I really want to apologise for how long this chapter taken, I have been so busy with my health and studies. It’s been hidden in my notes for so long, but I’m so excited for it to be finally released. However, I’m not gonna apologise for the lactation kink, because I know in my bones Din would probably have one and it would probably drive him insane. Again I have no regrets read at your own risk. (Also there will be hardcore smut, defiling, deflowering) what ever you want to call it in the next chapter.
xoxoxo
Pedroswhore
TW: lactation kink, smidgen breeding kink, mature language, violence, groping?, explicit description about death the author does not regret anything.
Chapter 7
The Mother
He knows.
His heart is erratic, and the knot in his stomach tightens. The same fear seeps into his skin.
He gives her until sunset to return; she doesn’t answer her comm, the door doesn’t open. It’s unlike her to be away this late; he knows that even in her anger, she would come back. She would not let him leave without saying goodbye to the kid.
He regrets it; he regrets seeing the anguish in her face and the way she wiped away her cheeks with the back of her hand. The way her nose turned red and her voice cracked when she pleaded. He was a bitter, bitter man; he wanted her to feel what he felt: frustration. He shouldn’t have used the kid to fuck with her or coerce her into coming with him.
The sun sets and she does not come home; he takes the kid and locks the houses. Drops the kid at the mechanic's house.
Silas raises his brows, and Din only replies with "something is wrong" as an explanation.
Not wanting the panic in his voice to be recognised. The mechanic clasps his hand and takes the kid.
It doesn’t take long to track her last whereabouts to the cantina. The only one in town, blood stains the floor, and he grinds his teeth. Hands covering his blasters, he scans the cantina. There are only a handful of people, some cleaning flesh off the counter. Others are pale and cradling their bottles. A body lies on the floor covered in a sheet. He doesn’t look; he knows it’s too large to be her.
People talk when blasters catch the light when he stands over them, sheathed in Beskar.
‘A girl was taken, a man died, and she didn’t scream."
He’s holding onto his blasters for purchase, and he's trying fucking hard to control the sheer panic that overrides him.
He will burn this planet to the ground if he loses her, set fire to every fucking thing. His blaster presses up against a man’s temple.
The man pisses himself when the mandalorian presses it further into his skin.
Pale and sputtering his fear makes him speak
"they were dressed in black and that she probably was a whore."
Din doesn’t need the blaster. He holds him by the scruff of his neck before his knuckles meet the man’s nose, and he screams and bleeds. Din hears the bone break, and it doesn’t satisfy his rage or bloodlust. Another blow to the man’s face, and he starts talking, and the words leak out of him.
"A new ship in the dock; bounty hunters asking around for a girl".
He drops him and leaves the cantina as he jets to the only decking bay the damned planet has.
People speak the truth when they fear for their lives. He sits on the dock, and he thinks of her. And white-hot rage burns under his skin at the thought of their hands on her and at the thought of her being harmed in any way.
He storms the ship, forcing it open. It is weaker than the crest as it gives way to brute force. He isn’t quiet; his blasters are loud and clear, but the ship is empty. He calls her name, but there is no response. He checks every inch of the ship.
He assumes the worst, but he leaves the ship as his footsteps feel heavy but the warrior in him strides forward. The man in him wants to fall to the ground and claw at the Beskar at his helmet; he can’t breathe, and he groans lowly at the way his chest tightens. As images of her bloodied, lifeless flurry before him
He growls, shaking his head, clearing his mind. He is a hunter; he is a hunter, and he will find her.
He will always find her.
…
There is no blood between her legs, and she thinks perhaps death is better than this.
The waiting, the weakness—she is at everyone’s mercy except her own. Her nightgown has ridden up, and her limbs feel numb and heavy. They haven’t tied her up, knowing the drug in her blood won’t let her get any farther. She lies on the bed, legs on her side, and she should always be afraid. She should call no place her home, no man her own.
They give her food and jeer at her skin and the weight of her breasts. That the credits on her head are almost not enough to resist having a go at her.
She keeps her mouth shut, swallowing down her gasp of relief. She doesn’t know what it is supposed to feel like, but she doesn’t feel sore. Doesn’t feel a man’s release on her thighs.
She wonders if he has left and taken his child with him, and she covers her mouth with her hand, choking back a sob.
Perhaps it is better this way; she doesn’t think she has it in her to run any more or to resist her capture.
The bounty hunters don’t visit her again until what she believes is the evening. They touch her, and she doesn’t fight; her cheeks are damp and her arms are heavy and sore, too sore to fend off men from touching her.
Grease-stained hands with dirty fingernails cup her breast, and she grimaces. The other draws her thighs apart, pushing her night gown up, and Lillia hopes they leave a blaster behind so she can be finished with this.
She doesn’t hear the shouting in the trance she has slipped into, and she doesn’t feel the men being pulled off her. Her eyes dart to the door in remnants on the floor.
A warrior pulls the men off her; he is quiet and calculated, he wields an ancient sword made of light. With a black whispering light, he cuts off the first's hands with ruthless precision.
Blood sprays on to her legs and on to his armour; he is unfazed, the reaper in the flesh, deathless and indestructible. As the seconds heads are swiped off his shoulders, she hears the sickening thump of his head as it falls, the way his body twitches as the corpse falls on to the bed, and a scream dies in her throat. As she crawls back.
A sound does not leave him He stands over his kill, looking at her. His shoulders do not heave, and he tucks his sword away.
And familiar orange-tipped fingers wrap around her ankle and pull, and she finally screams. She screams so loud that she coughs. He covers her with his cowl as he carries her over his shoulder.
She hangs, and she should be more afraid, but she feels relief; she knows his armour has cradled the warrior’s cheek.
Felt his arms settle around her at night and felt his mouth on her breast at dawn. She knows the mandalorian; he lives in her bones, and he gnaws at her heart. She is not as afraid as she should be.
It is strange to know him and to feel safe in his goddess-damned arms. People stare as he carries her, an armoured warrior striding down the square with a limp girl in a lace nightgown over his shoulder. They huddle together, whispering amongst themselves. But they do not say a word.
The mandalorian is not deterred; he walks as if he would cut down anyone who dares take her from him. Blood dries on his armour, and the girl on his shoulder is silent as she keeps her eye downcast, and yet she knows she is safer on his shoulder than anywhere else. No one stops him as he continues.
He sits her down on the bed; the crest is parked outside her door. He’s made the decision for her. What ground does she have to refuse him? He’s made her too dependent on him.
To evade her hunters for so long and then be so careless when her door had been marked, she was a fool to let the spotchka numb her. A fool to wander as if she were a free woman.
He’s grabbed her jaw, and he’s calling her name.
"Hmm," she says, still in her trance. Knees under her chin, her skin is ice. She's just watched the mandalorian desecrate her perfect room, pulling out her folded clothes from the drawers. He is not careful with her lace or her velvet.
He stuffed it in a bag and emptied out her vanity in another bag.
"Did they fuck you, girl?"
She looks up at him, eyes wide and unblinking, flinching at the crassness of his words.
Her stare pins him, and his helm stays fixed on her: "I need to know so I can take you to a med centre." There is no comfort in his tone; he is so unfeeling with his words.
But still, she hears the way he rushed out those words. She hears the slightest tremor in his voice: "Did they fuck you?" So much more rage coiled up inside of him than he let on. The bodies in that room were already bearing the brunt of his anger.
What if they did fuck her? Would he still take her? Would he still keep his promise? Would he still want her in that way? All spoiled another man’s ruin.
"No," she breathes, her knees pulled closer to her chest. "No, they did not rape me." The tension does not ease out of his shoulders.
She tries to mirror his crassness, but her words come out as if they have been dragged from her lips. He throws the object on the floor; it breaks, and the modulated growl that leaves him causes her to shudder and push herself further onto the bed.
His fingers grip the desk, and he draws his fist to shatter her mirror. It shatters, and she gasps.
The bloodlust has not left him, and she wonders what more he could have done to their mutilated bodies for revenge. What more could he have done with their detached heads and the limbless corpses he left behind?
"You don’t get to decide anymore," he snarls.
"Did I ever?" she murmurs. He had made up his mind when he first saw her; she knows this. When he saw the baby on her hip, the kids latched to her skirts. What a mother she would make!
What could she give? What could he take? He had long decided.
He ignores her, grabbing her nighties, her gowns, and her underwear, all stuffed unceremoniously into the bag.
"I make the decisions now; you’re going to stay on my fucking ship where I keep you safe."
His voice is heavy through the modulator, demanding her obedience as he commands her.
She does not acknowledge him; her eyes are on the picture she has framed of Rosie's first ever drawing, and a tear slips through the corner of her eye.
He slams the doors shut.
"Do you fucking understand?"
"Yes,” she whispers.
"Don’t move," he tells her before he takes the bags. He returns after a while, his movements hurried as if she would disappear if his eyes weren’t on her.
He pulls her up. His hand on her back is forceful as he pushes her out of the room.
"Wait," she says, moving away from his grasp and to her bed. She makes her bed fluff, fluffs the pillows, and takes the photograph from under her pillow, holding it to her chest. She also picks up the book from her nightstand.
And then she is where she is forsaken to be, next to the mandalorian, his hand on her back.
He leads her to the kitchen, and again she asks him from a distance.
She checks the stove, making sure it is not aflame, and then she takes a mug and a dish from the cabinet, along with a withered paper book whose pages are stained.
He leads her out, and she doesn’t look back; she can’t bring herself to do so either. She filled her home with children, and love romanticised every moment she had to herself, every moment she could spend living under the guise of freedom. Living audaciously, with fresh cut flowers and the children's drawings on her walls.
The crest is colder than she remembers, and she looks at the slab he had kept her on, she feels her back ache at the feeling of being pressed into it. She swallows her misery as he takes her to his bunk. He tells her to stay put like a dog, and she sits on his bunk. The sheets are worn but clean, and the mattress is thin.
He doesn’t own much, but he has books piled in a corner and a threadbare shirt thrown on the bed. She wonders if it was intentional.
She pulls it over her body, swallowing her pride.
The nightgown she loved is sullied by the hunters; by the mandalorian, the satin against her skin feels like a sin.
His shirt is comfortable, too big, ghosting her knees. She sits still, not saying a word even to herself. She wants to claw at him, pull the helm off his head, and see his eyes. See if they are really as cold as his demeanour. See if they hold any compassion or warmth for her.
It is her own flaw for expecting too much from him a gentle word, a touch that is not fuelled by lust or fear. She should be grateful that he keeps her like this, a woman to keep his bed and cock warm, to carry his son on her hip, and to lose herself in her own warmth.
The mandalorian returns, and Grogu is in his cradle, an orb that floats. She wants to hold him to her, to hold on to the only being who loves her unconditionally. But she dare not go against his father.
He doesn’t say anything when he sees her in his shirt; he just pulls out another. When he leaves again, she slips under the covers, shivering. Every time she runs, she wonders if it is worth living, and now that he’s made her his burden, maybe sleep will come easier to her.
It doesn't. She lays wide awake, exhausted, her eyes puffy; she has slipped in and out of crying silently. Her mother always told her she cried too much as a little girl; her brothers would come running, wiping at her tears.
She says their names out loud in the dark. She tries to remember their faces and their eyes, each as blue as the seas that had given them their names.
They made her too soft for the life the goddess had written for her. And she resents them in a way, she resents them even in death, and perhaps time has made her bitter, but she has run out of fingers to count her losses on. Yet their names have been a prayer on her lips each night for six years, a prayer for peace.
The goddess seldom listens to her.
