#cheap shots at the mandalorian

[screechthemighty]

Re-reading the RepCom novels and having to face the twofold betrayal that 1) the later books are worse than I remember and 2) the Mandalorian s3 was an honest to goodness travesty and even KT's dubious writing was better than that

[niennanir]

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title: 

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials:  8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders. 

[shabre-legacy]

For the kiss prompts: 46 for Tyrenic/Jemsyn and/or 23 for Leikael/Corso

So I borrowed Jemsyn to write this for the prompt. I'll do a post for the Leikael and Corso one after I finish it. For now, enjoy Tyrenic/Jemsyn. If I wrote him ooc please let me know and I'll fix

Tyrenic leans on the arm of his target, a tall Weequay currently ordering another round in the dark club. It wasn’t a high end place, but the kind of fancy that still allowed the sleazy and criminal customers among their clientele. Various dancers were scattered around the room, in lifted cages, on platforms and scattered across the floor.

Tyrenic himself is a lightly dressed as any of them. A pink fishnet crop top that’s almost too small and a tiny pair of leather minishorts that clung to the curve of his ass and finished off with a pair of pink and black stilleto heels, tall under the toe as well as the heel. It made him just a couple inches shorter than the seven foot tall at least Weequay.

He had his eyes made up with glitter shadow, mascara, and heavy eyeliner giving him a perpetually hooded eye expression and a gloss that made his lips look plumper and more kissable then usual. He looked cheap, blowjobs for a pat on the head and a puff of a deathstick cheap; which was exactly what he’d wanted when he walked into the club. It hadn’t taken long for him to convince everyone that he was a new dancer, and even less time when he located his target to convince the man to ‘buy’ him for the night. He feels exposed like this, like everyone is staring at him and not for the usual reasons. It’s exciting, but also makes him nervous. He’s glad he brought Shelerik in as backup. Knowing the other Jedi is in the crowd, playing at being just another patron, but keeping an eye on him is reliving. Nothing that bad can happen, at least not anything he doesn’t have to go along with to maintain his cover. This was important enough to withstand some uncomfortable moments, or a lot of them, with this guy.

He carefully keeps any trace of discomfort off his face as his ‘date’ downs another shot and yanks him in, one hand dropping down to grope Tyrenic’s ass, the other holding his neck possessively as he kisses him, it’s sloppy, with too much tongue and a bit gross, but he goes along with it. Placing a hand on the Weequay’s chest and arching into him, he’s being paid for this after all. It takes a few minutes before the man decides he’s had enough for now and hands their drinks to Tyrenic and starts to guide him towards the dark back corners by the hips. As they make their way through the crowd, some of the other customers jostle them, the target shoved away a moment as a tall Mirialan is shoved into Tyrenic’s shoulder, almost knocking him off his heels. The man catches him around the waist and pulls him upright again, using the moment to drop his head and whisper “Your soldier’s here. Alcove down the hall past the bathrooms.”

Tyrenic just drops his head back letting a simpering smile fall over his face as the target moves back to him. “I appreciate the catch handsome, but unfortunately, I’m all booked for tonight. I’ll be around tomorrow if you’re still interested. I promise it’s a good time.” He half turns to look at the Weequay with hooded eyes. “So which one’s our table again?” He waits until they get there and he sets the drinks down and his target sits before bending over to whisper in his ear. “I’ll be right back and we can start this private party.” The man glares, but Tyrenic dispels it with a nudge from the Force and a wink. “Fresher.”

He makes sure to swing his hips more than necessary as he struts through the crowd, slipping into the hall and making his way to the alcove. He hadn’t had time to let Jemsyn know he was on planet, or going undercover, let alone what type of undercover work he was doing.

The Mirialan Mandalorian is pacing across the small alcove as Tyrenic quietly steps inside. He turns quickly and steps close, grabbing onto Tyrenic’s forearms and looking in his eyes. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Tyrenic looks down at him, the heels emphasizing the height difference, a flirty grin on his lips. “No baby, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Jemsyn relaxes a bit, only for the concern to be replaced with a restrained anger. “Ok good. Tell me what the kriff that was? I come in for a night out and I find my boyfriend, making out with some random guy who’s got his hands all over you!” He steps back, folding his arms and staring Tyrenic down.

Tyrenic takes advantage of the height difference to lean over Jemsyn, resting his arm on the wall. “Don’t worry love.” He drops his head till he can whisper into Jemsyn’s ear. “I’m undercover, that man is part of a network grabbing alien refugees from Coruscant and other core worlds and selling them to the empire. We got the info on our way back and didn’t have time to contact you or anyone else before we had to jump into action. He’s got specific tastes and I fit the bill best.”

Jemsyn didn’t look convinced. “And that involves making out with him how? Couldn’t you go in as a buyer or potential business contact?”

Tyrenic sighs. “Wish we could love. But he never meets with contacts he doesn’t know without an introduction and we don’t have time to get one. But he pays a dancer almost every time he comes to a club and the drinks make him chatty. I let him kiss and grope a little, keep him talking, as soon as I get what I need, I signal Shelerik, he steps in and makes the arrest and we use the information to shut down the network.”

Jemsyn nods slowly as he absorbs what was said. “I still don’t like it, but I understand. Try to give me some warning next time you have to do something like this.”

Tyrenic nods before dropping his head to kiss and nip at Jemsyn’s neck. “I promise I’ll make it up to you later. How does a private dance in one of those lounges sound?”

Jem looks up at him with a familiar heat in his eyes. “That sounds wonderful cyare.” He deliberately looks Tyrenic up and down slowly. “I have to say, I like this look.”

Renic preens at the praise. “Glad you approve. I haven’t worn some of this since I was like 16.”

“You are very pretty and I love the way these shorts just cling. Stars you are pretty, all dolled up slutty like this.”

Tyrenic drops his head and his voice, husky and sensual, dripping in promises. “Give me another hour or so to finish up and I’ll be your personal slut for the rest of the night.”

Jemsyn seems conflicted, excited by the idea but not happy about Tyrenic going back to that Weequay. “I’ll hold you to that, but first…” He grabs Tyrenic and twists quickly, slamming the taller Jedi against the wall and stepping between his legs. He leans up at the same time he pulls Tyrenic down and kisses him. It’s desperate and devouring and perfect, Jemsyn pours all of his jealously into the kiss, making sure Tyrenic remembers exactly who he belongs to.

Tyrenic moans wantonly into the kiss, dropping his arms around Jemsyn’s neck and kissing back just as fiercely. His tongue tangles with his lovers as time stops around them. Eventually they are forced to break the kiss to breathe, only for Jemsyn to immediately attach himself to Tyrenic’s neck seemingly intent on leaving hickey’s for Tyrenic to walk out with. Tyrenic uses the last bit of his mental fortitude and will to drag himself up and out of reach. “Later love, after I’m done, you can leave all the marks you like.” He leans down and captures Jemsyn’s lips in another deep kiss before he pushes against the wall and slips out of Jemsyn’s arms. He turns and winks as he waltzes away, his hip swaying in his heels. He couldn’t wait to get this done and finally be able to put on a real show for the person who actually mattered.

[roguecassians]

a new star and sun; din djarin x reader

pairing: din djarin x reader (can be read as romantic or platonic)

word count: 417

summary: din has never had a family. you and grogu change that.

warnings: incredibly brief mentions of war, a little angst

a/n: this is my first star wars writing omg. i'm so nervous to post this, but i hope someone enjoys it. <3

Din Djarin had never had a family. He did once but he was too young to remember much about them. He could recall the deep brown eyes of his father and the velvety voice of his mother. He knew they loved him, and he loved them. Everything else, though, had faded from memory. Blaster shots and explosions had taken their places. Din had a family once, but they had been gone for many years.

