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Luke doesn’t know his name. He’s never even seen his face.
The Mand’alor is soft spoken. Besides their first, official greeting in front of what felt like the entirety of the planet upon his reluctant arrival, they’ve been sitting in near total silence for the last hour, waiting for the officials to finish. Waiting to seal the agreement with more than flimsi and ink – with blood and spit and seed, the way all political consorts have been claimed on Mandalore for ages.
Luke shifts where he stands, dread making his vaulted calm momentarily abandon him as the conversation comes to a close, the councilors bowing and turning to leave, holopads finally dimmed and tucked under their arms. Leia follows behind with her retinue of Senatorial representatives. The look she sends him before the door slides shut behind her is at once damning and full of pity.
He swallows roughly, the hands clasped respectfully behind his back tightening into fists. From his place on the divan across the room, the Mand’alor leans back, sprawled like a great cat, legs long, armor glinting in the muted light of the candle glow.
Luke can feel the weight of his gaze, even through the mask. He does his best to ignore the bed situated against the opposite wall, the way the sheets have been turned down in anticipation of the evening ahead.
“Take off your clothes.” He finally commands, after the silence between them has grown stifling.
“What?” Luke gapes, unsure if he’d heard right. The Mandalorian doesn’t move beyond an imperious cocking of his helmeted head.
“Take. Off. Your. Clothes.” He repeats slowly. “I can help, if you can’t do it yourself.”
Luke flushes, breathing sharply through his nose. He’s disturbed by the command even while his pulse picks up – in nerves or interest he can’t tell.
“Fine.” The man says and proceeds to stand, prowling closer until he towers over Luke. He has to crane his neck up to keep that expressionless faceplate in his sights.
Luke is once again rudely reminded that the man stands more than a head taller than he does. Most sentients do, to be fair, but the way the Mand’alor hovers sets his teeth on edge, domineering, broad shouldered and quiet in that way apex predators often are. He doesn’t give ground, but its a close thing.
“I’m- I can do it-” He yelps as possessive, gloved hands find his collar, making quick work of ripping his tunics apart down to his sternum with a sharp tearing sound, forcing the ruined fabric halfway down his arms before roughly spinning him around and shoving him forward.
He trips, stumbling over his feet in a rare display of clumsiness, and falls, the air leaving his lungs with an audible grunt when he hits the bed, legs dangling over the side, hips and back on humiliating display.
Face burning, Luke struggles to sit up, only to immediately be forced back onto his belly by a broad palm between his shoulder blades. The Force wreathes in his veins, spitting with defensive fire that he struggles to keep hold of as his hands are bound at the small of his back. Though a fight is expected, he can’t lash out here, not with the Force at the very least, and they both know it.
“Stay still for me, jetii.” The Mand’alor demands when he bucks against what he realizes is the man’s belt as hands lazily work their way down his heaving flank to find the slim breadth of his waist. His voice is soft through the vocoder of his helmet, though Luke can barely hear him over the blood roaring in his ears. He shouts, animal panic setting in when his trousers are yanked abruptly down over his hips, exposing him to the chill air of the room and the man’s gaze.
The delicate crystal glasses on the caf table shatter with a pop, the wine bottle cracking, spilling a bubbling, red froth that slowly spreads over the tabletop. It looks like blood as it drips off the side, staining the cream carpet.
“I can cuff you, if that would help.”
“No!” Luke gasps, breathless and choked with the threat of tears. The idea of being cut off from the Force is worse than anything he could imagine. “No, please don’t.”
The Mand’alor is silent for a heartbeat, before something lands on the carpeted floor with a heavy thump beyond Luke’s view. Gentle fingers card through his hair, a mockery of tenderness that draws a shiver down Luke’s spine.
“Suit yourself.” He murmurs, hand fisting tight in Luke’s hair and drawing his head up. A hot tongue finds his cheek, languidly chasing the first tears welling hot and traitorous from his burning eyes before finding Luke’s mouth.
The Mand’alor kisses like he’s a conqueror at battle, laying siege to him until Luke is left breathless, gasping and shaking when he’s finally released, heart thundering in his chest from lack of oxygen and back aching from the strain. Luke blinks through the film of his tears, noting distantly the spider-silk thread of spit that connects their mouths, before he’s shoved back onto the bed, head spinning.