The bunker is pitch black; perhaps that is why, when she feels the mandalorian slip in beside her, she feels his damp skin pressed against her. Droplets of water wander from his hair to her neck, trailing further down her skin. His arm glides across her waist, and he pulls her to him, always skin against skin. The gun smoke lingers on his skin even after being washed away with soap. His nose is buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent and breathing her in as if he cannot get enough as if she’ll slip through the refuge of his arms.
A hand slides up her shirt to rest against her breast, and she winces. When his fingers cup and press into her skin per habit.
"I'm sore, Mandalorian," she says, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
She can feel his body tense up, and he probably assumes that her soreness is the hunter's doing.
"My cycle is starting soon," she adds quickly, and his body relaxes. "Hmm," he grunts in response, sinking deeper into her, inhaling the scent of her hair and her skin.
His hand comes to settle against her soft stomach, the heat from his hand warming up her body. He’s only this kind in the silence and the dark.
The mandalorian sets the course for Nevarro; his bounties are overdue. They avoid each other during the day, barely meeting each other's eyes. She makes him dinner and sleeps in his bed. She leaves Grogu in the cockpit with his father often, and Lillia wonders if he speaks to him with a little more softness.
He leaves her alone on the ship when he goes to deliver a bounty, taking the kid with him in his floating cradle.
She takes out a book from his collection, puts on a nightgown, and sits in his chair in the cockpit, socked feet on the console. She shivers, but the Mandalorian will warm her up at night with his hands around her waist.
He doesn’t touch her during the day; he doesn’t say a word to her, only silently lifting up her dress to apply Bacta to her stomach when she doubles over with her hand against the wall. Grogu at her heels.
Warm, strong hands massage her back and stomach; he holds her hair up when she throws up, but his silence is deafening, and when he is absent, she speaks to herself to keep her sanity. Her conversations with Grogu are endless, but he always looks at her with awestruck, big, wide eyes shining up at her as he raises his arms, demanding to be picked up. Grogu clings to her during the day, and his father clings to her at night.
She keeps the ship clean, makes dinner, and watches his kid. She hasn’t seen sunlight in a few weeks. Her body feels weak and restless. She thinks of running one day, but he would find her and tether her to this ship. She feels drained as she sits on his chair, not being able to focus on the book. Instead, she tries not to be mournful to ignore the tightness in her chest and the regret at letting him make this decision.
She still feels the hunters hands on her the way they touched her with dirty hands and lurking eyes. She wraps her arms around her shoulders; no amount of showers washes the feeling off.
The feeling of having her legs pried open, the feeling of her breasts being pulled and tugged like she was a lifeless doll rather than a person.
She jumps when she hears the Mandalorian enter the ship, Grogu wailing at the top of his lungs, and the mandalorian grunting as he tracks her to the cockpit.
She kept her feet on the console, not in the mood to avoid him or be in his good graces; he could make his own fucking dinner tonight.
Grogu practically leapt out of his father's arms into hers. She sighed and put the book down, leaning back. Grogu sat in her lap, crying impossibly harder.
"What is it, womp rat?" She asked, caressing his cheek, trying to soothe him; he only cried in response, pushing his face into his chest, drool and tears soaking her night down.
She held onto him, rubbing his back. "What happened?" she said to the Mandalorian who leaned against the console, rubbing his neck after peeling his gloves off.
"I don’t know, he’s been off since the morning."
"Did you feed him before you took him?" She says as she checks his temperature with the back of her hand, she’s getting frustrated with his lack of information.
"Fed him a ration bar," he says, looking over her.
She doesn’t like it, being constantly observed by him, she gets up, rocking Grogu, who is still crying and clinging to her chest with hands prying at the neckline of her night gown.
"Come on, sweet pea, let’s get some food in you," she murmurs, kissing his head before climbing down the ladder.
Grogu is on her hip as she warms some soup she made when the mandalorian was off doing what the goddess knows.
She doesn't want the mandalorian to follow her down watch as she shushes Grogu on her hip, bouncing him as she plates up the soup and warms up some bread.
His gaze on her is unnerving; she never knows what he’s thinking, but it makes her flustered. Makes her movements clumsy, she nearly knocks off the soup.
She sits Grogu on the counter, covering his ears.
"Can you fuck off?" she whisper yells.
He stands up straight, his shoulders tensing.
"What the fuck did you just say?" he snarls, moving so fast she stumbles back. When he grabs her jaw, she covers Grogu’s eyes as well. He’s rearing for a fight; she can hear him grind his teeth and feel the white-hot rage that radiates off him. Ready for her to bear the brunt of his own frustration.
His fingers are callused against her jaw ; she either wants to make him bleed or bleed for him.
"I told you to fuck off," she growls, her own skin hot. Grogu’s wails are still being carried by the walls of the crest.
"Watch your mouth, girl." His voice is subdued, but she feels the darkness of it, the thunder suppressed in the tightness of his jaw.
But she doesn’t back away; she draws herself back and looks up, indifferent to the way he towers over her, trying to meet his damned eyes.
"Why are you going to lock me up, Kriff, and deliver me to Karga, huh?" she spits. He presses up behind her, a hand bruising her waist, her elbow twisted behind her back as he pushes his bulk into her back, and she groans from the pressure of her stomach digging into the counter.
"Once the baby stops crying, I’m going to fuck the insolence out of you; I'm going to clean that dirty mouth," he grunts into her ear as she struggled out of his grip, his voice raw a testament to his rage. She hopes he keeps to her promise.
She feels her stomach throb and her legs close on their own accord, but she was still seething bridled with her own fury, thrumming through her. At his indifference and ignorance about the fact that he thinks fucking her is going to keep her quiet.
She grunts, twisting her elbow, he frees her all of a sudden, and she staggers forward.
"Fucking piece of junk, metal-headed bastard," she calls out after him as he turns away, going back up to the cockpit. She growls in frustration, her cheeks aflame.
Muttering curses as she tries to get Grogu to have some soup
He just cries nonstop, his cheeks going red, his eyes squeezed shut, as fat tears roll down the swell of his cheeks.
"Please, Grogu," she begs him to eat her own frustration, causing her voice to crack. He swats the spoon from her hand, and she tries not to scream as she knocks off the bowl of soup.
She’s tried everything and checked him for anything that might be troubling him. His tummy is soft, and he’s been to the fresher. She tries bathing him, but he just cries even more. She sits on the fresher floor, crying with him in sheer frustration. She holds him to her chest, rocking back and forth, trying to stop him.
She hears footsteps, and the mandalorian opens the door a little, crouching down.
"Give him to me".
She refuses, shaking her head, saying, "He’s going to cry even more." I don’t understand why his vitals are perfect. I’ve tried feeding him, changing him, bathing him. I don’t get it, mando," she says, back against the wall, rocking the screaming child. Putting their argument to rest for now.
"Let me try," he says, scooping up his kid. She sighs out of relief. Her arms hurt along with her breasts; they feel sore and heavy, and she doesn’t understand why her cycle had just finished.
She ignores opting out of massaging her sore tits in front of Mando, who would probably enjoy it.
He rocks Grogu against him, bumping his helm against his nose, something that usually works, but Grogu is relentless in his father's arms, still crying even harder.
"C’mon kid, be good for your mama," she hears him murmur, and warmth floods her. It shocks and scares her to be this little green baby’s mama, but that’s what she is now. Her complicated relationship with the child’s egomaniacal father aside, she loves this kid.
The mandalorian sits down, returning Grogu to her. She sighs before nestling him against her chest and humming softly, rocking him and kissing his forehead. The mandalorian sits beside her on the threshold of the fresher, rubbing Grogu’s side in soothing motions.
Gradually, after ours of crying, Grogu’s cries become whimpers, and his tear-filled eyes close out of pure exhaustion. Lillia does not breathe, and neither does the mandalorian, who not risking waking up the kid, had removed all his armour except his helmet.
She’s still taken back by how broad he is, how wide his chest is, how his biceps bulge, and how the veins in his forearm strain. A deprived part of her wants him to stick to his promise.
They both don’t move and manage to catch a few hours of sleep before the crying starts. The mandalorian leaves only to pilot the crest for a while, and she tries everything at her disposal to soothe her crying child.
For two days straight, he cries, only pausing when he has cried himself to exhaustion or she’s trying to force some food down him. She misses the womp rat who smiles, laughs, and plays and doesn’t understand what causes such a drastic change in his mood.
But she’s so exhausted and hasn’t showered in two days, she places Grogu in the mandalorian’s lap.
Lillia rubs her arms and groans in relief when she stretches her back. The mandalorian is up in an instant, cradling him and showing him the flashing lights on his console.
"I’m going to go shower," she mutters, thinking she’s going to black out herself with carrying Grogu all day, the new pain in her breasts doing little to help. She needs hot water to soothe her aching muscles.
She gets a good five minutes before the mandalorian knocks at the door, and she hears Grogu’s screams over the shower.
She sighs the towel she’s taken in is way too small to cover all of her, so she just grunts, too fucking tired to be modest, and wraps the towel around her waist, covering at least half of herself, her hair falling over her breasts.
It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. She tries to ignore the blush creeping up her cheeks and opens the door.
He stops pacing, his helm snapping to her breasts, and she crosses her arms over them. She feels his feral gaze on her. He steps forward, his hand reaching out on its own accord. He cups her breast and smooths his thumb over her sore nipple. She winces in pain. He retracts his hand. He’s been forgoing his armour except his helmet since the ship has been in hyperspace, walking around in one of his irresistible shirts and slacks. immune to the cold.
"Fuck," he breathes, bouncing Grogu, who’s reaching out to her. She takes him, placing him on her.
He’s a man starved; she can practically hear his blood rushing, the curse that leaves his mouth, and the way his helmet stays fixed to her chest.
She’s too lost in her embarrassment to notice Grogu rooting on her chest; she gasps when he latches to her breast. The mandalorian freezes, his hands clenched into tight fists.
The pure bliss that follows when Grogu suckles actually makes her moan in relief. Astonished almost wander-struck at how she’s being able to produce, she feels so warm. All of a sudden, a wave of happiness hits her, and suddenly she’s relaxed as she cradles Grogu, letting it happen. She’ll ask questions later, but in two days, the crest is silent, and Grogu is not crying; he’s eating and filling his belly.
She’ll figure out what’s happened later, but right now her baby is eating, and that’s enough.
She looks up, and he’s still frozen. Her eyes fall to his crotch, and he’s undeniably hard, but he stands still, uncaring of the way his pants have tightened.
"How" he demands his voice be so low even through the modulator? Grogu noisily suckles his paw, coming to lay on her breast.
"I don’t know," she says, still shocked and trying to process what’s happening.
"He can do things, Kriff." I don’t know; he can heal; he healed me once," the Mandalorian says.
She nods; she’s just as mesmerised. She shivers, suddenly feeling the chill of the ship since the mandalorian refuses to put on the heat.
She sighs, putting her finger in Grogu’s mouth to break the seal of suction; he instantly whimpers as he unlatches. Her nipple is red from where his suckling has irritated her skin, and she watches as milk beads on her tip.
She pushes him into the mandalorian, who stands frozen. "Kids not done," he grunts as Grogu fusses and whimpers.
"I know I’m cold; I'm going to go and get a sweater," she mutters, irritated at the fact that the cheap bastard doesn’t heat the ship.
She hears Grogu rearing up to cry, and she sighs, shivering as she puts on a low-fitting nightgown and a sweater on top. To fend off the chill, she twists her wet hair up and looks at her face in a little hand-held mirror.
When did she get so old? She is so tired that her face is gaunt, there are bags under her eyes, and her nose is bright red. She drags her hand down her cheek, and she misses the pretty dresses on the seat beside her papa. Her mother's hands were on her shoulders, telling her to stay still. As she braided her hair.
