Author’s Note: Dark content ahead, so just be mindful of the tags <3
Type: Restored
Description: You're a Mandalorian. You have been one from the moment Din Djarin accepted you into his life. For better or for worse. So just stay still and let him do what he knows is best for you.
Word Count: 807
Warnings: Dark themes, implied captivity, manipulation, drugging, claustrophobia, violence, mild to moderate depictions of violence, maltreatment
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I’m not ready.
I’m so scared.
Just stop already!
If you would just stop whining and resisting, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much!
But no, you’re being a right brat, lashing out, barking and biting like a common street dog.
You’ve made him become rough, bordering on unforgiving.
There is no winning this battle. You are a but a foundling, still growing, still learning, and very much incapable of matching your usurper father’s strength. With ease, he pins you to the ground of your shared quarters as your brother turns a blind eye and closes himself into the safety of his pod. Your breaths are fervent as you push against the Mandalorian’s impossible weight and try to bite at any part of him that is not covered in a layer of Beskar. Teeth break the slivers of skin that prove to be exposed and your mouth fills with a small amount of your enemy’s warm blood. The action does little to faze him, and he grows increasingly furious at your defiance.
For a moment you are lifted up off of the ground, only to be harshly slammed back down with enough force to knock the wind clear out of you. The thrashing stops as you wheeze and gasp for breaths of air that hardly come, giving Din Djarin the opportunity he has been waiting for. From the pouch on his belt he pulls out a small vial of clear blue liquid. With such little fight left in you, he keeps you still with a simple knee to the chest.
One hand grips the sides of your mouth, pressing until you are made to part your lips, and the liquid is poured inside. Before you can spit the drug back out at him, Din firmly covers your nose and mouth until you have swallowed every last drop.
Its sweet taste lingers in your mouth as the Mandalorian finally lifts himself off, giving you a chance to breathe freely.
“Stay.” He orders, leaving to fetch a few necessities.
Though you would have loved nothing more than to directly disobey the sole source of your anguish, every muscle in your body refuses to obey, instead remaining limp and unmoving. Upon Din’s return, his deft hands made quick work of replacing your old clothes with something more fitting for his foundling.
“You’re being so good for me now, A’dika. I really don’t ask for that much.” Din mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. “This…This is all for you. You will understand soon, I promise.”
There is little else you can do besides allow the man to carry you beyond the darkened walls of the Mandalorian covert and into the chilling evening air.
“The little one looks…unwell.” Comes a voice you recognize all too well. “You are confident in their–”
Din is more than sure. “If I was not confident, I would not have brought them to you.”
The Armorer gives a short nod, her grip on the shining Beskar helmet becoming firm. “Very well.”
“The child,” Din starts, for the first time in a while sounding timid, “their nerves have gotten the better of them. If the creed permits such action, may I stand with them?”
She considers your altered state, the way you cannot seem to find your own footing, and shift uncomfortably in your father’s arms. It’s an unsettling sight, but not one that the Armorer seems to mind enough to help you.
“Very well, Din Djarin. So let it be done.”
Supporting your weight with his own, Din guides you into the water at knee’s length.
“Repeat exactly what she says.” He whispers into your ear.
Your mind is much too muddled to find the resolution needed to resist. Each word that is directed your way is matched by your own slurred speech. Her cadence commands what remains of your waning attention and when the last of your oath has been uttered the silence that follows offers no solace. Instead you are held in place as that helmet is secured over your head, pressed down until a clicking sound is heard.
Regaining a slight amount of control, you grasp at the edges of the Beskar, trying to pull the helmet off to no avail. No matter how hard your tug and jerk, it stays in place, thanks to a piece of metal fitted at the base of your neck.
“Easy, easy!” Din says, guiding you out of the water.
“No! It won’t come off!” You cry, your panicked breathing fogging up the visor.
“It’s not supposed to. Not unless I allow it.” Your enemy grumbles, holding your hands away from your head.
As you stifle hopeless sobs, the Mandalorian leads you back inside the safety of the covert under the watchful eyes of the Armorer who looks on, unmoving, unwavering in the presence of your new becoming.
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.
My first ever drabble and it’s for Din, I’ve never written anything for him and it’s a dark!Mando piece so... I don’t know what to think. I wanted to try something new. No title because I couldn’t think of one. GIF for attention, thank you to the creator!
“I’d never hurt you, cyar’ika,” he whispered in hoarse voice, his visor inches away from your face.
You could already tell when he was lying. Not by his face, you’ve never seen it. But by the sound of his voice, the way his helmet tilted.
And you’ve never wanted to believe his words like right now. When he was pushing your pants down with one hand, the other holding a blaster pointed at your stomach.
Something has changes after his last hunt. He wasn’t the man you knew. But you hoped he’s somewhere there.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It started after Luke finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time during a search for Force-sensitive younglings, doing his best to ignore the politics of the Mandalorian-Jedi war.
He was not prepared to find a hidden clan and their dangerous, but magnetic, leader. Nor for the consequences that came of finding him.
Description: Being a royal Naboo retainer to a reckless prince, you often find yourself having to take care of his underground dealings, despite any reservations you might have. It is your prince's most recent endeavor that has you working with a quiet and strange Mandalorian.
Word Count: 1,316
Warnings: Dark Content! (Pls be mindful), kidnapping, obsessive nature, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy obsession, alcohol, drinking,
By clicking or tapping on “Keep Reading”, you consent to viewing/consuming this media. Minors do not interact. The cultivation of one’s internet experience is up to the individual, and any other personal preferences do not dictate the creations of others nor myself. The recreation, reformatting, re-posting or distribution of this content on other platforms is not welcome and I ask that any and all parties would keep from doing so, thank you.
“It is only for two weeks. You would be doing me a great favor here.”
Taking in the prince’s words you continued to strap on your armor, feeling for the first time in your life, a hint of animosity for the man you had sworn to protect.
“My lord, I am your retainer. My duty and my allegiance is to you. Not some…bounty hunter.”
Your Naboo prince offered a sorry smile, placing a soft hand on your forearm. “A bounty hunter to whom I owe a significant debt. All he is asking for is a skilled warrior that he can trust to remain loyal. No one is better suited for the job than you.”
Though you were quite taken with your lord’s kind words, you remained unsure of his assessment and ability to be judicious in the matter.
“And does the queen know of this?”
The prince bore a sheepish smile, taking a step back. “No. She is still off-world on Coruscant representing our people in an inconsequential matter. My mother need not know of this. If she knew I was involved with those of the guild, I fear what she would do.”
You raised a brow gazing upon the man before you with an air of disapproval.
“Don’t look at me like that! Youth makes fools of us all! Besides, I didn’t have you in my early years to keep me out of trouble.”
While cautious, you accepted the mission, and made sure you were well prepared before giving your farewells and heading off to the docking station where the promised bounty hunter waited. To your horror and relative disgust, you found a ramshackle Naboo fighter idling with a Mandalorian waving you over. It was of a retired design, clearly manufactured during the days of the Old Republic, but the starship was way past its prime and would have fared better in a junkyard than anywhere else. It was almost insulting to be a royal Naboo retainer and fly in a ship that looked like it was being held together by rusted bolts and sheer luck.
“Over here!” The Mandalorian called as the cockpit opened.
Offering a firm wave, you approached the ship, giving it a once over.
“And feel free to loosen up.” He mumbled under his breath.
While you couldn’t make out his expression through his beskar helmet, you could practically feel his annoyance at your apparent apprehension. Praying your ancestors would deliver you strength, you leapt into the ship only to find you were sharing the only other empty spot with a child the size of an energy ball.
“Careful with the kid.” The Mandalorian snapped. “He doesn’t like sharing his seat but the both of you will just have to make do.”
Nodding you shifted around your weaponry before finding some amount of comfort. While keeping your eyes trained on the outside you could feel the small child staring at you intently.
“Better hold on tight.” The bounty hunter said cooly, preparing the ship. “It’s a long way to Tatooine..”
___________________________________________
When the boyish prince of Naboo offered him a fiercely loyal and baneful warrior, one that could aid him in his assistance to Boba Fett, he had expected someone of a greater constitution, someone that exuded grit and daring. Not a royal retainer with the countenance of an angel. You were too pretty, too gentle-like to even exist in the outer-rim territories. Any number of scoundrels and lechers would certainly consider taking you for themselves.
Din was not overly fond of polite small-talk and superficial platitudes, but when you offered nothing aside from your name, he felt miffed. From your corresponding silence and disinterested attitude, he surmised there were a number of things you would have rather been doing besides fulfilling a promise not your own.
Your indifference worried him greatly.
That was until you graced the chaotic battlefield on the streets of Tatooine, wielding your hidden array of weapons with the agility and decorum of a lithe dancer. You hardly broke a sweat, weaving in between enemies before besting them with that deadly marriage of a bisento and bowcaster. Din Djarin found himself quite distracted by your captivating display, needing to calm his nerves lest he allow the enemy a precious advantage.
The adrenaline of battle seemed to liven your spirits, and at the length of Boba Fett’s feasting table he found himself woefully engrossed with your presence. There you sat, no longer so dutifully rigid in your chair, flashing an illuminating smile while sipping a generous cup of Boba Fett’s finest wine.
Din loathed how you fraternized with Fett’s soldiers, speaking to them with ease and cordiality. Those pleasures should have been reserved for him alone. After all, your prince did grant Din Djarin alone your steadfast loyalty. He continued to stare as the wine started to take hold of your faculties, making your movements more languid and gradual.
You really were such a provocative little creature.
As you started to lean into Fennec who was at your side, Din could feel all the blood in his body rush to his head.
Abruptly rising from his own seat he stormed over, seizing you by the arm, and dragging you away from the festivities. Once those joyous voices became distant, he gave you no room to run, pressing you up against a corridor wall, keeping you still with the pressure of his weight.
“You are making a fool out of yourself.”
His sudden aggression seemed to sober you up. Any joy that had been present, left your body entirely as you pushed back against the Mandalorian, your strength giving you room to breathe.
“My actions…are my own Din…Djarin.” You managed to say, feeling your body start to sway to the side. “Besides… Didn’t you tell me to loosen up?”
The rational part of Din knew something within him was distorted; it would have pleased him to no end to see you, in all your beauty, in all your stately power, as undignified and subservient. In truth, your indulgence in drink had made you adorably harebrained with your slurred speech and flushed smile; a stark contrast to your usual maintained self. But such a sight should have been reserved for Din’s eyes only, and not the garish company of hired muscle.
Tossing him an unintentionally playful glance you moved to push past him. “Now… if you’ll excuse me, another bottle of blossom wine calls.”
That beguiling smile, your bewitching movements, the way your intricately embossed armor accentuated your most admirable features….
You were seducing him.
You were feigning annoyance at the very start just to spur him on!
Oh, you would not get away with being such a conniving little cheat!
That prince had offered you to Din, and as was the case with most underground dealings, specifications were often neglected. Surely, that spoiled brat wouldn’t miss his retainer when he could reasonably replace you at a moment’s notice.
Though any replacement would, without a doubt, find it impossible to try and match your reputation in both allure and finesse.
Trailing behind, the Mandalorian allowed you to return to the feasting hall, he allowed you to take part in yet another bottle of sweet blossom wine. And as you took greater leave of your valuable senses, Din Djarin lured you from the rest of the drunken pack, drawing you further and further away until he could swiftly disarm you without interruption.
You did little to stop him aside from trying to shove him off, but the quick succession of drinks had rendered you quite feeble.
“Don’t be so defiant,” Din growled, pulling you against him, “it would serve you well to remember you were given to me…”
Satisfied with your uncertain and intoxicated state, he removed your bowcaster completely, gathering your trembling form in his arms, and feeling a sinful amount of pleasure in finally having you entirely to himself.
