Volume 4 - Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me
Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic
GIF by dindooku
Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader
Total word count: 5.6K (fourth post in Volume 4)
Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*
_______________________________
IV. “Hey! Watch it! I–oh…I, um…” the Trandoshan’s words died on his lips the moment he looked up to discover who he’d bumped into.
The Mandalorian hated working on Coruscant. It was noisy, crowded, and endlessly labyrinthian. Most of the filters in his helmet were rendered useless due to the sheer number of life forms in such close proximity. Continuous vehicle traffic across every level of the city overloaded his motion sensors.
The frenetic energy of the megalopolis set him on edge.
But what Mando really hated, what he absolutely loathed, was visiting the Uscru District. It was all the worst parts about a place like Daiyu—gambling dens, night clubs, garish neon lights, vendors shouting, the flashing, stochastic holograms—made somehow worse because it was repacked for gawking tourists.
Acrobats hung from cables crisscrossing overhead, their lithe bodies shimmering, while street musicians played for coins. Instrument cases littered the walkway, and goods were hawked on the pavement.
He felt uncentered. The next idiot who tripped over him to stare slack-jawed at some fucking juggler was getting bodied.
Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Mando couldn’t afford the delay.
The Mandalorian turned onto Daring Way, toward the sky bridge that would take him to the Floating World. Tourists liked to keep to well-lit thoroughfares, so the foot traffic here was sparser, and he made better time. Soon, the soft, glowing lights of the pleasure quarter came into view.
Music spilled out from decadent parlors where the doors and windows had been flung open to lure passersby. Beings of every gender and species could be seen lounging, sprawled out on display, wearing little more than scraps of fabric and gaudy jewels.
Each house catered to a different clientele, their specialty made known by the facade of the building or else the costumes worn by hosts welcoming their clients inside.
Most tourists never entered the brothels of the Floating World. They just came to take in the scene and watch the crowd, which was a sight in itself. Amongst the extravagant fashions and decor of the houses, many visitors donned elaborate masks or robes to conceal their identities.
So the Mandalorian was surprised to discover that the Dark Garden had no hosts waiting in the doorway and nothing on display in the windows. Instead, they were closed, sealed tight behind intricately carved black shutters.
The whole building was black. Its gleaming stone exterior looked more like a palatial mansion than a pleasure house.
The woman stationed behind the desk in the entryway was also dressed in black. It was a stark contrast to her pale pink skin, white-blond hair, and nearly colorless gray eyes. She looked up at him from between two onyx vases overflowing with vibrant red blossoms that matched her painted lips.
“Welcome, sir. We appreciate your business. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m not in need of your…services. I’ve come to see Mistress Anassa. She’ll know why I’m here.”
“Mistress Anassa is very busy,” she smiled apologetically. “Her clients book months in advance. I cannot promise she will have time to—”
He slid several gold peggats across the highly polished surface of the reception desk.
“Tell her a Mandalorian is waiting. I’ll be here until she finds the time.”
“Very well, sir. Please come with me.”
She led him through a dark passage to a lounge filled with curved sofas and circular ottomans, where clients–some wearing masks, others with their faces bared–sat huddled in conversation, drinking from elegant carafes or smoking ornate water pipes.
The hostess directed him to an alcove beneath a cluster of illuminated, floating orbs.
“Can I offer the Mandalorian anything while he waits? Company, perhaps?” She lowered her voice as she leaned in to place a pillow behind his back. “We cater to every desire here.”
“My desire,” he said evenly, “is for solitude.”
“As you like,” she smiled again, leaving him to wait for Mistress Anassa.
But he was conspicuous sitting alone, and it wasn’t long before another hostess dressed in black strode toward him. She walked over on towering heels he imagined Thuli would have loved to see if the Mandalorian needed attention.
She artfully placed one of the gilt carafes onto the lacquered table beside him and poured a drink. “May I offer the gentleman anything else?”
Her voice was as supple as her corsetted leather dress.