Circean's voice carried over the river as he taught her how to sail. Caspian's eyes were on her when he begged her to do it. He begged her to shoot him.
But she was a coward , a girl who clung to the last aching hours of her girlhood, her childhood, before her hands were forced to bear the weight of a blaster. As a black sail caught the sun and ships and blasters seized her country, a man dressed in black pushed up her mother's skirts.
She gagged before throwing the mirror away, pushing it all down to her belly. Her hands iced as she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hands and pulled herself together. Grogu is wailing now, and his father mutters, pacing, telling him to wait, calling her name, losing his patience at the same time.
She takes him from his father's arms, and he is more than willing. Grogu whimpers, and she smooths the Womp Rat's cheek. "I know," she says.
"It’s warmer in the cockpit," the mandalorian states, and she forces herself to keep her eyes on his helm rather than follow that treacherous trail of hair sneaking underneath his slacks. When he stretches his arms and his shirt rises.
"It’s fine. I’ll take him to the bunk and feed him there."
"No!" He says too quickly, and she raises her brow.
"It’s warmer," he insists.
"Ask me, and I’ll come Mandalorian."
"Just ask me."
She says pushing up her sweater and pulling her nightgown under the breast, Grogu was yet empty. She put her nipple into his open mouth and took a deep breath as he began to suckle eagerly. Her milk let down, and Grogu closed his eyes. His little claw coming to rest on her breast.
"Come to the cockpit," he says, wrapping his hand around her waist and pulling her into his arms.
"That’s not asking," she sighs.
"Why can’t you just ask me?" Her voice is soft, with a touch of sadness, or maybe it’s exasperation.
The silent bounty hunter before her is an infuriating man, but she’s too tired to feel another day of anger, so she clings to the soft parts of her womanhood and forgives him for today. For his silence, for the way even his touch is demanding, and for the fact that he can’t ask her what he needs because he doesn’t want her.
She presses her face into his chest for a moment, warming up her nose by inhaling his scent of smoke and a little alcohol, and she sates herself for the night.
"Don’t drink too much tonight; you don’t eat when you drink too much," she says. The mandalorian does not utter a word. His helm is on her breast. She can’t even read his face. She can’t even know what his eyes may say when his tongue fails him.
He only reaches out and caresses his son's cheek and then the swell of her breast before retracting his hand. She turns her back, going to his bunker.
He doesn’t follow her; she hears his foot steps become faint, and it sets a precedent for how painful this will be.
She’s comfortable but still cold, and there is a sense of peace in the low thrumming of the ship. In the vicious hunter's calming bunk in the soft browns of his duvet and odd trinkets and books in a language she is yet to learn. His scent is everywhere, and goddess, she would be lying if it was not soothing if, for the first time in years, she did not feel safe.
He would not love her or give her the softness she yearns for, but he’d find her. He’d always find her.
The mandalorian had sworn a
long oath.
….
There is seldom a time when he wages war with himself.
If he had just asked her if she had taken her hand and offered a wanting word, she’d be up here snarking at him and huffing when his opinion did not match hers.
But instead, they were distanced by the distance he created.
He slammed his hands on the console, frustrated at how he could not just say the fucking words.
He reads as the stars pass by, but the words have long lost their meaning as she takes over his thoughts. Standing there, flushed from the shower, her eyes exhausted. In a way only a mother’s are.
He doesn’t expect her to come out of the shower with that tiny towel around her ass. And those kriffing tits are making his cock weep. She made him weak, made him painfully hard as it was, but before him, with those perfect breasts, soft and creamy, suddenly heavier blue veins adorning her skin, and those maker-blessing rosy tips erect from the chill, they were going to be his undoing.
He fought the urge to palm his cock at the end of his depravity. He shifted in his seat, cursing under his breath at the discomfort.
The more he thought about her, the more he marvelled at the miracle that she was instantly taking Grogu into her arms, warmth in her tired eyes, as if it were second nature to take him on her hip.
He was taken back when Grogu took to her breast, his hands clenching, waiting for her reaction. And fuck when she cradled him and smiled, despite the shock in her eyes rocking him, her features softened as Grogu quieted against her breast and suckled noisily. He knew she was his; he was going to put his ad in her belly and keep her like this as long as he could, as long as she would let him.
Her eyes dropped to his crotch, and he couldn’t give a fuck if his cock pressed demandingly against his slacks. All his blood had rushed south; he craved this, craved the way his woman fed his child, sating the primordial part of him. The mandalorian in him, the hardened warrior wanting to come home to meet his child and his woman on the threshold of their home
Din has travelled the galaxy, has seen the great sand desert that stretches over Tatooine, the blizzards of Hoth, and the snow-capped mountains of Alderaan, and maker, there is not a more blessed sigh than this, his son at her breast, the soft expression in her loving eyes, and maker, he’d burn the galaxy for her to keep witnessing this to know her like this. He almost growls like an animal when she unlatches and pushes Grogu into his arms.
He grinds at his teeth at the sheer restraint he’s exhibiting when he sees a droplet of milk drip from her rosy nipple. Her skin agitated from where his kid has been drinking.
When she returns, she takes Grogu with such ease as if it were second nature, pushing up the sweater with pain flashing across her face, and then with relief when Grogu latches, as she cradles him. Din Djarin has not allowed himself a life like this, a life where he allows himself something other than the quiet of space.
He should have asked her and let the words roll off his tongue. But words have always been difficult for him; there’s no fluidity in the basics.
He clings to his mother tongue; it grounds him. Mando'a has a way of saying little but enough so that the words make sense. They give him reason.
He fights taking her up by force when she leaves; instead, he sits in the cockpit, battling with himself if only he said the right words and did as she asked.
Hours pass by, and he’s exhausted. His books are exhausted, the stars are exhausted, his back aches, and sleep evades him. Without her wrapped in his arms, he makes his way to his bunk. And she’s there in the low lamplight, looking like the goddess she prays to.
Her soft chestnut hair cascading down her shoulders, wispy tendrils brushing her cheekbones. Her lips parted, her head dropped, and her eyes closed as dark lashes shadowed her cheek. His son was still at her breast, her arms cradling him.
He swallows before he makes his way to her. Grogu is asleep, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He puts his finger in the corner as she did, and Grogu releases her nipple. His mouth still making that sucking motion as if he is still latched, he gently picks up his son and takes him to his cradle, not before tracing his nose and wiping the milk from his chin. Grogu nestled into his chest, a little sound of contentment leaving him.
"Greedy little menace," Din murmurs as he lays him down in the cradle, tapping his chest when he fusses.
He can’t help but watch over the kid; he can’t believe that this child belongs to him; she calls him his daddy, and he doesn’t recognise how often his chest swells and his hands shake, but he feels good; he feels needed; he feels like a man.
He takes off his helmet and kisses Grogu’s forehead. He can smell the sweet scent of her milk and baby shampoo. She washes his three stands of hair with.
And then he returns to her sweater, which has half fallen over her breast in Grogu’s absence. If he were a good man, he’d cover her breast, but he’s far from it, so he revels in the way her breasts peeks out, all soft and pliant. Her tips still reddened by his son, and he wonders what she would taste like. He groans when his cock hardens impossibly more; it’s almost shameful what this does to him. What she does to him makes him weak like this, aching all the time. She stirs, and he can tell she’s awake. He quickly covers her eyes, and she yawns.
"Grogu?" She murmurs groggily, half asleep. "Alseep," he replies.
"Mhm," she says, dragging his hand from her eyes to her cheek. Her eyes are closed, fluttering behind her eyelids. She leans into his warm hand and murmurs something incoherent.
"Come to bed, Mando, I’m cold," she says. He switches off the light and takes off his shirt. He always runs too hot. Her nose is cold against his cheek, and she warms her hands by placing them in his.
He wraps his arms around her, caging her into his chest. "Do you think he’ll stop any time soon?" she asks after she winces, creating distance when her breasts press up against his chest. He drapes his arm over his waist. Pushing up her sweater.
"I don’t think he will," Din says, lifting his head to blow cold air on her sore nipples. She sighs in relief. A part of him hopes Grogu never stops.
"Thank you," she says, sighing as she cups her breasts again.
"They did feel heavy and sore.I guessed it was just hormones adjusting since I removed my implant.”
She says, Din freezes, his arm tightening around her waist.
"What?" he growls.
"I cut it out of my hip; it was just under the skin," she explained.
"I’ve had it since I was thirteen; when they first came, they injected us with implants so we wouldn’t bear any bastard imperial children," she says, her words bearing so much weight, but she recalls the memory like it’s nothing. "They put me in before they knew who I was."
"Why did you cut it out?" His words are thick. Din surprises himself with how raspy he sounds and how heavy his voice is as he lets the fact that he could get her heavy with his ad seep in.
"Freedom, I guess you said you’d always find me, but it didn’t seem fitting to have something in my body that was put in there without my consent. Besides the fear that leaves you when you exchange prisons, you won’t let me off the ship; there’s no reason to have an implant," she says, but her voice is not bitter.
"You’ve stolen me, Mandalorian," she says.
Pushing down her sweater, but he stops her; her eyes are still shut.
"I want to look at you," he says. Her lips quirk upwards.
She exhales, "I don’t understand what I am to you, Mandalorian."
"You’re mine," he says, his hands snaking underneath her nightgown to caress her soft stomach.
"That isn’t enough, hunter; a day will come when I will be found and you will have no one to cling to," she says, her face turning to him, eyes still closed. Her fingers tracing his nose, his jaw, and the scruff on his chin.
"You are mine, Lillia; you are mine to your maker damned bones, and there will not come a day where I cannot keep you safe."
"Locking me up is not keeping me safe, Mandalorian," she says, gently cupping his cheek.
"Let me put a tracker in you, and I’ll let you go leave the ship without me."
She sighs exasperatedly at him, and he can tell she’s too tired to argue with him on this, and she’ll regret her momentary obedience when she’s not basking in his warmth or leaning into his light touches. When she’s not dazed by him and his son.
"Swear to me, Mandalorian, you will take me outside," she says.
"I Din Djarin will take you outside on the condition that you obey me."
She gasps, turning her body to his, and her voice is so quiet, so fucking quiet.
"Din?" she asks, and he wishes he could see the expression in her eyes.
"Yes"
"Din djarin," she repeats his name, and Din groans. She says his name with so much softness that he wants to hear her say it with his tongue between her legs when he rocks inside of her when he becomes her.
"You can only swear an oath with your name, sweetling," he says.
"Din," she repeats softly, "I’ll keep it safe."
To give her his name is to give her his helm, the most sacred part of himself.
He didn’t realise he was so starved of hearing his name; he didn’t know how he spent all these years without his name on her lips.
She breathed life into him; he felt as if he had purpose, as if the pain in his aching joints had disappeared, as if there was new strength in his legs and power in the force of his hand.
She gave him new life. A woman he was told to cast away broke through the covenant of his armour and gave him life.
…
Every step forward with the mandalor – with Din was accompanied by two steps back.
He had injected a tracker into her arm, and when she had awoken, she had felt the dread rise up her throat—that familiar feeling of helplessness of being taken, being drugged. Her arms were sore, and she was nauseous.
A scream nearly clawed its way up before she realised where she was in Din’s bunk, the scent of his soap still lingering in the sheets.
Once the feeling of dread had disappeared and her heart rate steadied, disappointment flooded her. Every time she warmed to him and forgave his trespasses, he made it harder for her to surrender herself to him.
She wanted nothing more than to give into her softness and let him take care of her and stop looking over her shoulder. But he treated her like every other man—power over her skin, power over her body.
