled for an empty, abandoned building, one that likely had held prisoners at one time or another. Now, there was nothing but a dirt floor and a wall to lean against. But it was better than nothing.
As the sun set, Din shut his eyes, ready for the next day to begin.
He was awoken not by the sun, but a grunting noise to his left. Din opened his eyes and adjusted his helmet to night vision, locating a massive heat signature through his visor. A large animal, crawling on all fours, appeared across the room. It hadn't yet noticed Din, more preoccupied with sniffing the ground with a large, whiskered nose. But even from this vantage point, Din could tell the creature had many giant sharp teeth, perfect for tearing at his flesh.
Maybe if he stayed absolutely still... Nope. That large nose turned in his direction and had him spotted in an instant. The options lay before him, run or fight, and neither seemed good. Shooting a blaster in this confined space was almost guaranteed to cause a ricochet and at the moment, the beast was blocking the exit.
But not the only exit. The beast began to approach, its long slithering tail making disgusting sounds as it dragged across the floor, sinewy muscles rippling beneath hairless skin. It moved slowly, but that didn't mean much. It probably thought it had found its next meal, a man in a suit of beskar. Din stood slowly, trying not to urge the beast to move any faster.
Last night, when choosing a spot to sleep, Din had noticed the small window above him. When you were constantly on the hunt or being hunted, having multiple escape routes was a necessity. And the window had seemed like a good enough option. Now Din hoped his judgment had been right. The beast was getting closer, giving him only moments to make a decision.
To reach the window, Din would have to turn his back on the beast, which he didn't particularly want to do. He would need a distraction.
The beast paused in its approach and then lunged, as Din aimed his vambrace, spraying it with fire. It reeled back, howling in pain, and he knew that was his chance. He jumped, fingers catching on the ledge and hauling himself through the narrow space. Din barely fit, especially with all his bulking armor and the few possessions he managed to carry. The beast he'd left behind was enraged, clawing angrily at the walls and snapping at his heels.
At last, he was able to swing himself from the window to the roof of the building, finding refuge up high. He laid back with exhaustion, listening to the sounds of the beast as it finally gave up on its query and left. Din wanted nothing more than to sleep, to forget the pain in his heart and calm his rapid breathing. Not much scared the serious Mandalorian, and despite the danger he had just narrowly escaped, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Above him, the stars shone dimly through the dusty clouds of Wobani's atmosphere. Somewhere out there was the kid. Din hoped he was happy.
---
Luke Skywalker and the child did not stay long. You were surprised to find that you actually missed the little bugger as you watched them fly away, a large supply of laas fish in tow. Though you were sure you'd see them again; Grogu's appetite was insatiable.
But there were more pressing matters at hand. If the Mand'alor were to resurface and become strong again, you had to be prepared. You wanted to have the upper hand and hoped that the trade relations that were already established with the desolate Mandalore planet would help in gaining their trust.
Though your advisors had recommended you give up on the planet, even demanded it, you had been unwilling to do so. The few who did live there desperately needed Nhora's help and supplies. They had little to offer in return and tended to be more of a burden than an equal partner, but it felt wrong to abandon that outpost. Now you were glad that you'd stuck to your convictions.
It was time to call a meeting of council members. Little was left of the Council of Neutral Systems since the fall of the Empire, but those who remained were essential to the maintenance of free trade. And if the Mand'lor were to return, the council needed to be prepared.
"We don't even know if this Mandalorian wants his planet back," General Tarrow was saying, his hologram flickering slightly across the table from you.
"It's better to be prepared," your advisor, Zena, replied. "Her Majesty has maintained trade relations with the planet despite their small numbers. We can use this to our advantage and get ahead of any potential military action they are willing to take."
"The fact that they could take military action is exactly why we shouldn't pursue relations with the Mand'alor," Tarrow countered.
Zena sighed, exasperated by the back and forth conversation that had been going on for the last twenty minutes. You could tell she was getting frustrated. "They deserve our respect, don't they? Innocent before proven guilty?"
"They've already proven themselves guilty, or didn't you study Nhora's history?"
The General made a good point, but it was always better to approach with peace than antagonism, you had learned. "I have reason to believe the one who claimed the Darksaber is of a different disposition, worthy, even," you said in Zena's defense.
"From who?" asked another council member.
"Luke Skywalker."
"The Jedi? I don't trust him."
"Well I do," you said, putting your foot down. "There's not much to be done at this time anyway. The reports are only rumors, after all. But we need to be open and prepared for the Mand'alor to return."
The meeting adjourned. Though no conclusions had been reached, you felt a shift coming.
---
When Din awoke next, it was the sun was up. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep again. Move. That was all there was to do.
Scrambling down from the roof that had become his bed, Din headed back toward the port he had come in from, hoping to find someone stupid enough who would accept a ridiculously small amount of credits in exchange for passage to the nearby planet Mandalore. He knew the task was impossible before he even asked the first merchant he found.
Time to change tactics.
Across the shipyard was a small transport ship. Din watched from behind some crates as a couple of droids loaded and unloaded cargo. It appeared the ship was manned entirely by droids and was getting ready to take off again soon. It would be a risk, boarding the ship and hijacking it. But smaller craft like this tended not to be very equipped for battle, and Din hoped he could use that to his advantage.
Keeping low to the ground, Din moved swiftly toward the transporter, staying out of sight of the droids. He hid next to the loading ramp, quickly climbing inside as it began to rise, signaling its imminent departure.
The cargo hold was tiny. The hulking Mandalorian couldn't stand up straight without hitting his head on the ceiling. Tight spaces didn't bother him, but he hoped that the rest of the transporter wasn't this small. Otherwise, this was going to be a long trip.
With the hum of the thrusters, the transporter lifted into the air, leaving the airspace of Wobani's shipyard. Din would wait until just before the ship entered hyperdrive to make his move.
The angle of ascent leveled and the flight smoothed, indicating they had made it out of the atmosphere and were heading swiftly toward their destination. The door leading to the cockpit from the cargo hold was thankfully not locked. With a shove, Din had the door open and the first droid in a headlock before it knew what was happening. One blaster shot to the central processing unit and the droid dropped, though not before making enough noise to signal to its copilot of Din's intrusion. And of course, it had a blaster.