“No. Thank you, I–”
The sight of two luminous violet eyes caught him by surprise, and his heart stuttered. He turned sharply to see a woman entering the parlor. On second glance, she looked nothing like Thulindhara. But the eyes were unmistakable—their iridescent sheen, how they glowed bright like full moons. She was Hapan.
“Perhaps the Mandalorian sees something to his liking?”
It wasn’t her, yet the thrill that rose inside him didn’t ebb. It clutched the breath from his lungs and twisted his stomach into knots.
Mando knew he would miss her, but he hadn’t expected to feel her absence as a physical pain.
“No,” he said. “Thank you. But, no. I’m here to see Mistress Anassa.”
He watched as the woman who wasn’t Thuli walked up to a Keshiri couple at the bar, gesturing them to follow her down a long corridor hidden behind a pair of lush velvet curtains.
Beside him, the hostess offered the drink she’d poured, and he accepted it. Not for the sake of politeness but because he felt compelled to hold something in his hands. Sensing his discomposure, she looked meaningfully towards the curtains as they fell back into place and whispered, “They say to lie with a Hapan is to open the doorway to heaven.”
The Mandalorian had heard that said many times and always dismissed it as a self-serving rumor. He didn’t pay for sex, but mercenaries loved to talk about how they would spend their take on Hapan courtesans. The most expensive pussy in the galaxy, they said. Once you’re between her thighs, you’ll forget your own name.
Now, Mando understood the truth of these stories. Well…he hadn’t forgotten his name, but she did taste like heaven.
For most of his life, sex had been about release. Lust was simply another physical need. Like hunger or sleep, he met those needs for the sake of his body. When a woman felt so inclined, he obliged—helmet sealed, armor intact—to let her take what satisfaction she could find.
With Thuli, he learned that sex could be something beyond physical pleasure. They shared a connection unlike anything he’d experienced. Real intimacy. Mando hadn’t kissed a woman since…he’d barely been a man. Still a child, really.
To be with Thulani, naked and vulnerable as he had never been before, was not about release. It was fulfillment. Satisfaction of body and soul. And, yes, part of that was being between her thighs.
In the abstract, he’d been a little intimidated, but in the moment, it had felt entirely natural. He wanted to linger over her every curve, to put his mouth over every inch of her body, and he had loved all of it—the way she tasted, her fingers tugging at his hair, how her hips lifted with his touch.
It made him feel powerful in a way he hadn’t expected, drinking her in until she was soaked and breathless under his tongue.
Then, a door had opened—a door between their consciousness, when he’d felt her pleasure cresting through his body, rippling over his skin in waves that matched the stroking of his fingers. She’d lost all control, and his whole being was suffused with her ecstasy, so intensely passionate that he saw stars behind his eyes. Maybe it was heaven?
Thulani’s trick was making people believe in her openness, yet Mando recognized how rigidly she held herself in check. He sensed the wild, fierce nature in her heart that she constrained. It made him feel both immeasurably powerful and deeply gratified to be the one who made her unravel.
“The Mandalorian asked for me?”
A woman in a crisply tailored black suit stood before him. He did not immediately recognize her species, but the horns that spiraled around her long, folded ears and convex nose reminded him of a dray goat.
“You’re Mistress Anasssa? The proprietor of this…establishment.”
“Mmm, the Mandalorian is polite for a mercenary,” she sat beside him on the bench and reached out with slender fingers (no hooves) to take the glass from between his hands. It struck him at once how artfully the gesture was both sensual and dominating. “In answer to your question…” she drank deeply. “Yes. The gentleman would be wise not to let the crystal and chandeliers fool him. This is a dungeon. And I am its master.”
“I see.” It was all he could think to say. “Boss Set’ki said you’d be expecting me.”
“My apologies. I was otherwise occupied when the Mandalorian arrived.” She looked at the untouched carafe on the table. “I am sorry my vintage is not to his taste. And none of my ladies, either, I hear. If it is males he prefers, the gentleman need only—”
“That is beyond my purpose, Mistress Anassa. I’m here on business.”