Those demanding hands come back to work Luke’s trousers further down to his knees, before skating up the bared skin of his thighs. His hands are bare, gloves abandoned without Luke having realised.
Luke squirms at the touch, still breathless, stomach swooping as blaster-callused thumbs dig into the meat of his inner thighs, scratching lightly as they sweep upwards. Up towards where he’s grown thick and heavy with involuntary, burgeoning arousal. Where he feels aching and empty and yearning.
Luke comes back to himself with a jolt.
“Wait.” He begs, attempting to jerk away from that knowing, possessive touch. The Mand’alor’s hands go tight, bruising as they force Luke into stillness. The Force thrashes impotently inside of him as he’s mounted like an animal, the man straddling him, fully clothed, where he’s caught still against the side of the bed. The the rough bite of his armor is frigid against the tender skin at the back of Luke’s thighs and buttocks as he leans in close.
“Fight all you want, mesh'la.” The Mand’alor breaths out against his temple, breath stirring the fine hair over his ear in a ticklish gust, the weight of his body a solid line of heat and heavy beskar over Luke’s back. “You’re mine either way.”
Any words Luke might have snapped back are summarily caught in his throat when the man rolls his hips, fucking against him in a crude imitation of what’s to come. Beyond the rough scratch of his trousers against the delicate skin of his backside, Luke is suddenly, glaringly aware that the man is hard, the line of his cock obvious through the fabric.
It leaves a flash of humiliated arousal pooling in Luke’s guts, to be bound so while the Mand’alor frots against him, fully clothed. Not even deigning to undress.
Luke bites back a curse, angry at himself for the feeling, snarling wordlessly when he can do nothing more than rock with each heavy thrust, the Force gnashing its proverbial teeth at being muzzled so.
“Get off me.” He demands, only for the Mand’alor to laugh, low and mocking. He does sit back, but the win is worth next to nothing when Luke can hear the sound of a zipper being undone, loud in the silence besides his panting breaths.
Luke’s shoulders hunch in towards his ears at the sound, heart picking up pace to beat double-time at the unspoken threat when the wet sound of the Mand’alor fisting himself reaches him. He peers over his shoulder, face hot when he’s greeted with the sight of the man watching him in return with dark eyes, the red, glistening head of his cock disappearing again and again beneath the commanding grip of his fingers.
“You want my cock, little jetii?” The Mand’alor asks, the smirk in his voice leaving Luke’s face burning, head whipping back around to avoid those knowing, heated eyes.
“You can have it.” He croons, releasing his length to give the swell of his bottom a stinging swat that has Luke crying out before he can stifle the sound.
The Mand’alor’s hands find his thighs again, thumbs sweeping the bottom curve of his ass with a considering hum before digging in and spreading him for his gaze. Luke goes still, breath frozen in his lungs, a hare caught in a predator’s sights.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing. ” The Mand’alor breaths, a thumb dipping in to tease at where Luke is most sensitive, tugging gently at his rim before slipping down his perineum, brushing the seam of his balls and dragging an unwilling grunt from Luke’s throat.
“And sensitive.” The man hums, thumbs once more spreading him until Luke can feel his hole winking with the stretch, a featherlight, maddening not-sensation that draws a shiver up his spine, goosebumps raising on his exposed skin.
The crude sound of gathering saliva is all the warning Luke gets before a wad of spit hits his rim, dripping slowly down his taint, hot and wet and filthy in a way that leaves him trembling, speechless, head hanging low between his aching shoulders.
A proprietary thumb sweeps through the foamy claim, smearing it up and around his rim before pressing teasingly inwards. Luke groans, everything tensing in wary anticipation before the touch disappears.
It takes a moment for his sluggish thoughts to come back online, but as soon as he realises that the Mand’alor has released him to disrobe, Luke is turning, squirming as much as his bound arms and legs will allow in an effort to turn himself around and off the bed.
The man is back on him in an instant, wrestling him fully onto the bed with a rumbled, “Not so fast.”
One hand fisted in Luke’s hair, the other durasteel tight around his bound wrists, the Mand’alor allows Luke to thrash against his hold, shouting angrily in Huttese until he all but collapses into the bedding when he finally runs out of energy, panting, glaring up at his stupidly handsome face through angry tears that quickly soak into the silk sheet beneath his cheek.
