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netherfeildren · 4 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XII : Venus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

A/N: I realized shortly after posting chapter 11 that I’d made a small mistake in the timeline I’m intending this to follow. I included a line from Din saying Paz had already tried to take the Darksaber from him and failed, but where we’re at now, chapter 5 of The Book of Boba Fett hasn’t happened just yet. So I’ve gone back and deleted that small detail from the previous chapter, and why am I even telling you this, idk, but if you guy could do me a solid and pretend to forget my fuck up, I’d love you forever for it.

Writing Star Wars is hard

Also, the indomitable @dirtysouvenir has rendered the most gorgeous artwork imaginable of Din and Sithy, and I still can’t quite believe my eyes every time I look at it. Everyone please go show Jonis all the love and praise she deserves.

Anyways… like always, forgive me for the wait. I love you all for being so patient with me. And shout out to chapter four of Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband which served as inspiration for this. You will always be famous to me!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

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CHAPTER XII : VENUS

What are we doing here, and why are our hearts invisible?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

“Just like that, yes. Good girl–keep doing what you’re doing.” His hand slides to circle your wrist, leather and the thick weave of your tunic, the slight shake of your nerves caught between. “Grip it firmly, but squeeze it gently. Yes– yes, good. You’re doing so well.”

You suck in a trembling breath, too hyper aware of the feel of his chest plate brushing against your back, the cap of his left knee gently bumping the back of your own, his arms wrapped in a loose and careful cage around your frame where he’s helping you direct the blaster at the target he’d set up several meters away for practicing. He’s got one of your wrists wrapped in the leather of his fist, the other cupping the underside of your elbow to keep your shaking arms steady.

“I don’t know why I’ve never been very good at this,” you whisper over the sound of the burning desert winds lashing you in the brow. “It’s just never come very easy.”

“That’s alright. That’s why we’re practicing again.” The hand cupping your elbow moves slowly to your waist, all his handling of you these past few days has been so intentional, cautious and patient and aware of himself and you and your reactions. Your heart beats, thumps and thumps hard enough to make you a little dizzy, a little sick. “Keep your right arm firm, but fluid. Try not to lock your elbow, let the recoil move through you steadily.”

He’d covered your hair and face in soft white linen wraps to keep you from being scorched by the sun and sand, and his voice is so deep, head pitched low so that the modulator is vibrating right at the level of your ear, the sounds of him sluicing through the linen to curl around your ear. You shiver again, squeezing your fist too tight around the butt of the blaster. You’d asked him if he’d help you practice just before you’d made planet fall a few hours ago, and now here the two of you are. A few clicks outside of Mos Eisley, he’d found a cluster of sandstacks to land the Crest amidst for a couple hours of target practice—near an area he’d told you is called Beggar’s Canyon.

You’re not sure if it’s just an excuse to have him touch you, but here you are now, in the circle of his arms, shivering with nerves and heat and want. The sun burns, but the places where he grips you burn worse, and your heart rings in your skull.

“Focus your gaze between the eyeline, eventually, it’ll come naturally, your aim, but for now, use the field the blaster sets. Squeeze gentle–” He grips your now healed elbow firmly, anchoring your arm, the hand holding your wrist moves to your waist, securing you in his hold so that when you pull the trigger, the zing of the blaster bolt leaving its chamber moves through your limb, into your chest cavity, electrifying your heart, and his hold is steadying all the way through. He’s there to keep you up, keep you strong, and so it’s almost thoughtless when you do it, a gut instinct or some muscle inside your brain desperate to flex and stretch or come awake because faster than you can blink or think, you take hold of that bolt of plasma with your mind, freezing it midway between where the two of you stand and the target he’d set.

You feel his hands flex around you, but he keeps still and silent, watching, waiting for what you’ll do next. And your heart beats faster and faster, the bright of the sun gleaming and nauseating, refracting off the sand, the plasma, your eyes. The bolt screeches and writhes and defies the laws of nature by your hand, and it does not feel good, but it does feel right.

The first time you’ve really wielded the Force since the night you escaped.

There’s something painful and uncomfortable and familiar about it coming back to you. Your breath goes fast within your chest, the taste of the desert on your tongue and the grit of sand sneaking beneath your clothes, sweaty line of anxiety down your spine, and his steady, calm breaths up against your back every other moment, this power inside of you that’s always been the cause of everything bad and only some things good. It vibrates in everything, moves through all living things, the Force, within you, within him.

“Let it go, cyare. It’s okay if you miss.” You shut your eyes and let it fall away and now it’s not the Force or you or anything else, it’s only him keeping you up against the rest of everything.

The two of you, like grief and the mountain.

“How did you meet this woman again?” You ask for about the third time, seemingly unable to keep your mouth shut and your nerves to yourself.

“She’s been keeping up maintenance on the Crest for a while now. And she helped out with the kid, watched him for me a couple times—I trust her.”

“Peli,” you repeat the name contemplatively, taking in the sight of him as he checks the pre-landing codes, flipping switches and punching toggles a little too roughly. He’s agitated, covered and swathed in it. You know he’s worried about you, the way you’ll feel being around someone else, scared you’re still feeling fragile or tired or weak. And you’re accepting it for now because you are. You are tired and you do feel fragile and you do need taking care of. If only for the time being, if only for a little bit longer. A sort of end feels very near, and you’re still working out what that such end is going to be.

“Peli,” he sighs, hitting the last button and finally swiveling in his chair to face you, and you eye him suspiciously, you know that sigh and head tilt. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Not tired?”

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

Hurts. “Fine.”

“Cyar’ika.”

“Din.” Another sigh. Another shake of his head. You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath that stupid lug of metal he wears on his fat head. But you hope that he’s smiling too, and you give him a soft, small one of your own, twisting your fingers together tightly in your lap. You want to reach out for him, to go to him and sit with him and kiss him again like the other day. But you don’t feel ready again. Again, fragile, tired, a weakness of heart within you that you can’t understand the source of, or you can, but you don’t want to accept it, you want to be able to move on, to get over it, to be like you once were. But that you also know he’ll let you feel for as long as you need to.

“I promise I feel okay, and that I’ll tell you if I don’t.” The target practice had left you tired and awake, and there is something moving inside of you—a recognition of sorts you can’t pinpoint exactly, but which you know is going to show or tell you something about yourself soon, the Force, the things you’d done or the things you’d do. And there’s patience too, a waiting, a readiness to receive whatever this would be without pressure or urgency. You feel entirely strung tight, a knot about to be set loose, entirely at ease, as well. Something strange about the anxiety you carry within yourself, like it doesn’t really matter much anymore and is only waiting for the right moment to be expelled.