“I doubt the Mandalorian would burden himself with such formality if he intended to capture me,” the mistress smiled curiously. “What is his business?”
“I’m interested in one of your clients.”
She scoffed. “The gentleman must realize discretion is an essential tenet of my profession. Why would I betray my client to help him?”
“Because Set’ki owes me a debt. And while you may be the master of this dungeon, your master is Boss Set’ki.”
Her features became resolute. “Then let us discuss this matter in private.”
The Mistress rose and walked toward the velvet curtains. Mando followed her down the long corridor until she stopped before a door with gold flowers embossed along its hinges.
She placed a tasseled fob against the keypad. “I hope the Mandalorian will appreciate that it is to everyone’s benefit if he appears to be another of my clients?”
“Very well,” he said and stepped inside.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. The black walls did not surprise him, but the abundance of those same red flowers, blooming from vases and wall hangings did. They matched the illuminated floor tiles that pulsed with crimson light.
Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished to accommodate the…equipment. There was a saltire cross with a rack of whips and paddles positioned beside it and a polished steel beam with manacles chained to its post. A length of rope dangled from one of the ceiling beams overhead. Instead of a bed, a quilted leather couch sat in a far corner of the room.
Plastered across one of the walls was a diagram of knots with cautionary notes about circulation and nerve damage.
“I’m sure the Mandalorian must be very accomplished at tying knots,” Mistress Anassa said from over his shoulder.
“I prefer cuffs.”
“Mmm…” He felt her eyes rake over him with heightened interest. “I have never met a Mandalorian before, but I begin to see why you inspire so much fascination. The armor, the brute force, stalking, capture, imprisonment—all potent themes for bondage role play.”
“I am Mandalorian. Violence is my trade. Weapons are part of my religion.” Mando turned to face her. “I’m not playing a game, Mistress.”
He could tell Anassa enjoyed hearing him call her that.
“Of course. Though I’m sure someone has offered to suck your cock in exchange for their freedom. Can you honestly say their begging has never aroused you?”
Her tone was frank, not seductive. A businesswoman appraising a commodity.
“I think the Mistress has a false impression about the sorts of people I’m sent to collect.”
At that, she laughed. “Still…I see the appeal. If you’re ever interested in a new line of work, I believe the Mandalorian and I could make a great deal of money together.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mando recalled that Thulani had said much the same thing. A Mandalorian would make good coin at one of those Keyorin brothels.
He suddenly wondered if this was something Thuli might enjoy. Bondage? Role play? The clamps and paddles didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he wouldn’t be opposed to tying her up if that’s what she wanted.
Mando looked at the steel beam, and his mind couldn’t help but stray towards fantasies of throwing her over it and fucking her senseless.
“About your client, Mistress Anassa.”
“What is it you wish to know?”
“This man, Ronan Carr,” he said, taking the holo-puck from his pocket and activating its profile. "I’m told he makes use of your services when his wife is out of town.”
Mistress Anassa schooled her features, but it was too late. He’d seen the look of panic cross her eyes the instant she recognized the man’s face.
“The Senator will be leaving on a diplomatic mission. Does Carr have an appointment scheduled for her departure?”
The Mandalorian suspected that Ronan Carr had an appointment booked for later that day. He’d been following Carr for the past week. Yesterday, the man had reserved an entire hotel floor under a false name and given his personal assistant the night off.
“He does,” the Mistress confirmed. “But I won’t help you. Boss Set’ki may kill me for my refusal. I will accept that punishment. A political assassination would condemn every soul under my care. That I will not accept.”
“I have no intention of killing Ronan Carr,” he assured her. “It’s information I want.”
“I suppose that is his trade,” her eyes weighed the Mandalorian, and she dropped the artful persona. “You won’t harm him? No kidnapping or torture?”
“If those are your terms, then I will agree. I only want to talk to him.”
“What if I have other terms?” The Mistress asked shrewdly.
“Name them.”