A shuddering breath shakes through Luke, the fight leaving him as quickly as it came. He squeezes his burning eyes shut against that piercing gaze, pressing his face into the bed as a sob breaks free at last.
“Shh, ner mesh'la.” The man hushes him, voice and hands gentle as he’s rolled fully back onto his belly, a thumb briefly buffing away the tears from his cheek before those damned hands find his hips again, guiding them up. A gust of breath brushes bare skin, and then he’s spread open once more.
Luke chokes, eyes flying open and hands fisting uselessly against his back as a hot tongue laves over his hole, dipping teasingly inwards with a flick that leaves him whimpering. The Mand’alor has a talented mouth, for all that Luke wishes he didn’t so he could divorce himself from the experience, sucking at his rim in a way that Luke is helpless to resist, his own cock drooling wet and ignored between his thighs at each pulse against his core.
He’s worked over for long minutes until he’s sobbing anew, trussed up like a prized sow, cock angry red and rim fluttering hungrily against that agile tongue that won’t give him relief, hips swaying back into the sensation just to feel the rumbling groan of the man vibrating against his taint again and again. The Mand’alor eats him like he’s starved, a man before a feast.
Luke doesn’t realise he’s begging until the man huffs a laugh against his thigh, panting breaths hot and damp while a thumb dips in where he’s gone loose with pleasure, testing the give of his hole in a way that has his belly jumping.
The man laughs, pleased and low at the glare Luke shoots him from over his shoulder, before draping himself over his back and stealing a kiss, wet and hungrier still as a hand runs gently over his nape, around the curve of his shoulder and ribs in a ticklish descent to find the nub of his nipple, pinching and drawing a gasp from Luke that is immediately swallowed up by his smirking mouth.
Luke shivers, heat prickling at his chest and hips rolling mindlessly just to feel the hot length of that cock against his skin, sticky with sweat and precome as it slides between his trapped thighs, butting up against his tight balls and sensitive taint.
He aches still with the phantom touch of the Mand’alor’s mouth, hole empty and fluttering around nothing. He cries out into the man’s mouth when his cock slips free of the clutch of his thighs, the fat, flared head catching briefly at his rim in a flash of sparking pleasure once, then again, before the man draws back.
Luke curses, biting punishingly at the mouth on his, and driving his hips back in an effort to chase the sensation. The bright taste of iron blooms on his tongue even as the man rears back with a shout, sitting back on his haunches and touching his bloodied lip to assess the damage.
“Blood of my blood, nair jetii.” The Mand’alor grumbles, eyeing Luke warily for a moment, before he motions with his bloody chin towards the bedside table and the corked bottle sitting innocuously, tucked half-hidden behind a bouquet of night-blooming moon lilies. “Be a good boy for me, and fetch your lube if you want to be fucked.”
“Get it yourself.” Luke snaps, teeth bared and bristling at the command, heart pounding still with the echoes of almost pleasure, though the man ignores him in favor of shrugging out of his pauldrons, the remainder of his armor hitting the floor behind them with a careless thump. His tunic follows.
Luke finds himself suddenly riveted, watching silently over his shoulder at the play of sweat-damp muscle as the Mand’alor’s arms stretch overhead, scars flashing silver in the candlelight as he tosses the shirt away, leaving him clad only in his trousers, thick cock jutting rudely from the narrow v of his muscled hips.
The man catches him staring. He cocks an eyebrow in question, tonguing the bite at his lip wordlessly, white teeth glinting. He makes no move to get the oil, simply watches him, palming his fat cock lazily, for once waiting for Luke to act when the rest of their encounter had been a violent struggle, his greater strength allowing the man to easily dominate Luke without the Force to aide him.
Restlessly, Luke shifts in his bonds, eyes averted and cheeks burning with embarrassment, blood thrumming hot with angry arousal. He takes some degree of petty pleasure in hitting the man in the face with the glass as he floats it over. The Mand’alor scowls, dark brows furrowing with irritation, but doesn’t comment on it, snatching the vial from the air.
He’s bullied back onto his front, one hand in his hair to hold him still while the other busies itself with coating that thick cock with the oil before the Mand’alor turns his attention fully onto Luke, breathing ragged.
The cork gets lost amongst the bedding almost immediately, Luke keening as the oil is spilled wet and viscous over his hole, perfuming the air further with the sweet smell of herbs and sugar and their combined sex. Luke breaths in shakily as the Mand’alor runs his fingers through the mess, rubbing it into his taint and growling out praises as Luke’s hips jolt up into each electric touch.