He had his creed, but they were not a family. He thought they would become his family when he became a Mandalorian. Instead, they became those who looked down on him the most. Their love for him was conditional, and his love for them was doubtful. He knew they weren’t a family, but it was the closest he had.

He traveled alone for so long that he felt it was his fate to be alone forever. It was a punishment from the galaxy for something Din couldn’t name, but he accepted it because he thought it was what he deserved. He was meant to be alone. Then, he met Grogu. Grogu brought a new light into his life, a new star in his dark sky. Finding a Jedi to train him gave Din a better reason to travel and move around the galaxy than hunting cheap bounties for lazy clients. Grogu gave Din a reason to exist.

Then he met you, and you brought the sun into his life. You were alone, like him, and surviving by the skin of your teeth. The galaxy had beaten and kicked you down, as it often did to the little people. Din recognized the pain in you, but there was something more that drew him to you. You had a softness to you that astounded him. Most people in the galaxy were pessimistic, hardened, and generally unpleasant to be around, but you were different. You were kind and bright, and you made Din happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this happy. It was a good thing he wore a helmet every day. If you saw how often he smiled around you, you would accuse him of going soft. He wouldn’t be able to deny it, either. He had gone soft, and it was all because of you. You gave him a reason to live.

Din Djarin had never had a family- not a proper one- but watching you and Grogu play and laugh, he felt more loved than anyone in the galaxy.

[ravenalla]

I think overall the main problem season 3 is having is the same as TBOBF, which is not giving the audience a well-established storyline and so not giving them a reason to care. This is probably gonna be long so bear with me.

Throughout the first two seasons, we had a clear goal for our main character. Sure Din did other things all the time, the “side quest” as the fandom liked to joke, but it always made sure to remind us what the motivation behind all of this was, keeping Grogu safe, finding him a Jedi. The story still introduced other characters concepts, but it made sure to always keep Din tied to them in some way that made us understand why this would affect him and why we should care. The side adventures never felt random, they all had a clear step by step progression as Din tried to get closer towards his destination. Moff Gideon was also not just a threat against Grogu, his rule under the Empire was responsible for the destruction of Din’s people. The conflict between them was personal, both because of Din’s newfound love for the baby and because of who he is. It all tied together to give us this intriguing but fun and adventurous story.

On the other hand, stuff in Season 3 just feels like it’s happening at random. It began looking like the main drive this season would be Din trying to regain his identity and the restoration of Mandalore as a whole. Instead, the former was solved in a matter of two episodes with little fanfare compared to how serious they made the situation out to be. No we get pirates both we and the characters have never seen before and have no reason to give two shits about. They’re gone for a while. Then suddenly back as a big threat we are suppose to take seriously for some reason. Din and the rest of the covert do not show any indication they are ready to rally the Mandalorians and take back their planet up to this point. Oh nevermind now they want to. Like there’s no motivation for our main character happening between episodes behind the random monster of the week stuff, nothing the covert is working towards.

Things are just happening out of nowhere, nothing feels like a cohesive narrative and Din isn’t getting any new development or character moments to make up for it. Aside from two things that have nothing to do with the actual Mandalorian, Bo and the New Republic.

Bo-Karan’s story is interesting, and I like her developing a relationship with the covert, but this is not her show. You should not be ending every episode with a shot of her like this has always only been about her journey, at least not here. It’s fine to have more than one main character, but you can do that without throwing away everything you spent two seasons developing with another one. I don’t even know why Din and Grogu are here to be honest. Are they really any different from the background Mandos at this point? Din’s speech was cool, but there’s not really been tight moments of friendship this season for us to get super emotional about him coming to Greef’s rescue from these random Disney channel villains on planet gentrification. It’s obvious now that Bo’s going to be the one to lead, so him showcasing traits of leadership probably also won’t even matter. Din is obsolete, and the heart-wrenching relationship between father and son is now being used for cheap Grogu brownie point moments when they actually remember they have to include them.

As for the New Republic, yes, as people have said this does expand the world and relate to stuff that is going to happen later that we don’t yet know about. The problem is, this is a completely detached event from the main character. Nothing (aside from the random reveal of Moff Gideon’s escape) relates to our main characters situations at all, and it is so clearly ideas from rangers of the new republic shoved in so they can squeeze already established plots they didn’t want to abandon. Because we don’t know why this matters at all towards Din, there’s really no reason to care at this point. Again, you can say there’s plot happening, but it’s all disconnected in a way that doesn’t keep us anticipating any type of ending. And look I’m not saying the show needs to spoon feed its audience or explain everything right away. My problem is everything is that Din is given nothing to do anymore. All of his problems that were built up for two seasons have been solved instantaneously, and we don’t even get many conversations between Din and Grogu as we use to, the driving force of the show. Neither do we get simple explanations for things like where the hell did all the new Mando’s come from or why they decided to settle there. It is both so busy and so empty.

The Mandalorian was never just about finding Grogu a home as quickly as possible, it took the time to show us Din’s personality, his relationship with himself, and the new relationship he formed with his son. So why is the show treating it like none of that stuff was important enough to take up screen time? That Din and Grogu had to take a backseat because showing two former Imperial officers having a meaningless conversation about a planet’s history was more important, that dedicating every emotional beat to Bo-Katan’s changing feelings left no room for exploration of the main character’s own when he is suppose to have been his most changed and isolated self yet, that setting up major plot lines and characters which will bleed into other shows was worth sabotaging what made the show so popular in the first place? The Mandalorian can have a bigger plot, it can have more characters, but when those elements feel like they can exist without that main character being there? That is just bad writing.

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

I saw the thing. Both of the thing. The two things. Those things. Star Wars things.

RIP Luke Skywalker's relevance post-OT, we hardly knew ye.

[spoilers and shit below the cut]

I mean... the first two episodes did their job? They certainly felt like a typical Star Wars, whatever your definition of Star Wars is. It just feels like these people at the top have no fucking idea what to do with the galaxy post-Empire and pre-First Order. Like, there is no obviously Big Bad Fascist group of baddies that our plucky underdog rebel heroes have to fight. The enemy is not clear as bright fucking day. What is the enemy? What are we fighting? Is this why we're plundering the depths of the EU and overwriting EU!Thrawn with Disney!Thrawn? Is this why we're turning the New Republic into an uncaring out-of-touch wannabe Galactic Republic/Empire?

There are many, many places where the Volume is painfully obvious and it is incredibly fucking distracting. Personally, Peter Jackson's LOTR trilogy and the POTC trilogy really sold me on the possibilites offered by the marriage of practical FX and CGI. I've never been convinced by the "gimmick" that James Cameron's blue cat people promised, and seeing how increasingly terrible and cheap and fucking greedy the Hollywood studios have become since then has me convinced that we're fucked. I still want to one day get a job in entertainment design but I am increasingly gritting my teeth and side-eyeing the state of things.

There has to be better way to paint non-human skin tones onto actors right. The lack of emoting also really frustrated me. I hope it's just people settling into their roles but I also don't know the sequence in which they shot their scenes. It's just... I felt nothing. I lied. I felt something for Sabine's lothcat. I get Ahsoka at this time being aloof, distant, cold, closed off, but everybody else? I didn't feel it. Maybe from Skoll and Hati, our non-Jedi Norse wolves. Nordic? I don't fucking know.

Someone please explain to me how Sabine is suddenly a Padawan, an ex-Padawan, and now a Padawan again. I never saw Rebels but I know enough canon to know that Padawans are supposed to have some kind of Force sensitivity? Why is Ahsoka deciding who to take in as a Padawan? I thought she left the Jedi Order before she became a Knight? What the fuck is going on? Is she just... making up the rules now since there isn't an Order of people to say, "Hey, maybe don't"? Or is she just picking up where Ezra and Kanan left off? I don't know Rebels and it is midnight; I sure af am not going to decide to read summaries of everyone right now.