The shot rang out, ricocheting around the tiny space, pinging off the walls and Din's beskar armor. Silently he thanked his laser-proofness, even as the shot knocked him off his feet and hurled him against the door of the cargo hold. His head slammed into the metal wall, blurring his vision. He would definitely have a headache after that one.
Stupid droids.
With a groan, Din heaved himself to his feet. Realizing that a blaster wasn't going to work, the droid stood, preparing itself for hand-to-hand combat. If Din hadn't been fighting for his life he may have found the situation funny, fighting in such cramped quarters. But the clouds hadn't quite cleared from his head and he barely noticed the tell-tale sign of the droid winding up for a punch. The droid swung out and struck Din squarely in the temple, sending reverbs through the beskar.
Dank farrik. This was ridiculous. He needed to focus, not be so distracted, but by what exactly? Din steadied himself and aimed his vambrace, blasting the droid with a shot that vaporized its CPU instantly.
Silence.
Shoving the now unmoving droids as best he could into the cargo hold, Din took control of the ship, rerouting the navigation system. Punching in the coordinates of the planet Mandalore, he shifted quickly into hyperdrive. The trip would take less than a day. But it was several hours of peace and for that Din was thankful, even if it meant no distractions from the big brown eyes that blinked at him every time he closed his own. They were so sad and--
Stop. Sleep. Move on. But they called out, even in his dreams.
Mandalore was even more deserted than Wobani. As the transporter eased out of hyperdrive, Din spotted several round constructions, which turned out to be domes as he got closer. Where was he going to land? There didn't appear to be a shipyard or trading post to accept incoming starships. No one connected to the commlink, requesting his flight information.
The planet was silent and gray.
Of course, it couldn't be that easy. As he prepared for descent, the rear detectors picked up on an approaching x-wing. Damn. Apparently taking out a pair of drones and hijacking their ship wasn't a free pass. Someone wanted their cargo back. And this ship was not equipped for that fight.
All Din could do was dodge as the x-wing rained fire. So much for a smooth landing. With a lurch, the left thruster was rendered useless and the transporter began to fall, rather than sail, toward the gray planet. Hopefully, Din could guide the transporter into a graceful crash and not kill himself on the way down. Seemingly recognizing that the ship was a lost cause and on its way to a crash landing, the x-wing swooped away, at least giving Din one less thing to worry about.
The ship lurched through the atmosphere, speeding too fast toward the ground and threatening to burn up as it went. The temperature inside the cockpit began to rise and Din felt lightheaded, likely due to the sudden force of gravity. He jerked up on the joystick, praying for a miracle.
With a defining blast, the transporter made contact with the ground. Din managed to remain conscious as the ship hit the sand, but only long enough to bring it to a slamming and skidding stop. And then everything went black.
It was hot. Too hot. And his mouth was impossibly dry. Din was barely aware of a pair of arms hooked under his armpits, dragging him away from the wreckage of the transporter, saving his life.
---
A year passed. Grogu and Skywalker visited again several times, though shorter than before. Little changed in the child's size, but he was stronger than before. You didn't even wait for him to steal your necklace, just handed him the small metal ball like a pushover as Skywalker restocked his ship.
And though you asked, pushed even, for details on the Mandalorian, Skywalker had little to say. The warrior seemed to have disappeared into hyperspace.
This lack of news was the exact reason why you were so shocked to find, not many days later, a suit of beskar armor standing in your throne room.
Zena had been explaining the benefits and disadvantages of increasing farming output as you walked to the throne room, but the pair of you stopped short at the door. A tall, gleaming figure stood in the hall, looking out a window, seemingly unaware of your presence. At the sight of him, the guards who had been flanking you drew their weapons, training their blasters to his back and stepping in front of you. It took you a moment to recognize the distinct shape of the helmet and the signet on his shoulder plate but this was unmistakably a Mandalorian, the Mandalorian, who had unwittingly laid claim to the Mand'alor throne. You held up your hand, willing your guards to stand down and let you pass.
"I'll admit, I am surprised to be in your presence, Mandalorian," you said. "Though not surprised that you made it in unseen. You'll have to teach me that one."
The man, Din Djarin you remembered his name to be, turned to face you, his helmet disguising whatever thoughts may have been written on his face. Of course, Din had known you were there, knew when you would arrive, knew exactly how many blasters were trained on him. But when he turned, the serious, threatening woman he expected to find was not there.
When Din had landed on Mandalore, it had been only your ships that he'd seen come and go. There was no official port or trading post, the locals explained, but Nhora's supplies came anyway, finding a way in the inhospitable desert environment that the remaining Mandalorians called home.
Reports of Nhora were mixed. Some were grateful for its help. Other's looked upon it with disdain, taking any acceptance of assistance as a sign of weakness. And rumors about the Nhora queen varied widely. Some claimed she didn't exist, was only a fabricated figurehead to maintain peace. Others described her as fierce and domineering, ruling with an iron fist and cultivating the illusion of order through force.
At first glance, Din knew you were none of these things. You were regal, of course, very obviously the one in charge. But your stance was warm and inviting, the soft features of your face drawn up into a smile. If anything, you felt more like an equal, rather than a royal who demanded authoritative respect. It was difficult for Din to smile, especially since the loss of everything he'd called family. But your smile was contagious. If not for his helmet, Din might have given his whole intimidating facade away. He was drawn to you, to your lack of fear, but he wouldn't let it show.
Djarin, though beneath the helmet he smiled against his will, appeared as the complete opposite to you. His demeanor was quiet and daunting, but he stood stiffly before you, as if unsure how you would receive him. He didn't bow or kneel or even address you by your title. And yet, though he could probably kill you and all the guards that surrounded you in the time it took to say his name, you felt no concern in his presence.
The memory of your grandmother's stories lurched into the forefront of your brain, dashing warriors, powerful and dangerous, yet righteous and honorable at heart. It made your heart beat faster. He made your heart beat faster.
"I heard you were looking for me," was all he said, modulated voice surprisingly calm despite the rush of emotions that flooded him. A man of few words, he got straight to the point. But inside he was wondering why you eyed him like that, with curiosity and diffidence, not afraid of him at all.