She didn’t want to cry; she was almost sick of it, but the tears had made themselves known; perhaps it was heartbreak or exhaustion. Her body was sore, and maybe the silence that she so feared was what would heal her.
She didn’t have it in her to fight him or argue with him to explain that he should have asked her properly, not when she was half asleep.
She was making breakfast, and he came behind her, his armoured body pressing into hers with warm hands on her hips.
She swallowed the venom frothing on her tongue and moved out of his grasp. "sweetling? He questioned her, and she kept quiet, pretending like he wasn’t there and like she was alone on the crest.
"Girl," his tone was clipped this time as he grabbed her arm, and she flinched. She stood there silently, eyes down, her head hanging, waiting for him to release her.
"What’s wrong?" He questioned, his voice traced with annoyance. She didn’t say a word, even when he let her go. He muttered something under his breath before leaving to go wake Grogu up.
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from attacking him; he didn’t take her seriously and didn’t consider her someone worth making her own decisions for.
He sat Grogu down on the tiny counter and leaned against it as she turned Grogu towards her and wrapped the makeshift bib around him.
She quickly discovered Grogu was in no mood for scrambled eggs; instead, he tugged at her neckline.
The mandalorian was ever-observant; she could practically feel his smug smile and intrusive gaze. As her cheeks flared up, she set the plate down, freeing her neckline from Grogu’s grip.
"You have not eaten solid food in two days; you need to eat Grogu," she said sternly, hoping her tone of voice would get him to open his goddess-damned mouth. But he sealed his lips, swatting at the fork when she tried to bring it closer to his mouth. And when his eyes watered and he opened his mouth to cry, she set the plate down again in frustration.
"Okay, fine, get your dad to feed you," she muttered, turning him to face the Mandalorian, who was quietly watching the scene before him.
She started making her own breakfast with an eye on Womp Rat and his dad. "You’re going to eat, kid," he said matter-of-factly, picking up the plate. Grogu whined in protest but was soon eating despite sniffling throughout breakfast.
She ate her own bitterly, a little annoyed at how the kid listened to him with such ease. Maybe she did coddle him, maybe she couldn’t help it. Perhaps the kid felt safe enough with her to let his displeasure be known.
It had been a long day with Grogu trying to burrow himself into her skin and avoiding the Mandalorian. She finally breathed a sigh of relief when Grogu fell asleep. Taking mercy on her chest, having emptied her breasts to his fill.
She returned to that heavy slab he had cuffed to her and laid down, wincing at the discomfort of the hard surface against her aching, tired muscles.
She heard his heavy footsteps and closed her eyes. She heard him walk into his bunk and then follow her suit.
"Sweetling?" She gave him no response.
"I can see your shoulders, girl; you’re still awake".
Again, she did not respond.
"Fine, be difficult," he growled. He grabbed her waist and hauled her over his shoulder as if she were an inanimate object.
She did not fight him; what use was it when he would just use brute force? He dropped her on the bunk, tying the blindfold around her eyes and slipping a strong arm around her waist. She waited till he was asleep and returned to that slab; unfortunately, the hunter was a light sleeper, so he would fetch her, and she would not relent until he imprisoned her with his hips. His breath on her skin sent shivers down her spine.
He had kicked her knees apart and settled between them, his hips pressing down her pelvis and his hands pinning her wrists up. "You move again, and I’ll fuckin cuff you to the bed," he snarled above her.
His grip tightened when she did not answer, "You understand!"
She nodded.
"Use your words, girl."
"Yes," she replied, her voice cracking from being so rarely used throughout the day.
"Good girl," he muttered into the corner of her mouth before settling with his head on her sternum and his hands wound right around her.
She did not move, but sleep evaded her, and when it finally came, he left before she awoke. His lingering scent in the sheets and the warm weight of him still pulling her to sleep
The mornings were always the same: a hand on her pendants, her knees drawn to her chin. wondering how she’d feel the light of day on her face again. When she would stop shivering in the morning frost of space.
There was never enough to clean on the ship, and she had burned through his books. Learned of his culture, but here she was still at a distance.
It wasn’t love; it was need; it was safety," she told herself every morning. Then why did she expect more from him when this was all he could give?
He came to her after a few round trips of hunting and delivering bounties. The silence between them remained stagnant, and he cuffed her to the bed at night.
Grogu fed from her, and the Mandalorian had laid him in his cradle. She hasn’t called him by his name since then. Din seemed like he would breach the distance, but the Mandalorian made it easier to keep herself away.
He'd rub her back at night to soothe the ache from the weight of her breasts and the way Grogu kept them full, always leaking into the sheets.
She was sitting on the floor reading on her holopad, researching some irrelevant topic. When he grabbed her arm and hauled her up.
"What are you doing?" she said, rubbing her arm.
"We’re going to Tatooine; you need to be dressed properly." Her brows nearly shot into her hair as excitement bubbled up. She tried to keep her face straight. She was dying to feel the warmth of the sun, and here he was with two.
"What’s the occasion?" She asked quietly.
"Difficult bounty," he grunted, and she noticed the clothes in his arms.
"Strip," he ordered, tugging at her cardigan.
"I can dress myself," she ground out, swatting his pulling hands.
"Have you ever been on Tatoonie before?" He asked while grabbing her wrist.
She didn’t answer him.
"Then no, you can’t fuckin dress yourself."
"I can manage to undress myself, Mandalorian."
She hit his hands away and shrugged her cardigan off. His helmet stayed on her face until she pulled the nightgown over her head. Standing there in black pants and a milk-stained lace bra.
His helmet dropped dramatically to her breasts, and she rolled her eyes. He wrapped her in layers of clothing, fashioning fabric around her face. To cover her mouth and nose.
He strapped her in, the kid in his designated seat babbling eagerly and tugging at her hair to catch her attention.
Mando turned around, holding on to Grogu’s hand sternly "Grogu, don’t pull her hair" he scolded, untangling her hair from his claws "You do it again, and I’m going to throw away your ball". He warned
Grogu looked up at him solemnly, his lip quivering at being scolded, but he was a good boy; he didn’t cry, and her eyes softened, but a tilt of the mandalorian’s helm halted her reaching hands; the instruction was clear.
‘Do not interfere."
So she folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes as the mandalorian piloted the crest. Once Grogu had become bored of his strop, he began babbling, and she smiled, conversing with him in sophisticated basic while he spluttered out gibberish.
She had been to Tatooine once in her youth with her father; he had piloted the ship himself and taken her in the middle of the great Dune desert.
He had told her to meet an old friend, whom she learned was a Tusken chief. She had remembered being afraid of the masked man who had towered over her; even her father had spoken with his hands.
And entrusted a wooden bantha in her hands, had set her in a tent with his children. She had met his wife when she braided her hair with gentle hands and playful scolding.
She had spent a few weeks with the Tuskens alongside her father, who was a dear friend to them. She played with their younglings, her skin browned by the twin suns. When she had returned to Caster, her mother had pulled at her cheeks and called her sunshine.
Perhaps that is why she is so eager to return to the dune planet for the twin suns.
to shroud her in nostalgia for memories of her father and the time she spent running wild under her papa's watchful gaze.
His hand is on the small of her back; he had undressed her, telling her his plan had changed and the dunes could wait. She slips on two sundresses before he nods in approval at the third outfit, a long-sleeve top and loose-fitting linen trousers.
She’s carrying Grogu on her hip, forgoing the sling, and he is as eager as her to be out of the ship. Tatoonie is the same as she remembered: dry, arid, and scorching. She looks up at the twin suns and nearly blinds herself, but it is worth it.
She stops when Grogu does the same, the Mandalorian just grunts in disapproval. A woman emerges from the hangar. She’s a tiny thing with wild brown hair. Her cheeks are red, and her thin lips are already set in a frown.
"600 credits, mando, and I ain’t budgin," she says, her beady eyes scanning her up and down. Softening when they reach Grogu after scanning her precariously.
"500" he negotiates the woman furrows her brow before they land on her again. Goddess Lillia is trying; she tries to stand confidently tall, but her shoulders are hunched, making herself small, as she has been doing all these years.
"Hmm," the woman considers, "is the kid staying with me?" she asks, her eyes smiling despite her downturned lips.
"They’re both saying it with you," he says, the hand on her back urging her forward.
She raises her brow. "Is she another bounty?" She asks, and Lillia’s heart begins to race.
The mandalorian doesn’t answer, but his silence is enough. The woman outstretches her hand and says, "Names Peli, do you know anything about ships?"
Lillia takes her hand and shakes it "a little," she says, her voice cracking from not having been used in a while. The mandalorian’s helm drops on her in what she can only assume is surprise.
He does not say a parting word, and she doesn’t want him to either. He pats Grogu’s head, telling him to be good. She watches the warrior leave while Peli takes the kid from her. She lets her, assuming that if the Mandalorian has trusted her with them, then there is no harm.
Peli coos at Grogu, who responds in vivacious babbles, happy to be in her arms. Lillia swallows, feeling awkward and out of place. She picks at her nail out of anxiousness. Peli turns to her, raising a brow.
"You mind helping me with a little work around the hangar?"
Lillia nods eagerly, jumping at the opportunity to make herself useful. Peli grins, gesturing at her to follow her. Lillia does quietly, hoping it's light work. She knew little about ships and their mechanics but enough to be able to get her hands dirty.
Peli led her to a ship with a damaged hull; she nearly sighed with relief. Welding was light work, but there was a lot to be done, and all she needed to do was kill time until the mandalorian came back.
Peli had an old radio blaring generic music playing faintly in the background as she sat and doted on Grogu, talking to him and feeding him an assortment of treats. While Lillia accessed the extent of the damage, she did not have it in her to stop her before he threw up; she did not have any right to stop him. She was just a glorified babysitter. She shrugged away the bitterness that was settling in her chest and ignored the fact that she had not nursed Grogu for a while and how her breasts were going to start bothering her inevitably.
Peli gave her a jumpsuit and the correct welding gear, Lillia got to work. She enjoyed it even when the soreness was creeping up her muscles. She did not notice the hours that passed as she worked on the ship. Until Peli stopped her with a hand on her shoulder for supper.
‘Ships are looking good; you don’t look like the type of girl to know your way around them.".
Lillia lifted the protective mask to look up at her, not taking offence; she knew what Peli meant even if she had worded it in the worst conceivable way.
She smiled up at Peli and her approving look at the ship.
"My brothers taught me what I know." Lillia offered to break the silence.
"There must have been good teachers; the ships look good".
Lillia looked at the ship and how much better the hull looked, and she smiled longingly.
"Yes, they were," she said with a slight tremor in her voice. Peli patted her shoulder once more before she left, and Lillia took off her gloves and mask, sitting back and admiring her work for a moment.
Feeling accomplished, even a little refreshed, feeling like herself—anything was better than staring at the walls of the crest on end. She was even grateful for Peli’s company; she loved the kid, but goddesses, she needed some adult company other than the insufferable Mandalorian, who seldom spoke, and when he did, it was an order.
A steaming bowl of Bantha stew was calling her name when she sat down on the table, her stomach growling. Grogu was sitting on the table, digging his way through some chunks of cooked bantha. She had no idea how the greedy womp rat had any space, but here he was eagerly gnawing at the meat. They ate in silence until Lillia sat back, almost groaning at how full her stomach was.
Peli smirked,
"Thank you, Peli, that was amazing," she said.
Peli grinned
"You've got better manners than that cheap mandalorian," she remarked.
Lillia raised her brow. "Have you known the mandalorian long?" she asked.
"Long enough to know he’ll never pay a credit more for his pile of junk," she replied.