“I don’t want any of my people harmed.”
He nodded. “Do you know who you’ll send?”
“Yes, there are a few he favors.”
“Then give me some token or signal. But tell no one of this.”
She paused before coming to a decision. “I will go with them tonight. To ensure all will be as you promise.”
“These are your terms?”
“He’s a good client,” she waved her well-manicured hand vaguely, “And if word got out? If he thought I’d helped you?”
“Ronan Carr won’t risk the Senator discovering his…hobbies.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Here,” he pulled out a folded wallet and handed it to her. “To compensate for your loss of business. Though I expect a man with his proclivities should be back before long.”
“Thank you,” she gave him a curt bow. “You know where to find him?”
“Carr has gone to great lengths to conceal his plans, but yes, I know where he’ll be tonight.” And without really intending to, the Mandalorian said, “His desires make him weak.”
Mando was surprised at the scorn in his voice. Surprised to hear himself say that. Did he believe desire made him weak? His desire for Thuli?
It certainly made it difficult to concentrate. How many times did he think about her each day?
Maker, if he was being honest…he woke up thinking about Thulani, and the thought seemed to last all day. He worried about whether she was safe. He’d make some stray observation and imagine her reaction. He saw something beautiful in a window and wondered if she would like it.
When he lay inside the sleeping compartment alone, surrounded by her scent, he thought of Thuli’s mouth on him, those delicate fingers stroking his cock, and his body ached. He could not bring himself off without thinking about her.
Mistress Anassa looked at him with genuine sympathy as though she could sense his turmoil.
“Shame is Ronan Carr’s weakness,” she said. “If he were honest about his desires, you would have no power over him. His wife might even oblige. But shame feeds arousal. Maybe you can understand that?”
“Excuse me?”
Shame. Was that at the root of his sudden anger? The Mandalorian was not ashamed of his relationship with Thuli. He did not believe she made him weak.
But he did feel shame about his own selfish cowardice. That in her absence, he’d realized how deeply he cared for her, and it killed him knowing he could never say those words.
Why? Because they gave her power over him? No. Whether he said the words or not, didn’t change his feelings. But to say them aloud would be a promise. One he couldn’t make.
She’d met him on those terms, yet he felt ashamed he couldn’t give her more. She deserved better than a man who could not share his name or his face or his life with her. It would always come back to that.
“Shame is one of the most effective tools of repression,” Mistress Anassa shrugged. “But repression simply fuels temptation. Temptation transforms into desire. Desire generates more shame.”
Anassa opened a hidden panel in the wall and beckoned him forward. Lightly placing her fingers over a wooden slat, she slid it open, and a pinhole of light pierced through the room. The muffled sounds of moaning grew louder.
Gesturing toward the peephole, she said, “It’s only when we embrace our desires that we become free of this endless cycle.”
Curiosity getting the better of him, the Mandalorian looked. What he saw was the Keshiri couple from the parlor. The man was fully clothed, on all fours, his hands and knees braced against the ground. His partner was naked, splayed on his back, while the Hapan woman fucked her roughly with a strap-on.
“They were honest with each other about their desires. Now, it creates a bond rather than a wedge.”
Mando hadn’t anticipated that visiting a sex dungeon would prompt so much soul-searching. His eyes strayed back to the peephole, towards the Keshiri in the throws of climax, eyes shut tight as though she might die from ecstasy.
While he felt ashamed that he could not tell Thulani he loved her, he could at least ensure she felt loved. When he worshipped her body, when he fulfilled her desires, when he made her unravel—she would know the depth of his feelings.
“I’ve heard it said that true Mandalorians do not remove their armor. Perhaps the gentleman prefers to watch?”
He pulled the slot closed. “I’ve seen enough.”
**********
One thing the Mandalorian did appreciate about Coruscant was the simplicity of bribing government officials. As with any vast bureaucracy, front-line New Republic workers like the port operatives were overlooked and underpaid.