You nodded silently and took your place on your throne, unsure of what you would say next. How that news had reached him escaped you, as you hadn't been actively searching him out. Yes, you'd been wondering what had happened to him, what he planned to do. But you hadn't expected to meet him, not so soon. "Din Djarin, rightful heir to the Mand'alor throne. I wasn't anticipating this meeting for quite some time."
Though you couldn't see his eyes, the Mandalorian seemed to squint at you suspiciously through his visor. The sound of his name rolled easily from your tongue as if practiced over and over. "How do you know my name?"
"I know of the child you rescued. The one with the force." The Mandolorian took a step forward as if wanting to hear more. You leaned your elbow on the arm of your throne, one finger twisting nervously at the scarf of your headdress, anticipating his response.
"You've seen him?"
"Yes, a few times now. Skywalker prefers Nhora for restocking supplies. And Grogu is particularly fond of stealing things with his mind and swallowing his meals whole." The comment was meant to be a joke. Djarin did not laugh. He was watching your delicate fingers instead. "He is strong. Capable. A Jedi in the making. And you seem very attached. If I didn't know better I would think you were here for news of the little one."
"I didn't come searching for Grogu."
"I know. The Mandolorian don't simply come when called. They come when they need something. I heard what you did to Moff Gideon. How you refused the saber. I would be very surprised if there weren't some dangerous people after you right now."
Din sighed, knowing you had deciphered his intent without needing it explained to you. You were kind, but you were also sharp and perceptive, not wanting to waste time with small talk. Din liked that.
"I've seen your ships land on Mandalore. Nhora is the only one who still trades with the people there. I figured--" You realized he was asking for help but didn't know how to. Zena shot you a knowing look, recognizing that you had been right when you'd called that council meeting over a year ago. "I figured you could be an ally."
An ally. Perfect. This was exactly what you predicted. You wanted to rub your success in those snobby Neutral System faces, but you held your composure. This was your chance to make a connection, establish a rapport that would benefit you both, and protect your planet at the same time. If he needed an ally, you would offer it.
"Tell me what you need."
Djarin stood momentarily in silence, contemplating the consequences of what he was about to ask for. Was it this easy? Were you this willing to help every poor soul that came along? "I need-- I need a ship. And supplies."
"That's it?" It was suspiciously little if you had any inkling of the position Djarin was in. If he had seemingly disappeared for the past year, what struggles had he endured to make it here, to your planet?
"That's all I can afford. I don't have many credits left."
You laughed. You couldn't help it. "Credits? That's what you're worried about? I don't want your credits, Djarin."
Didn't want your credits? No one of sound mind gave anything away for free. You may have been generous, but there was no way you were that stupid. There had to be something else, he knew. "What's the catch?"
"The catch is that you rebuild a creed that was once my people's allies. And you defend us, the way you used to, from the inevitable. The Empire is still out there. It's naive to think they won't set their sights on us. But you-- you can stop them. So tell me what you need, everything you need, and I will help you. Do we have a deal?"
Zena, who had remained silent during the interaction, now leaned down and spoke into your ear. "Are you sure this is smart, Your Majesty? If the Council hears of your actions, they may not be very pleased."
"Zena, the Council has no control over what I do with my personal resources. So, deal or no deal?"
Djarin stepped forward, approaching you where you sat on your throne. Though you were seated above him, Djarin was tall enough to still stand at your eye level. He reached out a gloved hand, asking for yours to shake, you thought. His beskar glittered in the setting sun filtering in through the windows and sent you spiraling into thoughts of what he looked like beneath it all. But instead of shaking your hand, he simply held it and sunk on one knee before you, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles and bowing his head. Had Djarin not been wearing a helmet, you were sure he would have kissed them. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said softly.
The act was ridiculous. Din knew that. You knew that. But it made your heart flutter even more than before.
"Oh for Maker's sake, this is absurd. Stand up, Djarin," you said, suddenly embarrassed, though you had to admit the sight of a Mandalorian kneeling before you would have made your ancestor's faint on the spot. "Let's find you a ship."
---
You weren't exactly sure what Djarin's rule about his helmet was. Would he take it off? Leave it on? But he needed to eat, so you led him to a private room for dinner, in case that's what he wanted. It would be naive to admit you didn't like the thought of being alone with him. You wanted to know how true your grandmother's stories were.
"I hope it's enough," you said, gesturing at the spread of food before him. "Please let me know if you need anything."
Djarin stood silently for a moment before sitting down heavily into his chair. He seemed exhausted, and though you couldn't tell with all that armor, it wouldn't have surprised you if he was injured somewhere under there.
"Thank you. Your kindness is much appreciated."
"It is per our custom. I'll leave you to eat." You turned to go and leave him in peace, but he stopped you with a gloved hand on your wrist. Though a layer of leather separated your skin from his, Djarin's grip sent a jolt up your arm.
"Why are you being so kind?" It was a genuine question, one you didn't know how to respond to. Tell him the truth? Make something up? But the man before you seemed so earnest that it appeared best to be honest. So you sat, directly across from him, and began your story.
"My grandmother was a fair and just queen," you began, folding your hands in your lap. "Sometimes to a fault. She ruled on her convictions and morals, not tradition or law. In those days, the Mand'alor still controlled much of the outer rim and fought endlessly with the Jedi. Nhora remained neutral, accepting any and all who needed assistance, regardless of creed. A young Jedi took refuge on Nhora, and according to custom, was given full protection. This was something my grandmother believed to her core. Something we still practice today."
"So you're nice because your grandma said you should be?" It wasn't meant as a jab, but suspicion laced Djarin's voice.
You sighed and continued the story. "The young Jedi did not arrive alone. He was followed by a Mandalorian, out for vengeance and retribution. He stormed the palace, the first time in history that our defenses were breached. Fortunately, the Jedi was able to aid our guards in the Mandalorian's detainment. But not before my grandmother fell deeply and madly in love with him."
"In love? With a Mandalorian?" It was hard to tell through the modulation of his voice, but Djarin sounded shocked and more than a little suspicious.
"Perhaps it was all the beskar," you said, trying to make another joke. Djarin still did not laugh though he cracked an invisible smile beneath his helmet. "But yes. Of course, it's only a story, but my grandfather was of Mand'alor, so there must be some truth in it."
"You are a descendant?"