Fingertips dip into his hole, testing the give before slipping deeper. Luke grinds his face into the bedding, tears smarting at the painful pleasure. He’s already loose enough from the Mand’alor’s earlier attentions, that the man doesn’t have to spend much time prepping him further, before his fingers are replaced by the heavy weight of his cock sliding along his taint, tip catching on his rim with shivery, breath-catching pleasure, once, twice, before slipping inside.
The Mand’alor doesn’t give Luke a chance to catch his breath, spearing into him in one inexorable slide that leaves him crying out, thighs locking as he finally bottoms out deep inside.
“Fuck, you feel amazing.” The man grinds down into him, rolling his hips before pulling out nearly to the tip only to spear back in roughly, rocking Luke with the motion. He does it again, cursing when the motion wrenches another cry from Luke who squirms underneath the bulk of his body, feet kicking up uselessly as he tries to wriggle away from the intensity only for the hand in his hair to shove his head further against the mattress, the other hand hitching his hips up, thumb digging into the fat of his cheek and spreading him open.
Luke gasps, involuntary tears streaming from his eyes, hands clenching around nothing, his own cock hanging, untouched between his thighs and drooling onto the sodden silk sheets beneath him each time the the Mand’alor’s dumb, fat cock nails his prostate.
His face is burning, sweat stinging his eyes, veins lit up with pleasure like a star about to go supernova as he’s bullied into, the man above him suddenly more vocal than all their limited time together combined.
"Are you going to come on my cock, ner mesh'la?” He asks, switching his rolling thrusts for something much more intentional, deep and claiming while he leans over, kissing Luke open mouthed and filthy, sucking on his tongue and leaving him panting in the aftermath. Hand in his hair, the Mand’alor tips his head back, spit landing hot and foamy on Luke’s extended tongue.
Face flaming, Luke swallows. The man growls, shoving his face back down and plowing into him, the thin veneer of civility all but gone, stripped from them both. Luke shudders, biting weakly at his lip in an effort to stave off the pitched, whining cries that threaten to break free, only to squeal when a hand lands, stinging, heavy, and shockingly loud against his bottom.
“Fucking slut.” The Mand’alor pants, dark eyes heavy with wicked desire. He brings his hand down again with a crack, the flat of his palm leaving Luke’s skin hot and tender, his insides clenching down involuntarily as that large hand grips at the meat of his ass, gripping tight and pulling him open so the man can spit on where they’re joined together, fucking his saliva into Luke’s hole with a pleased groan. “That’s it, fucking take it. Take my cock. Good boy.”
Luke can’t respond, all his breath punched out of him in little gasping ah, ah, ah’s with each punishing thrust, the cock bullying its way inside him leaving no room for thought besides the heat steadily coiling in his guts, the pleasure of that cock lancing off his prostate and carving out a space for itself deep inside winding him tighter and tighter, until he can only let go, free falling into pleasure, body going tight and dragging a curse from the man fucking into his vice-like heat, cock spurting, untouched, against his belly and the bedding.
Luke shivers, panting, oversensitive and seeing stars as the Force reels around him in pleased, syrupy satisfaction at his pleasure. The sensation of heat spilling deep inside him is a distant counterpoint, the wet, sipping kisses and tender brush of fingers in his hair bringing him slowly back to himself.
“There you are, ner jetii. Back with me?” The man’s voice rumbles against Luke’s cheek. Luke groans, curling in against the Mand’alor’s broad chest, feeling the wet dribble of come slowly leaking from his abused hole. He curls his nose. It’s unpleasant to say the least, and his shoulders are aching something fierce after being bound in one position for so long, but the strong hand slowly bullying his muscles into submission are doing a good enough job that he doesn’t complain.
“I’m sorry I bit you.” He finally says, palm splayed over the man’s breast, eyeing his swollen, barely scabbed-over lip. It looks like it smarts.
“It only makes our claim stronger.” The Mand’alor admits with a satisfied, catlike grin. Luke blinks, staring, taken aback to realise the man looks boyishly young when he’s smiling and not railing Luke into incoherence.
The man’s grin fades into something considering.
“Din.” He finally says, lips tilting with the beginning of something softer.
“My name.” He says. “It’s yours, if you’ll have it.”