Sorry to Luke who either never blipped on Baylan's radar or was just that unimportant to him. Somehow. Sorry to Cal, though I don't even know if he survived to see the Empire's fall.

Among the bipedals who speak Basic, Morgan Elsbeth wins the award for "Most Interesting Character" because Diana knows how to chew up her scenes and has the charisma to keep me interested. I don't recall she was ever revealed to be a Witch in her Mando episode. But now she is? What? Why?

The baseline world development of the Corellian shipyards fucking kills me. I know nothing about Lothal from the show so I can't say shit, but from what I've seen of the city itself, it's so.... clean. CG clean. "We can't let people know we live here" clean. The Volume was screaming into my eyes on Arcana, and I can't believe the fucking planet is called Arcana.

But what is the reason why Sabine put away the parts of herself that are Mandalorian? Is it so that we can see her floundering and struggling and letting her hair grow long while she tells everyone to fuck off? Is it so that we can then see her saw off her long hair a la Mulan (or Kanan, I guess) and become a Mandalorian again? I... I don't have any emotional investment in this. I didn't see Rebels, therefore I don't have any actual emotional investment in this. It's just, cool CG, lightsabers whee, classic Star Wars-ish music to yank at your heartstrings, droids, magic, the Force, Force shit, more lightsabers, pew pew, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee. And people I only recognize because of the Galaxy of Heroes games, fandom osmosis, and cursory skimming of the Star Wars wiki. If I was a true outsider who knew the bare minimum from previous D+ shows, waht would my investment level be?

Is anyone surprised that Andor keeps showing up in these conversations? I want to rip my hair out and scream at people who hate the discourse because they say people just want more shows exactly like Andor (grimy and dark and grimdark with no Jedi and no Sith and no pew pew space fights and no bzzzzzzzzzzt lightsabers and all politics and politicking and hard decisions made by morally gray characters either trying to survive or trying to see the Rebellion survive) instead of the campy unseriousness with color and bad CG and silliness and pew pew space lasers and shit. I just want more shows made with love and care and a basic understanding of storytelling. There's a difference between telling a story and telling a Star Wars story. The Felonious Showrunners are telling you a Star Wars story full of Star Wars. Did you see the Star Wars? Look at the Star Wars. Listen to the Star Wars. Feel the Star Wars. Yes, I get it, but are you also telling me a story? Is this all really just a buildup to Thrawn returning to the galaxy to take control of the Imperial remnants to make a second Empire or some shit like that? And as always, does it really matter when Thrawn and Ahsoka and Mandalore didn't have ANY impact on the galaxy or the fate of the New Republic and the First Order in the ST?

Fucking hell, looked up serial vs episodic because I forgot the terms and then deleted the entire paragraph because what's the point l o l. Look, the problem for me is that this show relies on working knowledge of Rebels and also The Clone Wars so that we can understand who these people are, what their history is with each other, and where they're coming from when the Norse wolves sprung a witch from her cell. I don't have the time or energy to do any of that, so I don't... I don't care. Who are these people? Explain them to me. Tell me why I should care without assuming I already watched the other shows. All we had of Andor is Cassian Andor, who dies at the end of Rogue 1. Yet somehow we got to see all these new faces emerge and bloom and keep rising or dying for the sake of the nascent Rebellion. We got to know who the fuck they are, what the fuck they do or did, what their relationships are to each other, to the Rebellion, to the Empire, to Cassian. We got to see and hear what they believed in and why they fight or don't fight.

You don't need the 3 episodes of fleshing out Ferrix or any of the characters integral to a story arc. You already have the settings and the people. You already have the history. It would take a lot less work to introduce who they are, what they did or do, how they relate to each other, what they won and lost . It just... it just feels so damn shallow and half-baked and stiff and light like cotton candy.

I think if not for Andor, these first two episodes of Ahsoka would be perfectly acceptable in the Star Wars D+ series pantheon. But Andor is fucking Spiders Georg and fucked over people's expectations of what a good Star Wars show is and can be.

ACTUALLY. WHY NOT TELL THOSE OF US THAT AREN'T FAMILIAR WITH THE DISNEY STAR WARS LORE WHO THE FUCK THRAWN IS, WHAT THE FUCK HE DID, AND WHY WE DON'T WANT HIM BACK. Oh he's the last of the Imperial Grand Admirals - so what. Moff Gideon is beneath the likes of Vader and Tarkin and Thrawn and he did a lot of fucking damage. Andor showed us very clearly what kind of power and damage the ISB can do. So how much more damage can Thrawn do if he did come back? What kind of threat is he? TELL US HOW DANGEROUS HE IS TO THE NEW REPUBLIC. TELL US WHY MORGAN IS TRYING TO BRING HIM BACK. FOR HER OWN AMBITIONS? TO HELP OUT THE OTHER IDIOTS HIDING IN THE DARK, LAUGHING AT GIDEON CLONING HIMSELF IN A PATHETIC GRAB FOR POWER? COME ON. TELL ME SOMETHING.

Anyway, sorry to Luke Skywalker who's stuck on Ossus fucking around with Artoo and a bunch of spider droids, locked out of some greater story about an apathetic former Padawan and her own Mando Padawan looking for a lost Jedi while also trying to stop a blue man from returning to the galaxy. Maybe he never should've returned to Star Wars and stayed a grumpy old Jake who died all alone on some fuckoff island.

Let's see what the next episode will bring! At least it makes great background noise while I do other things.

[biblicallyaccuratebeskar]

Metal Home

Abstract:

Din Djarin was accustomed to being alone. In fact, most of the time he preferred it. But then, like a force nudging him into a different orbit, she was there.

Larkin Vega never expected to be a bounty hunter, but when offered a free view and a bag full of credits, she decides to rough it with the quiet Mandalorian who saved her life.

Sometimes the loneliest people tend to find each other when they need it most.

Also on AO3

Chapter 1/22: ~1.4K words

Captive

8 ABY

“Play it again!”

“Yeah, play it again!”

“One more time! One more time!”

The pub was electric with chants and drunken chatter. Pattel, the owner, chuckled as he flipped the switch behind the bar. The hologram above everyone flickered as it wound in reverse. I watched the blue image of the second Death Star piece itself back together, the crowd cheering as it exploded once again.

Today marked four years since the fall of the Empire. I was in this pub when the news spread, people flooding into the streets, hugging strangers, tears streaming. At last there was peace in the Galaxy. Well, in theory. Those four years both crept and sped by, and regardless I was still alone.

Alone as much as a bartender could be. Pattel had offered me a job when I was hungry and desperate, and I stayed, like a stray animal given a warm bed. So I had him, and the regulars. Tonight I wasn’t getting paid, but he kept the taps free and flowing and maybe that was enough. He was kind in that way.

A man emerged from the crowd and approached the bar seat I was perched on, away from the chaos. I recognized him. He had been frequenting the pub a lot in the past few weeks. And Maker, did he have an interest in pestering me. I ignored him as much as I could, reminding myself that even the most persistent of creeps paid the bills.

His pointy shoulders were hunched as he approached. He set down two glasses of brown liquid in front of us, scruffy beard twitching. “Ah, diversifying from the usual ale, I see?” I remarked, forcing a smile.

“This here is Elecian whiskey. Very rare. Very expensive.” His eyebrows wiggled. I bit back a grimace.

“I see. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Oh, these are for me, girly. I gotta enjoy the finer things in life, you know? That’s why I’m talking to you.” His yellow teeth bared as I let out a brittle laugh. “Besides, I don’t think you could handle it. It’s very strong.”

“You don’t think I could handle a little shot?” I didn’t like playing into his charade, but I couldn’t resist a challenge. Besides, he wasn’t lying. Elecian whiskey wasn’t cheap, and a free shot might have given me enough agreement to get through the rest of this conversation without banging my head on the bar.

He held his hands up. “Please, by all means then. I insist.”