Lillia nodded, cleaning Grogu's mouth and picking him up when he reached his arms out for her. She settled him in her lap. He fussed a little for some milk, but she knew he was too sleepy to get his way. She was too shy to feed him in front of Peli, so she rocked him in her lap, whimpering as he dosed off.
"Were you another bounty?" Peli asked Lillia if she considered lying, but the Mandalorian trusted her with Grogu, so she told the truth.
"yes"
"Where did he pick you up from?"
"A backwater farming planet in the middle of nowhere," she replied.
Peli chuckled "Well, he is the fiercest warrior in the guild".
"But he’s got a soft spot for the kid, and since you haven't cashed in, it seems like he's got a soft spot for girls as well."
Lillia reddened a little, embarrassed. "You are mistaken; he just needed a live-in babysitter," she said, brushing off her comment.
"You can call it what you want, but bounties usually get exchanged, and he seemed to let you go."
"Did he use his line?" Peli grinned.
Lillia rolled her eyes.
"I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold," Lillia mocked him, deepening her voice and scowling, which she's sure he does most of the time under his helmet.
Peli chuckled again, and Lillia giggled. For the first time since she boarded the Mandalorians' ship, she felt like she could relax; her stomach was full; she had a hard day's work under her belt. For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was wasting away.
…
"You’re cheatin"
"Peli, I swear to the goddess I'm not cheating".
"I don’t pray to no godess."
"Fine, Peli, I swear to the Maker I’m not cheating."
"This can’t be the first time you’re playing," Peli huffed in disbelief.
"Peli, you just need to accept that a beginner outdid you," Lillia said, incredibly smug.
Peli glared at the cards.
"We’ve played four games; be a dignified loser," the girl defended herself, but he could hear the arrogance in her voice.
"That's it, I'm charging Mando for babysitting you and the womp rat," Peli threatened.
"What are you charging me with?" He asked, and both women jumped startled, but upon his arrival, Lillias’s smile faded, a frown taking its place. Whilst Peli muttered obscenities.
"For babysitting," she grumbled.
"I need to be making my credit back some way; your girl’s either maker blessed or she's cheating," Peli accused yet again.
"Prove it," Lillia muttered.
Before glancing between them, she had a little smirk on her face. Peli got up, smashing the credits onto the table and muttering belligerently under her breath. Before leaving.
He watched her sit back, unfazed by his presence, collecting the cards and stacking them, essentially fiddling with them to avoid conversation.
Maker had had enough; he took Peli’s seat, pulling it right next to her and swivelling her chair to face him even when she dragged her feet like a brat.
He trapped her knees between his leaning over her and holding the edges of her chair.
"Tell me what I did wrong".
She looked up at him. Her arms hugged herself, her eyes darkened, and her lips were pulled into a thin line.
"Tell me," he" insisted.
"Even if I tell you, you will not change; it will not make an ounce of difference."
She nearly spat it out.
"Try me." His voice was edging towards annoyance at her stubbornness.
She stared him down, but he was unwavering in his effort.
He needed to know what caused this sudden change and this attempt at being unfeeling. Even as she answered back, her voice quivered, and she fidgeted with her sleeve, unable to meet his visor.
"Tell me," he ordered, pulling her hands away from her sleeve.
"You put a tracker in me while I was sleeping". She ground out her eyes, filling with angry tears, but she was stubborn; she would not let one fall, not give him the gratification.
Din relaxed his shoulders a little less tense; that was it; that’s what had made her so angry. He let out an irritated sigh.
"I did it for your safety."
"You did not ask me," she ground out, her eyes glassy. He was sure a tear would glide down her cheek. But instead, she pinched the bridge of her nose to calm herself down.
Din didn’t understand why it was such an issue. Yes, her arm was sore for a day, but that was it; the job was done. It was almost childish of her to act this insolent.
"You are on my ship, girl; I make the decisions when it comes to girls who lie and wander off to get drunk out of their minds and kidnapped," he scowled.
This time a tear did fall, gliding effortlessly down her grease-stained cheek. But her eyes were aflame with accusation and rage.
"It comes so easy to you to be so unfeeling," she said, her tone clipped.
"For you to wear that helmet like a coward and blame your creed for your injustices,"
"Lillia," he warned.
"What are you going to do, Din? Throw me over your shoulder, cuff me to your bed, and pin me with your hips until I relent?" Her voice was rising, and Din's patience was growing thin.
"Such great injustices," he murmured dismissively. She was speaking to him as if he were not merciful, as if he did not keep her belly full and give her his protection.
Her brows furrowed, and a scowl etched itself into her face. Her hand shot out to slap him or punch him, whatever her sudden lust for violence warranted. But he grabbed her wrist; he didn’t have enough bacta for a broken hand.
"For someone who looks like a little fawn, you’re quick to resort to violence," he says, smirking, impressed by the fact she can make a fist without sacrificing her thumb.
She huffs in annoyance, wringing her hands free. Din lets her go, and she falls back into her chair.
"Tell me, sweetling, what do you want me to do?" he says, matter-of-factly wanting to end this so she can let him between her legs again.
Her brows furrow. "Some autonomy," she mutters, getting up. He grabs her waist, pulling her back into his lap, her back to his armoured chest. She's so soft in his arms, he almost worries she’ll bruise against his armour.
She's tense in his arms, her back straight hands pushing at his forearms. "Don’t do this mandalorian," she says.
"Do what?" he says, his hands resting against her stomach. He just wants her to soften in his arms. Put this argument to rest. He’s exhausted. He’s been tracking his bounty under the twin suns and has not come any closer to bringing him in.
"Pretend as if this is real."
She turns in his lap; her shoulders still do not relax; his blood burns; and a part of him rages at how she still believes that there is a way out of this. Away from his gaze and touch.
She maddens him, makes him lust for every part of her, the gleam in her eyes when she wears that white silk makes him crawl into his bed and then forbid him to touch her.
"I don’t lie, girl; when I called you mine by the creed, I meant it."
She traces the patch of bare skin on his neck, and he bites back a groan. It is exhilarating to be touched by her. To have a blaster aimed at him is less daunting than what he becomes when she touches him, she makes him feel alive. He will never become familiar with it, with being touched by her. She lays a kiss on his throat, and fuck, her lips are so soft, his skin burns, and his hands tighten on her hips.
"People don’t belong to people" she says "Peli said you must be sweet for me if you didn’t cash me in. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you did. You cashed me in for yourself".
He doesn’t know what to say; she tells the truth, and he is no liar, so he stays silent and prays to the Maker. She will kiss him again in anger.
But she doesn’t only sit back and stare at his visor, staring right at him with big doe eyes, condemning him to silence and guilt.
But the stubborn man inside of him does not feel guilt only claim.
"I told you I would keep you safe. This is how I keep you safe. I give you my armour, my blaster, and my name," he tells her.
"And yet you still could not give me your trust," she cuts him off, answering into his skin, not kissing him, just letting her voice invigorate him.
He grabs her jaw, stopping her from driving him insane. "I trust you, Lillia; I do not trust those after you".
"You know what you have to swear to me," she tells him.
She’s staring into his soul again, demanding fealty. He sees a glimmer of hope; it is unfortunate, that he will be quick to extinguish it.
"I swear by my creed that I will ask you next time unless I believe it is crucial to your safety, then I will overrule."
Her lips contort into a scowl, and she begins pushing him away, her softness transgressing into anger.
His hands move to her shoulders. "That is not giving me a choice, Mandalorian," she growls.
He is tired of this pushing and pulling. "It is all that I’m giving girl; take it or leave it," he snaps back. His voice rising.
Her retort fails on her lips when Grogu comes floating towards them. He’s fussing, looking at his father, outstretching his hands, wanting attention.
She pulls, and he doesn’t let her go. One hand slides around her waist, keeping her close to him, and the other picks up Grogu, who sits between them. A part of him, an ancient part of his hindbrain, is sated with the knowledge that his clan is complete and that his arms are big enough to cage them in.
Grogu cooed at both of them, initiating conversation. Lillia wipes at the drool on the side of his mouth with her sleeve and boops his little nose. Her smile is so instant that he almost believes she's forgotten her anger, but when her gaze returns to him, aware she’s being watched, it sharpens, and he scowls.
He leans back as Grogu eagerly tugs at Lillia's shirt, and he smirks underneath his helmet. Lillia holds on to his little claws. "Not next to Daddy, he’s being a prick," she says sweetly. Pulling his son into her arms.
"Mama doesn’t have a choice, kid," he says when Grogu looks back with furrowed brows. He holds Grogu to his chest and quickly throws Lillia over his shoulder before she gets a chance to put her feet on the ground.
The girl violently mutters herself but knows better than to struggle, yet she voices her displeasure in colourful curses in both basic and a foreign language. He takes them to the bunk Peli offered them. Din is pleased to see a single bed that is tight but still big enough to fit them all.
Din sets Grogu and the girl down on the bed, Grogu toddles to her, desperate to get into her arms. She ignores him as he removes his chest plate and a vambrace, along with his shoes. He won’t risk removing his helmet, especially with how little security surrounds the place.
Once he is done, he settles in, laying on top of the covers. He runs too hot to settle in like she does. Lillia places Grogu on his chest and turns off the light. He smirks at her attempt at modesty, taking his fill of her when the visor allows him to see in the dark.
When she turns the low light on, she’s clothed in one of his shirts; it reaches just above her knees. Her hair free-falls to her waist, and Maker he feels himself grow as she saunters around doing Maker knows what.
He curses and adjusts himself in his pants, and when she finally gets in next to him, she takes Grogu and turns away, lying to her side with her back to him, Grogu gurgling at her, and soon the kids hungry sounds of suckling fill in the silence. She winces here and there.
He sits up, irritated at being deprived of what he looks forward to. He’s a sick, deprived man, but watching her feed his son makes him feral. It sings to the primordial part of him, turning him more beast than man. It makes him want to force her on her belly and burrow inside of her, not leaving until he’s adamant his work is done.
Seeing her nurture his son with such radiance stirs the warrior; he thinks of nothing but breeding her. Seeing her ripe with him might make her less stubborn.
He waits till Grogu empties her breast and she’s forced to move to her other side; he can tell she’s too sleepy to reprimand him. But even in her sleep, she frowns at his heavy stare.
Finally, he lets himself relax while watching her. The less hurried, sleepy sound of Grogu feeding lulls him to sleep, but the mandalorian is nothing but adamant.
As he forces his eyes open to take his fill of her with her cheek pressed against the pillow and lips parted, Grogu’s eyes are closed as he suckles at her breast, his claw resting on her chin. A little milk dribbles from his chin, and Din cleans it up.
With his finger, he scolds himself for thinking about tasting, yet he succumbs to his nature and lifts his helmet to lick at his finger. By the maker, the taste makes him feral and ignites such a hunger that it maddens him.
She tastes like sweet Meiloorun juice, just richer and creamier. His cock hardens at the thought of drinking from her, sleep evades him as he watches Grogu take his fill. No wonder Grogu kicks up such a fuss when she feeds him something other than her milk.
Din’s depravity intercepts his dreams when he finally falls asleep, his face to her arm around her waist. As visions of her writhing underneath him and beckoning him inside of her become his undoing.
I’ve been MIA cause of third year of uni is stressing me out. But I’ve slowly SLOWLY been working on chapter 7 like there’s about 10 k words and I’m dying to put it out just got a little more to write. Thank you so much to anyone whose still reading or still following.
I am incredibly late with this chapter and I’m incredibly sorry. The third year of uni is catching up with me hence why this is being written purely on the commute to uni. Which is the best part of my day. As always I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.
xoxoxo
Pedroswhore
TW: Rated Mature slight dirty talk, fingering, dry humping (kinda) smidgen of size kink, allusions to oral, angstydin! Dinbeingaprickandregrettingit!