Flush with cash from Ryun Vos, Mando was able to dock under fake tabs at a shipyard centrally located in a safe and discreet area. Money made all things possible on Coruscant.
“Please tell me something in that bag is fried?” Nito moaned as the Mandalorian stepped inside the Razor Crest.
“I got some of everything, so your odds are good.”
The Ardennian was sitting at a makeshift table of stacked cargo containers with the Child seated in his lap. He had his mechanic’s apron on while the kid was stripped to his breechcloth. And they were both covered in paint.
“There better be a bath planned for after this,” Mando growled, reaching to wipe the Child’s talons clean with a take-out napkin.
“What? Yeah. Sorry,” Nito said dimly. “Yes! Oil bread. And rice balls! Fuck yeah!”
The Mandalorian thought vaguely that Thulani would try to curb Nito’s swearing, but he only had so much paternal energy left in him today, and he needed it for the baby.
Mando pulled the fried bread out of reach and replaced it with the box of bean pods. “Hey, kid, you need to eat at least five of these.”
His enormous ears wilted in disappointment.
“How’s the programming going?” Mando asked, searching for the sweet and sour broth.
Nito shoved a rice ball in his mouth and swallowed it whole. “Do you have any idea how complex a unified operating system for an industrial plant—with residential facilities can be?”
“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m paying you.”
“Paying me in more than dumplings, I hope.” Nito laughed cheerily. “Assuming it’s the Imperial coding language, I think it is…”
“We’re going to find out tonight.”
“You got Carr?”
“I know how to get to him,” Mando said. “We leave in three hours. Spend at least one of those cleaning up the kid.”
“Okay. Okay.”
The Mandalorian was relieved to have such a tidy solution for Ronan Carr. It wasn’t in his nature to wait for reconnaissance or planning. He was a blunt instrument—brute force, as Mistress Anassa had said. But Nito proved that hacking the man’s communicator could be useful. Coruscant was not the Outer Rim. Best to be cautious here.
Months ago, he would have stormed the hotel, shoved a blaster in Carr’s face, and broken the man’s fingers until he talked. Now, when Mando considered this approach, the crew from Dark Garden weighed on his conscience. Not everything needs to end in a shoot-out, Thuli had chided him. She wasn’t even here, yet her memory was wringing these little bits of decency from him.
Nito snapped his fingers in front of Mando’s viewplate. “You in there?”
“What?” He shook his head.
“You’ve been staring at those dumplings for an eternity. I want to eat them.”
Mando passed the container.
“I was telling you about this utter stroke of genius I had.” The Ardennian lifted the kid onto the table and pulled something out from his apron pocket. “So, he’s green, right? Well, I painted his face. And when I put on the bonnet…See! He’s Mirialan.”
Underneath the paint splatters, Mando recognized the geometric facial markings.
“That’s–sure, that is pretty genius.”
Nito beamed. Thuli told him things would be easier with the kids if he put in a little effort. So far, it was working.
“I mean, he hates having his ears tucked, but it’s only temporary, buddy. Just to keep you safe.”
The Child squirmed and pounded his fists against his thighs.
Mando had to suppress a laugh. “Bean pods and bonnets. Guess you got it pretty rough, kid.”
The baby stopped mid-tantrum to glare at the Mandalorian.
“Anyway,” Nito went on. “We had the paint out, so I found some packing paper…and look what he made.”
Mando tilted his head and squinted, “It’s a…bantha?”
“It’s the Razor Crest,” Nito snorted.
“If you say so.”
The kid squealed until Mando handed him a meat pie.
“I miss her too, you know.”
“What?”
“Fish dumplings are Thuli’s favorite,” Nito said quietly. “It’s hard not to miss her when she makes everything so…” he shrugged, “cozy when she’s around.”
The Mandalorian nodded. “You heard from her today?��
His heart twisted painfully in anticipation. It did every day when he asked that question. But he knew she must have checked in that morning. Nito would be inconsolable if she hadn’t.
“Yeah, I got the signal.”