I grabbed the glass and downed it without a second thought. It burned on the way down and I blinked back tears, but damn did it hurt good. I could already feel the warmth spreading in my chest. His hungry eyes traced over me and I tried to ignore the ecstasy in his expression.

“Good, good,” he muttered. I saw that as my cue to end the conversation.

“Alright, well this has been lovely but I should be...” I swayed, my knees feeling jellylike. Forcefully, I tried to play it off with a laugh, but my head was spinning. The whiskey couldn’t have been that strong, could it?

He looped his arm in mine. “Well it’s a good thing that I’m heading out too. Shall we?”

The room tilted at a dangerous angle. I was out before I could respond.

——

It was dark when I awoke. I took in deep, gasping breaths as my eyes adjusted. Where the hell was I? In some sort of closet?

My memories caught up to my consciousness. That motherfucker drugged me. How could I have been so stupid? I played right into his game.

I got up looking around. It wasn’t a closet, but it was the size of one. Completely bare minus me. The door handle was locked upon me trying, naturally. After I tried to pick at the lock, as if on cue, it swung open. A new man stood in front of me.

“Hi, what the fuck is this? You’re going to let me go now,” I said, trying to squeeze past him. He pushed my shoulders back smiling, letting out a low laugh. “Oh no, missy, this isn’t how this is going to work. You’re my cargo now. And you’re going to cooperate.”

He was huge with a gray buzz cut that looked like it was done by someone blind. His breath smelled like rot.

“Yeah, I’m not cargo and I won’t be cooperating. Let. Me. Go.” I shook him off. The man let out a long whistle. “Feisty one, eh? Don’t you worry, I have a market for that. Some of my clients are masochists, swear on the Maker.” He laughed, rasping.

Clients? “What, are you trying to selling me?” I hissed.

“Finally figuring that one out, huh? Gero did a fine job luring you in. Didn’t think he had the charm in him, but miracles happen I suppose. The last time he...”

I took my chance, sending my knee into his groin. He cried out and as he doubled over I pulled him down, sprawling him on the floor. Leaping, I ran out the doorway and into a hallway. I rushed into what looked like a main control room. This wasn’t a ship, but a base. On the small side from what I could gather. Maybe there was a comm link in here I could use to call for help.

“Not so fast.” I slowly spun around. Three men stood there, blasters pointed at me. The one from the pub, Gero, was on the left, eyes lit up like firecrackers.

“Fuck you,” I sneered at him.

He grinned. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” The other men snickered.

I was outarmed and cornered. A pit rooted itself in my stomach as they roughly dragged me back to the cell. This was actually happening.

They pushed me back into the cramped, dark space. I turned around to see the first man, the captain I assumed, looming in the doorway. Delightfully, his nose was bleeding. His expression, though, was treacherous. He slapped me across the face, hard, and I fell cursing. I crawled away, leaning back as he pulled out a knife from his belt. He turned the blade back and forth, looking at it.

“I got a mighty big payload waiting for you. Good buyers. Wealthy buyers. These types of people don’t like their pretty prizes with scars on them. Don’t treat them well. We don’t want that now, do we?”

I stared at the knife. Everything in me screamed to fight back, but I was pinned. I shook my head no.

“Good girl. You’ll learn in time. For now though, I’m afraid we’re going to have to make some adjustments.”

The other men came into the room. One roughly pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed them. The other tied a cloth around my mouth and neck, forcing it on my tongue. I gagged and he laughed. “They’ll be here in the morning,” he said as they left the cell. “Pull anything before then and I promise you won’t be untouched.”

The door closed with a slam. I shuddered as I backed up against the wall. My eyes grew hot as tears threatened to spill over and I squinted.

What the hell was I going to do? Try to escape again? Get myself killed, or worse, in servitude to some buyer?

I leaned back, closing my eyes, begging for my mind to go blank to offer some clarity, or an idea. Nothing came. My arms were growing too stiff for me to focus. Minutes blended into hours.

Out of the silence, I heard a distant crash. And...blaster fire? What was happening? I sat up, suddenly alert. I heard the men yelling. More fire, then two thuds. Heavy steps. A shadow appeared in the crack of light under the door.

He’s decided to kill me. I swallowed hard and pushed myself as far back as possible against the wall. The door swung open.

It was not the captain.

If you had given me twenty, no fifty guesses as to who, or what, would be standing there I wouldn’t have even been close.

I was looking straight into the visor of a Mandalorian.

——

Posting every other day through 4/15

[eliza1911o1]

Chapter 17 Review (more of a play-by-play)

/Mandalorian S3 spoilers ahead/

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I enjoyed the start. For the most part. To me, the initiation scene felt a bit awkward and more roleplay-esque than dramatic swearing into a cult-that-makes-you-wear-a-helmet-for-eternity.

I think this comes down to the cinematography, particularly the really bright coloring and shots they used. Personally, I found the filter used overly lightened and emphasized the colors in a manner that made the props (especially helmets) and environment seem fake. I thought the outfits and props looked kind of cheap in general. Kinda hated the banners. And the helmets. The whole thing just felt equivalent to a promo for really good cosplayers and appeared pretty low budget for one of the most anticipated shows of the year.

A lot of semi-wide and wide angles were used to show how small the group was, which was probably to emphasize the rebuilding of the clan, though it felt more LARP with class friends than anything… I wish they would’ve used more closeups, especially in the scenes between the kid and the armorer, since it seemed a bit stiff. Scenes (especially the introductory scenes with the Mandalorians) feel stiff, mostly likely to editing rather than camerawork, as the aesthetic shots are undermined with clunky switching, lingering frames, and an inconsistent visual tone. The child actor was a bit lacking, especially since his delivery was a pivotal part of the intro, but he has plenty of time to improve and what I think might be hinting at a future flashback of Din’s introduction into the group.

Not a fan of the giant crocodile fight sequence. I found the sequence generally repetitive and flashy, with a lot of random shots being fired and people being knocked back. I don’t know if I expected them to be better prepared since they’re known as legendary fighters, but they shouldn’t have been that weak, right? Really hoping this was used to show how the small group is struggling rather than highlight Din’s intro… though it was a sick intro… either way, shout out to the flying GoPro dude though. Armorer and Din sequence was also vaguely uninteresting, though they’re definitely hinting at some things.

The following hyperdrive scene is one of my favorites in the episode. I’m not an expert on the original animated series or Ezra Bridger, but space whales are cool no matter the circumstances. And, while this is overall just a really pretty and cool sequence, the way grogu snuggled up into Din’s arms while he slept left me in tears. Absolutely adorable. Couldn’t have come up with better myself. Though I still don’t understand how tf Grogu got from his seat to the driver’s seat since there’s no visible whole…

Renovated Nevarro reminded me of the prequels and Naboo, which was interesting since we also saw snippets of Coruscant from the trailers. Don’t really know what to make of that information, but since Darth Maul once held the dark saber, maybe there’s some implications about the series connecting to the prequels and the sith; maybe I’m just making up conspiracy theories

Pimped out Greef Karga is exactly what I needed — what really does it for me are those little droids carrying his cape. Pure comedy right there. His character arc has been pretty interesting, since he’s still primarily in it on wealth and power, but appears to be orbiting around a new set of morals (like when he tells off the pirates in front of the school), though this might be attributed to wanting to get away from his past… either way, he seems to be taking on more of a comedy role.

Also, what was he expecting from Din the workaholic and full-time dad (Grogu. Come again? His name is Grogu). They handled Cara Dune’s exit pretty cleanly, but there’s definitely the want for a new supporting character since hers was originally pretty central. Guess we’ll have to keep our eyes out to see if Cobb Vanth is coming back. In the meantime, pirates are a very fun new introduction and Vane seems like he could be a good recurring character

Din was hot leaning against that tree. I don’t make the facts.

