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To Break Old Oaths

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.

Previous - Chapter Four

Next - Chapter Six

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