Hi guys sorry for the wait I got a new job and have been filling out tonnes of forms. And Omg queen Liz died RIP. But chapter five is finally here and please be kind cause this is my first hardcore smut scene.I hope you guys enjoy it.
Xoxox
Pedroswhore
TW : Rated mature, oral f receiving, dirty talk, cum eating, pussydrunk, mando!, rough, smut, smidgen of male masturbation, breast play, nipple play.
Chapter 5
The cardigan
She wanted to kill him, wring his bastard neck. He had marked her jaw, her neck, her collarbone with violent kisses. Violet and pink bruises caressing her skin, she ground her teeth. She should have known what he was doing; it was the human equivalent of pissing on her to mark his territory.
Maybe if her body had allowed her some critical thinking rather than submitting to his touch, letting him break skin. She wouldn’t be so decorated.
She muttered furiously, rummaging for something to cover his marks up. She did not own any cosmetics with enough coverage to hide what he had done. She tied her scarf around her neck. It was too thin, covering nothing else.
She threw a cardigan on, pulling her hair down, the marks still visible on her jaw on the areas of her skin that clothes did not cover. She was going to slit his throat, goddess damn his ego, his pride.
She ran her hands down her face in exasperation at how easy it was for him to make her willing to lose all inhibition. And yet she let him guide her hand to his cock, relished in the way his voice changed. The heavy guttural sounds he let out, so unlike him to be uncoordinated to become undone.
She washed her face again to calm the flush in her cheeks before heading downstairs. The men were silent on either end of the room. Silas seated the mandalorian upright, a column of stone, both watching their children play.
She let her hair fall in front of her face, relieved that she had given herself a manic haircut a few months ago.
Silas stood up when she came into view. She greeted him, giving him a hug irrespective of the hunters' watching gaze, the tilt of the helmet, the rigidity of his stature.
She could not bring herself to care. He had done enough. Silas had been her friend for a while. She would not be made to feel guilty.
"Have you eaten anything, Silas? Have the boys?" she asked, walking over to them. They squealed in delight, tackling her with their hugs.
"Boys, be careful." Silas scolded them
"Sorry, they just missed you Lilly," he said, giving them a stern look.
Lillia laughed, taking them in her arms, kissing their foreheads, promising them that she'd answer their questions.
Grogu sat pouting his eyes, ears drooping. He let out an angry shriek before lifting his hand. and narrowing his eyes.
"Kid!" the mandalorian warned.
The kid put his hand down and cried fat tears wailing as he toddled over. Situating himself between the twins. Making his jealousy known, another trait he picked up from his father.
"Silas breakfast?" She asked again.
"The boys have," he said.
She nodded, pulling the boys off her and sticking Grogu on her hip. Not making eye contact with the mechanic in case he saw the marks.
"Mando, Silas " sit down. I’ll cook you guys up something," she said. Silas moved to the table. The mandalorian stood rigid as if he was on guard.
She rolled her eyes, wiping Grogu’s tears, cuddling him, reassuring him in quiet whispers that she loved him the most. He settled. Still pouting when she set him down to play with the boys again.
She had bread from the day before and just dipped the still fluffy slices into a sweet cinnamon egg mixture.
Making a plate for Silas along with a cup of caf. Before sitting Grogu down in an old high chair and giving him bread as well.
It had just dawned on her that the mandalorian would not remove his helmet. So she gave him his plate in his hands, he did not move. He just placed it beside him.
She ignored him, returning to her guests.They made light conversation while the mandalorian stood motionless in a corner. When she cleared the plates, she left Silas with the boys to go and knock some sense into the brooding hunter.
She tugged his hand, hard, pulling him out of sight. Into the hall, "it’s in my interest for the old pile of shit to remain like this for it to rot. I don’t know why I’m helping you, but he’s a good man and he’s an even better mechanic. If you want to be a child and parade around your petulance, go ahead by all means. It will just mean I get to be home longer. "
She told him only to be met with silence. All he did was pull the scarf from her neck, his helmet, following the kisses he gave her. Orange-tipped fingers grazing her jaw.
He pocketed her scarf and she exhaled, reigning in her temper. She knew how to get back at him. She knew revenge would be sweet. In this game, they were playing
He left and she followed him, wrapping her cardigan around her tight.
"Come" he ordered the mechanic whose features hardened in annoyance.
The men left in silence not a word was shared between them. Silas would have not agreed to this job if he did not have two children to feed. His eyes stilled on the column of her neck before averting his gaze. Embarrassment flooded her the warrior was victorious, when the mechanic did not meet her eyes. Shame tinged her face at what she had let the mandalorian do, stake his claim, in such a primitive way.
Grogu spent the whole day playing with the boys once he realised they would not steal her away. She did some reading on Mandalorian culture, it was always better to be well read on your enemies maybe she could find a loophole that spared her.
She gave them dinner her eyes on the door the whole time praying the men returned in one piece. Mostly Silas, she bit her lip in anxiety watching the door on her third cup of caf.
The three boys are huddled on the sofa watching a cartoon holovid sleepy but stubborn. And she’s in her armchair feet tucked under her reading a classic from a world lost to her.
They arrive and their silence is unmatched but the mandalorian seems less tense. His back is not as rigid and his hands aren’t stationed on his blasters.
The boys are asleep, Lillia has already packed him dinner knowing he won’t stay, breakfast was awkward enough. He thanks her picking one of his boys up and putting him on his shoulder.
He goes to pick up the twin, the mandalorian stops him "I’ve got him" effortlessly picking up the sleeping boy who snuggled up on his shoulder.
The mechanic nods in gratitude. She passes Silas the bag of food and kisses his son's cheeks before giving him a light hug.
"You’re welcome to leave them here anytime, Sy, until the ship gets fixed."
"Thank you Lilly," he whispers, smiling before leaving. She stands at the door waving him off. Grogu is asleep on her shoulder.
She cuddles him, kissing his nose and cheeks as she changes him into fresh clothes. It will be painful for him when she’s given away, and perhaps it is wrong to shower him with tenderness to spoil him with affection, but she cannot help herself. She cradles him to her chest, falling asleep on the armchair.
She feels the baby being tugged from her arms and she startles awake, holding him tighter. Before her eyes crack open and the mandalorian comes into focus.
"It’s just me," he whispers before gently taking his kid from her, leaving her arms empty. She’s so tired but she feels his loss. He takes the kid upstairs to put him down in his cradle.
She falls back asleep.
The mandalorian wakes her up again, picking her up to his chest, taking her up to her room.
"Did you eat?" She mumbles, her eyes still heavy but unable to close her eyes as the mandalorian sets her down on the bed. pulling off her cardigan, taking out her clip.
"Yes", he pulls off his gloves and his boots. He’s methodical in the way he removes his armour. First his chest plate, then his pauldrons, but he leaves his vambraces on danger, she assumes is always imminent.
"How did it go, mando?" she asks, too tired to argue with him about how he ruined her skin.
"He’s a good man," the mandalorian states, and she relaxes. He ends the conversation, and she doesn’t persist. She watches him, her body begging her to sleep, but she’s taken back by how large the mandalorian is, even without his armour. it never ceases to amaze her.
His bulk, his chest strong, his stomach slightly softer. His clothes are worn but she can see the hollow of his throat. She muses to herself how strange it is that he is just a man without his artillery in the quiet darkness of her room.
“I can sleep with the scarf over my eyes mandalorian if you want to remove your helmet.”
She says if she had been more awake the words would have never left her mouth. But she knows that it weighs heavy on her captor to sleep in such a way. She doesn’t know why she offers him comfort, she can’t help herself her mother told her to be kind told her to be kind above else.
It was being kind got her mother killed. She’s still her mother's daughter. She doesn’t take back her offer.
He stills his helmet fixated on her. He seems taken back by the way his body tenses.
"Why would you do that?" He asks. She shrugs, pulling the covers over her legs, yawning before she answers.
"Seems uncomfortable," she murmurs.
She’s a little more awake and a little surprised by his questions. He doesn’t ask them a lot.
She can hear him thinking. He comes forward and folds the scarf, tying it behind her head. "Is it too tight?"
"No"
She hears the hiss of his helmet being removed and the hunters' heavy footsteps as he climbs into the bed. The bed dips with his added weight; she feels his warmth, despite being at his mercy.
"You should not be this forgiving. The galaxy is not kind."
She sighs, blinking under the blindfold, "who says I’ve forgiven you?" She sinks into the bed on the edge, keeping her distance despite how much she craves his warmth. To listen to the dark gravel of his voice, masculine and self-assured.
He makes a sound of amusement "I mean soft-don’t be so pleasing."
"It's the pleasing people who make the galaxy kind," she says.
And goddess, she wants to kiss him and feel his words melt into her lips, but she’s grateful for the distance. It makes her think better and rationalise rather than lose all coherency when the warrior touches her .
"I know how cruel the galaxy can be, but to know it only by its cruelty doesn’t do it justice." She doesn’t know how she got this wise, but being hunted forced her to grow up and lose her girlhood to starvation and dirty streets.
"You do it justice," he mutters, grabbing her waist, pulling her to him, encompassing her with his warmth, her back against his chest, her legs entangled with his, the vambraces uncomfortable, but she does not care. He buries his head in the crook of her neck and inhales, pulling her closer. His arm around her stomach, the other grabbing her breast.
"Mando," she warns sleepily.
"Let me hold you," he grumbles into her shoulder, and she lets him because the bed is always too cold and she feels safer than she should in the goddess-dammed arms of her captor.
And even when he claims his bounty, she will have this memory. She will have the mandalorian’s warm hands cupping her breast, his arm around her holding her tight.
…
He’s holding her so tight, his cheek flush against her breast, her legs spread wide to let him in. Her hair splayed out, one of her hands on his back, the other on Grogu’s cradle.
He wakes up feeling well rested; his muscles aren’t sore His back does not ache the sun warms his skin and he can smell the faint scent of lilies. Hears her light snores, maker he hasn’t slept this well in years.
His cheek’s cushioned by her breast, her skin smooth. He nuzzles against her, soaking up the morning rays as they dance on her skin. He’s not a pious man, but she makes him feel like a saint the way she lets him break into her skin when he is undeserving.
He reaches out and cups her breast, wetting his dry lips, testing its weight perfectly in the palm of his hand. Her nipple pebbles when he swipes his thumb over it. He could just about see the rosy tip through her sheer night gown. He peers closer, tracing the silvery stretch marks, wanting to lose himself in the suppleness of her skin.
But she spelt so peacefully that he did not want to rouse her awake. He stayed that way for a while, gently caressing her breast in exploration. She arched into him in her sleep when he kissed the swell of her breast.
Her rosebud mouth parting lips slightly chapped as she lets out a sigh. He doesn’t want to move, but he has to let Karga know why he will be late. even when the soft refuge of her body lulls him back to sleep.
He’s just about to let his head fall back against her when Grogu cries out, looking for his mother. That’s what he considers her. He’s never seen his kid take to someone so well. To be happy with someone other than him, to be so protective and jealous of her affection, he’d use the force to clear his way.
She shifts as she tries to sit upright to reach for him. Her voice is heavy with sleep. "Mando, can I take it off?" she mumbles. He grabs her wrists.
"Not yet."
She lays back, sighing
"You’re heavy," she comments, trying to sit up right.
He wants to kiss her and taste her lips, but he doesn't because he knows he won’t be gentle. As gentle as he wants to be, he only grunts in response, forcing himself to get off her.
He puts on the helmet, taking off his vambraces, his shirt, crawling on to the bed over her. She’s still half asleep yet her legs part for him and fuck he’s trying. He’s trying so hard but she’s relentless. He can smell her want.