He gives a soft grunt and turns back to face the control panel. The rolling golden sands of Tatooine like an ocean before you, and then there in the distance, the littered smattering of sand blighted little buildings that make up the spaceport of Mos Eisley. He directs the Razor Crest towards Hangar three-five, the ship jostling with the lowering of the landing gear.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” You ask nervously, following him down the ladder once he’s eased the ship into the landing bay, fretting over this ordeal of having to meet someone else from his life, a friend, which wasn’t even something you were aware he knew how to have. You hear the heavy thud of his boots against the durasteel, and then his hands are circling your waist and pulling you down the rest of the way, paying no mind to your indignant squawking.

He’d been strange with his touch, as well. As if he couldn’t help himself some moments, overcome by habit and familiarity, and then afraid and cautious in others. And you can’t understand how you feel about this either. Grateful, a sort of soft that makes your eyes smart and your cheeks bleed with heat. He’s so aware of you, so aware of what you might want or need, but then overcome, as well, needing you, wanting you. And you feel so afraid you won’t be able to give him those things—the ones he wants or needs, that you won't be able to find your way back to the way things had been between the two of you before.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, little compassion to be found for your fretting. You stick your tongue out at the back of his head, rolling your eyes and steeling yourself as he lowers the hatch, and a chirpy little voice calls, Mando!

The plank lowers, and lowers, and lowers, and finally, a mess of springy dark curls come into view. The small woman, Peli, claps her hands excitedly and spreads her arms in wide welcome of him, and something in your heart throbs.

A friend, indeed.

“Peli,” he greets her, heavy, swaying gate stomping down the gangplank, voice serious and not all matching her enthusiasm. You roll your eyes at him again as the reverberations of his steps tickle your feet through the soles of your boots.

“Hey, look everyone! It’s Mando,” she says to the chittering droids whirring around her. You follow him slowly, slinking directly behind him so that the breadth of his shoulders conceals you for a second longer before, “And who do we have here? Another unlikely companion?”

He pivots, letting you step into full view and brave shyness, a hand coming up to hover around your waist, urging you forward, but not actually touching you. The sound of your name rings in tune to the thump of your heart through the modulator. Careful, so careful, and it makes you hurt at your own self. Wanting to touch you one moment, unable to stop himself from ripping you into his arms; another, afraid, feeling like he can’t even put a gently motioning hand on your body, and how will you ever fix this? How are you going to ever be able to get the two of you back to where you were?

You take a hurt little step away from him, swallowing the heat in your throat several times before you can force a smile onto your face.

His body shifts and sways towards your retreating one.

But the small woman steps towards you, pit droids spinning and skittering frantically around her, and she claps a work hewn hand on your shoulder. “Let Peli take a good look at you.” Her gaze is cheerful, full of a youthfulness that belies her age and an even more cheerful, gap toothed smile. “Pretty girlfriend, Mando.” She waggles her bushy brows up at him. “Brought me another set of bright eyes, didn’t’cha?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Peli.” Your throat feels humiliatingly tight when she takes your hand in her smaller one, giving it a swift shake, no gentleness about the way she handles you, and there’s something comforting about the forsaking of the kid gloves. Your fracture isn’t obvious for the whole world to see, there’s still normalcy to be found for you.

She looks up at Din as you avoid his burning gaze, laughing scowl on her sunny face. “Who woulda thought you had it in, ya, huh?” She thumps a fist on his chest plate, shaking her head and moves to take a look at the Crest. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Chasing down some elusive bounty? Carbon scoring’s worse than last time.'' She chatters a million miles a minute, pulling out some sort of electric scanner, assessing the old gunship.

“We had a long trip,” he sighs, hands fisted on his hips as he watches her impatiently, turning his gaze back to your face every few moments. You want to bare your teeth at him in a snarl and tell him to stop fucking worrying. You want him to take you into his arms or hold your hand.

“Long trip, sure. That’s what he always says,” she tells you over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes. “Turns out it’s usually a gun fight or something just as idiotic.”

You snicker, enjoying the easy way she handles your Mandalorian’s surliness, grateful for the cheerful buffer she provides between your own internal angst and his overzealous worrying. “It was a long trip this time, I swear. We’re coming from the Core,” he grumbles, and the two of you follow her while she inspects the damage on the ship, and in a moment of bravery or desperation for normalcy or closeness or just him, you reach up to grip two of his thick fingers in your fist. His hand immediately adjusts and curves to wrap around yours, intertwining your fingers and taking you securely in his grip. You feel him turn to look down at you questioningly, but you refuse to look back. This is normal, this is how it should be, this is what feels right even if you need the barrier of his gloves to feel like you can breathe.

“The Core! Long way’s.” Hmm, she muses as she goes. “Got a fuel leak.” Again. He huffs. “Taking a vacation now?” She turns back with another smarmy smirk.

“Something like that.”

“Nice little honeymoon?” She teases. “I could use one of those myself.” She scans something else, and the pit droids chatter and chirp around her, almost full her height, she’s so small.

“Peli–” he grumbles. Your grumpy, shy boy; you wonder if he ever blushes under that thing, squeezing his hand in yours as tight as you can.

“Yeah, yeah. No droids, I know. When are you gonna get over that nonsense, huh Mando? It’s about time, you know!” She bends to inspect something closer near the landing gear, covered in carbon scoring here too, examines her scanner again, then clips it back to her utility belt. “Alright, here’s the deal–” But he cuts her off, pivoting while pulling his blaster in one fluid motion to shoot at a poor little droid that's gotten too close. “Hey! Hey! What’ve I said before? You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” She shouts.

“Din–” you scold, gripping the thick of his arm to pull the weapon down.

“What’ve I told you?” He barks.

“No droids. No droids. Blah, blah. You have got to get over that! I’m tryn’a make a deal with you here, ya womp rat.”

He jerks aggressively towards another little droid that wanders too close, sending it skittering away in terror, and you pinch his arm beneath the thick duraweave, frowning up at him, be nice, when he looks down at you, giving him a jut of your eyebrow and thrusting your chin at Peli. He groans, cursing low and grumpy in Mando’a. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“If you let them work on the Crest–” She jerks her chin at the little pit droids quivering behind the crates strewn about the hangar in abject terror of the mean Mandalorian.

“No,” he cuts her off, stubbornness in every line of his frame.

“Din!” You scold again, bumping your hip into his.