Good. She's alive. Hopefully safe. “We’ll see her soon,” Mando assured them. “We’re stocked up on supplies, weapons, equipment. Once we get what we need from Carr, we can make a course for Lakaran.”
“Did you get a gift to bring her now that you guys are, you know, sleeping together?”
The Mandalorian choked on his soup. The steel jaw of his helmet caught him painfully on the lip, and he had to pound his chest a few times before he could breathe again. “Did she–ahem–did she say something…about…?”
“Didn’t have to,” Nito waved a furry hand. “For months, you’ve both just wreaked of longing and frustration. Then you came back and smelled…satisfied. Pretty logical conclusion.”
“You can smell that?”
“Oh yeah! It’s kind of funny that humans can’t since all of your emotions get communicated through hormones and sweat glands.”
Mando shook his head again. “I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this,” he sighed. “But while we’re on the subject, there are some…things I should…we should probably…discuss before we leave to find Carr.”
“What? Like, sex stuff?”
The Mandalorian groaned. Where do I even start…?
**********
The hotel Ronan Carr had booked was elegant enough for his aristocratic tastes while also offering the assurance of privacy. There was a separate entrance and elevator for the penthouse floor so he could avoid bumping into anyone from his social circle—or his wife’s senatorial colleagues—in the lobby.
Mando opted to gain entry from the roof.
“You hear something?” One of the bodyguards asked.
But just as their partner began to answer, the Mandalorian slipped behind him and placed a blade to the man’s throat. In an instant, he had grabbed the guard’s wrist and raised his blaster. Mando shot the other bodyguard before they could cry out in warning.
To stage this right, the knife needed to go in at just the right angle. But the man continued to struggle under Mando’s grip, trying to break free from his hold. The guard tried everything—stomping on the Mandalorian’s foot, slamming his head against the Beskar, thrusting his shoulders against Mando’s arm around his neck.
The bounty hunter might as well be a statue for all the give there was in his frame. The guard’s death was inevitable, but he refused to make peace with it.
Mando hooked his leg around the man’s ankle and sent them both hurtling toward the ground. The force of impact drove the knife into the guard’s throat.
A wet splatter hit his view plate when the man coughed blood onto the Mandalorian’s helmet. Yet he still fought. Hands flailed blindly until Mando drove the blade deeper, severing the spinal cord. And finally, the fingers clawing at his wrists fell limp.
He rolled the bodyguard onto his back and returned the blaster to the man’s right hand. Should be enough to cover my tracks.
Mistress Anassa had left the south-facing balcony doors unlocked, just as he instructed. They slid open with a soft rolling hush before he made his way silently through the suite. She was waiting for him in the study, hunched over a display monitor.
“You look a sight,” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Can I get you a towel?”
“No.” The blood was war paint. It would make what came next that much easier. "I staged the guards. You can claim a fight broke out, and you had to get your people to safety."
Anassa cleared her throat and nodded. It was the first time he’d seen her unsettled. “The false name on the hotel reservation avoids a paper trail, but I can’t decide whether Carr realizes Set’ki is tracking all of this.”
“Do you record him every time?”
She glared at Mando. “No, but I had a feeling my master wanted some insurance. I don’t expect Ronan Carr will be making any future appointments with Dark Garden after tonight.”
Involving Set’ki and Anassa—at all—was an unnecessary risk. The Mandalorian had done it to ensure the safety of her employees, and he didn’t feel any remorse about the Mistress’s bottom line.
“Tell them to leave the room.”
She crossed her arms with a frustrated sigh. “I know I don’t have a say in any of this, but it shouldn’t go unspoken, this is a gross violation of my professional ethics.”
“You’re arguing ethics after admitting to blackmail?”
“Those restraints are intended to aid his submission. He needs to feel safe to surrender control. And instead, you’ve co-opted them for violence.”
Mando huffed. “Are you referring to the silk scarves tied around his wrists and ankles?”