There is a clear emphasis on IG-11 throughout the entire episode, which does feel redundant. I enjoyed Din’s tinkering and was a big fan of the zombie droid moment. It was a unique enough idea for me not to completely hate the revival, though Din’s lack of shooting accuracy felt misplaced and the tone of the scene felt disjointed from the others. But we did get an iconic one-liner from Din that is redefining comedy as we speak though (I wish I could use “now that’s using your head” casually).

Loved the Anzellans making an appearance and got some of the most iconic shots of the episode. Din sitting cross-legged and Grogu trying to steal one of them was peak humor.

And now we’re at my other favorite part of the episode. Din teaching Grogu what it means to be a Mandalorian is not only incredibly soft and cute, but also a great way for us to understand his internal dialogue and learn new background. And also just really cute. This was also by far one of the coolest dog fights we’ve gotten. Admittedly, I am a simp for the N-1 Starfighter, but the maneuvering and usage of the asteroids was way too cool. The music was especially good during the fight and into the pirate’s intro as well. Grogu tucking himself into Din’s belt and being way too excited at the fight was perfect.

Adore the design for Kalevala; they did a great job of adapting it from the animated series. Having it be raining was a great visual choice too, really highlighted the color palette. Personally, I’m not big on Bo-Katan so far, but I’m up for this season making me a fan. Though the ending sequence seems to undermine her importance to the season, we all know she’ll be a big player. Just have to point out Din’s introduction too, using his full name and everything, we love to see it

Overall, I thought this first episode was great, albeit an underwhelming premiere

I’m holding back a lot of my theories, but to sum it up, I think the most prominent challenge of this episode seems to be pacing and clarity.

Either way, though this definitely was not the strongest start (especially when compared to other seasons), the newfound freedom found in the expansive world building supersedes it. And seeing all the characters again too. From what I know of the LA premiere, they showed the first two episodes and although Chapter 17 received a similarly lackluster response, apparently Chapter 18 was amazing so I guess I’ll just suffer and over-analyze until then

[airyairyaucontraire]

Not to mention the missed opportunity for Bo-Katan, who undoubtedly had a classical Mandalorian education, to take a cheap shot at his accent or ask him if he actually understood what he said.

(I also like the idea that the Watch uses an archaic-sounding dialect because they feel it’s closer to their historical roots, so while most Mandalorians speak in a normal modern idiom, Din’s going around theeing and thouing like he’s in a Renaissance fair.)

every time din speaks to another mandalorian:

[az-cain]

Di’kutla Kar’ta - Foolish Heart

chapter one

din djarin x reader ≈ 1.3k words masterlist

so casse and i got to talking and i decided that i would write my first multi-chapter fic. here’s to committing, y’all. the name is subject to change. hmu if u want to be tagged! also i am terrified

tysm @amchapel for being a glorious editor and beta reader

SERIES TW: mentions of sexual assault, religious trauma, loss of family members, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, slowburn, smut

CHAPTER TW: descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence

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This job had gone completely wrong.

You were pinned face-down by the neck under the forearm of a grimy imperial Stormtrooper as six others worked at the clasps of your beskar armor.

They had already stripped your pauldrons, cape, and tassets. Your ship was in fragments of metal and clouds of smoke outside, blown up by the ugly cronies of the ugly mudscuffer that sat on the ugly bar of this ugly cantina.

You should have just stuck to fixing ships for far too cheap on this frozen shithole of a planet.

You swore under your breath, wriggling the fingers of your right hand— pinned just above the elbow— to trigger the rockets in your gauntlet. In response, one of the other Imps stepped full-body onto said fingers. A sickening crunch filled the air followed by your loud shout and swearing in a few languages.

Apparently, the Stormtrooper was a little bitter about the bodies of six of his comrades scattering the ground. He laughed cruelly, making some sort of joke you were too inconvenienced and pained to understand.

There was a loud crash emanating from somewhere behind you and blaster-shots, then five of the seven Stormtroopers were off of you and headed towards the origin of the sound.

You wrestled quickly out of the grip of the two remaining, flipped the one at your neck onto his, and shot a small missile from your gauntlet into the one near your feet. You didn’t stop to watch his head and helmet splinter, turning to grab your guns and run to the source of the crash and shots.

It was another Mandalorian, clad in pure silver beskar and a simple black cape. He was handling the troopers with ease, until one shot through the doorway from about 20 feet behind him, somehow missing enough to graze his unarmored side.

You aimed the blaster and quickly dispatched the few more stormtroopers across the road as the other Mandalorian shot down the one remaining Stormtrooper.

You whipped around and shot the head of the man who’d commissioned you to find a bounty. Almost predictably, he’d just wanted your armor.

You huffed, walking stiffly back to where your beskar’gam lay on the cold concrete, watching your breath spread in front of you as you knelt to pick it up and strap it back on with one hand.

Footsteps clicked quietly behind you, the other Mandalorian approaching carefully. You finished strapping it on and stood, meeting his eyes through both of your visors.

He spoke first. “What were you doing meeting with Imps?”

You laughed, cradling your hand against your chest. “Low on credits. What the hell is another Mandalorian doing on Hoth?”

“Low on credits. That your ship outside?”

You groaned, head dropping back in exasperation. “Kriffin’ used to be. Now it’s just a pile of dust.” You dropped your head back down to meet his eyes again.

He hummed, extending a gloved hand, presumably to inspect your own. You placed your palm on it.

You weren’t thrilled to see another Mandalorian— the only ones you’d seen in the last few years had called you a member of a cult and scorned you. You’d made a point to avoid them since.

“Come to my ship,” he said, yanking you out of your thoughts. “I can give you a ride off-world to somewhere less desolate and give you some tape to set your fingers with.”

You cocked your head, a little bit intrigued by the man. He hadn’t gone to remove his helmet yet, surprisingly.

“Alright,” you said after a moment, “but I don’t take off the helmet.”

He nodded solemnly. “Neither do I.”

“This is the Way.”

“This is the Way.”

You withdrew your hand and motioned for him to lead the way with the other. He stepped towards the exit of the abandoned, ruined cantina in broad steps, leaving you to almost jog to maintain his pace. He had a hand pressing the fabric of his cape roughly to his side where the bullet had grazed him.

The two of you walked silently through the small town towards the ice plains for a few frigid minutes before he spoke in a cloud of moisture. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Y/n L/n.”

“Pleasure.”

The next few minutes were quiet as you saw a Razor Crest appear at the edge of your vision. The scarred dark silver form loomed as you approached it, a button on Din’s gauntlet opening the cargo bay slowly. It had lowered to the ground by the time you had reached it, so you walked up into the heated ship.

“Dank farrik that feels nice,” you sighed into the warmth, hand almost forgotten. But of course, as blood returned to your limbs fully, the broken bones throbbed. You turned to meet Din’s eyes and he nodded towards the boxes against the wall of the bay, motioning for you to sit as he turned to the other wall and pulled out some medical tape.

“Catch,” he said simply, tossing you the tape.You caught it in your uninjured hand, setting it on the metal on your thigh while you worked your glove off. Once you’d gotten it off and set it down by the tape, you winced internally at the look of it. A few fingers were already turning blue and one was tilted slightly at the base.

You braced yourself as you cracked the bottom knuckle back into place, hissing quietly enough that you hoped it wasn’t picked up by the modulator. You pinned the tape between your thighs and scratched at the end of it until it came up, pulling it up and wrapping your pointer and ring fingers with the unharmed middle before cutting the tape with your teeth. You laid the ends of the tape down on both your finger and the roll before standing and walking to where Din was tending his own wounds.

He had a small cloth soaked with what seemed to be disinfectant in hand and was pressing it to the wound, the fabric slit opened a bit wider to allow him better access. The good thing about blaster grazes was that they were cauterized the instant they occured, so he needed only to clean it and make sure no infection occurred.

“So you said you were here because you were low on credits. Plus the carbonite freezer. Bounty hunter?”