“Come on, Mando! I’ll charge you half price–”

“Deal,” he cuts her off again immediately, the cheapskate.

“Ha!” She hoots and claps loudly. “Droids! Get to work on this lovely man’s ship. Lemme see the cash.” She holds out a grubby palm, wiggling her fingers. “He’s pretty easy, you ever notice that?” She says to you conspiratorially.

“Constantly,” you can’t help the laugh in your voice. Your first laugh in what seems like years.

“Loose knickered is what they used to call it back in my day.” And you have to turn your face into his arm to muffle your cackling, listening to him start up another string of curses beneath the helmet.

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that before, ever,” he mutters sullenly.

“Well, you’re young.”

“Not that young,” you provide helpfully, big cheesy smile that feels slightly unnatural and rusted spreading across your face.

“Whoopee, Mando! I like this one! You really do know how to pick ‘em.” She claps him roughly on the shoulder, her little paw slapping loudly against his pauldron. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to be for the next couple of days, you see. I’m dating that Jawa again—the one I’d told you about,” she announces, proud as anything, big smile across her leathery face.

“A Jawa?” You repeat, making sure you heard right.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, bright eyes. They’re quite furry… very furry, but…” She clicks her teeth together, “You know…” Grins.

You look up at Din, squeezing his arm in your grip. “Guess I gotta try it.” You’re pretty sure you hear him grumble something to the effect of over my dead body, before he’s agreeing to Peli’s deal with a clap and a shake, and the promise of two hundred and fifty Imperial credits and absolutely no harm done to her droids while she’s gone and they work on the Crest.

“Treadwell, get in there!” She shouts, and the little pit droid chirps fretfully, trembling behind an R5 unit. “You can’t say no, you’re a droid. Oh, he’s not going to shoot you. Stop being a coward! What is this, a democracy all of a sudden?” Losing the fight, the droid wheels forward to get to work. “Yeah, thought so.” She turns back to you and Din. “You two can stay here, look after the shop while I’m gone? It’ll only be a few days.”

“We have some resupplying to do, but we’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises.

“And you’re not going to shoot my droids?”

“And I’m not going to shoot your droids,” he agrees, but later, you catch the too rough nudge he gives one of the little droids with his boot when he thinks no one’s watching. This man and his droid complex, you roll your eyes.

“How’s the N-1 keeping up?” He asks as she’s packing up to go.

“Just how you left her. That honey’s faster than a fathier. You should take her out while you’re here, give that baby a spin. Oh! And I added that turbonic venturi power assimilator I’d mentioned before. Remember? S’how I reconnected with my Jawa,” she nudges you with a wink. “You’re gonna be the fastest ship on the Outer Rim.”

“You got a new ship?” You ask curiously.

“Just a side project we took up while I had some spare time.” But the way he says it is a little strange, making you pause to look up and try to read the blank face of his helmet. Ah, and he smooths that same hovering hand from before along the line of your spine, an attempt to soothe or quell your curiosity without actually giving you the gift of his touch.

Peli leaves a few hours later, and she really does have a Jawa lover. The little critter comes to collect her right before the suns set, off to catch the sandcrawler before it journeys off into the desert, leaving you alone with only Din and the little pit droids for company.

And suddenly, that shyness from earlier is back for some reason. The distraction of travel and the buzz of hyperspace lost to the calm silence of the quiet spaceport as the suns set over the horizon and night settles in, cool winds coming in on the sand gusts from deep in the desert. After hours of work, Din posing as the menacing overlord barking orders and complaints, intruding on their work when it isn’t up to his ridiculous standards, the droids finish up for the night, and Din engages the hangar security system, and then the ship’s, locking the two of you in safely for the night.

“Dinner?” He asks as he moves slowly around the hull, pulling the cloak from his shoulders, a river of sand sluicing in a rain sheet onto the steel floor. The sound of it has a shiver moving through you as you lower yourself to the floor, crossing your legs beneath you at the edge of your makeshift bed. You desperately want to crawl between the covers without a shower and find the peace of evasion through sleep, secure in the knowledge that he won’t follow you into bed. He’d refused since you’d reunited, even though you’d invited him several times to share the much more comfortable pile of blankets than what you know his pilot’s chair or bunk provide. He’d not taken you up on the offer yet, and right now, fluttering heart and hot eyes and sweating nape, you’re glad for it.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you—or you do. You’re overwhelmed with want and fear, of him, of his touch, of having lost what the two of you had before. And as you watch him start to pull his armor from his body, first one pauldron, then a vambrace, then a thigh guard, no sense of congruity to the pattern with which he divests himself of his Creed, it’s suddenly like he’s standing right in front of you, and yet you miss him anyway. Miss him in a way that makes you sick and devastated.

You must make some sort of sound, a funny look on your face or a change in your breathing because he turns suddenly, a too worried, “What’s wrong?” on his tongue.

“Nothing.” You look up at him from your spot on the ground, head falling back on your neck, and you can feel the wet of your eyes, trying to force yourself not to blink so that they won’t fall—the tears. “Nothing’s wrong.”

He comes to a slow crouch before you, long legs folding down, down. “What is it? Tell me.” Half missing his armor as he poses now, it’s like he’s half him, half yours, half only-man, half Mandalorian. A little bit like what you feel yourself; half, half, half.

Pulling one glove from his hand, he lifts it, palm spread towards you, showing you his intention before he carefully cups the side of your face; thumb at your pulse, pointer and middle fingers giving your temple a soft pressure, pinky poised at the bridge of your nose. Your lashes brush against his index every time you blink, and his skin is smooth and rough at the same time, and warm—sun-hearted man.

You press your face harder into his palm, letting him support the weight of your head, nuzzling against the rough of his calluses, blaster blister scratchy against your carotid, and heat pulses all through you from the crown of your head, sliding down the length of your, still yet, too long hair, the back of your neck, your chest, pooling to settle deep in the pit of your belly.

And yet there’s something missing or different or off, like you feel empty but too full of trepidation to conjure up that old desire you’d always had, that need for him to fill, fill, fill you. Like the heat is there, but it’s remembered, not necessarily present. It all makes you want to cry and scream and go to sleep.

The truth, and plainly: you’re terrified of anything that might hurt, can’t fathom the idea of it.

Your heart beats in your throat, you taste it on your tongue, and it mixes with the sad when you say: “Do you remember when we were on Kashyyyk—when we sparred?”