“The type of restraints are irrelevant. Bondage is a kink that depends on trust. It’s a choice to be helpless. Consent is based entirely on trust. This is a violation of trust. I feel the weight of what this will do to his psyche, and I ask you to acknowledge that before you step inside that room.”
The Mandalorian couldn’t fathom why she was looking to him to absolve her guilt.
“And I told you, violence is my profession. Get—your people—out.”
From the display screen, Mando watched as the Mistress entered the bedroom. Her sudden presence startled the other women, but she quickly ushered them into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
When he was confident they were gone, the bounty hunter opened the bedroom door. The first thing he did was drape a towel over Set’ki’s camera. Mando didn’t want any record of his presence on Coruscant.
He approached the chair Carr was bound to without bothering to stifle his footsteps. The man had a sensory deprivation mask covering his eyes and ears. He hadn’t sensed the ladies from Dark Garden leave the room, and he was becoming agitated, sitting in a puddle of urine, confused as to why they didn’t end the session.
Ronan Carr paid to be tied down and tickled until he pissed himself. The kink wasn’t inherently sexual. It didn’t make him hard. He didn’t come, and nobody brought him to completion. The tickling made him laugh and his muscles spasm, and eventually, the stress on his pelvic floor emptied his bladder.
Then, he slept for ten hours. It simply…relaxed the man.
“Whoa!” Nito said when the Mandalorian explained this. “So it’s like getting a massage? But, like, a really extreme massage.”
It wasn’t not sexual…he paid to be tickled by beautiful women, after all.
As he ripped the mask off, Mando tried not to think about Anassa’s sanctimonious pleading. He felt no remorse for Ronan Carr, either.
The bounty hunter unholstered his blaster and pointed it in the man’s face so it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. On cue, Carr jumped, recoiling in terror at the sight of the Mandalorian.
“Don’t cry for help," Mando said, his voice cold and stern. "You don’t want anyone coming through that door to find you like this, do you?”
Ronan Carr shook his head.
“Good. Do what I say, and I won’t have to hurt you,” he growled. “Tell me you understand.”
Ronan Carr took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand.” The man’s voice quavered, but he didn’t panic. Some people became paralyzed with fear, which made interrogation that much harder. If Carr could keep it together, this would be over quickly.
“Untie yourself.”
Despite Mistress Anassa’s speech about trust and surrender, her words were meaningless sentiment. Ronan Carr had never given up control. The scarves were tied with enough slack that he could easily lift his hands over the headrest and pull free the knots at his wrists. After that, he only needed to lean forward to release his ankles.
“Where is everyone?” Carr asked nervously, massaging his wrists.
The man was wiry, more muscular than the bounty hunter expected from someone who spent his life behind a desk. Intimidation was his best tactic to keep Carr in check. Use of physical force would only complicate things. And he made a deal with Anassa.
“You don’t need to know what I did with them. Worry about yourself.”
After a lifetime of doing this work, Mando knew most people’s imagination was far darker than any threat he could make. The man looked at the blood splattered across his helmet, and all the color drained from Ronan Carr’s face.
“What is it you want?”
“I need something, and you’re the person who can get it for me.”
“My wife—”
“This has nothing to do with the Senator. And it doesn’t have to. You give me what I want, and she won’t discover what you get up to under the name ‘Kirk Satu.’” Carr’s eyes went wide with horror. “The piss play makes for an awkward conversation, but I think all the bank transfers will be harder to explain.”
Now, he had the man’s full attention. “What do you want?”
“First, I want you to put some clothes on. Meet me in the study when you’re ready.”
The man’s suit hung neatly from the bathroom door, yet he stared at the garment like it might transform into a torture device.
“You’re not—you aren’t going to lock me in?”
“We both know you won’t run,” Mando said. “You’re going to do what I tell you. Then you can forget all about this.”
The look on Carr’s face when he walked into the study made it clear this encounter would haunt him for some time.
“Is your communicator on?” Nito asked from behind his data-pad. “Your real one. Not the burner?”