His pendent hangs over her, the same pendent Grogu wears. He’s seen her admiring it, but she doesn’t inquire about its sentiment.
Her eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light. Swollen and hooded, he notices the freckle on the side of her nose, a symbol foreign to him, in line with her tragus. It’s so small, he’s never seen it before, never this close. He doesn’t ask her, she clings to her secrets.
Yet she traces the mudhorn signet of his pendent, brining it close for inspection. Before she lets it fall back,
"How do you suntan when your skin never sees the sun?" she asks, eyes fixed on his helmet as if she’s trying too hard to not lower her gaze.
His sits upright between her legs, knees on the bed, daring her, but her gaze darts nervously from his helmet to the ceiling. He bites back a laugh at the innocence of her question.
"I was born with this skin." He physically sees the way her cheeks redden in embarrassment.
“Oh,”
He can’t help himself
He laughs.
The room erupts in laughter. He’s holding on to his stomach, his shoulders shaking. He can feel his eyes watering. He hasn’t laughed like this has been so long that his stomach hurts from the pressure of it.
"Shut up." She shoves him back, but there’s a slight smile playing on her lips.
He recovers as she gets off the bed, throwing her hair up, tightening her robe. Grogu is up face set in that familiar scrunch right before he cries. She rolls her eyes at him before picking up Grogu when he outstretches his arm.
"Maybe we should get your dad checked out, sweet pea. Maybe his brain is becoming Beskar," she mutters to him.
He loves it when she refers to him as "dad." It makes him feel worthy of his kid. Reassuring his decision, reaffirming that he is in fact competent enough as a man to look after his kid.
"Okay Grogu, open wide, gonna get your chompers clean," she says from the fresher, the water is running, and his son babbles at his bounty .
It hits Din all of a sudden that if she refuses to join him, Grogu will be left with him alone in the ship. All the warmth, the affection, the love she gives dissipates when she leaves when his kid will be waiting for him to come back home. Hidden away in the dark corner of his ship.
He tells himself he will learn to interact with the kid like her, because it comes so naturally to her. There is never an unexpected silence with her; she just knows what to say when to hold him, what to feed him to put him straight to sleep, how to stop his tantrums before they even start. He can’t make up for her absence when it comes.
He takes Grogu from her when she tells him to.
She needs to freshen up. She kisses he nose and he coos up at her, almost dejected at the moment of separation. The mandalorian’s chest tightens.
"Kid," he starts Grogu looks at him with wide shining eyes and wears a toothy grin, but the mandalorian is weak. He is weak for that grin for any ounce of happiness his son experiences, so he stays quiet. Doesn’t tell him that she too will leave soon. But he’ll always have him and he’ll always be his dad.
"Nothing," he says
"Just be good and don’t pull her hair to get her attention," he tells him Grogu babbles solemnly, listening to his father.
She takes him back, placing him in her sling so she can carry him.
"Breakfast will be ready in 15," she calls from the stairs, leaving him to shower. He doesn’t reply.
They settle into a routine, and he enjoys the mechanic's company. He learns of his wife's death killed by an imp off world; she was a diplomat who preferred the quiet life. He learns she named their sons after his father and grandfather and that her favourite colour was grey.
He doesn’t blame the mechanic for wanting Lillia; she would make a good wife, her heart soft and good with his boys. But he was too selfish to encourage him to pursue her.
The men shared their hatred of the imps. Conversation flowed over bounties over the mechanics of the ship. The mechanic was a good man, a better man than him. Kinder, softer, more talkative, and bright enough for a woman like her.
But that woman was his, only his.
The ship was coming along in the past week. They had been stranded. Grogu and Lillia were inseparable. She always had dinner on the table when he came back, already packed for the mechanic. He admired her for accepting her fate while still making sure his stomach was full of a new dish every day.
Grogu’s cheeks were fuller, his belly rounder, and he found himself smiling more often. He found laughter lines under the helmet one day and was shocked. He never inspected his face, but the sudden shine of his eyes had caught him off guard and made him familiar with his features once more. His hair was beginning to curl and there were those damned laughter lines next to his eyes.
He’d try to make his appreciation known by bringing things from the market when she asked. Taking her there by himself, cut the firewood, and fix the things that she needed fixed. He fixed the door, and she baked him a pie. Bought him ripe meiloorun.
And at night, she let him hold her, starting off at the edge of her side. But the chill of the night made her seek out his warmth caused her to sink into his side and into his chest
She wore a blindfold each night, he would quietly relieve that ache in the fresher when her skin got too much, the curve of her breast imprinted in his memory.
He did to not touch her when she was so uncertain but at times he would forget squeezing her arm. Moving her hair back from her face. Tracing her tattoo when she was half asleep in the morning. Kissing the back of her hand when he awoke one morning with it thrown across his face.
Carrying her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa. She was right, she was his penance.
…
She was mid-feeding Grogu when her mind wandered over to the hunter looming over her, his pendent hanging above her. His sun-blessed skin, the expanse of his chest, the dusting of dark hair that trailed from his stomach to his cock. It made her mouth water the way he rose between her knees like a God exuding power.
He wore scars new and old. The one she had stitched up neat on his shoulder still blush against the gold hewn of his skin.
They danced around each other during the day, sharing an unspoken comfort at night. He woke up aching most mornings, hard against her back, her stomach. She was always awake when he touched her, explored her with a hunter's genteel, she let him, let him cup her breasts, let him kiss her ribs and lay his head on her stomach.
He never ventured below, never kissed her lips, even though she arched her offering, goading him into her skin, into her being. Why would he she didn’t ask him. Didn’t tell him that she waited all day for the mornings he gave her.
Grogu’s sharp cry snapped her out of a daze. "Sorry baby," she mumbled before continuing to feed him. Crossing her legs, trying not to think of the insufferable hunter and his insatiable hands.
She hears that the mandalorian let himself in. There’s grime on his armour. He sits across them, taking a piece of it and efficiently cleaning it.
She wipes Grogu's face after giving him his meal and places him in the hunter's lap.
"He’s fed, so it should be nap time soon," she says to him. He nods, "and lunch is on the table." She adds, wrapping her winter scarf around her.
"Where are you going?" He asks fixing his helmet on her.
"To the garden," she says, not meeting his gaze.
She’s been wanting to go on a walk to clear her head, hoping the fresh air will knock some sense into her. She doesn’t tell him because he will insist she needs company, needs protection.
So she lies and goes off walking through the forest. There’s still light out enough for the journey back. He had given her a comm when she kept forgetting things on the list for the market. She keeps it on her just in case.
She knows the woods like the back of her hand, has foraged for berries and mushrooms, knows the great green stretch has a few favourite trees she reads against in the height of summer. In the shade of the great chestnuts and redwoods.
But she feels uneasy, like she’s being watched by a looming presence hidden in the trees. She brushes it off, enjoying the wind the way her cheeks are ruddy with the cold. The sound of the leaves under her boots is comforting.
The hunter misses his mark and she runs blindly true to her intuition. She weaves in between the trees, like a doe running from the poacher's arrow.
Her heart races and her blood chills, panic setting in. She has her knives, but she can’t even see him. She just runs and runs. She hears another blaster shot go off. He misses again by the skin of his teeth.
There is nowhere to hide and her only defence, the power that coursed through her, is long dead. So she stills and she readies her knives, pulling them from her boot. She remembers the comm, her hands shaking as she switches it on.
"Mando", her voice comes out as a whisper she’s not sure he’s heard her, but she clings to the hope.
"You are a difficult woman to find," he says, dressed in those colours, in the colours that lay waste to her home world. He circles her wearing leather. The mark of his master engraved on his chest. His voice is the same sinister. He’s older hair greyer then she remembered, but the blood of her father is not enough.
She stands tall, but she’s terrified and has been afraid for a long time. She had lost her strength and thus the fire in her blood. She swallows, her hands clenched around the hilt of her blades; she needs him closer. His blaster tucked away the shots for theatrics. She had watched him kill. He considered it an art form and she had pissed herself in fear. She was only fourteen; only fourteen and her father's corpse was maimed and unrecognisable at her feet.
He’s still circling her before he pulls her scarf off her in a rough tug. She feels the fabric scratch against her neck. "I’m disappointed," she says.
"You conquered with such arrogance, but it’s taken you six years to find me."
"I'm surprised that your master does not recognise your impotence." She’s sweet with her words.
He watches the shift in the hunters' eyes, the air changes, and the smirk on his lips is replaced with a scowl.
He was unhinged. It did not take much to anger him to make him irrational.
He’s closer now, eyes drifting to the swell of her breasts the way her hip has rounded. Her cheeks have lost the softness of her adolescence.
I must admit little girl, you’ve done well, but now there is no one and I’ll get to have that ripe cunt. The cunt your papa made you keep safe. Tell me, has someone touched you there? Have they debauched you or are you still as pure as your uncle promised?”
He sneers and she sees red. She sees her fury her sweetness wanes and she knows he’s doing the same. He’s goading her. Demeaning her to her innocence, to the little girl who trusted her uncle to keep her safe.
From one man to another, his betrayal cuts deep . "Does your cock even work? I was told by the whores that it’s a tiny wrinkled shrivelled thing-try your best I won’t even feel a thing," she spits.
His eyes turn obsidian and spit gathers on his lip. He’s vicious when he lunges. Hands around her throat.
She smiles, "They said they couldn’t tell when it was inside that it was too small to even sire." She croaks out, her vision blurring, but adrenaline runs rampant in her veins. And the knife is heavy in her hands.
She does not know where the courage comes from, but she feels sick as she lodges it in his hip, hears the bone crunch, and he roars in pain, pressing her throat so tight she swallows her breaths. Before he lets her go, she falls, coughing desperately, regaining the breath in her body. As he falls to the floor, his hands around the hilt of his knife he curses her name.
He shoots his blaster and she closes her eyes, her legs shaking. She tries scrambling but falls to her face. Her legs give out. She waits for the blaster to hit her.
But it doesn’t. The mandalorian stands in front of her, the shots ricocheting off him. The warrior stands tall, not wasting a minute walking through the firing. He pulls out the knife with ease and grabs the hunter, baring his neck to her helmet trained on her face , before he slits his throat in one clean swipe. He doesn’t hesitate. He’s efficient in his rage. The cut leaves a gaping wound. Blood sprays out, staining the soil, staining his armour. She looks at her body. Her cardigan is bloodied, her hands are stained. She looks up at him and she’s afraid. He’s shadowing over the corpse of death incarnate.
He turns to her and she scurries back, fear caught in her throat. She forgets that those same hands caress her cheek at dawn.
She can feel his fury. He doesn’t take her hand. He throws her over his shoulder, holds her legs to him and jets off. She hears the wind roar. The skies are so grey and her shoulders are cold and hard.
He was seething when he set her down, dragging her inside the house. He locks the door and draws the curtains. She sits on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.
He sits on the table in front of her, blood still coating his armour. He smells like iron, like decay. He’s still holding her knife. He’s towering over her, foreboding and daunting.
He’s holding the knife like it’s his own. She wants to grab it back. The shift in his demeanour is terrifying, far from the man she shares her bed with
The warrior sits in front of her, a reckoning.
"I don’t like liars." He sounds ominous . The blade catching the light does not help.
"I didn’t lie." She says she’s already exhausted he's sitting in her home, audaciously interrogating her.
"Don't fuck with me girl," he growls down at her, her blood rushing, her ears ringing. He says grabbing her jaw.
She pulls out her other knife and swipes his leg close enough to get to the crevice between his armour, but not far enough into skin to leave a gash.
He’s deathly still. The grip on her jaw tightens. He yanks the knife out of her hand and sets it aside, not reacting to her blade .