You nodded. You'd never met your grandfather, as fathers didn't matter much to the matriarchal line of rule, but now, here you were, sitting before another Mandalorian, and the cycle continued.
What Djarin did next gave you a shock for the second time that day. With a click and then the hiss of hydraulics, he lifted his helmet from his shoulders, placed it on the table, and began to eat. You barely reined in the expression on your face, narrowly avoiding blanching at the revelation of his face.
Suddenly, it didn't seem so strange that your grandmother had fallen instantly head over heels for your grandfather after all, considering the man you found beneath the helmet.
The Mandalorian that sat before you didn't have the mean, hardened look you expected. His expression was soft, lips smooth and slightly downturned into a natural frown beneath the curve of a prominent nose. He hardly seemed to notice your stares as he dug into his food, his dark eyes staying fixed on his plate.
Djarin's dark hair was tousled and in disarray, likely from being plastered under a helmet for so long. He had a disheveled beard, graying in some places, that made you realize he had probably been traveling for some time without a true place to stay or a real bed to sleep in. It was only then that you noticed the cut on his lip, the gash across his cheek, and the bruise under his eye. What had happened to him? What had he endured to reach Nhora?
Din still wasn't sure what was considered an appropriate or inappropriate time to remove his helmet. But he reasoned that if you were a descendant of Mand'alor, then this was appropriate. And despite his better judgment, he trusted you. Your story had made him think that perhaps your coyness earlier was not a result of his sudden appearance but a mutual attraction the pair of you shared. You were a complete stranger, a queen even, and yet he felt he had known you all along, as if gravity had pulled him toward you. You radiated warmth and acceptance, something he rarely received as a Mandalorian.
Din pretended not to notice your stare, but then you stood abruptly, and he looked up.
"Most people don't recognize me when I take off this whole thing," you said, gesturing to the clothes you wore. Din could tell you were trying to make a comparison to his helmet, all a disguise to maintain a physical and emotional distance from those around you.
You began to pull off your robes, layer after layer of the royal get up you disliked more than you let on. You unwound the intricate scarf from your hair, aware that Djarin was watching the whole time as your hair fell unbound around your shoulders.
It was all ceremonial, he knew, but Din had noticed when he first met you that you didn't seem particularly comfortable in your position. Now you stood in your loose underclothes, arms and shoulders bare, headdress and scarves discarded on the floor, and you relaxed. Your efforts were a mirror to his, showing your vulnerability and gaining his trust. And you did look different, not quite unrecognizable but somehow even smaller and less imposing than before.
You suddenly felt nervous beneath Djarin's gaze and felt it best to keep your hands busy.
Turning toward a cabinet on the wall, you began rummaging through it, looking for the antiseptic. You could feel Djarin's eyes now trained on your back, watching your every move. "I don't have any bacta spray in here, but we should at least clean up that cut."
You pulled your chair closer to his. The proximity was delicious.
"This may sting a bit," you said as you applied a swab to the gash in his cheek, fingers holding his face in place. Din didn't pull away but he did hiss lightly. Your body was so close to his own he could smell the scent of you, light and flowery like your planet.
"So, what else does the Mandalorian need from me?" you asked, trying to distract him from the pain.
Din grunted, though not in discomfort but to regain his focus. "The people-- I'm not sure what they need. I'm a warrior, not a ruler. I didn't ask for this. Mandalore is essentially deserted, those who remain have nothing and I don't know where to begin. The creed is fractured, scattered throughout the galaxy. I don't even think most of them want to be found. Especially not by me."
You placed a gentle hand on his chin to tilt his head closer to yours, giving you access to the cut on this lip. Thin lines creased Djarin's eyes and forehead, marring his golden skin with worry and tension. His eyebrows knitted in constant concern. You wanted to smooth that look from his face but it was more than you thought he'd allow. Instead, you focused on his mouth, not that that helped your erratic pulse and quickening breath either.
The tenderness of the act caught Din off guard. A royal, stooping to his level, rolling up her sleeves to do the dirty work, was surprising. He got the impression that you were a reluctant ruler, though he couldn't tell why. Nhora was obviously a prosperous planet, covered in glittering cities and sprawling trade ports. What he'd seen of the people they seemed happy and healthy. How could you be so successful and yet so averse to the job you performed so well?
"You're a good man, Djarin. I understand your reluctance. I was not meant to be queen either. I didn't want to be queen, and yet the responsibility was thrust upon me. But you are a good father as well, and I've known the best fathers to make the best leaders."
"I'm not a father. Not anymore." The words were spoken with a deep sadness.
"I think the Child would beg to differ. He lights up like a glow frog when he hears your name."
"A glow frog?"
"Native to Nhora. The resemblance is uncanny."
Din chuckled at the image, knowing the kid could probably just swallow one whole. "Has he grown?"
"Perhaps a little, though it's hard to tell." You finished your first aid and leaned away. Djarin's questions made apparent his love for and connection to Grogu. How he'd managed to let him go in the first place was beyond you. You didn't have children and weren't sure if you ever would, yet their bond was enviable. "Somehow I don't think it's a coincidence that we crossed paths, Djarin. You and I and the kid."
Din wasn't sure what that meant. He didn't particularly believe in destiny, nor did he know how to respond, so he turned back to his food. Decades beneath the helmet had given him the luxury of hidden expressions and wordlessness. He didn't know how to act without its protection.
But something else was also forcing his speechlessness. Though your touch had left his skin, the ghost of your fingers remained, leaving him in silence. He was ashamed something so simple could affect him so intensely, and yet he was melting like ice beneath a warm sun.
And while you continued to speak of Grogu, of his obsession with metal balls and being held in the crook of your arm, Din's thoughts swirled not around the child but the soft touch of your fingers on his face. He realized had never been touched like that before, not that gently. And your hands were so smooth, unmarred and flawless from never having worked manual labor or been in a fight. They twisted in your lap, unable to stop moving despite the idle chatter you had fallen into.
You weren't sure why you couldn't stop moving. Was it Djarin's stare, the way he appeared to be listening to you intently though he never responded, or his large presence that filled the room, or just the excitement of meeting the man you had been thinking about for the better part of a year? You realized that you were rambling, filling the silence with your words, your hands wringing in your lap.