“I remember,” he says, voice deep and low—through the modulator. You hate his helmet. You wish you could get beneath. You wish you were brave enough. The feeling of it coming on sudden and unexpected, thought, bitter and foul and not something you’d necessarily felt before, certainly not so viciously. It’s just that you hate that all this has happened—you want to feel the press of his lips at the crown of your head and the wash of his breath like heat moving through your hair—that you are not in the same place you once were, that you’re too afraid to move forward.

“When we switched weapons—”

He hums: “Yes.”

“It was so green there.” You turn your face further into him so that you’re speaking into his palm now, words pooling there in the cup of it like a well of truths and fears.

“It was.” The pointer and index stroke your temple, press once, twice, thrice—harder on the latter. It feels good, it feels real and reminding. He lets a heavy silence pass for a moment, he’s thinking of something, contemplating a push. “Do you remember—” He passes a swallow you can hear the thickness of, “Do you remember how I had you in the dirt—like a fucking animal? How you let me do whatever I wanted, however I wanted.” He gives the hardest press he’s given yet, at your temple, you think you feel the press against your brain, and you open your mouth to let the edge of your teeth dig hard into the meat of his palm. He growls a rough sound, a hungry sound, a sound like one he’d have made when he had you in the dirt like a fucking animal.

You drag your teeth along the hill of his palm, closing your mouth at the end. You don’t give him the wet of your tongue, you don’t feel ready to taste his skin like that just yet—an assimilation of violence.

“Yes,” you finally say, realizing that he understands what you were thinking without having to say it, or knowing how to, that you’re full of memories of past desires and how badly you want them back and how out of reach that all feels, but also, that suddenly now, in a single blink, the heat in your belly isn’t remembered, but present, alive, awake. That you’re cunt clenches once, twice, thrice around nothing—harder, hungrier on the latter. That you’re wet for him. “I remember.”

“Good. I remember every single thing we’ve ever done.” You roll your face in his palm so that you can look up at him now, feeling something like brave. “Every word, every breath, I remember all of it. Alright?”

“Alright,” you say quietly.

“And if you need me to help you remember too, then I will.”

“Alright.” And then: “What if I can’t, though?... What if we can’t ever have that again? What if I can’t remember? What if I can never give you that again?” A tear slides over the bridge of your nose, and now it’s not only truths and fears cupped in the palm of his hand but the saltwater of grief too.

“Then we’ll find something new. A new way, a different way. We’ll do it however you want now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, cyar’ika.” It’s very much a promise, a new Creed being established here.

“Okay.”

He nods, “Okay.”

The water is warm verging on hot verging on scalding. It feels incredible slithering over your tired and sore muscles, the ligatures in your arms still trembling from the blaster practice earlier today, from your overwhelm of emotions.

You hate that you’re not good at it, that the only weapon that seems to become you is a lightsaber.

The suds of his earthy smelling soap slide through your hair, slipping down your spine, over your ass and along your legs to pool around your feet and disappear down the drain. You shiver once, as though letting something fall away as you slide your hand down, over the swell of your belly, to cup the palmful of your cunt, wedging your hand between your thighs. You pet slowly at the wet curls there, realizing some of it is also the sticky slick of your desire. You were right, you’re wet for him and your clit pulses, slightly swollen and wanting. Your body is awake and hungry for him for the first time in what feels like eons.

You explore slowly, your cunt slightly trembling at the feeling of being prodded and touched for the first time in you can’t remember how long. Moaning softly, you pull your fingers from between your legs, hands sliding up now to cup the weights of your breasts in each palm and squeeze tightly. Oh, you want him, you want him, you’re afraid. Your head falls back on a thump against the fresher wall, loud enough that you hear his lurking voice through the door, you okay in there? And instead of being annoyed at his overbearing caution, his hovering, you shiver again, something coming back to you now.

Your desire.

You shut the water off, grabbing one of the soft linens he’d slung over the warm pipe for you to wrap yourself in. He knocks a knuckle against the wobbly little door, “Cyar’ika?”

Looking at yourself in front of the steamy mirror, too long, naiad hair, bright, strange eyes, you want him, you want him, you want to feel alive, awake, anything. You can’t deny your shortcomings, fears, whatever they might be called, but there is yet still a soft place inside of you that they’d not snuffed out, that wants Din still.

You turn to slide the fresher door open just as he’s readying to knock again.

He’d showered before you, after he’d fed you your soup and your disgusting fake bread he’d promised he’d find a real substitution for soon enough, and you’d needed a moment alone to sit in your grime and silence, digest your feelings. He’s clad now in one of his soft, dark undershirts, his flight pants and the helmet, opposite your towel and water dewed skin, steaming from the hot fresher.

You watch a swallow pass through his throat, words caught, slow and heavy. He clears it once, twice, tilts his head down to take in the state of you, before he says, “You alright?”

You nod, wide eyed awake. He’s standing right in front of you and you miss him and you want to shock him wide eyed awake too. “The water was too hot. I got dizzy,” you lie, swaying towards him a little, letting your lashes flutter dramatically.

Not all the way, but enough, just a little, as much as you can bear, that’s what you want from him right now.

His hands come up to grip the sides of your arms immediately, his bare hands, soaking up the wet of your skin. He pulls you into himself, pressing you carefully against his chest, and you shiver and shake against him, teeth rattling with a sound entirely lacking temperance. Your blood feels like it’s boiling, there’s desire alive and writhing in your tummy, and you squeeze your thighs together tightly, shifting from one foot to another while you drip a puddle onto the cold floor.

“Come here, sit down,” he murmurs, gently moving you to your bed, easing you down onto it slowly. “You need to take it easy,” he clucks over you, gripping your elbow to let you down carefully, keeping his hands on your bare skin until the last moment. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re still tired, you’re still recovering. And you never listen. You have to listen to me when I’m trying to take care of you. You don’t eat enough, and I know your shoulder still hurts, little liar. Your elbow is barely better, and I saw you making strange faces when you were walking up the plank the other day. Your hip hurts doesn't it? Or your knee, something. No, don’t answer. I know you’ll just say no.” He talks and talks and talks, and you love him and you think that��

There’s a name for this…

He’d told you he loved you and he’d not said it again, neither had you, it felt too huge a thing to talk about again just yet while there was still so much left to discuss and bridge, but what does it matter if your body sings or screams in pain when you have the love of this beskar titan? What could you care for all the rest of everything?

Yes, Din. Yes, Din. Whatever you say, Din, as he huffs and puffs and arranges you, brings another pillow and blanket from the bunk, his only one in there, not that he cares, lovely man.

And it’s not only that you feel like you need to give him the things he wants or needs, because of course you do. You love him, you need to be able to give him things, everything, you want to be able to give him the whole galaxy. But it’s also that you want to. That to give him what he desires is to feed yourself, to live together, to be together, to give each other the things you need to stay alive.