He nodded, visor tilting up to meet yours.

“You catch this one?”

He nodded again.“He got a few good shots in at the Crest last night.” He hissed in pain, whipping his head to his wound and moving the rag away as he stood. “Not sure if she’ll run.”

“If you want, I can help you fix it up tomorrow morning. Tonight, if you need it.” You clicked your tongue. “I have a shop with some supplies and engine parts back in town. I’m sure I can find something that’ll get her going again.”

He hummed, tilting his visor up in an affirmative. “Thanks. Morning sounds good.” He headed towards the opening of a bunk near the ladder to the cockpit. “You can take the bunk next to mine. There aren’t any sheets or blankets, but it’s a bed. I’ll knock to wake you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, suddenly overcome with your exhaustion, your adrenaline finally wearing out.

You walked towards the bunk and laid down, shutting the door before stripping your armor piece by piece. The sound of metal scraping and clinking emerged from the other side of the narrow cubby and you nearly laughed at the fact that you’d spent years avoiding other Mandalorians and now you found yourself stripping from your armor less than 10 feet away.

The humor, however, didn’t last too long. As soon as you’d removed your helmet and laid down on the plain mattress, you were out like a light.

masterlist

[short-wooloo]

I like how despite supposedly having a reputation as “Jedi killers” there is only ever one instance of a “mandalorian” killing a Jedi canonically

And rather than an awesome, cool, drawn out battle, its a cheap shot while the Jedi was distracted (by a sith, a much bigger deal than some idiot with more armor and guns than brains)

Clones, Battle Droids, hell even STORMTROOPERS, have a much better record of performance against Jedi

Because the only thing that can match or surpass a Jedi in combat is another Force user, otherwise the only way to win is by using superior numbers

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Michael After Midnight: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

There are actors, and then there is Nicolas Cage. Cage is less an actor and more a force of nature given human form, a man who can turn even the shittiest film he’s into a masterpiece with his bizarre yet brilliant acting. This man is the very definition of a character actor. And while he is indispensable in bad movies, Cage is all the better in truly great movies, making a genuinely fantastic experience doubly so by channeling his madness for the greater good. The man is just fascinating to watch.

The question then becomes this: Why the fuck did it take so long for the guy to get a movie that’s basically a giant love letter to his career?

The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent is a movie about Nicolas Cage playing a version of himself who is quite a bit more egotistical than the real deal, though every bit as weird. It is stuffed to the brim with references to Cage’s oeuvre, and it features him going so far over the top he shoots up from the bottom to go over the top again. It is, quite simply, exactly the sort of thing we’ve come to expect from Cage. I mean, the dude makes out with himself in this one, I’d say it’s harder to get any Cage-ier than that.

But this isn’t just a showcase of Cage’s wild acting skills, it’s a film about why we love Cage himself, and the film would just completely fall apart if not for the Mandalorian, the myth, the legend that is Pedro Pascal. Pascal is playing Cage’s biggest fan, and the unlikely bromance that ensues from their meeting is the very heart and soul of the movie. These dudes play off each other so well, and their friendship is believable and funny. You really are rooting for these guys despite their flaws, and you definitely don’t want to believe Pascal’s character is a bad guy like the CIA are telling Cage.

Pascal’s wide-eyed hero worship of Cage is definitely played for laughs, but while the tongue is firmly in cheek there is a ring of truth to how he’s portrayed. It is quite obvious the filmmakers really love Cage, and that they were passionate about making a film that honored him. There aren’t really any cheap shots about his career, no mockery of his numerous schlocky acting choices; hell, The Wicker Man is given a shout out, and it’s not in a negative sense. The humor comes from poking fun at this version of Cage, a raging alcoholic jackass egomaniac who is well-meaning but seriously out of touch, not at the idea of the man himself.

The film very much is in love with the idea of Cage, and that might be where the only real issue comes into play. This is basically a movie that’s only accessible to Cage superfans, and even if Cage is a wildly popular weirdo actor, that’s still quite a niche audience. It’s no wonder the film didn’t do well despite rave reviews, there’s a very narrow audience who is going to truly ‘get’ this film. Thankfully, as I am a huge Nicolas Cage fan, I loved it a lot, but I can’t really speak for everyone.

Basically, if you love Cage, you’re gonna love this movie. If you don’t love him or have a neutral opinion on him, this might not be the movie for you as a lot of the content will either go over your head or just won’t be enjoyable without the love for Cage. I definitely think this is a fantastic entry in the large library of Cage Cult Classics, and on its own merits it’s definitely fantastic, but it still has such a narrow niche audience that it’s not hard to see why it wasn’t the smash success it deserved to be.

[rosheendubh]

Hot damn if this resemblance isn’t spot-on. Thanks for feeding my head-canon finally, with a face/persona I can put-into my own head-canon….also, JoaquinPhoenix too—maybe for Thrass, eh?.

That said, If the writers/producers of Andor were heading this, I’d have faith. I’m a fan of good writing, and not dumbing down the live-action shows to less than PG13, nor cheap shot cameos to up ratings for lackluster characterizations/plot/derivative drama and story-arcs. Also, LarsMikkelson’s voice is too pediphilic, creepy mustschiod villain for me. I much prefer Stephen Dillane’s WestCountry cadence (as Thomas Jefferson)— gentle-hypnotic-transfixing-even as he commands Rukh to hold your hand beneath a plasma-ray burner, watching your skin fizzle, boil, melt, and char…yeah, looks like Sewell, sounds like Dillane…

la-it is what it is. I’ll probably still watch bc…maybe it’ll have something redeeming (yes, I follow saltierthanscrait redDit…and pretty much agree with everything their threads condemn/condone…). Get ready for more Poo-doo folks. If the Mandalorian S3/Kenobi/BoBF we’re anything to go on, this tank needs a mine too blow it all up. Poor Zahn should never have given over his BlueMan.

JUST REALISED, Rufus Sewell could also have been a great choice for live action Thrawn

[raewritesthingss]

Belong to Me

Rating: Mature

Word count: 2269

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Mando knew that he had fucked up. You were always so talkative and loud as you moved about the Crest. But not today. No. Today you were silent. There was little noise and it made him uneasy. Before you’d started working with him, he enjoyed the silence and in the first few weeks of having you aboard, he missed it. That wasn’t the case now. He’d grown used to your rambling and how you’d speak in a little baby voice to Grogu. He liked how you’d narrate whatever you were doing throughout the day, even when you were by yourself. The sound of your voice brought him comfort. A sense of normalcy for the first time in a long time. It seemed like there was little that could upset you. You went with the flow of life and found the bright side of it all. At least that’s what Mando thought.

It was like any other day. You loaded up your pack with snacks and a few small toys for the baby and headed out with Mando and the Child to see what quarries were available for him. The three of you made your way towards the Cantina where Karga was waiting, there were a few patrons waiting around that quickly moved out of the way the moment they noticed a Mandalorian coming their way. That was the nice thing about traveling with Mando, no one bothered you.

You made yourself comfortable, ordering a drink for yourself and some food for Grogu. You let Mando handle business on his own usually, it was never your scene. You enjoyed taking care of the Crest and the baby, but nothing that involved the violence of your boss’s work. You set the small, metal ball in front of the baby to play with while you both waited for his food to arrive. He was content with making it float in front of his face and gave you his signature toothy grin as he did. It made you happy to see him this way. No fear, just the happiness of an innocent child. A small bowl of bone broth and a drink was placed down in front of you. You carefully switched out the toy for the food and sipped on your drink as you watched the Child gulp down his food, dripping it onto his little clothes that you’d have to wash later. It didn’t matter, he was happy. When another glass was placed in front of you, you glanced up at the bartender.