She realises what she’s done; she’s too furious to ask for forgiveness she’d rather have died at the hands of the hunter then be treated like this. Like she’s too fragile too watch herself, too incompetent to keep herself alive.
“His aim was off he was going to miss” she snarled back in her defence.
But he doesn't listen; it's not a quality he possesses. "I told you this place was crawling with hunters. I can't protect you little girl. Your insolence could have gotten you killed." His voice becomes louder as his rage takes over.
"Don’t call me that," she growls, trying to get up and shake away the hold he has on her, but he shoves her back down.
“ You’re hurting me, not protecting me. I don’t need you, Mandalorian. I’ve protected myself for six years and he found me because of you. You refused to leave because you just couldn’t let me go!”
She screams up at him. He releases her jaw. She gets up, shoving at his armour, her fists slamming against his chest. Her throat hurts. Her voice is strained, but rage does not only belong to him. She is tired of it, tired of the chase.
She runs from him, from others, from a scorned king. "Because you wouldn’t let me go because you said I was yours." Her voice breaks, but her fists do not relent.
He grabs her wrists, stopping their attack. Her knuckles have started to crack.
"What was your crime?" he asks her again, his voice thunderous.
"He told me to kill him. I couldn’t!" She yells at him, her throat burning, her heart sinking, and she’s ashamed of the tears that run down her face. Her eyes sting. She wants to claw at his helm to see whether he wears pity or disdain.
"Whose Lillia, whose?" She refuses to answer. She struggles in his arms, shaking her head, eyes rimmed in red.
"Let me fucking go, I want to sleep!" she shouts. Her tears are violent.
"Swear you will not lie again, swear it," he says to her, and she knows his fury has not waned. But she meets fire with fire and does not swear another word, her lips sealed stubbornly.
There’s a knock on the door, and he pushes her behind him, telling her to stay here. She listened, too exhausted to fight him.
She paces, moving her hair away from her face, using her cardigan sleeve to wipe her face. The fabric stings. She stops to look at it and it’s red painted red.
The mandalorian walks in his stride forced, his shoulders feigning their ease as if the tension had disappeared.
Grogu sleepily calls to her, and she takes him from his father. They fall into their roles, letting the silence lull him back to sleep before they go for each other’s throats. She cuddles him into her chest, his weight too much to bear today, but she holds him to her shoulder, rocking him.
The mandalorian watches a statue of Beskar until the kid falls asleep. He follows her up to the room, refusing to give her space, and watches as she puts him in his cradle, kissing his forehead.
"Don’t look at me," she growls between her teeth as she moves past him. He takes her bicep, pulling her to the fresher. He takes both her hands in one and pushes them under running water.
“You will not leave me again” he growls, drying her hands, "or I swear by my creed I will keep you cold in the carbonite," he warns, no leniency in his tone.
She knows he means it this time, but how dare he after all her kindness. Just because she wanted to go on a walk and wanted a little freedom before the inevitable, how dare he deny her that? Threaten her with it.
He’s still holding her hands tight, "Do you understand?"
"Yes," she snarls, ripping herself from him and going to her bedroom. She pulls off her clothes, dirty and bloodied. She’s too exhausted to shower and pulls on her night gown, undoing her braid. Getting into her bed and pulling the covers up to her chin
The mandalorian comes in and she sits up
"No!" she spits.
"I don’t want you next to me."
He steps forward and she throws the mug on her nightstand at him. It hits his chest and breaks into pieces.
She sees the way he clenches and unclenches his hand before he turns to leave.
She’s too furious to cry to feel sorry for him. She feels sorry for herself, pitying the life she’s lived.
She can’t sleep. The bed is cold and empty and every little sound makes her jump. She kicks off the covers in frustration. She swallows her pride as the moon hangs low and she catches her face in the mirror.
There are bags under her eyes She looks sickly. There are ugly bruises on her neck, yellow and purple.
She picks Grogu up to her chest, careful not to wake him.
The mandalorian is sprawled on her sofa. He’s learned that it converts to a bed and has pulled it out. He’s still too large for it, his feet hanging off. His hand rests on his chest and she can’t tell if he’s sleeping or if he’s watching her humiliate herself.
She stands over him, still unsure and ashamed of herself for seeking solace from a man who wants nothing more than what her body can give him.
She turns away, deciding against it, deciding against the way he looks so comfortable and safe.
But his hand shoots out and he pulls her on top of him. She gasps, cushioning Grogu before she places him in the crook of his father's arm.
They don’t say a word as she sinks deeper into his chest, her cheek flat against his hard chest, his arm coming around her waist. Their legs are entangled; one of her hands lay against him, the other holding on to Grogu’s hand.
She finally feels safe, comforted by the sound of his breathing. She doesn’t have to worry about protecting herself from anyone but him.
Lillia has not slept this well for a long time. In the arms of the mandalorian, she feels at peace. But the silence between them lingers, and if reckoned with, she fears that this time she’d cut his neck.
He infuriates her, in the distance that he keeps. She wants comfort, not his rage, not the way he holds her at night. Lillia needed words, a soft hand, a word of reassurance rather than being scolded like a child.
She walks past him in the fresher. He’s sitting on the floor with his pant leg rolled up. She looks at him guilty as he grunts, uncovering the haphazard way he’s bandaged himself. He removes it and she gasps her hand to her mouth. She’s cut him deeper than she thought. His wound was ragged and ugly, the area around it swollen with crusted blood, the wound itself open. It needed to be sewn together.
"Get out," he commands as she lingers at the threshold. She flinches at his tone, the way his voice strains through the modulator.
She walks in her hands clammy, wondering if he'll shrug her off or give her a cut to match. She gets to her knees and tries to move his hands away. He swats her hands away.
"I said get out, girl." He near groans. She bites the inside of her cheek. She slept on him all night and he did not say a word. Let her put her weight on him. She did not hear a word of protest.
"Pleas-"
"No," he cuts her off, roughly cutting a new bandage.
"Let me," she persists, getting a wash cloth to try and clean the blood that has dried on his leg. She’s kneeling beside him. He snatches it off her.
"I told you to leave," he snarls.
Her eyes gloss over.
Don't be stubborn, mandalorian. "You need to clean it and sew it back.
"I don’t need your advice, girl. Go and watch the kid."
"He’s asleep."
"Get the fuck out. I don’t need you to play the healer."
She can be just as stubborn.
She ignores him and tries again with the washcloth. He jerks his leg back, groaning in pain at the movement .
She sits back on her knees, hands folded, watching him wrap the bandage around his open wound.
She sighs in frustration, unable to hold her back. She leans over him.
“I’ll let you know when you heal.”
His hands still
"Let me do what?" His voice drops an octave, darker, deeper.
Her skin warms and she can feel the familiar way her stomach drops with him. She clears her throat. She can feel his gaze burn into her, holding her to what she’s about to promise.
"I-I will let you touch me," she stutters, not looking him in the eye.
He holds the wrist that’s reaching for his leg, with the other hand holding her chin, tilting her head upwards.
"W-where?" he asks, through the pain, she doesn’t need to see his face to know the hunger he wears. His grip on her skin is enough.
He’s a man starved.
"Anywhere," she exhales. freeing her wrist.
"When you heal, if you let me heal you properly," she adds quickly, his helmet fixed on her.
He’s too observant, too perceptive, always watching her to make her hands tremble.
"Swear it"
She narrows her eyes.
"Girl"
As he leans back against the tiled wall, he tells her his chest puffed out.
She touches his leg and he threatens to move it away.
"I swear it," she mutters.
She cleans his wound, sterilises the cut, as she works, listening to his laboured breathing.
His helmet tilts back and he bares his throat. She sees him swallow as she stitches him up again.
The stitches are neat his skin is still irritated around the area, so she goes to the cabinet to find a jar of salve she made a while ago.
She smears it on his wound on the surrounding area. He sucks in a breath. She sits back, her body still aching. The bruises on her neck are more vibrant today. The bruise the warrior gave her on her arm is a little more blue.
But she’s forgiven him.
"Thank you," she says, quietly picking at her nails.
"Who was he?" the mandalorian asks.
"Someone like you," she says absentmindedly.
"Where would you run, Lillia, if I let you if I did not look for you?"
She rests her head on her knees.
"Further into the galaxy, I’d make do as I always have."
"What if others like him turn up?"
"They had stopped looking Madalorian up until you."
"It’s survival," he states, matter of fact, his helm following her.
"Am I still your bounty?" She doesn’t know why she’s asked the question, but she expects the same answer.
The mandalorian does not answer. She gets up, smoothing her dress, her knees red from pressing against the floor. She picks up the instruments she used.
"Even if I were to free you, you would always be my bounty," he says, and she leans against the door of the mandalorian in front of her as she tries to understand what he means, but he’s not a man of many words and she’s running out of patience.
She sighs and the day stretches on. She lets him sleep in her bed, keeping her distance to not hurt his leg. And then she remembers what she promised him when it healed, and her stomach turns in both anticipation and nervousness. And she considers digging her heel into his wound.
When she wakes, her eyes meet the sunlight. She squeezes them shut.
"helmet?" She asks, her hands covering her eyes.
"I took your blindfold off when I put the helmet on."
"Sweetling"
Her eyes widen and she shoots up. He’s sitting up lax, reading. Embarrassment and panic flood her as he turns the page of the most unholy book she owns.
The worn, withered pages add to her embarrassment; she's read that book so many times she knows the chapters by heart.
She pounces on him, trying to snatch the book from his hand, a scowl on her lips.
"Give it back, prick," she growls
She was climbing on to him, trying to rip her book from his hands. He cages her in his arms, effortlessly trapping her arms.
"Spread your legs for me, sweetling," he says, and she can feel the smirk on his face.
She squirms in embarrassment, grunting in frustration. How was he so damn strong, she tried to free herself as he continued reading? How did the prick find it? She tucked it at the bottom of her book case, the fore edge facing outwards rather than the spine to hide the title.
"He enters her in one rough thrust," the mandalorian continues, his voice monotone. as if he were reading a manual.
"Stop stop!" she yells at him, her cheeks burning as she tries to free herself from his grip. He gives her some leeway and she snatches the book out of his hands.
He’s lying back as she holds the book to her chest, flustered.
"Didn’t take you as an avid reader," he comments as she shoves it in her chest of drawers.
"Shut up," she growls, unable to look at him. She lets her hair fall in front of her face to hide the searing red adorning her face.
Grogu let out a sharp attention-seeking cry and she could not be more relieved. To have an escape from the mandalorian’s teasing.
"He’s awake, sweetling," he mocks her.
She picks up the nearest thing to her and throws it at his face.
It happens to be her bra, pink and lacy, with a little heart at its centre. The hunter holds it up on his index finger.
"Fuck off," she spits before he can continue his mockery. She leaves him on her bed. Her cheeks are still hot to the touch.
Grogu grins up at her, and she can’t help but grin back.
"Isn't your daddy a bit of a jerk, sweet pea?"
Grogu nods solemnly, she assumes, in agreement.
…
The mechanic gives him bad news: the crest is a few days away from being fixed and ready to fly and he’s already past his deadline.
Karga has been on his ass and maker he can’t continue with the silence and emptiness. Not after her.
Not after the way she stitches up his wounds and glowers in anger when he calls her sweetling.
It has a nice ring to it, perfect for the girl who narrows her eyes when he curses in front of the kid.
Din debates lying to her, telling her he doesn’t feel the pain in his leg. He wants just a taste before he goes before he frees her. A memory, a memory of a life he could have lived.
He won’t ask her to come with him, won’t fuck her, won’t keep her full of his warriors. He won’t spend the night keeping his cock warm in the soft wet heat of her cunt.
She’ll refuse him.
But she’s allowed him a touch. "I’ll let you touch me." He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way she bit her lip, the way her eyes did not meet his. He wants to kiss her rosy cheeks, to give her the only softness he has.