You let yourself fall back onto the soft blankets slowly, this nest where you’ve always felt so safe and so protected and so loved, even when neither of you knew it was love that was holding you here. And you watch him for a few anxious moments as he pulls the covers this way and that, tucking them here and there, trying to avoid looking at the bare expanse of your dew damp legs. But then, taking hold of his hand, you still his nervous movements, and he finally looks up at your face, letting go of his fretting, taking hold of the bravery in the palm of your hand.

Shy—but brave. Brave—and wanting.

“We’ll take care of each other, won’t we?” You want to tell him you love him again, but there’s something slightly terrifying, gloriously intimate and fragile about the words.

“Always.”

“And we’ll keep each other alive?” Maker, I hope we keep each other alive.

“Yes.”

You take hold of the edge of the linen covering you, revealing your naked body to him slowly, exposing your soft underbelly. You hear his breath hitch, exhale on a groan that sounds like dying. His grip on your hand goes tight to the point of bone crushing pain for one brief, brief moment before he remembers himself and gentles again. You shiver at the pain, belly swooping and quivering with fear and nausea and lust.

You wish you could see his eyes, his face, his want.

“You—” he stutters, swallows, “You don’t have to, my love.” My love. He doesn’t need to say it out loud again now with teeth and tongue, he says it in all the things he does.

“You have to know that I want you so much. That I want you more than anything, Din.”

“I do know,” he says immediately. “I’ve never doubted that.”

“I want to show you.”

“You don’t have to. I know—” His other hand comes up to grip yours with both of his, caging your limb within the strength of his fists—to keep himself from touching you anywhere else, you think. But you can feel the intensity of his gaze along your skin, over your bare breasts, quivering with your hitching breaths, water droplets translating the frantic beat of your heart in their trembling on the surface of your skin. The line of your belly, the slope downward to the soft place between your thighs.

He’d seen the scarring on your hand, it was inevitable as much as you’d wished you could hide the deformity they’d left. As much as you wish you could’ve kept it from him, held an illusion for the rest of your lives together to spare him from the reminder of the things that’d been done, happened, chosen. But now… now he is to be subjected to the whole truth of it. Scars like cobwebs, strangely shimmering in silver lights beneath the surface of your skin—they’d been clever and ingenious in their torture—covering the whole circumference of your left hand up to your elbow. But also, from the lowest point of your last rib, over your right hip, traversing lower down the contours of your skin to wrap around the uppermost swell of your thigh.

They’d left their mark like they’d intended, and it wasn't something you could ever hide from him, the reality of what’d been done, what you’d chosen. It was obvious in everything, etched into your skin, a chasm in the still present distance between the two of you.

You feel like a bruise; tender, vulnerable, incongruously desperate to press on it harder and feel that dull throb, dark and ugly and on display.

His hands go tight around yours again for a moment, before he’s snatching them back to grip his bent knee, white knuckled, silent anger on display when his eyes reach the scarring.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over your hip down to your thigh to grip yourself there, digging your fingertips lightly into the plush softness. Your skin vibrates. “It doesn't hurt now.”

“What did they do?” His voice is like gravel, restrained fire-full fury.

“They wanted to see what it’d take to leave a mark. They figured it out.” The helmet turns away sharply, a short, brutal curse spit from his mouth. The tongue of his mother, beautiful despite his violence.

“It’s okay, Din.” You take hold of your thigh, pulling it up and apart, spreading yourself for him. Brave, wanting heart, be brave. He turns back immediately. “I want you to see how much I want you,” you whisper. “How much I still need you.”

You let your fingertips flutter lightly over your swollen, needy sex, and you can hear the obscene, sucking sound of your wet lips spreading apart when you part your legs wide enough for your sex to bloom. Cunt hungry and weeping for him.

Fuck, he spits, leaning closer, and his hand snaps forward to grip your ankle all the way around, pulling your foot up onto the uncompromising muscle of his thigh—your only point of contact.

“Show me, cyar’ika. Show me how much that pretty cunt missed me,” he growls.

You start slow, wide eyes fixed on the dark tee of his vizor, fingertips swirling around your clit slowly, it pulses and throbs and beats to the rhythm you can feel his own heart beating at within his own chest. But you pet it slowly, teasing both of you, and then feel lower down to the clenching mouth of your cunt—fuck, he spits again—slicking your fingers in your sticky wet. You start to rock your hips against the flat of your hand, the sound of your cunt, loud in the quiet hull, nothing to interrupt but the too desperate sound of your mutual panting. His fingers around your ankle are so tight they’ll leave a sore spot, and you can't think of the later hurt now, afraid it'll scare you out of this, all you can focus on is the beat of your cunt, the way it cries for him.

You swirl your fingertips at your opening, again, again, “Put them inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” And it’s a demand.

You start with one, slow and tentative, a little, shocked gasp as you probe shallowly within the tight, little hole. Then further, wiggling inside until you’re impaling yourself with your own small finger, the first thing inside of you in so long, and suddenly, you wish it was him. Your eyes fill with tears at the thought, spilling over at the wish that he could’ve been the first thing inside of you after all this time, but the reality that you’re just not ready for it yet. The salted proof of your inevitable shortcomings slide back along your cheeks to drip into your ears.

“Another,” he demands. “Oh, it sounds so pretty, little one. Give it another.” You pull your single finger out, sucking, wet-cunt sound that he groans in tune with, to press another one in, mewling at the pinch and stretch of it, the slick slide. Yes, just like that. You’re doing so well, he says, a mirror of his earlier words to you today during target practice. “Roll your hips, ride your hand.” You hitch another sob, “Don’t fucking cry,” he grits, pressing your heel hard into the meat of his thigh. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re going to come for me, you’re going to let me see it.” He spreads his thighs wider in his kneeling crouch, pushing his hips forward into nothing, drawing your gaze to the heavy bulge behind the plaquette of his flight pants. He’s so hard.

You crook your fingers inside yourself, hill of your palm against the swell of your engorged clit, fingertips against the spongey ridge at the front of your cunt, rolling your hips faster, chasing the orgasm you need to give him. Your foot feels numb in his grip, your cunt, on fire, so tight it hurts. Your belly hitches and heaves, open mouth gasping and you cry his name, moaning and writhing wantonly, your stomach slick and glistening again with sweat now instead of water. One of your palms reaches up to take hold of your breast, nipple caught between your fingers, squeezing tight, tight, tight. And suddenly he’s surging forward, letting go of your ankle to lean over you and rip his pants open, freeing his furious erection. The tip is red-purple and swollen fat, drooling a thick string of sloppy, white precum, and he wraps one massive fist around the angry thing. Din, Din, Din. He beats at his cock furiously, the sound of your name, the slick thwack, thwack, thwack of it sends you spilling into your orgasm, belly pulling tight, cunt twisting even tighter.