All of a sudden, a big hand reached out and covered yours. You silenced instantly. "You're going to twist your fingers off if you keep that up, Your Majesty."
A thrill jolted through your body. Most people addressed you by your title, out of respect. But the way it came from his mouth, in that lilting baritone, sent the world spinning.
"I should leave you, let you sleep," you said finally, needing to get away before your voice betrayed your heart's emotions. "I know you've had a long day. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need."
Maker, how you hoped he would stay. But Din Djarin would be gone in the morning.
---
The starship you had provided was more than Din could have asked for, large enough to accommodate his size and cargo, small and swift enough to fly fast and steady in whatever direction he required. Inside, his blaster, spear, and a new rifle found their place on the wall. Climbing into the cockpit, Din surveyed the array of buttons and flashing lights.
To the right, the joystick gleamed in the dim light of the shipyard hanger. It was topped with a square knob. A memory floated through Din's mind, the tiny claws of a green hand reaching out to grasp at the knob, the big ears and wide eyes and--
Pulling the metal ball from his pocket, Din unscrewed the square knob and tossed it aside. Miraculously the Razor Crest's hardware fixtures must have been similar enough to this ship's, and the metal ball screwed perfectly into place. He grasped it gently once more, before flicking a few switches and starting up the engine.
Keep moving. Always keep moving.
---
Djarin's touch lingered on your hands even as you fell asleep. You dreamed of him, of his face, tired but handsome, aged by worry and life, yet kind and full of that honor your grandmother claimed every Mandalorian of worth contained.
You dreamed that he stayed, protecting you and your people, the way your grandfather should have done. Perhaps your mother and sister would still be here if he had.
Those nightmares woke you, sweating and sitting straight up in bed in the near darkness. Soft light from Nhora's triplet moons glimmered through the window, bathing your room in a soft glow, easing the pain in your heart, and returning you to the present. You flopped back in bed, rolling onto your stomach to try to get comfortable.
"That kriffing Mandalorian," you sighed into the pillow. He occupied your thoughts as you drifted in and out of sleep, his eyes on yours, the softness of his face under your fingers, the way he'd let you take care of him, his hand steadying yours and bringing you back into your body. It tied a knot in your stomach and you cursed your grandmother for having given you such high expectations of the man. Yet they were expectations met.
And what if he stayed? Would you fall for him? Were you destined to do so, intertwined by some family history that fated you and him together? He must have felt the gravity too, the gravity that pulled you together and bound your lives.
You hadn't seen him without his beskar armor on, but you could only imagine what he might look like underneath it all, shoulders broad, skin smooth, back muscular and strong. Was he taught and wound, always ready for a fight, or soft and supple?
You'd been with men before. Plenty of them, in fact. They tended to fall at your feet, begging for the queen's attention and a chance to sleep in her bed. Nhoran queens never married, simply chose a man to be the one to continue on the line of queens that came before and the line that would come after. But none struck your fancy, none forced their way into your thoughts, none caused you to touch yourself with need when you were without their presence.
None like Djarin. It was a relief to orgasm beneath your hands, his face floating behind your eyelids. You came as the triplet moons set and the sun rose, as somewhere in the distance Djarin's ship was taking off, rumbling powerfully beneath his strong hands. The relief it brought you gave you several more hours of sleep, the best sleep of the past year.
You hadn't realized how starved you were for the Mandalorian until he was in your grasp.
---
The dense quiet of hyperspace allowed for sleep. Or too much thinking.
In this case, Din was doing the overthinking. In the holomessage he'd left you he'd tried to explain where he was going, what he was doing, that he'd be back. He didn't need to justify his actions to you. You'd given him permission to go about his business as he pleased, that you'd always be there for help if he needed it. But he felt he owed you some explanation.
There was so much to do, to plan, to look ahead to. And yet Din's thoughts surrounded only you and what he'd just left behind. Less than a day on Nhora and the planet called out to him, begging for his return. Or perhaps it was just you.
Din closed his eyes, willing sleep to find him, but only visions of you drifted through the darkness, your bare arms, your soft fingers, your face close to his, your scent. It was intoxicating. If he tried hard enough, he might be able to pick up that smell even now, lingering in the ship.
When he'd reached out to touch your hands, it had taken all his willpower to leave them there and not drag his fingers up your arm. It wasn't right, this sudden desire to touch you all over. You were just being kind. It was silly to think any further into it. And yet, the knot in his stomach and tightness in his pants said otherwise.
Din's eyes flew open, trying to rid you from his thoughts. Think about anything else, Maker be damned, anything but wanting to hold you, kiss you, drink in that scent forever and ever.
With a frustrated grunt, he stood and moved to the fresher, splashing cold water onto his face to relieve the tension in his chest. It didn't work.
"I don't even know your name," Din groaned into the silence of the ship, hands balled into fists and rubbing his eyes. It was useless. There was only one thing to do. With fumbling fingers, he undid his belt, freeing his swollen cock from the confines of his pants. What would you think if you knew he was touching himself like this? But that only turned him on more, urging him forward to grasp his length with a rough hand. It only took a few pumps to finish, the fingers of his other hand gripping the edge of the sink as he grunted into the echoing silence of the fresher, amplifying the needy sounds.
He'd never let a woman drive him crazy. And yet you were going to do just that, already lightyears away.
Pairing: Marcus Moreno (We Could Be Heroes) x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 4.3K
Warnings: teasing, spanking, oral (f receiving), edging, p in v, unprotected sex, gendered language
Note: something about the perversion of having sex with a children’s movie character really grinds my gears. enjoy.
If you could go back in time to figure out exactly what choices you had made to lead to this moment, it would be hard to pinpoint exactly where you'd gone wrong. And yet here you were, dialing the number of one of the earth's greatest heroes, the leader of the Heroics, Marcus Moreno.
There was nothing untoward about this call. The kids you nannied had insisted upon it, wanting to set up a sleepover with Missy Moreno. You stared down at the business card he'd given you and hesitated, thinking about the events that had transpired that day.
Earlier, you had been waiting in the carpool line for school to be released. The two kids you nannied, Annabelle and Anthony, were in sixth grade. You had been picking them up from school for years now and had gotten in the habit of getting there early and sitting in your car, taking a quiet moment to yourself before the chaos that consisted of taking care of twins ensued.