They tell him everything he needs to know: her innocence, her fury, her warmth.
He thinks he’s going crazy, zoning out as Silas goes over the remaining work that needs to be done.
He was thinking about his sweet girl, his sweetling, and her kriffing cheeks.
Motherhood looks good on her. She’s apologising to Silas, waddling as Grogu clings to her ankle, outraged at her for using her hands rather than holding him. He told her not to spoil him, but she’s stubborn with her affection and rarely listens to him.
"Grogu baby, come on, mando, can you get him?" she asks tiredly as she packs Silas's dinner; he tells her she shouldn't bother, but she persists.
She packs lemon cakes and chocolate tarts for the boys. He didn’t know what chocolate was until the pure heaven of his first bite in the morning. He felt like getting on his knees and asking her to be his riduur, his wife. His armour would not fit him, but at least she’d be his.
He often gets lost in the fantasy, especially when he’s draining his cock in rough quick drags when she’s out counting her kriffing tomatoes.
He makes her wear a comm to her garden, muting himself when she tries to explain that they are not ripe enough.
He’s a dirty bastard for jerking off to her voice. But he is not guilty. He savours her voice, her food. He savours her.
"Come on kid, I know you like her better, but I'm still your buir," Grogu whimpers again, against his chest, as Din wipes away his tears. Grogu looks up at him with big watery eyes and bumps his nose against his helmet.
Warmth floods him, his lips quirk up underneath the helmet.
"Attaboy"
Grogu settles on his father's shoulder, a few whimpers babbling about her. Of her lack of attention.
He rubs his son's back in comfort and watches her plate up his dinner. He takes Grogu upstairs when he feels that the womp rat is close to sleep.
"Make sure you put his pyjamas on," she says, standing against the kitchen door, a fork in her hand, the other sweeping her hair out of her face.
The mandalorian struggles with the mini flight suit that had little planets printed on it. He’s trying to button his son in, but he keeps buttoning it wrong and growls in frustration before taking a step back and trying to figure it out.
"What’s taking you so long?" she says, standing over the bed, rolling her eyes.
She raises an eyebrow, "What is wrong with his robes?" He grunts.
"What’s not wrong with the robes? He keeps stumbling, you can’t see his little face and brown is hardly a childlike colour," she says as she finishes the task in less than thirty seconds.
She boops his nose "Show me how" he says, unbuttoning the kids' pyjamas.
She sighs, talking him through how the bottom half needs to be buttoned diagonally before vertically.
He fumbles a little bit, but gets the hang of it, painfully slow.
He picks Grogu up and places him in the cradle. She moves the soft toys. She got for him out of the cradle kissing his nose and forehead. He’s infatuated with her tenderness, the way she has taken the child as her own, has loved him, with more love given to her.
She never raises her voice, never regards him with anything other than softnesses. When he throws a tantrum, she takes his hands and places them on her cheeks, pressing her forehead against his. Asking him what’s wrong.
"Tell mama what’s wrong." He had heard her whisper to his son, to hell with his morality. He rarely spoke to his maker, but he did that night, asking for worthiness, asking for the crime he committed to be punished in this way.
They eat dinner with her back to him
"Do Mandalorians get married?" she asks.
He swallows slowly.
“Yes”
He can feel his heart racing, but he credits her questions to her curiosity.
"Do the brides wear white armour?" she questions
He nearly chokes on his food.
"No sweetling, they don’t"
He watches as she cringes, her back tensing in annoyance.
"I should start poisoning your food."
"You're not much of an assassin if you tell your target how you intend to kill them."
"Not much of a hunter are you?" she echoes
"Not delivering your bounty"
“ Silas tells me the crest is nearly ready. Shouldn’t you be handcuffing me?"
He stills, her voice is tired. He puts his fork down and puts his helmet on. and twists her chair
"There is no need to handcuff you when I know I’ll find you," he says.
Meeting her gaze, he didn’t realise how exhausted she looked. There are bags under her eyes. Her cheeks are not as flushed as they usually are.
She smiles bitterly.
"Mandalorian weddings are efficient," he begins distracting her. She perks up, shuffling closer.
"They say vows and then they remove their helmets."
"Wait!" She cuts him off
"You’re allowed to show your face to your wife." She’s shocked at the revelation. She assumed he let Grogu see his face because he was a toddler with incredibly limited vocabulary.
"Let me finish sweetling"
She kicks his leg in irritation.
"Only spouses, ridurs, and children are allowed to see a mandalorian’s face," he tells her.
"What are the vows?"
“Mhi solus tome”
He leans closer
" Mhi solus dar'tome."
Their knees meet inches away from each other.
“ Mhi me'dinui an."
His hand travels to her stomach, a gloved hand laying flat against her belly. She sucks in a breath .
"You haven’t healed yet," she tells him, nervous.
"I know," he says, holding her still.
"Mhi ba'juri verde" It seems Din is swearing to himself, swearing an oath to her in his own way, an oath he won’t fulfil.
"What do the vows mean?"
"I’ll tell you one day," he says, almost wistfully feeding her lies, pulling his hand away almost forcibly. A man like him should not be so hopeful.
He sits back, opening his legs, trying to relax, enjoying the serene look on her face rather than her scowl .
"You’d make a good mother, Lillia." She blushes, but there is a small tragic smile playing on her lips. as if she'd long accepted her fate.
"My father," she pauses, sitting up straight and tucking her knees away from his.
"He was a good man," she says, eyes lost in remembrance.
"But he only spoke to me of silk of pearls found at the bottom of the great Calayas sea. He showed Caspian how to set sail whilst I sat at home, only hearing stories of it. He was a good man, but I blame him. Maybe if he had deemed me worthy of a blaster, he would have lived. "I was taught to be a vessal, never a mother; perhaps a brood mare, but never a mother," she says in passing, as she gets up. He’s taken back by how much she’s shared, willingly at what’s she’s lost.
"What do you mean, girl?"
She looks at him. He can feel her gaze through the helmet. It pierces him like an arrow of accusation.
"I’ll tell you one day."
He sits on the table cleaning his blasters, assembling and disassembling them as she goes to her garden. As her words echo as if they were etched on him.
The days with her are nearing their end and he relents letting her apply the bacta patch per her insistence. When his leg throbs at night and she hears him groaning.
She’s concentrated as she applies it in the low lamp light during twilight. She yawns but her hands are precise, forgetting the bargain she’s made, and by the evening his leg is healed and he’s ravenous.
When he enters the room, she’s asleep, exhausted from the day. Looking after three boys keeps her alert on her feet. Since he’s shared her room and slept beside her, he knows how she braids her hair, puts on a night down, lathers her body in lotion, and picks up Grogu even when the womp rat is asleep to get a ‘goodnight kiss’ on the chance she doesn’t wake up tomorrow.
But today she’s in her dress, her cardigan dropping off her shoulder. She’s asleep on his side, her hair splayed out on the pillow. She’s curled up in herself, slippers still on her feet.
The blindfold over her eyes is the only thing she remembers. Even in her maker damned exhaustion, he wants to fall to his knees and make her his fucking wife. Call her by that name. Have his pendent laying between her breasts. This goes beyond possession. He wants to know her soul as his own.
He picks up her ankle, so delicate in his hand, her anklet tinkling at the movement. He pulls her slipper off and sets her foot down before doing the same to the other. He wraps her cardigan around her before picking up her clip from her side of the bed and twisting it in the ways he’s seen her too many times. He's nothing but perceptive. He’s unsure of the way she does it so effortlessly but manages to tame it, keeping her hair out of her face.
Once he’s taken his helmet off, the chest plates, even the thigh plates, he feels naked and on edge at the lack of protection, the lack of anonymity. But when he sinks into the bed and pulls her to his chest, he’s reassured of his competence and knows nothing will touch her whilst he’s here beside her.
He wakes up, his head cushioned by her stomach. She has her hand on his cheek. Keeping him there against her, he’s laying between her legs. He lifts his head up to look at her in the first rays of dawn. The blindfold has not moved. Her hair has fallen out of the clip. Her lips slightly parted in her sleep.
He moves her hair from her face. She stirs a light sleeper because of the children she babysits. She is always half asleep in case she is needed in case a child wakes up.
He places a kiss on her collarbone, and she just sighs, nestling into the bed. Yet when Grogu lets out a little cry, she’s awake, her hands shooting to her blindfold.
"Can I take it off?" Her voice is heavy with sleep.
"Not yet."
"The baby is crying."
"He’s fine. He’ll go back to sleep."
"Mando, he’s probably hungry."
"Let me kiss you," he says, and she freezes, her hands clenching, her body stiffening underneath him. He can see the roses that creep up her cheeks.
"I-I‘ve n-never," she stutters, usually so well spoken it’s invigorating, making the woman renowned for talking lose her words.
"Neither have I," he murmurs, tracing her lip, his nose nearly touching hers. She bites her bottom lip as he nips at the corner of her mouth.
"Say yes"
"But Grogu-"
“Is asleep” he cuts her off again he can tell she wants to say yes in the way she gives herself to him, instinctively, pushing up her breasts up into him. As if she was were meeting his thrust.
She nods and he’s hard, hot and heavy in his pants, his cock rigid against his stomach. He presses his lips into hers he does not need guidance. He’s methodical as he kisses her, guiding her instead. Her inexperience is maddening. As she kitten licks his lip, unsure what to do but eager. He tries to be soft and patient like her, but his blood rages and he groans into her kiss, drunk on the taste of her when she lets his tongue into her mouth.
His hands palm her breasts as his lips ravage her. She tries to keep up as he kisses her, taking all the breath in her body. Her hands hold her on his face, cupping his cheek.
She moans into his mouth when he plays with her breasts, her nails grazing her nipples through cotton.
"Please," the mandalorian begs into her mouth for the first time in his life. He did not beg when he was left orphaned. He did not beg when he starved. But he’s intoxicated by her. She overwhelms him.
He’s never been touched so tenderly, like he’s human, someone worthy of being loved, worthy of gentleness.
She kisses his jaw when he pulls away. Her lips are swollen and she’s breathing heavily.
"Have you healed?" she whispers. He wants to see her eyes. See the lust that makes her eyes shine like Beskar.
"I’ve been healed since the morning, sweetling," he murmurs into her skin.
"Mandalorian," she says, her hands on his chest.
And he thinks his heart breaks. He’s never had his heart broken. He doesn’t understand what it should feel like. Is his heart supposed to sink? Is he supposed to feel this... breathless.
He doesn’t know.
"I won’t fuck you," he swears, and it pains him to swear that oath not because of the release, the high, the nirvana of being inside her.
But because there will come a time when she’ll find a man who can protect her better than him, who can show her his face, who can enjoy the sun, who can share meals with her. Drink her mulberry wine and can kiss her whenever she wants in the morning light, in the last rays of dusk. See the way her eyes glisten when she comes? He’s going to ruin her for them. He’s never been a good man.
Her body relaxes as he looks over her. He nudges her thighs apart with his knee, spreading his legs before slotting himself between them, her thighs cradling his waist.
"You can touch me," she breathes
"When you say stop Lillia, I will," he says before making his descent to her breasts. He roughly tugs down her neckline, baring her breasts to him. He groans at the sight of them.
As if crafted by the maker himself, it’s his dominion for now to do as he pleases, save what he wants most.
He cups her breasts and her thighs tighten around his waist. He palms her breast, squeezing gently, taking his fill. She arches, offering more of a quiet moan, leaving her lips. He wants her to become undone. He wants to leave her restless in his wake.
"Where have you been, sweet girl?" he says, kissing down her sternum, biting at her skin at the swell of her breast. She answers with a whine.