“Fuck, fucking come—fucking come,” he snarls as he twists his fist cruelly around the head and the thick white viscosity of his semen starts to spill from the fat head, bubbling up and over his fist and between his fingers, splattering heavy and hot onto your spasming cunt, coating your fingers so that you’re pushing the thick of his come into yourself, slicking you further. “Yes, yes, yes, like that. Let me fucking see it…Look at what you do to me.” And there's so much furious want in his voice, and he’s so big, long and thick, and you know it’s going to hurt when he puts it inside of you for the first time again—you remember how it hurt before, how you loved it—and you’re afraid you’re not going to be able to handle any sort of pain ever again, not even the sort you’d been so hungry for before.

But your womb pulls tight, pulses and throbs, and suddenly your two skinny fingers arent enough, you want the thick heft of his cock fucking hard and fast and deep inside of you, punching at the deepest spot within you.

His orgasm ends on a fierce groan, panting, thick chest heaving, his head hangs low between his shoulders. You pull your shaking fingers from your clenching hole, and he gives a few last lazy strokes, squeezing the last drops of come from the slick tip to splatter against your pussy. “I fucking missed this—your cunt covered in me.” His dripping cock bobs so close, and you have the sudden insane thought of him just shoving it in, holding you down prone and fucking all of his spend into your sloppy cunt, forcing you to take it and be his again. “I can’t wait to eat it. I can’t wait to fill it with my come again and eat it out of you.” There’s a part of you that might want it, that might wish for it.

“Maker, Din…” you moan, rubbing the thick semen into your overstimulated clit, your mound, up the curve of your belly, slicking yourself in him.

If you can’t have his touch, this is enough, and you bring your sticky, soaking fingers up to your mouth, sucking the come from them. He groans, not fair, sitting back on his knees, spent cock hanging obscenely from his open pants, wet and glistening. He reaches behind his head to tug his shirt up and off, leaving his sweaty chest bare and gleaming. Your eyes flutter shut, cupping your cunt in the palm of your hand, covering the slick curve of it, and you arch your back, spreading your thighs further, putting yourself on display for him.

“Gorgeous, cyar’ika,” he says between pants. “So pretty, my love.” He reaches down to squeeze his half hard cock once more. “I can be patient for you, I promise. You’re so worth it.”

He lays beside you in the dark, stretched out long and entirely clothed, but here with you, forced and convinced to share your bed with a line of pillows as a protective moat between the two of you at his own insistence.

You’re on your side, hands folded beneath your smushed cheek, wide eyes searching fruitlessly for the shape of him in the pitch dark. You want to say something else. You want to tell him you love him again, to hear the words fall from your tongue.

“What are you thinking?” He asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You hum a barely breathed laugh. And then, “I know you’re scared or regretful or worried that we’ll not get back to where we were,” he reads you.

“Yes.”

There’s a name for this…

He sighs long, goes quiet for longer, and then finally: “What’s happened’s happened, which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the galaxy.”

“Fate?” You muse, a little unbelieving.

Dark red—

“Call it what you want. We met, we separated…you were—gone. We waited. Now we’re here again. It’s meaningful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You believe in this—fate?” I didn’t think I believed in anything anymore. But I believe in you.

“Call it what you want, but yes.”

—String.

There’s something about this that you need to consider, chew on. The fact that you’d felt, all your life, cursed to know how a thing would happen, be, end, always. Something like fate, perhaps, the whisper of it making a home for itself within the shell of your ear, and now the truth that he too believes in this thing you’ve always lived with. Destiny, what have you—you believe in the same things, you believe in each other.

“Will you hold my hand?”

He turns over, reaching to twine his fingers through yours; large, rough palm against small, soft palm. You want to tell him you love him again, you want to hear the words for him, but they feel trapped, tender, timid.

You’d always thought your destiny fixed, poised, on the tip of your tongue. A thing was what it was birthed unto the galaxy in perpetuity, and no amount of desire could absolve you of its sunken teeth. But this—this desire is like the creation of myth, that dark red thread that goes by the name of fate being pulled taught, humming in accord with a frequency heard only by the two of you.

Now: “Will you kiss me?” A beat of silence, his fingers around yours going tight, tight.

“Come here,” his voice blends with the darkness, and tugging you into himself, protective border between your bodies and his hand around your jaw, he slips a kiss onto your tongue. His mouth holds the hot recollection of being alive; the drag of his teeth against your bottom lip, the taste, your fingers weaving through his hair, your names sounding together, a pair because they belong on the same breath.

You pull back, and it’s only a small brevity, but it’s enough, and that confusion from earlier, that shiver of letting something go or taking it back into yourself, settles.

You’re afraid or regretful or both, yes, sure. You also find yourself to be, suddenly, forgiving, full of empathy. You won’t be able to have him unless you take possession of yourself first, and on the tail end of a comet breaking across the sky: I love him, but I must also love myself. He deserves someone who loves themself, but more than that, I deserve it too. To be able to give him the things he wants and needs: I deserve to be in love with myself.

You let the Tartarian memory become nothing.

Love manifests itself primarily in forgiveness.

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#TCC fic #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader

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joelsbloodyhands · 1 month

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MANDALORIAN IMAGINE

Din didn’t realise you have piercings

DESCRIPTION: You tend to Din’s injuries caused by a weapon you didn’t know he was carrying. In the process of cleaning his wounds, he learns something new about you too.

WARNINGS: Din getting hurt, blood, discussion of injuries, open cuts, discussions involving medical equipment, references to shooting guns, Din being a big dumb dumb getting himself injured 😈 newly established relationship, bossy behaviour, basically Din getting injured and he’s not used to being taken care of, reader has seen Din’s face before, established clan/family, just fluff.

A/N: I actually stole this from a draft series I was writing and liked the little snippet on its own so here ya go 😊 Note: Din has the dark saber in this plot but it isn’t mentioned that it takes place in any particular time during the Mandalorian series.

READER does not have a specified gender, they/them pronouns used. Reader is in an established romantic relationship with Din. Reader has parent relationship with Grogu (no gendered title used). Specific to this fic - reader does not have a visible disability and has hair long enough to be tucked behind their ear.