Chapter 6
The Last Taste
It’s taste.
She realises he’s starved of it, desperate for a few moments to savour everything.
Even with his meals, he scarfs down his food like it will be ripped from him, restless for his helmet. He doesn’t taste, just devours, but with her he takes his time.
Even in the morning, he had taken his sweet time demanding reverence. Even when she begged him for relief for some time. He was insatiable, pulling her to the edge of the bed, falling to his knees, her legs resting on his forearms, grunting into her feral for just another taste.
There were stars in her eyes her body still running warm from desire from the way he soothed the ache in her belly and cooled the fire at her core. Countless times, leaving her starry-eyed. Her hair wild, the kisses on her skin wilder.
Lillia was actually relieved when he left with Silas to finish work on the crest. His hands did not leave her, pressing up against her when he moved around her, a hand on the small of her back, on her waist. She could read him through his armour the way his body moved, all attention on her, quick snaps of his helmet following every spoonful of her porridge. His legs drawing open when she absentmindedly licked her spoon clean.
The warning promise that followed when she realised he was stiff and suffocated in his pants
She also realises that when he’s diving into her skin, he talks, rambling, uncoordinated, making filthy vows. But in the light of day, clad in his armour, he is quiet and perceptive, his helm speaking for him.
In the way it stays fixed on her, pinned on her tongue when she licks her lips clean.
She has no regrets; not one, was it really debauchery? Was it really disrepute when she relented when she bartered her skin for his. No, Lillia did not regret it. What house did she have to tarnish, what name did she have to bring to ruin?
Her mother would ask her if she loved him with knowing eyes and a gentle hand on her shoulder.
What would she have said that she does not know his face but trusts his hand even when he will feed her to the men who will pick her bones from their teeth?
She does and it’s nauseating knowing him in that way, knowing his voice, ocean deep husky at dawn, dark gravel when he wants her obedience. She knows his voice like no one else would recognise it in a crowd calling her name.
When he calls her name, he says it like he has known it before it was given to her. He says her name when he is lost for words, for the softness it gives his tongue.
She’s memorised his scars; the great tattoos that line his arms woven into scars; the signet on his chest. The same symbol as his pendent.
Something in a foreign language was in-scripted on his arm. She wants to inquire about every inch of his gilded skin.
What would her father say? His eyes were depthless, impossible to read. Disappointment curating his face, a shake of his head, the way his lips thinned when he noticed the muddy hem of her skirt. Would he exile her from his heart for all the old oaths she broke when she let the Mandalorian between her legs?
She hangs the washed laundry Grogu sits on a blanket on the grass, watching the boys kick a ball around, while rainclouds form in the distance. She still hangs the clothes on the line a cotton scarf, keeping her hair away from her eyes.
Her sleeves rolled to her elbows. Sometimes she wants to laugh at herself. Her father fretted about mud and here she is, with sun freckled cheeks, in clothes he would not even let the maids wear.
She joins Grogu on the blanket and he crawls on to her lap. He’s quiet, quieter than usual, his eyes droopy.
"Darling?" she says to him, worry flooding her, as he barely responds, he was absolutely fine this morning. She placed her hand on his cheek; it was too hot.
"Boys," she called, her voice panicked. They came running to her, eyes wide.
She picked Grogu up and he was limp in her arms. Her heart was racing, "Did the baby eat anything?" "Touch anything that could have hurt him?" she asked, trying to not let her voice waver to remain calm. But the baby In her arms, was lethargic his eyes were drooping but not in the way he did at nap time. His behaviour terrified her.
"No Lilly, he just play," they said almost in unison.
She moved quickly, wrapping Grogu around her chest and jostling him, not allowing him to close his eyes.Taking the boys' hands into her own, she ran as fast as she could with the added weight of the baby as she pulled the boys to the village.
She rushed to the med centre, the boys trailing after her. She called for help as Grogu’s eyes closed. His skin was hot and his breathing laboured.
They laid him out, attaching him to various equipment she recognised and wished she had kept.
"Miss, you must remain outside," the droid said to her as she tried to enter the room.
"No! "He needs me," she choked out, trying to move past the droid. It did not relent in relaying the same information. She tried to rack her brain. She had not stopped watching him for a moment. How could he suddenly become so ill?
Until it dawned to her that perhaps he was reacting to a bite or a cut, something she had not seen. He was a different species; perhaps he reacted to a bite much more severely. She shot past the droid, forcing herself past the healers. She pulled off his clothes, ignoring their protests. Grogu whimpers to his mother as she scans his body and turns him around, her hands trembling.
There it was a single bite spreading on the back of his knee, two holes in skin, but she recognised it. She usually fixed it with a salve to cure the itchiness, but she didn’t even think. wasn’t attentive enough. The puncture wounds looked like those of a usually harmless grass wyrm.
"You need to give some anti venom. The bite looks like a grass wyrm. He’s reacted more severely than others." Her voice was hurried, eyes darting to the medics around her.
He raised his brow as the medic and droid examined his leg, saying, "It's just a bite," as her eyes narrowed. She knew they kept rare vials of it in case of severe allergic reactions. But they were being parsimonious, waiting until he worsened to decide whether to use it.
A bite that can kill him, if you do not try if you do not help him his father will kill you before I get the chance too” she snarled close to grabbing his goddess damned collar at his given indifference.
His eye met hers before looking down at Grogu and the bite before getting on with it. She loomed over him a reckoning if he did not do his job. Watching him work her eyes unwavering hands holding on to her pendent.
She adored that baby; he was hers even if the universe stood in their way. Even if his father tore them apart, she would always love him. She would see his dreams, feel his terror, and despair in the mornings when he could not see her.
The comfort, the contentment when she cooed at him, cradled him in her arms. She wondered what he might have seen for him to be so afraid. Who would do that to a baby, for him to dream of the ruin of smoke?
Of swords made of light.
"You were right miss, if the venom had spread any further, it would have been fatal," the medic said cautiously. We’ve given him a Bacta shot and applied a Bacta patch to his leg. The anti venom has also been administered. "
He said he was almost apologetic but was too proud to apologise. She fought the urge to hurl insults at him for his ignorance. Men were often too proud, too proud to listen.
"How is he now?" she asked, her eyes fixed on Grogu as he lay there.
"He should be fine The bacta will do well to heal him. I would advise you to keep him here overnight just to observe him. He will probably feel cold, so some skin-to-skin contact will warm him up and soothe him when he wakes. "You can take him home tomorrow if all is well. Just keep an eye on his activity and meals," he told her before giving her arm a reassuring pat.
She exhaled in relief, her eyes softening
"Thank you," she said genuinely. He probably assumed she was his mother and that a mother's intuition took precedence over a medic's opinion.
She rushed to him, holding his little hand, her fingers tracing his brows. She swallowed her sobs of relief. She thought she was going to lose him and the panic, the fear that flowed the way her blood chilled.
How would she part with him? How would she not feel his loss?
She asked the droid for a spare cot so that she could settle the boys in. She had given them dinner from the med centre kitchen, coaxing them into eating the bland dry food. Bribing them with blueberry pie they agreed that she would eventually make it for them them while keeping an eye on Grogu.
She paced nervously, having rushed out of her comm, barely bringing enough credits.How could she leave Grogu and tell him?
Grogu stirred, and she snapped herself out of her daze. He cried out for her and she rushed to him, settling him. He sat up, eyes filled with tears, whimpering up at her.
She tucked the blanket around him, caressing his cheek. "I know baby, it’s okay. I’m right here darling," she reassured him. He sobbed a little at the attention, drawing a tear from her too.
When he was assured of her presence, he settled into a sleepy state, not as alert and insistent as he usually was fighting sleep. But he had not eaten since breakfast, and it was gnawing at her.
She had asked for some soup from the kitchen, and she was trying to keep Grogu awake long enough to feed him.
He started crying again and she sagged in her chair, resorting to pleading, "c’mon sweet pea, try for mama, just a couple of bites and you can sleep".
He blinked up at her, still whimpering, as if to express his exhaustion.
She pushed the spoon in his mouth. He swallowed but let his protest be known.
"Good boy, how about a few more, huh? and I’ll give you cookies when you’re better how does that sound, sweetheart? " She bribed him. He babbled up at her wet eyes, still watery, but he relented. At the mention of cookies She finally let him sleep, staying by his side, rhythmically patting his stomach, lulling him to sleep.
She rested her own eyes for barely a minute when she heard his voice.
"WHERE IS MY SON?"
She jumped up, rushing to the hall. He had the medic by his throat. She ran up to him
"Mando, Mando, listen, he’s safe. I’m with him. I’ve got him. It’s okay." His helm snapped to her, still not letting go of the medic's throat, who was going blue from the pressure.
"Mando!" She tugged at his arm, terrified, "Mando, you’re hurting him. He’s safe "Grogu is perfectly fine, sweetheart, perfectly fine," she told him gently.
Her hand on his arm, looking directly into his helm, "put him down," she tried softly. He slowly lowered him down, dropping him on the floor.
The medic choked out, spluttering for breath, coughing and clutching his throat. She glanced at him. He was alive and that was enough. Silas stood by him, quiet and pale. He looked at her eyes, laden with fear, a hand on his chest.
"Are my babies okay, Lillia?" her chest hurt at the way his eyes glossed over, expecting the worse. "Silas, they are absolutely fine. They are sleeping with their bellies full." she reassured him. He exhaled in relief.
"Come with me," she told them. They followed her dead silently.
As Mando knelt on the ground to look at his son, Silas checked over his boys for his own assurance. gaining access to his child who was leaning against the bed
"What happened?" His tone was menacing, as if he was going for her throat next.
"He got bitten by a grass wyrm," she told him, trying not to let her voice crack in fear.
"What was he doing on the fucking grass? "Were you not watching him?" he accused her.
Her blood warmed at the accusation in his tone. How dare he surely know how much she loved that baby? She would give her life for him.
"I was, I was right next to him," she defended herself, "I just didn’t see it."
"You weren’t kriffing watching him," he growled at her, getting up.
She clenched her jaw, her eyes boring into his helm.
"How dare you!" she exclaimed, her eyes welling up with rage at his mistrust.
“You know, I love that boy. You know, I spend every waking moment with him. That this was not deliberate.” She said her voice breaking.
"You’ve been wanting to set yourself free since I met you. Who knows the length you may go to?" he spat.
"Says the man who was ready to trade him for credits, questioning the lengths I would go to for my freedom when you would hunt. A child for credits, I would never stoop that low, " she snarled, fear dissipating into anger, too furious to register the consequences of her words. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she glared up at him, her mouth dry.
He stepped forward and Silas intervened, coming between them, his hand on the mandalorian’s shoulder.
"Calm down brother. "Come walk me to my home. The boys are asleep. The child is safe with her."
She glanced at the mechanic and his warm smile. She sniffled, holding on to her arm standing alone. He wiped at her tears and rubbed her back, trying to comfort her. But the mandalorian’s presence was looming, an unspoken claim between them. To not overstep his bounds, whether he is a good man or not. The hunters gaze at the mechanic's hand on her back.
"He is just shaken, Lilly, he does not mean it," he said lowly before picking up his son.
Her glare did not ease off the warrior. The mandalorian looked at his child and stroked his cheek with all the tenderness his blaster-hardened hands could muster.
"Do not move from his side," he warned her, and she was ready to claw at his throat. She did not say anything saving her venom for when he returned.
He picked up the mechanic's son and followed Silas out. Glancing over at his son one final time before leaving.
Regardless of Grogu's tears, she sat next to him fuming the entire time. She cried when she was angry and unable to help that her voice cracked and her eyes watered. And she sobbed rather than yelled. She didn’t d want to speak to him, even look at him in her outrage.