"Mando please"
"What sweetling do you want me to put my mouth on you for?" he grunts, his gaze sweeping over her puckered nipple, all rosy and begging to be kissed.
He savours her flesh and does not leave an inch of her skin without his tongue. And when he gets to her nipple, he’s feral, she writhes when he takes her into his mouth.
He’s eager, forgetting his teeth. She winces but pushes him closer into her skin. He grunts into her, taking her into his mouth. She tastes so fucking sweet. Her fingers tangle in his hair as she moans softly as he suckles her, before he moves to the other side, showering it with the same attention. Teeth and all, when he draws back, she’s beautiful, devastating. His to devour her skin adorned by him; she appears to have been ravaged by a beast.
That’s what he feels like more beast than man. He rues the moment he will leave her skin. How long can a touch last? How long can he lose himself in her essence? She’s so rosy nipples glistening from his ministration, red and hard. Her breast flushed from the weight of his hand.
Touching her is a sacrament and she’s not quiet; neither is he. He loses his discipline, loses his inhibition.
He doesn’t want her to be quiet. He pushes up her dress under her breasts, drawing back on his knees to see her splayed out before him. His eyes follow the trail up to the soft pliant flesh of her stomach, the scar on her hipbone, seeing the damp mark of her panties a shade of soft blue.
It calls to him, ragged and red. He leans down to look at it and realises it’s seared into a symbol. He’ll ask when his blood is cooled. When he does not want to pick out her flesh,
“ Stop looking at me mandalorian, in that way” she whispers up to him voice heavy wiht lust, shy when he moves to pull her dress down.
He gently holds her wrists, kissing them one by one, "meshla" he breathes.
"I’d look at you for as long as there is breath in my body and blood in my cock." He sees her shudder beneath him at the filth that leaves his mouth.
"Kriffing beautiful and yet you shy away"
He holds her waist as he kisses her stomach, licking her skin. "I would fuck you full," he growls as his lips caress her scar. She groans, hands blindly reaching for purchase.
"Keep you full," he growls against her skin. He's picturing her carrying his seed, so fucking full of his child, his ad her breasts bigger, her hips getting wider. Her belly swollen because of him.
He swears to the maker he hears her whine in anticipation of her fingers threading into his hair.
He hooks his fingers and pulls down her panties, sliding them down her legs. She presses her knees together, her body tense. He shoves her panties in his pocket. Before, he spread her knees apart.
"You said anywhere, sweetling." He groans at the sight of her puffy and wet shining for him.
She relaxes her legs, shivering as he holds on to the meat of her thighs, spreading her wider.
He kisses her inner thigh teeth, cutting into her skin before he gets to her core, pretty and wet for him alone. He’s too impatient to tease her, wanting to have her come undone for him to have her on his tongue to relish in her taste. She gasps as he hooks her legs on to his shoulder, his hand coming to rest on her stomach, holding her there. He hovers over her, inhaling her scent, his nose nuzzling against the light patch of hair. She giggles, squirming as his moustache rubs against the inside of her thighs. He smiles at her.Before his tongue crashes against her clit, his face is burried into her cunt. She’s pulling at his hair, bucking against his face. A loud moan leaves her mouth.
He works into her slowly, licking into her, swiping up and down the seam of her cunt teeth ever so lightly grazing her clit. He scoops up the slick that she releases with every agonising swipe of his tongue.
He could eat her for hours. She’s intoxicating. The sweetest elixir dripping from her pink swollen pussy. He picks up his pace eagerly, ravenous, his hunger, knowing no bounds. He sucks her clit and she screams, hips lifting off the bed. He holds her down, hand against her stomach, pushing her on the bed. He’s only just begun. He lifts his head up only for a moment, his lips glistening with her "be quiet girl, you’ll wake the kid up." She only moans in response, writhing underneath him.
He licks her cunt, pressing himself against the bed, his cock painfully hard and heavy against his pants. But he’s too lost in her sweet centre to care about his own relief. A final suck of her clit brings her over the edge. She’s almost pushing him away, her thighs tightening around his face.
"Mando," she screams out, lifting her head off the bed before she clenches around his tongue before she becomes undone for him.
He swallows her cum, groaning against her, holding her down before he looks over, a tear rolling down her cheek, panting, her breath leaving her. She falls back down on the bed, oversensitive her mouth open trying to regain her breath.
But he’s relentless. He gives her no time before he’s burried into her cunt again, drunk on her, drunk on the taste of her feral as she coats his tongue with her slick.
He devours her as he holds her folds apart with his fingers to get further into her. He’s pulling soft moans out of her, his nose rubbing against her clit swollen and engorged as his tongue makes quick work of her. She’s calling out his name as he works himself deeper into her, fucking into her with more strength and more vigour.
He’s going to ruin her.
She’s sobbing out his name by her third release. He learns that she cries when she cums. And by the maker, she’s begging for relief by her third orgasm exhausted but he’s insatiable, ready to dive back in after taking a moment to breathe as she rode out the aftershocks. catching her own breath.
He blows on her sensitive cunt and her hands shoot to his face, pushing him away. She raises her head.
"Mando, please no more, I can't," she pleads, her legs falling off his shoulders as she squeezes her knees together. He can tell she’s too sensitive, too stimulated, but he’s greedy for her.
"One more pretty girl and I'll let you sleep again; one more and I swear I'll let your cunt rest," he says, clutching her legs and keeping his gaze fixed on her dripping cunt. He’s so eager to get another taste of her slick to fill his belly to sate himself.
She falls back on the bed as her legs fall off his shoulders. Her muscles tired, he holds on to her legs and she relents, spreading her knees as her anklets chime.
"Promise," she breathes, but he’s already tongue deep in her pussy nose, slotted against her clit as his moustache rubs against her tender, broken skin.
His rapid movements against the bed, combined with her scent, taste, and slick flooding his tongue, bring him to the edge of his precipice. He’s unyielding in his efforts to make her come to drain her oversensitive cunt. Ignorant to her moans, her panting, the tightening of her thighs, the hands in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Both pushing him away and pulling him closer.
Her hips buck into his face, but his mouth does not leave her, not once. Until he’s exhausted her, she screams when she cums when his tongue pistons in and out of her and his lips suck at her clit expertly. Another tear rolls down her cheeks; her legs shake. And she falls back, limp.
He learns she cries when she comes for him.
Even then, his tongue does not leave the seam of her pussy, lazily licking into her soft exploration for his own pleasure rather than hers. He forces his hand inside his pants, giving his cock a few rough drags before he growls into her folds and cums, spilling hot and thick into his hand and his pants.
She raises herself up on her elbows, one hand going to pull him from her core. "Mandalorian, I can’t take any more." She breathes, her voice hoarse and laden with exhaustion. She’s already half asleep.
"Let me keep my mouth on you, sweetling; you taste so fucking good," he grunts as her fingers find his nose, lips, and chin damp with her.
"I might fall asleep, hunter," she says, falling back onto the bed. He grabs a pillow and places it under her leg, raising it up a little before settling between her legs and face, hovering over her swollen cunt wet with her release and his own saliva.
He runs his finger through her soft folds and blows cold air on to her clit. She shivers.
"I don’t care, let me keep my mouth on you," he says, greedy for her as he nips at her inner thigh.
"Still," she says in disbelief. He can tell she’s taken back by his lust, his gluttony. But he does not care. He lost his mind and his ability to think when he licked her cunt for the first time. He just buries his face in her soft, wet haven. He's lapping at her, savouring what he's been missing out on for so long his chin is soaked with her, pussy drunk, heady on her scent on her maker dammed taste.
She falls asleep as he continues to feast on her, but his mouth on her coaxes her out of sleep when she clenches on his hot tongue. And her legs shake as she moans out his name.
He realises he wants to give her his name
Hear her chant it as a tear falls down her cheek, as she calls out to him before she calls out to her goddess.
The mandalorian wants her to have his name branded on to her tongue.
Hi, guys things are getting a little spicier in this chapter a whole lot of jealous mando and angst. Hope you enjoy it and as always it was fun writing this.
His bounty is insistent and uncharacteristically sweet when she presents him with the idea. To her delight, they’re stranded, and she tells him how the temperatures drop at night. With the shields down, they have no real protection. Grogu will have a real bed that is warm and comfortable, as well as a soothing bowl of bone broth in his belly.
He ignores her at first as she follows him around Grogu on her hip, as always. He wonders how her arms don’t tire she talks endlessly, as he tries to figure out what went wrong with his ship. He ignores her, but he finds himself smiling sometimes under his helmet when she sits perched on the crate as he works, bouncing the kid on her knee feeding him pieces of a ration bar.
"Be rational mandalorian,"
"I can feed the kid fresh meals every day. He can sleep in a soft cradle. "The temperatures here at night are those of Hoth,"
The child babbles. She looks down at him, nodding her head. "See, Grogu agrees." Grogu affirms her statement by nodding vigorously with whatever she’s said.
"Ooh, and we can go to the market for the things you need for the ship and I can buy grocery clothes-"
"Fine," he cuts her off.
She shot up with the baby, excited, talking to him about how he'd love the cradle she has at home.
He felt guilty at how little it took to make her so forgiving, how her face lit up with delight. He thought of telling her the truth, but he never been a good man. He thought of his lust and greed and the way he still felt under all his Beskar he was still a man despite it all. And yet he was dishonouring himself by taking her. It would be her choice.
Whether he could bring himself to leave her at the mercy of other hunters was uncertain. Stopping himself from touching her made him irritable. His only moment of relief was in the fresher in the dark corners of his bunk spent fantasising about fucking her up against the wall, taking his weeping cock out and lifting that sheer tattered dress she was wearing. He knew she would let him gasp softly and open her legs, arching her back like she had when he had given in and felt the weight of her breasts.
It'd be her choice, and if she let him in, he'd stay inside her warm himself up. In the cockpit, in his bunk against the walls of the crest. Everywhere he could, he’d have his fill.
The walk to her home is noisy, her and the kid chattering away, while he lingers behind them silent, on edge.
She insisted on eating together, putting him to work, making him chop firewood. He had caught her staring through the curtains, and he found himself smirking as he brought the axe down.
"Women", he muttered to himself whilst Grogu watched him in his cradle at a safe distance, clapping his hands every time a log broke clean.
She called them in after a while. She had changed into a little dress just below her mid-thigh. He never paid attention to what people wore and their hair, their maker damned eyes, but he could not bring himself to be indifferent to the blue flowers embroidered around her plunging neckline or her sleeve that had fallen so softly off her shoulders. Her hair clipped up tendrils framing her face. The apples of her cheek flushed red from the warmth of her stove.
She did not smile at him, all her warmth and affection for the kid who cooed at her from his father's arms.
The aroma of the stews and the fresh bread that lined the table his stomach whined in hunger. It had been so long since he had had a meal. That was not cold broth or ration bars.
"Sit," she instructed trying to restrain Grogu from pouncing on the food.
"I can’t take my helmet off," he told her,
She sighed "I know Madalorian." She took her chair and turned it around. I will not look; I don’t want to.”
She sat down with her back to her impossibly straight Grogu on her lap, peering at his father over her shoulder. "You can eat, hunter; I won't look."
Din considered what she was saying, what she was asking of him, and how unpredictable she was despite her words. But he was hungry and tired, so he took off his helmet, the low hiss making her gasp. A part him knowing he could trust her.
"If you look, I will have to kill you. This is the way."
"How many times shall I say this mando "I do not care enough to give up my life to know the colour your eyes are," she tells him, feeding Grogu.
He bit his lip to avoid an indulgent chuckle instead indulged himself with the food. He was ready to make vows over the first bite of food, promise warriors promise himself. The meat was so fragrant it fell apart on his tongue. They did not talk as they ate; he was too lost in his meal, eating like a man starved.