"Dank farrik!" Din exclaims, shooting back at the overconfident rodian chasing the Razor Crest down from the sandy floors of Tatooine. He’s out of breath, sending erratic shots back, warding off the rodian and it’s array of gang members. They had chased him all the way from Beggar’s Canyon, attempting to steal the head of a bounty that Din had managed with great difficulty to acquire. The head that now hung over his shoulder, bleeding through the make shift sack he’d half-heartedly tied it in. Din groans, glancing down at his throbbing shin. He struggles to keep balance on his right leg before being thrown across the cargo hold into the opposite wall when the ship thrusts up harshly towards the airspace.

“Din!” You yell, sliding down the ladder and shooting the airlock closed, preventing any further blaster fire from striking him. You look down at Din’s collapsed form slumped against the wall, gloved hand releasing some wiring he had grabbed to stop himself from rolling down the ramp completely.

Din immediately puts all his strength into shoving his feet into the steel floor, climbing his way up the wall awkwardly and stumbling into a standing position. It’s then you notice his leg, horror reaching your features. Before you can grab his arm, he staggers past you, throwing the disgusting sack off his back and into the corner of the cargo hold before uncomfortably climbing the ladder with pained groans. You follow, scrambling up the ladder after him, your head popping out of the narrow entryway to watch Din collapse into his chair and pull the crest off into the stars.

Wanting nothing more than to tend to his injury, the sound of cries catch your attention, your head whipping around to lower deck. Din’s head arches back while he controls the ship but your body slides down the ladder hurriedly. Din listens, while checking the navigator as he hears you gather your son and murmur words of reassurance to calm him down. Din releases a heavy breath, his teeth gritting as he feels the clothing covering his lower leg to stain coldly with his seeping blood. When he finally manoeuvres the ship far from the desert planet, he hits it into hyperspace and drops his head back against the chair, head spinning.

“Din!” You call again, your arms dragging you achingly back up the ladders after laying Grogu back down, his upset momentarily subsiding. Din feels his eyes growing heavy until your hands find his shoulders urgently, turning the chair harshly to the side to allow more room for you to kneel before him. You yank his shin armor off and tear open the already gaping hole of his flight suit.

“Shit, Din,” you grasp his leg where the wound is causing Din’s eyes to burn, pain erupting around every nerve. You look up at him in worry as he breathes heavily and goes to stand but he collapses just as you hold out your arms. You hitch a breath, trying to gain air back into your lungs after he knocks it out of you when you realise he’s heavier than you realised covered in beskar.

“I’m okay,” Din barely manages, his voice strained.

“No you’re not,” you assert, eyebrows furrowing in your difficulty to maintain his weight. You attempt to manoeuvre him to the ground, causing you to fall back with him in the process until you eventually manage to set him upright against the control panel, legs flat out in front of him.

Meanwhile you turn your head to notice a pair of green ears and big eyes watching you from the entry. You smile weakly at your son who watches you both silently.

“What happened?” You ask, pulling your vibro-knife from your ankle strap and using it to cut through the rest of Din’s clothes to give you access to his sliced leg. You wince as you realise how deep it is, hand palming your temple in confusion as to why the skin surrounding appears burnt and smells charred.

“I…it’s my fault…” Din manages slowly.

You frown, “How?”

In the midst of you tearing at his clothes, he shakily pulls the saber from his waist and holds it out to you, breathing heavily with his head back. You look to it inquisitively before Din pulls it to the side and unsheathes the glowing blade.

Your eyes widen.

“What the kriff is that?”

Din pulls the blade back in and sets it down, his head cocking to the side to analyse you.

"Called the...huff…dark saber. I…huff…caught myself with…huff…it."

You shake your head, completely bewildered by this foreign object but more angry at it for causing your love so much harm. And at his own doing.

"Stop talking. Stay here. Don’t move. I mean it."

He watches you stand up uneasily, sliding back down the ladder and listening to you rummaging around while he tries to regain his breath. His hands go to his helmet but his arms ache so he drops them before he can remove it.

You’re in front of him again before he can call for you, shaking bacta spray when he says your name. You lift your head, frozen by his sudden flinch when you angle the nozzle over his wound.

“My helmet.”

Your face falls, giving him a knowing look which he takes as you asking him if he’s absolutely sure.

He nods in response and you place the bacta spray down, hesitantly placing your hands on either side of the cold beskar and lift it from his head. What greets you is his flushed, sweat-stained features. His dark curls plastered meticulously over his forehead, skin lightly blushed red from enduring the heat of the hot planet and marvellous brown eyes meeting yours.

“Thank you,” Din smiles meekly at you.

You evade his gaze immediately, cheeks growing hotter at his unmodulated voice and softening gaze. Din had only recently started removing his helmet around you and even then it was a rare occurrence. You nervously mutter a “sure” before turning your attention back to his wound.

Once again, you angle the nozzle and spray a generous amount of the fluid over the wide gash. You watch as it gently binds the skin together and closes the wound slightly while Din groans at the stinging, burning sensation, biting his lip harshly. You frown unhappily at his discomfort, placing a hand on his shoulder and massaging gently to ease him.

Knowing you need to prevent him from moving around and get him as comfortable as possible, you move your hands towards his beskar chest plate but hesitate.

Din’s eyes meet yours knowingly, “go ahead”.

You nod and start working to remove his armor piece by piece until he’s in nothing but his torn flight suit. You’re completely in awe at the pile of metal next to you, having never truly realised just how much weight he carries daily.

From a medical kit you had retrieved along with the bacta spray, you begin working to dab gauze and bind his leg with bandages.

Din watches you.

His eyes monitoring your facial expressions, wincing along with his pain. He finds himself starting to calm as he watches you work away. His hand trails subconsciously and tiredly across your shoulder. You notice but try not to seem alarmed by his sudden touches.

Din pushes a strand of your hair back behind your ear, revealing some shiny adornments he remembered noticing once before but never took the time to look at.

Most of the piercings look like parts, screws, and bolts that have been modified into jewellery. An array of colours from dolovite, steel, and gold. Some with attachments hanging down, tickling your neck. Din’s fingers running compellingly across small stones. Some of which he could only identify as Heart of Fire, a burnt orange-red that contrasted perfectly against your skin. He admires them, painting a picture of when you may have gotten such things done.

Had you done it yourself or gone to a vendor?

“Do you like them?” Your quiet voice breaks his trance.

“Hmm?” He hums, his finger smoothing across the arch of your ear thoughtfully, making a shiver run up your spine.