But you were jolted from your relaxation time by a bump on the back of your car. Had someone just rear-ended you? Here in the carpool line? Looking in your rearview mirror, you saw a large figure emerge from a black car behind you. Yep, he'd rear-ended you. Begrudgingly, you stepped out of your car as well.
"Seriously?" you said. "How do you even manage this when the speed limit is zero?"
Instantly, you regretted the obvious annoyance in your voice. The man heading toward you was distressed and already apologizing profusely. If he hadn't been so handsome, you might have continued to berate him, but the kindness of the man's eyes and his unruly hair stopped you in your tracks.
"Did I dent it?" the man asked with worry. Looking at your bumper, there wasn't even a scratch. He hadn't been going that fast anyway.
"No, the car's fine. Don't worry about it," you said.
"Are you okay?" he asked, looking worriedly into your face. "I didn't scare you or anything?"
"Really, it's fine. No harm done," you assured him.
The man looked back at your bumper, analyzing it just to be sure. "Let me give you my number anyway, just in case. I'll cover any damage." He pulled a card from his back pocket and scrawled his number on the back before handing it to you.
Glancing at the card, you noticed the name. Marcus Moreno. Wasn't that...?
"You're that superhero aren't you? With the Heroics?"
Marcus laughed nervously. "Yeah, that's me. Apparently, I can wield swords but I can't drive a car."
"Don't worry, we all have our weaknesses," you said, partly trying to ease his concern and partly trying to tease him as well. "Your kid goes to school here?"
"Sixth grade. They grow up so fast. What about yours?"
"Not mine, actually. Just the nanny."
"I thought you looked a bit young," Marcus said with a lopsided grin. Was he flirting with you? You watched as he leaned against his own car, mirroring your movements. Oh yeah, definitely flirting.
"The job got me through college," you admitted, trying to hint that you might be younger but you were certainly still old enough for him. "But I liked it so much I stayed. Now I can't get away."
You did love your job, however challenging it was. Somewhere inside the school, the final bell rang, and moments later, kids came flooding out. Soon, you spotted Annabelle and Anthony and you waved, letting them know where you were. They headed over, chatting and laughing with another little girl. As they approached, she called out to Marcus, and you realized it was his daughter. What a coincidence.
"How was your day?" you asked the twins.
"Fine," they answered in unison, a typical answer for them. "Bye Missy," Annabelle said. "See you Monday."
Marcus turned toward you and stuck out his hand.
"It was nice meeting you," he said. "I'll see you around. And call me if you need anything." Though he meant the car, you thought he'd probably left the invitation open on purpose.
So here you were, standing in the kitchen, staring down at the phone number written on the back of Marcus Moreno's business card. Funny, a superhero with a business card who picks his kid up from school and rear-ends people in the parking lot. Not exactly what you'd expected.
At last, you dialed. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered. "Marcus Moreno speaking."
"Hey, it's Y/N. From the carpool line."
Marcus sounded genuinely happy to hear from you. "Something up with the car?"
"No, actually, the car is still undamaged." You could hear him snicker softly on the other end. You went on. "The kids wanted to have a sleepover and insisted I call you. I know it's sort of last minute, but it is Friday, so I thought it might be okay."
"I guess we could make it work. Give me a second." The other end went silent for a moment before his melodious voice returned. "Their place or mine?"
"Oh, well... I hadn't thought that far. I actually have weekends off, so I'm headed out at six tonight. But their parents will be home. I'm sure they won't mind."
"Sounds good, see you later." The line clicked and Marcus disconnected. Okay, then.
When six rolled around, you packed up your purse, placed dinner on the table, and then headed out the door, saying goodbye to the twins. Annabelle and Anthony's mother was already home and you were able to sneak out without too much commotion. As you closed the door behind you, Marcus's car pulled into the driveway, and both he and Missy stepped out.
"See you later, Dad," Missy said, giving him a kiss on the cheek before running into the house. The two of you were now alone in the driveway.
"Hey again," Marcus said, looking you up and down with a smile.
"Thanks for avoiding my car this time," you said with a laugh.
"Alright, alright, I get it. I'm a bad driver."
"Your words not mine."
It was Marcus's turn to laugh. He turned back toward his car but paused a moment as if he wanted to say something. "Got any weekend plans?"
You shrugged. Was he trying to gauge your availability? "Probably a glass of wine on the couch with this week's crime documentary."
"Would you like some company with that glass of wine?" Marcus asked. Your assumption had been right. When you hesitated, Marcus noticed your reluctance. "I'm sorry, that was a bit forward. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," you replied, reassuringly. Fuck it, you thought, better to spend the weekend with someone than alone, again. "I think I'd like that."
---
Marcus picked you up. He actually drove to your house and picked you up, like this was a date. You'd agreed to go to a bar nearby, and though it was close enough for you to walk, he'd insisted your house was on the way and that he would drive you. You weren't sure how true that was, but you weren't going to deny a free ride.
"Don't crash," you joked. Sure, maybe you were taking this whole bad driver thing a bit too far, but it eased the tension and you liked making Marcus laugh. When you arrived at the bar, he led you to a back table. You noticed he sat with his back to the wall and kept an eye on the front door, real superhero style.
"What would you like?" he asked. You ordered a vodka cran to his whiskey.
"I've never been here before," you mentioned as you waited for your drinks.
Marcus shrugged. "Yeah, most people here tend to be on the older side."
"Oh come one, you can't be that old," you teased. Could he be? Marcus looked a bit sheepish. Maybe he was.
"Not old but... I'll be 46 in the spring."
"Oh, shit," you said involuntarily. Marcus huffed as if to say 'thanks, like I didn't know.'
"Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just that- well, you're old enough to be my father."
"You wanna walk home?" he said jokingly. He was starting to ease more into the conversation and you thought he may actually enjoy all the teasing.
"It just means you're mature," you explained.
"Mature is code for old."
"Mature means I can have a real conversation with you and not feel like I'm talking to a teenager." You paused. You wanted to say more but were unsure of what his reaction might be. Fuck it, he was flirting. You knew what he wanted, but more importantly, you knew what you wanted. "Mature also means better in bed."
At your words, Marcus leaned forward on his elbows, swirling the ice around in this glass. "And you know this? Or it's what you believe?"