She kept quiet when he returned and loomed over her. She knew it was in accusation that he was still seething with anger, unrefined compared to hers. She hoped to see the bastard crying under his helm.
"What have they given him?" he asked.
Her eyes pierced him, swollen and stinging.
"Go and ask the medic you nearly killed," she muttered.
"Don’t fuck with me, Lillia," he growled at her
"When you endanger my kid with your neglect..."
Her eyes widened as she shot up.
"Neglect?" Her eyes darted to Grogu before landing on the junk of metal that stood before her.
“He spends more time with me than his self-proclaimed father. When he wakes up, he looks for me. He only sleeps when I cradle him against my chest. He only stops crying when I talk to him. He clamours out of your arms so that I may hold him. You didn’t even speak to him mandalorian on the crest, you left him in a corner. Why do you think he is infatuated with that silver ball? Because it’s yours, he’s just a baby and you think feeding him and giving him shelter is enough. It isn’t.”
She whispered-yelled enraged, pointing her finger at the armed warrior.
"It's enough for me that he doesn't go hungry and sleeps dry; he's never been hurt under my care, ever," he shot back, craning his neck and looking down at her.
"You're insufferable mandalorian. You would leave him alone on the crest, when you hunted your bounties. And I have not left him alone for a second. You have not wasted a moment to damn me for a bite I did not even see, when he lays healthy in front of you. "
She feels light-headed like her legs feel like they are going to give out. She could not remember if she had eaten anything since yesterday. She had been breaking up an argument between the twins in the morning, had missed breakfast and then there were chores, along with Grogu getting sick.
She took a deep breath Holding her temple before attempting to continue.
She cut herself off, falling on to him. He held on to her waist as she sagged into him. Closing her eyes for just a moment, he sat her down on the chair.
"Did you eat?" he asked, concerned about moving her hair out of her face. She still feels drowsy. If her eyes close, she will not wake up, she cannot risk sleeping, Grogu may need her.
"I can’t remember," she murmurs, her eyes drooping.
He holds her chin, shaking her slightly awake. "Fuck, stay awake. I’ll get you something to eat," he tells her, tucking her hair behind her ears.
She pinches herself every time her eyes close, her stomach growling underneath her hands.
He comes back a few bars with a cup of water in his hands. He stands over her, watching her down two before she says she’s too full for another. He forces her to have another to finish her cup, ignoring her protests.
She’s still exhausted but does not feel as if the world will collapse beneath her. He leans against the wall, keeping watch.
"Did you eat?" She asks, he nods, and silence fills the room.
"I swear to you Madalorian that I would never harm him," she says brokenly.
"I know," he exhales.
…
He'd never felt panic like that, the empty house door left wide open. He'd never felt helpless before.
He calls for his child for the girl, just as Silas calls for his sons. Desperate men on the verge of losing everything
He should not be afraid like him. It is beneath him to feel fear like this, but he does. They weaken him. They make him fearful of an empty ship. An empty cradle. An empty bed. He can’t familiarise himself with the silence again.
Din quells his fear the way he knows best: by pushing it down, forcing it down his lungs and taking a steady breath.
He’s methodical, as Silas wears his fear on his face, pale and pacing. Din reminds himself of the tracker he put in Grogu’s pendent and he has never moved so fast.
He loses his stoicism. The fear comes in full force, clawing its way up his throat, transgressing into rage. When the medic swears confidentiality and he cannot comprehend words in that moment. Only the strength of his hands, the way the medic is beginning to turn violet. The mechanic does not stop him.
But she does and he drops him, letting him live another day. But Din is furious. His eyes access every inch of feeling a modicum of relief when he realises she is unharmed. She's trying to reassure him, but he needs to see his son, needs to know if he's okay.
She keeps telling him that he’s fine, but he’s too enraged to listen to her or consider what she’s saying. He only sees his son lying in that big bed looking so small he snaps at her when he shouldn’t. He’s too pissed off to think clearly. All he can think about is what if she didn’t get here in time. He knows she would give her life for him, but he needs to hold someone accountable. He needs to take his anger before it becomes him.
He’s grateful to the mechanic and the peace he makes right now distances better. He knows that his kid is safe. Even in his fury, he understands that she will never hurt him.
He accompanies Silas back to his home. He’s relieved that the mechanic has not attempted to make conversation. Their goodbyes are short.
But the mechanic puts his hand on his shoulder.
"Your anger is misplaced, mandalorian," he says. In the short time he’s known the mechanic, this is the first time he has not been hesitant with his words and has spoken his mind.
A part of him wants to reprimand him for touching his woman for comforting her. She would know only his rage, only his comfort, and that he has the right to give and to take.
The mechanic's eyes had stopped lingering when he saw the marks of claim he had left along her neck on the swell of her breast. An unspoken understanding between the men was established when Silas’ eyes were fixed on the hunter's hand on the small of Lillias's back on her waist. He was always leading her, touching her in ways only he could touch.
The mechanic had understood, and he dared not overstep his bounds as he was doing now. But he had gained some courage over the last few days. Din knew his words came from a place of care, but it maddened him the possession he felt over her. How damning it was to become irritated when the mechanic expressed words of care. When he fucking wiped away her tears.
Who was he to question his anger when it was his woman on the receiving end of it? Din bit his tongue and clenched his hands. There was only kindness in the mechanic's eyes. A man who had accepted the hand that fate had dealt him had accepted a woman lost to him.
"I have trusted her with my sons since they were infants. I would trust her with them over and over again. "She would rather it be her skin than the kids," he continued, his voice unwavering. hand still on Dins' shoulder.
Din unclenched his hand and willed the irritation to leave his voice. The mechanic was a good man, and he was not. He would never be good in that way.
"I know," he says, as the mechanic squeezes his shoulder and lets go.
"Take care of those boys," Din says before shaking the mechanics' hand and leaving.
When he returns and he sees the child in that bed surrounded by droids, it pisses him off yet again.
And he does not bite his tongue
He accuses her of neglect but regrets it when her eyes widen with rage and unshed tears when she accuses him of the same.
Condemning his silence, her tongue is still rampant before she touches her temple and her words stutter. She falls onto him like a doe still learning the strength of her legs.
His anger dissipates as he holds her up and sits her down, brushing her hair from her face. She looks pale and tired. Her hands tremble and her eyes flutter.
Of course, she hadn’t eaten, too busy caring for everything but herself. He’s noticed how she barely finishes her meals, making herself childlike portions and feeding half of it to Grogu, picking around her plate.
She cradled her cup of tea and watched him eat, sipping the usually bitter brew like it was an alien elixir. But he doesn't say anything to her; he should, but what right does he have to tell her to fill her stomach? her eyes narrow when he asks her if that is all she will eat.
He makes her eat the ration bars and forces her to down the cup of water. And when Grogu stirs, he carries her to the bed and she cradles him against her chest, opening her blouse a little for warmth, pushing him into her skin. His face cuddled against her breast as she holds him.
She hums a star song, a tune foreign to him, soothing his son to sleep. He sits on the chair, pulling it close to the bed, watching his son snuggle into her chest , his hand into her hair, and fall back to sleep.
Her hand reaches out to him and he takes it into his own. "m'sorry," she mumbles. He looks up to reply, but her eyes are already closed.
"Come with me," he murmurs into the quiet and by maker, he hopes she hasn’t heard the desperation in his voice.
Grogu is cleared to return home and the crest is ready to fly. But Din decided he should stay a few days just in case Grogu needs rushed to the med centre if need be. Not because life without the girl will be more difficult than he anticipated.
He watches her have breakfast, pushing her back into the chair when she leaves a quarter of the bar. She only scowls and continues to chew.
He held Grogu on the way back to her home, and she trudged behind him, head down in silence like a child almost. Her hair tucked behind her ears, fingers tracing her pendents.
She gasped when they got to the cottage. Her skin pales, losing all her rosiness. Her hand flies to her chest and she bites the inside of her cheek, eyes scanning the black symbol on her door.
He doesn't notice it, but she does, almost hesitantly. It’s marked her home to let others know where she is, she recognises it and her skin pales, her hands tremble as she pushes the door open.
She murmurs something in a foreign language and moves past him, her hands shaking as she opens the door.
He can feel the way her mood has changed. She’s knocked into the table twice. She ignores him, fretting around the cottage, checking everything is in place. Pacing in the kitchen whilst she warms broth up for Grogu, her hands tremble as she pours it into a bowl and places it on the table. before disappearing up the stairs.
He puts Grogu to bed after feeding him. The baby asks for her, discontent at his father's efforts. His gloves are not as soft as her skin and his voice is not as soothing as hers. The way it’s meant to be.
She comes down the stairs wearing her night gown, her hair braided. It’s barely dusk. with a tin of paint in her hand. Their eyes meet.
"What is that symbol on the door?" he asks after her, following her outside.
She does not look at him as she cracks the tin open. "You should have left," she murmurs, and his chest tightens as she dips the paintbrush in the deep green.
Eyes fixed on the symbol, he grabs her upper arm, "What is that symbol, girl?"
She smiles up at him without her teeth, her eyes so tired he wonders if she blinks for far too long. Sleep would take her.
"It’s a hunters' mark, burned on the skin of women who have whored, have disobeyed the men who promised them to other men."
He can feel her hurt as the words leave her and Din, he is yearning for vengeance, her vengeance. He wants someone to bleed for the hurt in her voice, for the devastation in it.
"Do you know who left it here?"
"The same people who have been hunting me since my body changed to bear children," she says, painting the mark, covering it up.
“They held my legs apart ready to brand me again with a hot iron. It glowed so red I screamed, Mandalorian, I was only a girl. But the man I was promised to, he stopped them. He pulled down my dress and said he’d like me without any brands, "she says with feigned indifference,but his heart is pounding at her words, at how ready his hands are for violence.
Deserved violence.
She was just a fucking kid and they were prying her legs apart. He wanted to rip their eyes out. Make use of that maker-damned sabre to saw off their hands.
But for now, he holds back his violence, his rage and lets her speak. He doesn’t know how to comfort a part of him thinks she doesn’t need it, revenge would feel better then his hand on her shoulder.
"They will come back for you, girl. If they knew where you were to mark the door, they will come back for you," he tells her.
Her head snaps up, eyes shooting at me, suddenly aflame.
"What difference does it make mandalorian for them to take or for you to take. I will be delivered to the same man and the same thing will happen. Even a mouse accepts its fate when it is trapped under the cat's paw. "She drops the paintbrush into the tin.
And she looks at him and there is so much grief in her eyes that the words leave his mouth before he even rationalises what he’s going to say.
"I’ll let you go, Lillia."
She spills the paint her eyes widening, her hand to her chest.
"What?" She breathes.
"You are no longer my bounty" and it’s agonising. He already feels her absence in the distance he creates by letting her go.
"H-how," she stutters, her eyes wide, glossing over.
"I’ll tell them you were dead," he says bluntly, moving past her and into the cottage. He needs to collect himself, feeling the weight of his words. They come to him all of a sudden and he cannot go back on his word. He will have to make do. He watches Grogu in his cradle and kriff how he could do this rip him from her, rip him from the only mother he’s ever known.
He sits on the chair besides the oak table and disassembles his blaster, making himself cold to the warmth of the cottage. The golden haze of the room when it is dark outside. She uses candles. The light of the fire she switches on the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling when she runs out of oil or wax. Her face is always shadowed by candlelight. Her face is always too close to the flame and yet her nose is always too cold.
He tries to be oblivious to the way her eyes are swollen and her lips reddened by the way she gnaws at them. She comes into the room and the light dances on her face. Even looking at her makes his hands shake at the rage of it all.