As soon as he shoved the last piece of bread in his mouth, he put his helmet back on.
"Are you decent?" she muttered amusement in her tone.
"Yes," he said as she turned around, prying her hair out of Grogu’s fist, his cheek flat against the swell of her breast ."Here," she said tiredly, "take your son."
He sat back, allowing her to walk into the space between his knees, widening his legs.His gaze fixed her breasts spilling from her dress, and he shifted on the chair, his arms raising on their own accord as he attempted to take Grogu from her.
His kid just clung to her until she winced his little hand still fisted into her hair. He stood up, untangling her hair from his Grogu’s grip, and took him. The child protested a little, but his exhaustion won.
"Good night, sweet pea," she whispered, kissing his cheek as the mandalorian took him into his arms, holding him on his shoulder.
He couldn’t stop himself as he pulled the clip from her hair, watching it fall down her back in shimmering chestnut waves. Her eyes were wide cast down when he held the side of her face, moving strands away from her face.
"Mando," she faltered , her voice coming out as a whisper. He said nothing, just bent down, swiping his thumb over her lips.
"It’s getting late," she breathed, moving out of his grasp. He let her. She swiped the imaginary sweat from her brow, her cheeks flushed. As she picked up the plates and fretted about
He put Grogu down in his cradle and thought about helping her, but the woman was muttering to herself, so he decided against it and settled on one of the armchairs she had crowded up the place.
Her home was full of trinkets, cushions, blankets, a stack of firewood, and clutter in every corner, which she so clearly loved.
She came before him, tugging her apron off her eyes at half mast, exhausted from the day from running after Grogu and quickly baby-proofing her house. But he could not want her more like this, tired and soft. Her feet bare the chimes of her anklets, filling the silence when the words were lost.
She stood awkwardly, unsure of her arms as she wrapped them around her.
"Um, there’s one room," she began, and he swore to the maker that his cock jumped at what she was beginning to imply.
"And" his voice was rougher then he expected it to be like he’d spent the day thirsting under the Tatoonie suns without
"So um, either you can sleep here or you can take the floor."
"I will take the bed."
"I did not offer the bed," she narrowed her eyes.
"There are probably hunters stalking you right now. You really want to play those odds, girl."
"I’ll take my odds either sleeping on the floor or outside." She hissed.
He slapped his hands on his thighs before getting up, determined that he knew he’d not be sleeping anywhere but next to her.
He stalked closer and she fidgeted. He liked that she was shorter; it was so easy to tower over her and watch how her cheeks tinged red the shades of scarlet she wore when he touched her when he spoke to her.
When her rage became her, "Let me hold you through the night. I can keep you safer than the knife on your thigh." He pulled off his glove and lifted her dress, warm fingers digging into the giving flesh, searching for the blade.
She ripped it out of his hands, "Somehow, Mandalorian, your hands always end up underneath my dress. I can recommend some popular brothels far into the city. I’ll watch the kid“
"In the time it would take for you to get to your little knife, you would already be dead." He dismissed her lifting up Grogu’s cradle before he walked up the stairs.
…
She nearly screamed in frustration, picking up the cushion he was leaning against and throwing it. Before stomping up the stairs to find the mandalorian on her side of the bed. His pauldrons and chest plate were nearly placed in a corner, his vambraces were still on, and the rest of his armour still on him.
She met what she assumed was his gaze, trying to read him only seeing his arrogance, splayed out on her bed. It was odd seeing the Mandalorians with such little armour wearing socks.
She could feel him smirking, his smugness radiating off him, the way his head rested on his arms. He wanted to play dirty, he’d get dirty.
She glided past him, pulling out a silk nightgown from her chest of drawers, bundling it at her side. She smirked to herself, as she sauntered out of the room, replacing her dress for an even shorter nightgown.
A shade of sage green trimmed with pink lace, she walked back into the room, head held high. His helm followed her, his body rigid.
She sat in front of her vanity her legs gracefully crossed like she was a princess of Alderaan ignoring the mandalorian and the hunger he omitted, from the way he shifted again and again the bread creaking under his weight. The irritated breaths of air, she got up putting her leg on the bed and applying her lotion on. It had her body smelling like lillies all day.
"Go and change," he barked, sitting upright, his casual arrogance disappearing
She smiled, "depravity doesn’t look good on you, Mando"
"You said to yourself that it’s cold at night. I don’t want to have to look after you."
"I don't understand your concern hunter. When I will be exchanged for credits regardless of whether I have a fever," she chastised as she screwed the lid back on. She crawled on to the bed, indulging him in something she knew would make his skin run hot. It was foul play, but he deserved it. As long as she remembered, he was still skin and bones under the armour.
"I won’t get paid, girl," he forced out, looking straight ahead, refusing to look at her. She lay on her side, aware that her nightgown had ridden up in a game she knew she couldn't win. And yet he had no right to touch her, to feel the smooth expanse of her skin under those work-hardened hands.
"Good," she muttered, closing her eyes and enjoying the way her skin felt against the crisp linen of her warm bed. Yet the man beside her did not settle. He did not settle through the night. His movements were painful. Irritating her too, he was either too hot or too cold, muttering under his breath or breathing too deeply before giving up and leaving.
She was not someone who enjoyed sunrises or sunbeams coming through open curtains. But today she did not complain when the sun woke her. She smiled when she saw the empty space next to her, panicked when she saw the empty cradle.
She rushed out of her room and there they were: the hunter, sprawled out on her dark green sofa, his legs hanging off his body too wide to be comfortable. His head propped up on his arm, his tiny green son splayed on his father's chest. His other arm held him to her chest, drool dripping from his mouth.
She bit her lip, trying not to smile too widely, reminding herself that the baby's father was her captor. Her frown returned not long after she put her hair up and started on breakfast. The baby needed something nice and healthy. She went to her garden used to the morning frost, finding it woke her before caf got her ready for the day.
She foraged for tomatoes for some herbs and made her way back.
The bread was perfect, golden and soft. The eggs were seasoned lightly and with some herbs, she’d go to the market today. The crest was old and it’d take a while for it to be up and kicking.
She leant over the mandalorian, unsure of how to take the baby without waking the hunter up. But his hand had already shot to her wrist whilst she was contemplating her technique. "Breakfast," she said, her voice deliberately chirpy.
She heard the faintest growl of annoyance before he handed the baby to her and got up.
The mandalorian was in a foul mood, probably due to the sleepless night, yet his eyes still lingered on her. When she flitted about serving him a plate on the table, she turned her back to him as she fed Grogu, letting the mandalorian eat. But he did not speak, stewing in silence. Once she had fed Grogu and cleaned his face, he was back in the hunter's lap.
She went off to change, thinking about how she could irritate him, whether it would be a light blue or a soft green.
Soft green, it was a dress coming up to her knees, the sleeves long and the neckline low. Her hair in a plait down her back fastened with a ribbon. A cardigan she had croched two winters ago was warming her.
"I need to go to the market mando." She stood strong as he lets grogu chew on his arm.
"No"
"I wasn’t asking"
"I am not the only hunter looking for you."
He does not raise his helmet directing his attention on the kid.
"We will be here quite some time and I need to stock up on food mandalorian."
"You will not leave, little girl," he says as he pulls Grogu off him and places him on the floor before getting up and ascending the stairs.
Dismissing the conversation
‘Little’ is new and degrading, and she bites her tongue to keep anything venomous at bay. She follows him up taking Grogu with her.
"I have been running for a long time, mandalorian from men like you. Don’t think so little of me," she spits
He starts with his pauldrons and then his chest plate before he checks his weapons. He doesn’t look at her. "I found you, girl, and that is telling enough."
Fury laces her veins, "if a hunter finds me, maybe they’ll kill me and I’ll finally be free of you."
He sighs in annoyance , grabbing her arm, pulling her back, "What do you need?"
"For you to fuck off," she growls, tugging her arm free. He looked her over, and she wished she could read his face to know what he was thinking. But his body language was expressive. The way he holds her arm, his hand encircling her biceps, digging into her skin.
"What do you need?" He asked again, his voice a little less tolerant.
"You won’t know what a parsnip is if it looks you in the eye." Irked at his hands and the way he thinks he can just order her around. The expectation that she would obey him like some bitch.
He alternates between the names he gives her, hardly using her own "I’ll take you."
"Oh thank you. I wasn’t going to be able to make it to the market of the village I’ve lived in for three years. How can you ever repay me?" she muttered as he let her go.
"You can put some clothes on at night."
"I didn’t tell you to sleep in my room. You invaded my privacy and now expect me to cover up. Because you can't control your c-cock," she hadn't used the word so openly before and felt a flush creep up her neck, but it made her point.
"Shut up," he growled.
The villagers looked at her as if she was a reckoning. The man beside her was damning her. He stood over them, tall and armoured. She muttered under her breath, his hand not straying from the small of her back. She could feel him breathing down her neck the way his footsteps deliberately lagged behind hers and the way he did not speak a word.
They looked on terrified apprehensive when she approached, so she quickly called out of their favour. Her face was burning. Her scowl taking residence on her lips. Grogu was restless in her arms, demanding his independence. To explore, to join the children playing in the streets.
"Grogu!" She scolded when he tugged at her hair to get her attention, "If you do not hold still, I’ll make your daddy hold you." She threatened, he did not relent, squirming in her arms. She felt inexperienced and embarrassed at the way she may have been perceived a disgruntled girl losing against a green toddler. And then there was the stoic android beside her, refusing to step in.
"That’s it!" She pulled Grogu off her, pressing him into his father's arms.
"I don’t need you to navigate for me, mandalorian," she snarled, shrugging off his gloved hand. Instead, he took to her waist, ignoring her and reprimanding his son instead.
"Don’t hurt her again, you understand?" His voice was stern not to be messed with Grogu let out a whimper, and her heart ached. "I didn’t tell you to terrify him." She said as Grogu’s ears drooped. Followed by his signature pout.
The mandalorian’s helmet shot up. "You’re spoiling him, girl," he muttered, holding a settled Grogu to his chest, his head on his father's shoulder sulking.
The vendors were still sweet to her, offering her kind smiles as she stocked up, filling the mandalorians' arms, making use of him. Putting Grogu on her hip when she needed his other arm.
They made small talk, but their eyes remained on the mandalorian. They asked her how she was limiting their inquisition to her, her alone. Not the strange green baby or the hulking mass of armour next to her.
The blonde-haired mechanic was the first to stop her. "Lilly," he called her, the smile on his face so bright she couldn’t help but smile back. He opened up his arms and she returned his hug. "I thought we would never hear from you again." He beamed, his smile wide. The mandalorian next to her was deathly quiet as he pulled her out of the mechanics' embrace, standing in front of her.
"Don’t mind him, Silas, he’s programmed to do that," she said, dismissing him, biting her lip to stop herself from laughing. The mandalorian did not find it funny his blaster ready in his hand
She moved past him, standing in front of the poor mechanic. "The Mandalorian’s ship is having issues. I was wondering if you could have a look at it. I’d be happy to watch the boys," she said sweetly. He beamed at her, but his eyes hardened as he looked at the mandalorian.
"I do not need your services," the mandalorian ground out. She nudged him irritated. Silas looked to her for an answer. "He’s just not slept well. The sofa was too small for him." she told him, lips quirking upwards.
I’ll come around then in the morning," Silas said, not raising his head to look at the mandalorian, a few inches taller than him but taller nonetheless.
It was fun, antagonising the hunter, who was too possessive for a man who was nothing to her. "Thank you, Silas, see you tomorrow," she said, kissing his cheek in goodbye. The mechanic's eyes widened, a small smile playing on his lips, as he left before turning to look at her.
The mandalorian had taken her arm and led her further into the market. "Who is he to you?" the hunter could not help himself.