“What?” Ronan Carr stammered. “I–yes.” When the notification bell chimed, he pulled the device out from his pocket.
“Okay, read me the security code.”
“Wait! This is about work? You want something from the Archives?”
Carr looked between Nito and the Mandalorian.
“You do realize the New Republic Library doesn’t store any military or intelligence records. This is not…what could you possibly need that isn’t already publicly available?”
Mando thrust his blaster in the man’s face. “Ask me about my business again and see what happens to you.”
“The security code?” Nito drolled.
Mando grabbed the communicator from Carr and handed it to the Ardennian.
“I’m just…we have a records request system online…”
“For redacted documents!” Nito howled. “If you guys just uploaded everything onto the Net, you could enjoy your tickle party and we wouldn’t be here.”
Ronan Carr’s face turned scarlet. “It’s our responsibility to make sure sensitive information doesn’t fall into the hands of…criminals.”
What a fucking hypocrite. “Can we hurry this up?” Mando barked. The fact that the bodyguards in the foyer hadn’t burst into the penthouse meant that Mistress Anassa had done her part. But their luck wouldn’t last long.
“Well, it’s not my fault the file structure isn’t intuitive,” Nito looked at Ronan Carr with disgust. “And you call yourself an Archivist?”
“I–I don’t oversee information architecture.”
“Ah! Okay…security question for the download. What is the name of your first pet?”
When Nito had the files he needed, Mando thrust a disc into Carr’s hands.
“What—?”
“I lied when I said this didn’t involve your wife. That’s for her. From a former Rebel fighter, Ubaa Dir. Remember the name. The next time you hear it, give the Senator that disc. You’ll know when.”
“How will I explain—”
“You’d rather explain the sex workers and money laundering? Figure–it—out,” Mando snapped, and Ronan Carr jumped.
This time, the Mandalorian did lock him inside the bedroom.
He found Mistress Anassa in the living room, offering the Child sugar cubes from an abandoned tea service tray.
"I'm done here," Mando said, watching as the kid delightedly crunched the crystals between his teeth. "He's unharmed, as per the terms of our deal. Are you satisfied?"
"Very," she smiled serenely at him. "I thought I'd be spending the night cleaning brain matter off the walls. Instead, I got to play with an adorable baby."
Anassa lifted the Child from her hip and handed him back to the Mandalorian.
"You still want me to bind and gag you?" Mando asked. "I could just lock you inside, like I did with Carr? It might take him a while to break out, by the way."
"No," she shook her head. "I've got to sell this if there's a chance I can retain his trust. And he'll need a witness to help explain what happened to the guards." Mistress Anassa looked thoughtfully at the Mandalorian. "When life hands you an opportunity, it's best to seize it with both hands."
"Very well." Mando reached for the plush, decorative rope tying back the curtains—he could at least ensure that she was comfortable.
"Speaking of which," the Mistress grinned. "I do hope you'll reconsider my offer. There are a number of ways we could leverage your particular talents at the Dark Garden."
The Mandalorian offered her a chair.
"After listening to the ruthlessness in your voice saying, You're going to give me what I want..." she shivered rather theatrically. "Fear is a very potent form of arousal. I'm confident we could find clients looking for nothing more than degradation."
The audacity of her proposal impressed him, and his mouth quirked into a begrudging smile beneath the Beskar helmet.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said.
"And what knots do you plan to use?"
Mando huffed—not quite a laugh. This was beginning to feel like an audition. "A bowline. But I can use a hitch knot if you prefer?"
"Merely professional curiosity," Mistress Anassa grinned, sitting in the armchair as though it were a throne. "Do you have a suggestion for the gag?"
The Mandalorian cocked his head, "Give me your necktie."
He wasn't entirely comfortable with how much keen interest lit up her face. A businesswoman through and through.
She hurriedly fished something out of her suit pocket. "Take my card. You're a working father, after all. It pays to be flexible when there are mouths to feed."
****************
Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #5: Wish You Were Here!
Back to Volume 4 - all posts
24 notes
·
View notes