You weren't expecting that reply. But you liked it. "Just a hypothesis."
Marcus leaned back again. He didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes told you he was processing what you'd just told him. So you moved on with the conversation, asking him about Missy, about life as a superhero, about life in general. He was open and honest, willing to talk about pretty much anything, though you purposely steered clear of talk about his dead wife. It was no secret that he'd been married before, but something about the mood of the conversation led you to believe he was trying to forget about her.
Though it felt like no time at all, you suddenly realized how tired you actually were. It had been a long day, taking care of kids and running errands. Glancing at your watch, you realized it was almost midnight.
Marcus noticed your movement. "Want me to take you home?"
You hesitated. You were enjoying yourself, but you weren't sure how much longer you could stand the noise of the bar. So in the end, you relented.
As you pulled up to your apartment building, you didn't know what to say. Would he walk you to your door? Did you have the guts to ask? But Marcus killed the engine and gave you your answer. The two of you stood in silence outside your door as you fumbled for your keys. You wanted to say something, but what was there to say? Thanks so much for a wonderful evening. Thanks for flirting with me. No, no it wasn't right.
You managed to get the door open. Now or never. "Do you-"
"I should let you get some sleep," Marcus said, beating you to it. Was this goodnight? But he didn't turn to leave.
For the third time that night, you threw caution to the wind. "Remember my hypothesis?"
Marcus smiled, though unsure where this was going. "Of course."
"There's only one way to test a hypothesis, right?" You hoped he would understand.
And oh boy, did he understand. In two large steps, he was in front of you, taking your face in his hands. God, his hands. They were calloused but gentle and they tangled in your hair and left a searing heat on the back of your neck and--
Fuck. You hadn't even realized your eyes were closed until Marcus spoke. His lips were so close to yours, you could almost taste him, but he wasn't kissing you. Why wasn't he kissing you?
"We should go inside," he whispered. His voice was suddenly raspier than it had been all evening, and though it was more of a suggestion than a request, you moved obediently, stepping backward as he moved forward, guiding you into the apartment. He slammed the door shut with his foot, hands still behind your head, and then finally, god damn it, finally, he kissed you.
His lips were decadently soft. At first, Marcus was gentle, easing you into an eternal kiss. But you wanted more. You wanted to be closer. Your fingers found the belt loops on the waistband of his jeans and you tugged his hips toward yours. He got the message loud and clear.
His lips began to move against yours, hot and needy, his tongue entering your mouth as you gasped for air. One hand left your hair to wrap around your waist, his fingers curling under the fabric of your shirt to lay flat against the skin of your back. They slid up the curve of your spine to the clasp of your bra and suddenly you felt the snap of elastic release against your skin. Had he just undone your bra one-handed? You didn't even have your shirt off and already he was unraveling you with his fingers.
There was too much fabric between you two. Marcus hadn't even taken off his leather jacket yet. You reached up to his shoulders, ready to slide it off for him when suddenly he pulled away and grabbed your hands. You looked up at him confused, wondering if maybe he wasn't ready for this yet.
"What's wrong?" you asked.
Marcus was breathing heavy, eyes dark with lust. "You wanted someone mature, right? You want mature sex?"
The force behind his words sent your insides tumbling. All you could do was nod, hands still unable to move, imprisoned by his own.
"Okay," he said, his voice deep and husky. "Stop me if you're uncomfortable. Do you understand?"
Again, you nodded.
"You're allowed to speak," Marcus teased. "But you need to do as I say."
Oh, fuck. A heat was building between your thighs. What had you gotten yourself into? Slowly, Marcus released your hands from his grip. He took his leather jacket off, himself, and then took a step back, instructing you through your next movements.
"Take off your shirt," Marcus said. His words were soft yet commanding.
Marcus watched as you pulled your shirt over your head. Your bra, which was already undone, went along with it. The air of your apartment wasn't particularly cold, but the shock of sudden exposure left goosebumps on your burning hot skin. You felt your nipples harden under his intense gaze but he didn't reach out to touch you.
"Turn around and take off your pants. Slowly."
He was enjoying himself too much. How had this sweet man, who had treated you so kindly and simply craved the presence of another human, turned so hot and rugged, wanting to tease you with the pain of slowing down. He knew you wanted nothing more than to touch him. And yet he made you wait and watched as you squirmed under his command.
And however painful it was, you did as you were told, unbuttoning your pants, hooking your thumbs into the waistband, and pulling them down slowly, slowly, slowly. You weren't sure if it was what he wanted, but you dragged your underwear down with them, fully revealing the curve of your hips and the contour of your ass. You leaned forward to push your pants down your thighs and past your knees, giving Marcus a full view of your now wet and throbbing pussy, and you heard the audible intake of a breath behind you.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he said. Your breath hitched in your throat and your heart somehow beat faster than it already was. But it was nice to know you were having as much of an effect on him as he was on you.
Now fully naked, you stood, still turned away from him, unsure of what his next move might be. Without your attention on him, you finally noticed how dark it was in your apartment. You hadn't even turned on any lights, hadn't even moved out of the entryway. The only light came from the open curtains of your living room window where a street lamp cast an orange glow across the couch.
Suddenly, the sound of a slap and a sharp sting spread across the left cheek of your ass and you gasped. Did he just slap you on the butt? Holy shit. The warm tingle spread through your body and you nearly trembled at the feeling. Hold it together. You couldn't fall apart so soon.
Despite the slap, Marcus still held back from touching you, leaving you feeling exposed, nearly whimpering from the desire to be touched. Finally, he placed his hands on your shoulders and slid them down to your wrists, leaving fire in their wake. With one wrist in each hand, he folded your arms behind your back and held them there. The movement forced you to arch your back, thrusting your chest and hips out. It seemed a calculated move to provide him with more access to every curve of your body.
You could feel the heat of his body as he stepped closer, but it wasn't until he pressed his own body against your back that you noticed he was naked as well. With his free hand, he pulled your hair behind your ear to place hot, breathy kisses down your neck. Shivers ran down your spine and your legs trembled in desire. Your pussy was dripping with need, the moist heat beginning to drip down the inside of your thigh.
With all his teasing, a sudden thought popped into your head. You had to ask. He had said you could speak, right?