"It doesn’t concern you, mandalorian," she said, taking Grogu from him, holding him on her hip before finding a vendor selling children’s clothes.
"It does, girl," he bit out, taking her arm once more and drawing her gaze to him.
"Listen to me, mandalorian "I am nothing to you except a means of credit," she sighed, tired of the mandalorians' pride.
"You are mine, girl, mine to give, mine to take," he growled at her, tightening his grip on her.
"You're so sweet for using me as currency, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go; you've given me enough bruises these past few days, hunter," she glared up at him.
He released her and she returned to what she was doing, ignoring the mandalorian’s looming presence. He didn’t realise how strong his grip was, how hands that were trained with blasters were not gentle. Her pride, his possessiveness, confused her. It made her uneasy. She would have been more relieved if he was indifferent to her skin to the eyes of other men. It was what she expected.
But she did not expect this. This is not how bounty hunters acted . All the men before him were ready to shoot at her legs and arms to maim and torture her. Bring her forward with only the breath in her body.
The hunter currently watching over her was merciful, a trait bounty hunters usually did not possess.
It made her seethe, making her grind her teeth so hard she felt her teeth chip. Even the sound of his low modulated breaths were irritating. She wanted to turn around and punch him directly in between his eyes, break his nose, and make him bleed. But she knew she was no match for Beskar.
His jealousy had stirred feelings of want. It made her want to be taken to some dirty alley. She wanted those strong tan hands to leave an imprint on her for days wanted to wear his claim on her neck, her thighs. He made her desperate for touch, for a rougher hand. But even when lust was taking root in her, she could not bring herself to ignore the inevitability of his conquest. If he had her take his fill, he’d still take the credits on her head.
What would be left of her?
Still, her mind wanders to the mandalorian and his capable hands. She had been running from being owned. Yet the hunters' gun-ready hands had her believing if she were to be possessed, she’d rather it be him.
Their meal was eaten in silence, with the exception of Grogus's excited chatter. They followed the same routine. The hunter sat on the head of the table, his helmet beside him, his back to them both.
He had left after the evening meal to go to work on his ship whilst there was still light outside. For a moment, the thought crossed her mind that she could just take grogu and run. She was good at it. Had been doing it for years, she had enough credits to pay her fare. Somewhere further in the galaxy harder to find.
But she could not subject Grogu to a life like that of hunger of scrubbing cantina floors for half a meal. Maybe she could leave him alone, but it was not safe. She could not bring herself to do it.
So she sat at the table watching Grogu play, not nearly tired enough to force him to sleep.
She sighed as she closed the windows. Maybe he was right if he had found her here. Maybe other hunters had too, but they would not be as merciful as him.
Lillia lit candles and slipped on her night gown, throwing on a cardigan to fight the chill as the fire died out. She braided her hair, her cup of tea at her side, Grogu nestled in her lap as she told him a story, coaxing him to sleep. Her eyes were fixed on the door, wondering when the mandalorian would come back and the feeling of safety would return.
…
He'd need the mechanic after all, no matter how angry he was, he couldn't get the crest running without assistance. The mechanic was no threat, but she could see him.
See the way he smiled at her, the way his eyes followed her, see the blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair. She did not know that he looked at her with the same desire as the mechanic, how nothing went unnoticed by him.
The way she would scrunch her nose after she sneezed, the way she would twist her hair into a clip, saving it from Grogu's persistent hands. She would always smile at his kid , no matter what he did. Her anger, her joy, he witnessed it all.
His infatuation knew no bounds when he would listen to her speak to Grogu, wiping away at his face like a mother did. She would wipe away his tears with her sleeve and kiss his nose when he would smile at her. He craved this domesticity, this quiet familiarity, the home the mechanic could give her.
It made his jaw tick the idea of Lillia preparing a meal for the mechanic like she did for him. She bought him a cup of caff before making her own. The mechanic give her the life he wanted to give her. The years of isolation, the nights blurred into days, the last time he felt the sun on his face. The feeling of raindrops on his hands It had all caught up with him. The comfortable silence he was accustomed to was filled by her. He wanted her noise, her whimpers, the way her voice begins to break when she’s angry; he wanted it all. For the first time, his helm felt like a burden rather than a crown.
But he could not. She would never agree to bind herself to him. To leave the soft life she had made for herself to go crusading in the stars for the uncertainty of patching up old wounds.
The crest being fixed was a reckoning that he’d be a better man. He’d give her a choice.
The room was basking in the warm candlelight. Her voice was carried by the walls, tired as she told her son a story. He was not a good man. The way lust ravaged him, he thought only of taking her and ploughing into her. He was pushing up that silky little thing she wore and having his way.
His chest was tight as he warred with his body at how quickly she evoked a reaction from him His heart raced as he willed himself to be calm. He felt like ripping off his gloves and soothing the way she made him ache.
She jumped instantly, holding Grogu close to her chest, "you can’t just spring up on me like that." Her voice was still high as she recovered from the fright he gave her.
"First you made me paranoid and now you’re walking around like a goddess dammed ghost," she said.
He did not apologise, his eyes trained on her cleavage Grogus's cheek against her breast, a little drool glistening against her skin.
She got up, flustered by his silence. "Fine," she said to herself under her breath, but he heard it. She did not meet his gaze. Instead, he just took Grogu from her and laid him down on the sofa.
She turned to leave the tell-tale sign of frustration in her exasperated sigh. He grabbed her waist as she tried to walk past him, her braid swinging around her hips.
He crowded her against the wall, helmet tilted down, saying all that needed to be said. She looked down. Her hands were fidgeting by her side.
"Look at me, Lillia."
She did, and he was mesmerised by her eyes, grey like the storm clouds that filled Hoth's sky. Striking yet softened with dark eye lashes; there were speckles of blue in her irises. The calm before the storm,
He could tell that she was exhausted by the way she did not put up a fight when he tilted her jaw up.
"Say yes"
"To what?" she asked
He was trying to be gentle, but when he released her jaw, he left white indents on her skin.
"Close your eyes, girl"
"Why mando?" she questioned
She was stubborn it was never blind obedience with her. He pulled off the scarf she had used to keep her hair out of her eyes, freeing tendrils to frame her face.
He undid the knot she had tied.
"Mando!" she asked again, her hands coming to stop him.
As he placed the scarf over her eyes, "only for a moment," he reassured her. She let her hands fall to her side.
Blind trust
He took off his helmet, putting it on the table, and pulled off his gloves too. Before returning to her, the candlelight made her skin glow, still porcelain under the light.
Her back was to the wall impatient hands returned to her waist, holding her there. He could feel her heart racing as her lips parted rosy from being bitten.He bent down. She was so damn light too light that he lifted her up effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around him instinctively.
"Mando," she whispered, her worry evident in her hands coming to his chest, holding him there.
"I won’t fuck you." She flinched at his crassness.
"Not like this," he swore.
His reassurance was enough. Her hands travelled to his face. He let her explore. Her fingers traced over the bridge of his nose and fuck he had vowed but she was making it difficult. He wanted to lean in to her touch and beg her to never stop touching him. Her fingers continued tentatively in their exploration. Her thumb traced the scar down his bottom lip, and he jerked, so sensitive to her touch that she snatched her hand away.
He took her hands in his and bought it back to his face. "It’s okay," he murmured as his blood grew hot rushing south. His pants stretched over his crotch painfully hard just from being touched by her. The wild innocence, the hesitant touches, made him yearn for her, for her softness.
She was still hesitant even when she caressed his jaw.
"You have a beard?"
He swallowed
"Almost," he replied, and her lips quirked upwards
"And a moustache," she observed
"Hm," he nearly grunted, trying to stop his hips from grinding against her for some maker damned relief.
He brought his face closer to hers and brushed his nose against hers. Her hands returned to his chest. He kissed the corner of her mouth, tasting a little of her bottom lip. He groaned into her skin before his lips travelled down her jaw, feather light.
He could lose himself in her soft skin, in its warmth, in the scent of lilies. He kisses the skin on her neck, delicate and blooming pink. His kisses are rougher and she lets out a quiet moan, hands threading into his hair as his teeth break skin. As he leaves little violet marks on her neck, her jaw, her collarbone, she whimpers when his lips move to her breasts, his tongue hot over the fabric, leaving her gown damp. As he grinds against her.
He knows he’s too far gone, his hips meeting hers instinctively. He looks up at her; her cheeks are flushed red. Her lips were swollen from the way she bit into them to keep herself quiet.
He’s sloppy, uncontrolled in his thrusts in his kisses, too fervent to be methodical. She brings out the creature in him. The creature who tells him to bury himself to the bone in order to stay inside of her until her hips widen and her breasts fill.
He said he would be a better man he growls in frustration and anger as his hips come to a halt, forgoing relief. He would not ruin her like this. He wouldn’t stain his pants like a boy. But his work is done. He does not regret the marks he left on her skin, the redness of his kiss, his grazes tinging violet.
He takes her lips between his teeth, she squirms in his arms, exhausted by his ministrations.
"You said you wouldn’t forgive me," he says, into her skin. She clutches his shoulder for purchase.
"My forgiveness does not mean anything to you, mandalorian." She’s still breathing heavily. Her tongue swiping over dry lips.
"When I fuck you, I won’t ask for forgiveness."
He says as he holds on to her, her legs releasing his waist as she slides back down the wall.
"It will be penance." He pulls on his helmet, wanting to see the fire in her eyes.
He removes the scarf; her eyes have darkened and glitter in the light, her brows are furrowed, her hair is wild the braid coming loose.
Dark tendrils flutter about her face, lips ripe and bruised by him.
He takes her hand in his own, so much smaller than his own, and brings it to his clothed cock, straining under his pants. Her face flushes eyes widening before she looks away, trying to pull her hand back.
"You don't know about penance, girl, this is far from it," he says, dragging her hand along his length building a steady rythem.
He doesn’t know where these words are coming from or why they are coming to his tongue so naturally. His sentences are usually short concise there is often little to say. The time he spends in silence in his own thoughts only make his tongue a liability.
But with her, his mind was at ease, despite how his body raged, how his cock twitched just from the heat of her hands. He’s made his point letting her hand go before he makes a mess of himself.
"I know what penance is letting you touch me is penance, when I know how you will use me, when I know that you will not look back once you take your bounty." She says softly, exhausted at this game. She brings her hand to her chest, letting it rest there as if the next words are too painful for her to say.
"You know, Madalorian, I was loved once," he notices the shift in her eyes, the fire dying out as they gloss over like heavy, burdened rain clouds.
“I remember it. I remember the feeling. I try not to forget. Nothing would be left of me if I forgot. And I don’t think I can do it again. I can’t deal with the burden of it. Don’t touch me like this mando, don’t touch me like you mean it, I’m not someone who's warm just for one night. Don’t be kind to me when it won’t end in kindness. " Her voice breaks, but she’s resilient, and she steps away from him.
The guilt consumes him and he wills himself to speak, to tell her that he won’t but he cannot lose her so quickly. She’s asked so little, he cannot afford her that liberty. She’s unpredictable. She’d take her first chance and run, getting herself killed. He tells himself he’s being rational, rather than his covetousness being the reason he takes so long to answer.
"You think I don't mean it, girl," he says as she walks away from him,
" you don't mandalorian, you just want to find some relief inside me."
He takes her arm, pressing his helmet to her forehead to make her understand without words, without fucking up trying to string them together. "Mando'a was so much easier; the words flowed; only a few needed to tell her that she wasn’t his relief; she was the closest semblance to home."
"I mean it."
"You understand?"
She nods, her eyes faraway glassy as he lets her go. She picks up Grogu and carries him upstairs. The mandalorian follows her, and he knows his time with her is short.