“Oh? I didn’t order this one,” you muttered and slid it back. The bartender nodded towards a booth near the back where a man was sitting sipping on his own drink. The man smiled at you but there was no kindness behind it. It was the kind of smile a predator gives its prey before it attacks. You returned his smile with one of your own, though less enthusiastic.

“No, thank you. I’m fine with just this.” you responded kindly, raising your own drink. The bartender nodded and picked the glass up before making his way back to the front of the catina. Mando’s helmet turned towards you and watched you carefully but he said nothing. You could see his hand gripping the edge of the table harder than usual.

The child let out a small cough that brought you out of your thoughts and you turned to him to wipe the broth that was dribbling off his chin and onto his clothes. You smiled at him as he tried turning his face away from the cloth. Karga was late again as per usual. He never was one to care much for arriving on time, a fact that continuously pissed Mando off. Mando had one way of doing this: his way and Karga seemed to enjoy getting in the way of that constantly. You on the other hand didn’t mind. It wasn’t often that you were able to leave the Crest and sit down for a meal. It made your life feel a bit more normal, especially given what your job was. Running around the galaxy so your boss could chase down bounties while you watched his son that had tons of people wanting him dead wasn’t exactly the way you envisioned your life. This was nice though. It made you feel like the three of you were a family. Almost.

“He’s late.” Mando’s gruff voice spoke. You could tell he was on edge. You’d learned quickly how to tell what kind of mood he was in despite how seldom he said anything.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Besides, look how happy he is,” you gestured towards the Child who was now playing with the small spoon that came with his meal. Mando let out a breath that could’ve been interpreted as a laugh. His posture relaxed slightly but only for a few moments before you saw him stiffen up, his gaze set behind you. You turned in your chair only to come face to face with the man who’d bought you the drink. His eyes stayed on you, completely ignoring the man covered head to toe in beskar that could easily snap his neck and be gone before anyone noticed.

“You rejected me”, the man said, an air of superiority laced in his voice. Great. A grade A asshole.

“Well, you see I already have one of my own. And while I appreciate the gesture, I’m not interested. “ Your voice was firm but still polite. You’d always prided yourself in remaining calm and collected, even in uncomfortable situations.

The man chuckled and leaned down, throwing an arm over the back of your chair. You could smell his breath and it reeked of alcohol and cheap death sticks, “Why? Cause of this guy? Darlin’ you can’t even see his face. Bet he doesn’t even have a dick under all that shit. He can’t give you what you need, a woman like you needs a real man with a nice, big co-”, he didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Mando had his hand wrapped around his throat and his back shoved into the nearest wall. You could hear the man gasping for air as Mando’s grip tightened. The Child giggled as he watched, thinking it was some sort of game.

“Mando!”, you shouted. His helmet whipped around to look at you, “Enough.”, you stood up quickly, throwing down more credits than necessary and picked up the baby before making your way out of the cantina. You didn’t bother to see if Mando was following you. You didn’t care at that point. You’d told Mando before to stop fighting your own battles for you. You grew up taking care of yourself, never having anyone to look after you. It wasn’t the first time a man had invaded your personal space and attempted to make you uncomfortable and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. You didn’t need saving.

By the time you made it back to the Crest, most of your anger had faded and turned into sadness. Did Mando not think you were capable of handling yourself? Did he think you were weak? You placed the baby in the crib and shut it, making sure he was asleep before sitting down on one of the crates. The sound of metal clanging against metal alerted you, letting you know that he was back. He walked up the ramp, stopping just inside to shut it before turning his body towards yours. You stared at each other for a few long moments until you got up and made your way up to the cockpit without a word to set the coordinates for the next stop. It wasn’t long before he came up behind you and sat in the pilot’s chair. Mando never started conversations, you were always the one to initiate things but today wasn’t going to be like that. You had nothing to say to him. The silence went on for two hours before he finally broke.

“You’re upset.” his voice faltered for a moment.

You snorted and crossed your arms and turned your chair towards him, “Well I guess nothing gets past you then, huh?”. His hands tightened around the controls and he let out a sigh.

“I was only trying to-”

“No”, you cut him off quickly, “You don’t think I can do anything myself. You think I’m some weak, little girl that needs your protection but I’m not. I’m not the kid Mando, I’m a grown woman.”

Within seconds he’d switched on the autopilot and had you yanked up from your chair and backed into the wall, much like the man from earlier. His hands rested on either side of your face while his face was only inches from yours.

“Trust me, I know you’re no little girl,” his voice was low and rough and heat shot straight through you at the sound of it. You wondered what it would sound like if he was saying other things.

“I didn’t need you to do that back in the cantina, I can handle myself,” your voice came out soft and weak, nowhere near the level of confidence you were trying to give off. His helmet tilted to the side as his left hand came up to rest up your cheek. He slowly rubbed his thumb across your face. The gentleness of it all shocked you. This was a man who had killed hundreds with the same hands he used to touch you so softly now. You sucked in a breath and let your eyes shut, not wanting this moment to end ever.

“I know you can. Doesn’t mean I’m ok with someone touching what belongs to me and you belong to me”

“I don’t belong to anyone”, you both knew you were lying.

He let out a laugh and moved his hands down to the waistband of your pants, “We’ll see”. You didn’t have time to respond before he’d yanked your pants down, bringing your underwear with them. Your hands moved up to his chest but he grabbed both your wrists in one hand and held them tightly while using his other to work on his belt. He tossed it to the side and then pulled his pants down just enough to let his cock out. You gasped when you finally saw it. He was bigger than any man you’d ever seen. It terrified you but you wanted it so bad. He let go of your wrists and moved your hand down to wrap around him, moving your hand up and down slowly. The groan he let out was sinful and you could feel yourself growing wetter by the second. His free hand moved between your legs and he pushed two thick fingers inside you. Your eyes rolled back instantly as you whimpered.

“You get this wet for someone you don’t belong to?” he asked, pumping his fingers in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace. Your mouth opened to respond but nothing came out as he pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing quick circles, “You don’t have anything to say? That’s a first.” his voice was somehow deeper, his breathing becoming more labored with each passing second.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, causing you to let out a whine. You moved your own hand down but he slapped it away and positioned himself at your entrance. His hand moved to your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. He said nothing but you knew he was asking for your permission. He had to know that you wanted this. That you needed this as much as he did. You nodded and almost missed the small sigh of relief he let out. The feeling of him pushing into you was indescribable. The stretch was both painful and full of pleasure. You don’t know how you’d gone this long without it.

“Fucking tight,” he grunted and pulled back again only to slam into you seconds later. The pace he set was brutal. You could barely keep up. Your entire brain went to mush in that moment. The noises coming out of you would have embarrassed you in any other situation if it weren’t for the fact that you couldn’t think straight enough to care. Or the fact that Mando was encouraging you. You couldn’t register much of what he said but you were able to catch a few small phrases.

“Good girl.”

“That’s it baby, just like that.”

“Sound so pretty”

“Mine.”

You could feel yourself getting close to your climax and you knew he was close to his. His thrusts were becoming sloppier. His helmet rested on your shoulder. His hand moved down to play with your clit and your legs began to shake. You were so close. His pace quickened, hitting you right where you needed it most and you felt your orgasm take over your whole body. Black spots danced around in your vision. You felt something warm seep inside of you and barely registered the sound of Mando moaning and grunting against you.

You lifted your head after what felt like hours to find that you’d put all of your weight on him. He held you up without any effort though.

“I am yours. But that means that you’re mine,” you said softly.

He reached a hand up to brush a stray piece of hair out of your face, “I’ve been yours from the moment you set foot on this ship sweet girl,” he whispered before pulling you into his chest and wrapped his arms around you tightly.

[ravenalla]

Alright episodes finished, thoughts under the cut

Overall, best episode of the season I’d say just in terms of technical aspects. It looked a lot more cinematic and less cheap, the choreography is still awakened as hell sometimes for the fight scenes but it was at least entertaining.