"Marcus?" You asked. He grunted in response, not moving his mouth from your neck but affirming that he was listening. It was getting hard to talk, but you continued anyway. "Do you- do you have super senses as well? Like hearing?"
"Baby, I can hear you breathe from a mile away."
Interesting. "So, what if I do this?" You turned your head toward his, still at your neck, placing your lips at his ear, and moaned softly. The hand gripping your arms tightened and a deep groan was thrust from Marcus's lips, sending his hot breath across your shoulder.
"You're teasing me now? Don't worry, for that little stunt I'll have you screaming so loud you won't need super senses to hear you from a mile away." Now it was your turn to groan in frustration. You strained against your captive arms, wanting to get at the man pressed behind you, but he was far too strong. At least he was finally touching you. His free hand slid across your stomach and up to your breasts, pinching and twisting each of your nipples until they were aching and tender. The moans he elicited from your mouth were no longer simply to tease; the pleasure was too much to contain. Suddenly, his fingers left your nipples and slid slowly south. You shook with anticipation as he crept towards the heat between your thighs. Gently, one finger teased the crease of your slit, working gradually toward the mound of your clit.
"Spread your legs," Marcus whispered into your ear. As soon as you did what you were told, his finger landed directly on your clit and you nearly jumped at the sensation. You wanted desperately to grab onto him, hold his hand in place, but you could do nothing more than moan in ecstasy as he worked lazily between your thighs. You were sure you could cum soon if he kept going, except he didn't. Marcus stopped, pulling his hand away, leaving you trembling and begging for more.
With a palm placed on the small of your back, he guided you forward, and you stumbled until you reached the couch. You thought he might sit you down, but instead, Marcus leaned you across the couch arm, face in the cushions, ass in the air. You still had no control over your arms, so you could do little about your situation.
"You want me to fuck you, baby?" You could feel Marcus pressed against your ass, his legs between yours, spreading them wider, his cock hard and ready. He was so close, so close to being inside you, and yet he wanted to tease you a bit longer. When your reply came only as a soft whimper from your lips, he leaned over you and ran a finger down your spine. "Answer me, baby."
"Yes, Marcus. Yes, fuck me please."
"Not yet."
Not yet? What did he mean not yet? You wanted to cry at how desperately you needed him inside you. Instead of giving you what you wanted, you suddenly felt his hot tongue dragging up your thigh. He moaned against your trembling skin, licking away the dripping heat that had spilled from your pussy. Slowly, he made his way to your core, taking his time to clean the inside of both of your thighs.
"Baby, you taste so good. You're such a good girl, all nice and wet for me." Good girl. Fuck. It felt so incredibly amazing, but it wasn't what you wanted, what you needed. You couldn't help yourself; you began to beg, beg for him to fuck you like he meant it, beg for him to bury himself inside you. He ignored your pleas and instead spread your pussy lips with his tongue, lapping up your juices like he was dying of thirst, holding your arms in place as you squirmed beneath him.
"That's it, baby girl, grind against my face." You didn't need to be told twice. The sensation was bringing you to the edge. The scruff on his face tickled against your thighs and you wanted desperately to clamp your legs down on his head, tip over the edge, and feel the release of your orgasm. But Marcus wouldn't let you. He held your legs open and continued his rampage as your gasps of pleasure escalated to moans.
"Marcus I- I'm gonna cum," you managed to say. But as soon as your words left your lips, you regretted them. Marcus pulled away, leaving your open and cold and teetering on the edge of ecstasy. You groaned in frustration again. "Please, Marcus, make me cum, I need to cum."
"I love hearing you beg," he said, placing kisses across your shoulder blades and down your back. You could feel him center his hips at your entrance, the tip of his cock just barely nudging into you. You tried to grind your hips against his, needing that sweet relief, but he held you in place with one hand. "I want to hear you scream my name."
He pulled back and then slammed into you, and you did. You screamed his name over and over, with every thrust, every time he hit your g-spot, every time he grunted and groaned with his own pleasure. You tried to press your face into the couch to mute the sound but he wouldn't let you, grabbing your hair in his free hand and pulling your head slightly back, so he could hear every delicious sound that fell from your lips. Your arms were still pinned behind your back, but it made the angle all the better. It wasn't long before his thrusts were pulling you back toward the edge, your walls clenching around his shaft. He felt the shift, felt your orgasm build in your core as he fucked you hard.
"Cum for me baby," he growled. "Be a good girl and cum, now." With his words and one final thrust, you did, shattering into a million pieces with the force of the orgasm that rocked your body. You screamed until your lungs gave out, until you could barely breathe. Though you hadn't been holding yourself up much, you fully collapsed now, the strength in your body gone. Marcus was still holding out, teetering on the edge as well but wanting to ride out every drop of your orgasm until nothing remained.
"Tell me where you want me to cum," he growled through his teeth, unable to hold on much longer.
You wanted him to cum inside you; you wanted to feel him drip out of you all night. So you told him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes Marcus, cum inside me, please," you begged. He did love when you begged, after all.
He cursed your name and then came inside you, thrusting his hot seed deep in your cunt and filling you up. He collapsed on top of you, finally releasing your arms, needing both of his to hold himself above you. His throbbing cock remained inside you as he leaned over you and kissed your back, whispering your name in sweet euphoria. The two of you remained like that, warm bodies piled atop one another, for several minutes, heaving in and out to catch your breath.
Finally, he pulled out and stood, helping you up as well so you could sit on the arm of the couch he'd just fucked you over.
You realized that this was the first time you were actually seeing Marcus naked. He had taken you from behind the whole time, but now, you were finally able to place your hands on his smooth chest and wrap your legs around his waist. You pulled him into a kiss and then leaned back, falling backward onto the couch and taking him down with you. In this position, Marcus laid his head on your chest, easing deep into your arms as you stayed wrapped around him. It was a perfect feeling, fulfilling the skin-to-skin contact you knew you both desperately needed. For a moment, you were both quiet, listening to the steady rhythm of one another's breath. Marcus was the first to break the silence.
"So, was your hypothesis correct?"
You laughed. "So far, the evidence is compelling. I may need to conduct some more testing to know for sure, though."
"I think we can arrange that," he said with a smile.