He’s a coward for letting her go. He should throw her over his shoulder and take her to his ship. Put a youngling in her belly kept her to himself. Witness the way her cheeks fill out.
She’s hesitant, and a tear falls down her cheek as she approaches him in that fucking nightgown, gossamer against the alabaster of her skin, delicate against her freckled shoulders. He knows it’s deliberate when she tests him with the lace against her skin with the way it barely falls over her thighs.
This is the old routine. The pink nightgown a ploy the lace his undoing, the bow between her breasts a reckoning. She dangerous when she’s like this; soft and teary willingness in her touch and honey on her tongue.
She tugs at the blaster and he resists.
"Mandalorian," she says in defeat, and he relents. She sets the blaster and its part on to the table.
She puts her hands at her waist. He looks up at her at the beautiful misery on her face. He widens his legs and she slips between them before sitting astride him. Pliant thighs draped across his own.
Her arms around his neck she presses her face into his chest.
"Thank you." she murmurs
His arms tighten around her, holding onto her just as tightly, and he considers getting on his knees.
She’s warm in his arms, even as the armour digs into her flesh, she pushes herself into his chest. Her arms tighten around him before she draws back, holding the sides of his helmet and looking into his eyes.
“In another life, mandalorian, in another life I would not be afraid." Lillia says looking into his visor she always manages to find his eyes, look directly into his soul. His helm is a blessing it hides the battle he wages with himself, his hands on her waist but his mind on the aftermath of the freedom he’s given her.
He knows what she means by the justification she offers. But it is not enough.
"I would keep you safe," he lets out, barely managing his voice.
She smiles up at him, her eyes watery.
"I can’t put a target on your back; they will never stop coming and I will never stop running." The girls voice is ever so soft, so honeyed as she explains her refusal.
"I could keep you safe," Din insists, his hands holding her in his lap by her hips. Fingers dig into flesh.
"You’ve already kept me safe. You need to keep your son safe and this is the only way I know how," she says.
"You should not have loved the kid as you did, ripping yourself from him like this. It’s not fair on him." He could hear his voice rising from frustration at her stubbornness at the way she had martyred herself in this way.
She looks down dejected. Another tear falls into his lap.
"I can’t help it, Mando I love him and I will deal with the pain of it a thousand times again if it means he will be safe. Take my place, speak to him, hold him closer. "
"It is not that easy, he needs you." He forces the words out.
She looks away.
"It is better this way, mandalorian."
She leans back eyes fixed on his helmet, her hands drag across his chest.
“I didn’t expect you hunter”
She says almost forlorn.
Her confession confuses him he rests his hands on her thighs, gloved hands skimming her thighs.
“What did you expect?” He asks
“Anything but kindness” she says her pulse quickening. As his hands map out her skin.
“I am not kind, girl” he finds himself saying as his fingers travel further and further.
She visibly inhales when his fingers reach her inner thigh. Slowly moving up her nightgown.
“You let me go” she whispers as he traces the lace of her panties.
He’s hard under her, she always makes him hard, makes him weak it’s painful holding back. Knowing he is so close only cloth separating them, how willing she would be if he pulled out her release. How he’d force her to make space for him. Fuck her till she was sore, till her legs gave out and it was his seed soiling her skin. Laying claim inside of her.
He lets out a ragged breath when she grinds on his cock, lips parted innocent but driven, as he pulls her panties to a side.
“That wasn’t kindness, girl it was duty” he strains a hand flat on her chest pushing her back a little so he can see. To take his fill on what he will soon lose. She’s wet glistening in the light, swollen eager, already dripping for him leaving a mark on his pants. She’s got the sweetest little cunt, he wants to taste her again spend the night between her legs lost in her honey.
But he doesn’t have time and he would not be able to leave, never rid himself off her taste if he let himself between her legs again.
She draws her knees together when a leathered finger ghosts her clit.
He shakes his head,
“Spread your legs sweetling,”
She looks up at him hesitant, curious eyes at half mast. Her knees slowly pull apart she looks away her cheeks a reddening.
“Wider” he commands, and for once she listens without a fight she lets herself relax legs open wide around his waist. Her back supported by a strong arm. As he leans her back.
He looks first, in admiration she’s soaking puffy and pink, as she bucks her hips when he touches her.
When he circles her bud and she pushes against him the friction sweet torture he’s already staining his pants. He can feel himself leaking as he hears her pleading little whimpers, her rasping out his name.
She winced when he pushes the tip of his finger in her, she’s so wet it should have slipped in but she’s so fucking tight, like a vice.
He groans “c’mon sweetling let me work you open” he groans rocking against her thighs her eyes squeezing shut as she clenches around his finger.
“Ah, I-don’t t-thi-nk-“ she begins leaning back legs trying to close on their own accord. Her eyes sealed shut, from the effort, of taking just his maker damned finger.
“You can baby, keep your legs open” he grounds out, he’s close just watching her struggle. As he pushes his finger further into her cunt until he’s knuckle deep she cries out, her stomach tightening muscles strained as she tries to catch her breath”.
“There you go, girl”
“Sweet girl, so fucking tight” his words are filthy, laced with encouragement, with greed. As he circles her clit with his thumb and his finger pushes gently against her walls giving her the friction she craves.
She’s wrecked, whimpering, gasping as he works her to her precipice. He’s not far behind, feral as he ruts against her thigh.
She called out to her goddess when she comes a tear falling down her cheek. Clutching his arms for support as her body spasms with the aftershocks of her release.
He succumbs to temptation, easing out his finger and shoving it under his helmet. She’s exquisite on his tongue and he grunts out “maker” as he comes in his pants. Holding on to her stomach for purchase. Joining her with his own ragged breaths.
“You would wreck me,” she pants pushing her hair out of her face pulling herself up resting her damp forehead against his helm.
“You would not fit inside of me” she confesses still breathing heavily.
Her hand is curious as it travels down to his pants he leans back in the chair letting her innocent, curiosity take it’s course. She gasps eyes widening hand jerking back to her chest, once’s she’s touched him over his pants, he’s still hard. She’s probably right the poor girl wouldn’t stand a chance, but he’s a stubborn bastard.
“Definitely not” she murmurs eyes still wide, almost fearful glued to his greedy cock poking through his pants.
“I’d make it fit” he pulls down her night gown Before lifting her up.
He carries her into the bed they share. And she turns to the side. He can hear quiet sighs, as he removes his armour. He removes all of it along with his helmet. Taking off his ruined pants and cleaning himself up.
He gets into the bed, his hands snaking around her waist. She turns to him and traces his face blindly, navigating her way to his lips.
She kisses him, the salt of her tears entwined with the sweetness of her mouth. She kisses him like she can’t breathe, as if the goodbye weighs heavier on her.
Hands in his hair, cupping his face, pulling him to her. He pins her back down, hovering over her, kissing her deeper teeth knocking into hers. He groans into her mouth as she whimpers for him. He pulls away, kissing the corner of her mouth, leaning back and pushing her nightgown up to her breasts.
He can feel her shuddering underneath him in the short intakes of breath as he places his head on her stomach after he kisses the skin just below her navel.
Her fingers thread through his hair. He relishes in the way her nails feel against his scalp, he’s so starved for her, to be touched by her.
He hears her sigh and sniffle once or twice before her breathing slows and she murmurs in her sleep. Her hands do not leave him, they only cradle him closer.
The mandalorian does not sleep. He listens to the sound of her heart, her breathing, the occasional murmuring. He spends all night destroying himself by pressing his cheek into her skin.
He traces her ribs, grazing her breast, memorising her. He can't live in this lie the way her body provides a comfort only he knows.
The softness of it, the way her skin sinks with his touch. He will leave with the memory of her face, of those maker-damned eyes filled with so much sorrow, so much grief. And she will only know him by his creed, by his son, by the beskar that will make her forget.
This is the way.
….
She woke up to an empty bed with sunlight rather than darkness. She would have preferred the darkness of the blindfold. Rather than the absence of the mandalorian's familiar weight of his warmth.
Callused hands always cupping her breast, snaking up her nightgown to caress her breast. She doesn’t understand his infatuation with this routine, this need to be so incessantly close to her. He would never turn away from her all night, even if she did in her sleep, wrapping her back up in his arms and pushing his face into the crook of her neck.
Or laying on her chest or her stomach, legs entwined with hers. The bed seemed so much bigger without him, and her heart sank. She buried her face in her hands and swallowed the feeling of loss and frustration.
It was not love for her, it was the safety of his presence, the way his hands were rough even when they tried to be gentle.
How could she love him, even if he freed her, even if she were a woman without a history? without a brand on her hip. How could she come to love a man who was insistent on stealing her away?
The Mandalorian was an enemy. The kind of enemy who spent hours licking at her cunt, who presses his cheeks against her breast and falls asleep instantly.
She made the bed, brushed her hair, and wore a sweater over her nightgown.
He was feeding Grogu, attempting too. His shoulders tensed when he saw her come in. Grogu chirped in delight, struggling in the high chair.
"No kid, I’m going to feed you."
He says, offering another spoon of oatmeal she had made yesterday.
Grogu swatted it away, and the mandalorian growled in frustration.
"Kid, I’m warning you."
Grogu kicked his legs, reaching out to her, and she stepped forward.
The mandalorian threw the spoon back into the bowl.
"No, girl, we are leaving at first light tomorrow and you will not touch him. I need him to forget."
The mandalorian pushed himself out of the chair, taking his son out and wiping his face before placing him in his lap.
Grogu looked at her dejected, worried, his ears drooping when she did not move to pick him up.
"Mando plea-"
"No"
Lillian’s chest caved in, her heart breaking. Her mouth felt dry. Her lungs tightened. Tears free-falling down her face.
"Please Madalorian, not like this just let me hold him one last time." She pleaded.
The mandalorian stood up, turning away from her.
"He is my son, girl. He is my son first and I will not let you ruin him for your peace of mind." He states his tone ending any further discussion.
She swallowed back her sobs and stood up straight, quickly wiping away the tears that had settled on her chin.
"There is bread in the basket and soup on the stove," she says. before taking her coat and slipping on her shoes.
She’s slept till noon, and it is grey outside, so she is in no rush. As she walks to the cantina, she hasn’t been to in a year. Lillia prays to the goddess that Spotchka will numb the pain and lessen the anger she feels at the mandalorian’s heartlessness.
What was another last embrace? She wanted to tell the baby she loved him, that she'd always be with him, that she'd always be his mama, no matter how far apart they were.
But he was right; he was his son first. She was just a bounty who overstepped her bounds.
The cantina fell quiet when she entered, but she was too grief-stricken to care.
She asks for the blue liquid, too expensive to be wasted on her, but she asks for it none the less. The bartender tells her it’s just been imported from Nevarro. She feigns interest, nodding her hands eager to shoot back the blue liquid that burns her throat.
She could never hold her liquor, and soon she was drunk and near destitute. She knows the bartender pities her when he fights away unwanted attention and tells her she can have one last drink.
The bartender is kind in her drunken gaze. She wishes that the mandalorian was kinder.
She's slurring and out of her mind drunk. That’s why when the bartender gets shot in the head, she doesn’t flinch.
Giggles when she gets picked up by two men dressed in black. She closes her eyes when a bag gets put over her head.
"Mando," she sniffles, thinking it’s the blindfold.
Their hands are hurting her, but she’s too far gone to scream. She struggles when they inject her arm, and her eyes droop. She cannot hold herself up.
She drifts away into the night, but it’s not even dusk.
"Mando," she calls before her eyes close and unfamiliar hands touch her.
Her knees, her thighs, her lips, their hands are too soft.
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