I’ve known about the IG-11 thing months before the season started because of leaks and was dreading it. It’s such a silly idea to give Grogu an iron man suit, and the fact that it’s this basically made out of this character who had an emotional death in season 1 really rubbed me the wrong way. Seeing it now it definitely isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to look, but it still feels kinda lame to do that. Like they just wanted some reason Grogu would even be on this mission besides Din.

However, speaking of that WE FINALLY GOT SOME MORE DAD! DIN DJARIN CRUMBS YESS!!!! Grogu being a insistent little toddler who wants his way while Din just is so done was so fucking adorable. Also guys I don’t know if Pedro was in the suit for that season or he just had an extra boost of motivation while recording seeing it was finally a scene where he got to show some of that prior personality Din had, but he didn’t sound the same monotone he has all season, he sounded so lively again with inflictions in his voice like in season 1! It was like an oasis in the desert I loved it.

As for the elephant in the room..urgh yeah let’s talk about that scene with Din and Bo-Katan. I know the shippers are going to go crazy over it, but I refuse to believe this confirms some love story. Din has always been shown to be respectful and loyal. As he said, honor is his way. To me that is all that was, Din once again showing he’s a dependable person when he is helping people and knows how to let those around them truly see themselves. Am I happy that after reducing his character to be nothing but Bo’s sidekick he has a like proclaiming his service to her? Fuck no, but at the very least I can say this doesn’t seem out of character for me if we just accept that Bo-Karan’s past is never going to be properly addressed and she just is a good person now Din would trust.

Which like, istg you had a scene with her admitting her past failures to the other mandalorian and there was nothing about her ACTUALLY BEING DEATH WATCH??? SHE WAS A TERRORIST!!! And yet that’s not brought up at all, it’s just more “oh don’t feel bad you tried your best 🥺” God even when she is saying how she failed everyone it’s a new situation they wrote where she was clearly in the right for trying to save her people, why tf did they write her in Clone Wars to be this complicated messy individual if Dave just wanted to basically erase all that and do the shes simply misunderstood thing. That’s so fucking frustrating, if you want to have your character grow then actually acknowledge their past flaws.

On a more brighter note, Moff Gideon will never not be entertaining, even if it makes the season 2 finale worthless in another way THANK YOU FOR SOME ACTUAL COMPELLING CONFLICT FINALLY. Him with the Mando helmet and suit looked fucking sick (in a villain way of course I mean this is clearly cultural appropriation and genocide we are dealing with here). I know people are gonna be freaking out from the Thrawn mention and whatever else sequel triology related stuff they said but I don’t care I’m just happy Moff Gideon got to come back and antagonize once more for my entertainment lmao.

Sigh. Paz. You were just starting to get a bit more fleshed out and they killed you off. Don’t get me wrong its an honorable death at least, but god see this is what I mean when I saw Bo-Katan has taken over everything, Din’s known him practically his whole life and we didn’t even maybe get to see a shot of him seeing him killed as he was dragged away, it’s just a moment between Bo and him because she is the protagonist at this point. Maybe if they had had a conversation about their personal different upbringings or something, but as is it just feels like a random moment between them. Oh well, still made me sad because I like Paz and at least it meant something saving both factions of Mandalorians I GUESS? That also has been handled pretty poorly imo, since this show doesn’t let people actually talk to one another hardly (unless it’s assuring Bo she’s a great person yada yada). I have one thing that really bothered me about that confrontation scene where Grogu stepped in, but I’m gonna make another separate post for that.

Finally, let’s talk about our main man himself. Din getting kidnapped at the end is slightly insulting after having to be saved by Bo constantly all season, however on it’s own I do love the vulnerable spot he is in and this creates a cool cliffhanger that makes me actually excited for next week! (first time all season lmao). I really thought they were going to take his helmet off in front of everybody right there, which idk I think that would have been a cool way to just further insult the mines and Din after he (albeit pretty easily and cheaply) redeemed himself, especially in front of Paz. But we didn’t get that so eh, maybe next episode is where we get our helmetless Din Djarin sequence who knows. I am so hoping for him to finally get the spotlight next episode and get a personal scene between him and Moff Gideon, it’s not going to feel as satisfying as it would be if Din had the proper development this season he deserved but still it would be better than nothing.

So overall, best episode of the season in my my opinion, but that still doesn’t mean there isn’t the same problems the whole season has had concerning Din and I wouldn’t say it’s the best of the series by a long shot. I do actually want to see the ending though, but apparently it’s going to be very controversial. I don’t know what they’re gonna pull up their sleeves but as long as Din and Bo aren’t confirmed to kiss at the end like a Disney princess tale or some shit, I will be cautiously waiting.

[jangofctts]

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit 

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end    

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met. 

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things. 

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income. 

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing. 

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster. 

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.  

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles. 

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship. 

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.  

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back. 

Whatever.

 Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off. 

Maybe. 

                                                       -=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you. 

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.” 

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?” 

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think. 

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.” 

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”  

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots. 

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.” 

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.     

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.” 

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…” 

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.       

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own). 

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.  

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.       

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that. 

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

                                                 -=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show. 

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will. 

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.  

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…          

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.  

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans. 

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.    

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal. 

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.     

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…        

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.   

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.  

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter. 

Eh.    

Could be worse. 

At least you aren’t dead. 

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun. 

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.        

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.      

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light. 

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.  

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room. 

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”      

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.” 

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.” 

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.   

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.  

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.” 

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”  

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt. 

Damn it.  

                                                     -=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this. 

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn. 

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red. 

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.” 

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”      

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it. 

“Leave.” 

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.” 

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved. 

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”  

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side. 

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.” 

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”  

You wince. 

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”  

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.” 

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.    

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet. 

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch. 

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage. 

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?” 

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.” 

You frown. “Poor guy…” 

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.  

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp. 

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?” 

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder. 

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.” 

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.” 

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.” 

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them. 

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right. 

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath. 

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.   

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning. 

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet. 

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man. 

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell— 

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling. 

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?” 

“She isn’t made of glass.” 

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.  

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.” 

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance. 

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.” 

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.” 

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.   

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.” 

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin. 

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.        

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again. 

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole. 

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.” 

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.  

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope. 

Here you are—asphyxiating.   

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it. 

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?   

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off. 

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.  

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.  

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”           

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on. 

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.” 

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“ 

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah. 

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?” 

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.   

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.” 

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree. 

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk? 

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”    

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.      

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.” 

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.” 

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.” 

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din." 

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb. 

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”  

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing. 

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees. 

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch. 

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.   

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.    

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds. 

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm. 

“Paz—“ 

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”  

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.      

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.     

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh. 

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”  

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—  

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”  

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough. 

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.” 

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.” 

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.” 

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you. 

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.  

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals. 

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?” 

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered. 

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation. 

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.” 

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration. 

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—   

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip. 

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind. 

Din’s kiss is devouring—  

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—  

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning. 

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.   

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.” 

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on. 

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside. 

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth. 

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.  

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now— 

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit. 

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.   

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away. 

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. 

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.   

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.           

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.” 

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.” 

“Neither will your arrogance.” 

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out. 

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.” 

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.” 

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic. 

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”  

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further. 

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—         

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words. 

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips. 

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?” 

Din. 

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.    

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position. 

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath. 

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.” 

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.       

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him. 

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.          

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete. 

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.    

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.” 

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need. 

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much. 

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours. 

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.      

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.  

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”     

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.            

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear. 

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder. 

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?” 

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.  

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.” 

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts. 

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.     

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—     

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.     

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?  

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.   

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.  

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.” 

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems. 

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air. 

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.      

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.” 

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.     

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future. 

You shrug it off.    

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear. 

“You love her, don't you?” 

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak 

or’dinni--dumbass idiot 

vod--brother/comrade 

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