You dare look to him and it’s then he stops his movements having not realised how intimate it seemed.

“My earrings,” you murmur.

Rendering you speechless, he smiles but it’s the smile that’s so heart shattering, it has your knees shaking.

“I do,” he returns tenderly.

You lower your head, trying to hide your flustered expression as you cut the bandage away and rub at his leg gently.

“You’re all good. You need to stay off your feet for a while,” you instruct gently.

“I will. Thank you,” he responds, dropping his hand from your shoulder and assessing the bandage with a grimace.

“You better,” you playfully threaten, holding the scissors to him causing him to grin at you making you blush incredibly and turn away.

Din clears his throat, “We can lay low in Coruscant.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you agree, before getting up to turn your head towards a small green bean of an intruder eavesdropping on your conversation. Your sons little padded footsteps wander over, big brown orbs focused on his fathers injury and whining unhappily.

“It’s okay, bub,” you reassure when he gets close enough to place a small clawed hand on Din’s foot. Din watches you, heart fluttering as you lift your son into your arms and rock him gently. Grogu clings onto your shirt, looking up at you and then back to his father, clearly still distressed.

“Is he okay?” Din inquires, trying and failing to lean forward off the control panel behind him.

“Shaking but he’ll be okay,” your eyes run protectively over your son, fingers stroking light touches over his ear.

You walk over to Grogu’s chair, sitting him down while Din attempts standing up uneasily before limping over to the both of you. At the sound of his footsteps, you turn swiftly, eyes narrowing on him and arms folding disapprovingly.

“What did I say, Din?”

He sighs, “I know what you said.” He hobbles over and puts a hand on Grogu’s head, towering over you both. “I just want to check on the kid.”

“He’s okay,” you reassure gently but firmly.

“And you?” You feel so small compared to Din when he moves closer, his head just above yours with warm eyes fixating down at you with concern.

You nod and give him a small smile, “I’m okay.”

Din nods back slowly and you watch his eyes run over your features almost trying to gauge an understanding that you’re not lying to him. It seems what he finds there eases him and his shoulders finally relax.

“Good. I’m sorry about that. Thank you for having my back,” you close your eyes when he lets his forehead knock yours carefully. You smile nervously when you feel his other hand touch your waist ever so gently, arm curving around your lower back to pull you closer. You breathe him in, adoring this domestic side of him. Each hand protectively holding the two people most dear to him.

“Of course,” you lean into him, your nose gently nudging his. Din smiles.

Grogu cooes at you both.

“You should rest,” you open your eyes, meeting Din’s affectionate but tired gaze. He nods and gently sways your body contentedly in his hold.

“We all should,” he looks back to Grogu, his grabby hands flailing towards the Crests shifter knob. Din reaches for it and you watch him pass the small ball to the babbling child, “It’ll take some time to get to Coruscant.”

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian #mandalorian imagine #joelsbloodyhands writes #pedro pascal characters #din grogu #star wars #star wars fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin one shot #Pedro Pascal character imagines #mando x you

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gffa · 2 months

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I ENJOY hearing you talk about Star Wars stuff you enjoyed ✨ please do as you wish 👑

Well, then you are in luck, because GUESS WHO JUST GOT BACK FROM SEEING THE PHANTOM MENACE IN THE THEATER and is ready to yell at you all about how much I love that fucking movie. It's kind of cliche to say it, but I think it's honestly true: George Lucas' movies are meant for the big screen. Sure, I have a reasonably sized TV at home and it looks great there, but there's something magical about seeing Otoh Gunga come up on the giant screen. There's something magical about seeing tiny baby Anakin race through Beggar's Canyon in full screen. There's something breathtaking at hearing Duel of the Fates start up and seeing that climactic lightsaber battle up there on the giant screen. I love that movie, I've rewatched it before, nothing in it was a surprise Except the overall ~*EXPERIENCE*~ of it just hits different in a theater. It's big and epic and magical when you go see it as it was meant to be seen. Sure, that's me as a prequels stan saying that, I wanted to be charmed into this feeling, so it worked for me. Maybe it wouldn't for others, but if you love that silly, ridiculous, wonderful, brilliant, dumbass movie, then I would love to see you get a chance to watch it as it was intended, if you can. 💕

#lumi.txt #star wars #the phantom menace

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stealingpotatoes · 9 months

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Am I the only one who thinks that Eli and Luke would probably get along like a house on fire? Like, just trading stories insane stories about what they did as kids when they were bored, and stuck at home. Luke talking about Beggar's Canyon, Eli talking about all of the high things he and his buddies jumped off of into water. I would assume Lysatra also has a variety of poisonous fauna that Eli is utterly desensitized to.

Thrawn is horrified and fascinated in equal measure

BREAKING NEWS! Luke Skywalker Saves The Galaxy By Befriending the Heir to the Empire's Boytoy. More At 10

#thanks for the ask!

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galactic-academia · 5 months

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Absolute Emergency

Inspired by @darthmalewife post "say what you want about Cobb Vanth but if a toddler handed that man a toy phone he'd pretend to answer it".

(G, tooth rotting fluff, Gn!Reader; I'm not a native, please, forgive my mistakes)

"Marshal! Marshal!"

You sidestep the little Jude as he comes rushing from the Maker knows where and straight into your legs. You would tell him to slow down and pay attention to his surroundings if he doesn't want to get hurt, but he wouldn't listen to you. Not now. Not when he's after the Marshal.

Freetown is such a little, insignificant village that it doesn't even appear on any map anymore. The anonymity allows you to leave mostly in peace; the anonymity and Cobb Vanth. If you want to find what was - once upon a time - Mos Pelgo, you will, the Empire didn't fell so long ago that there aren't still people to remember the little town at the very end of the Wastes, but then you'll have to deal with the Marshal and, if your intentions don't please him, you'll be the one to be sorry. He's your protector, your leader, your friend. And children adore him.

"What's up, buddy?"

You turn around to watch Cobb kneel in the sand, giving all his attention to the child running towards him.

"I've got a transmission, Marshal, this is very important!"

"A very important transmission, eh?", he grins, as the toddler triumphantly hold an old cylindrical battery between the two of them, "And who is in need of Freetown?"

"The Mandalorian!"

"The Mandalorian?! Why didn't you say so?" And the Little Jude squeaks in delight as the Marshal reaches to take the "comm link" into his little hand to hold it to his mouth ; "This is Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Freetown and the Deputy Jude, over." He then puts it near his ear and pretends to listen carefully. "Say again? Really! Copy that; hold on, Mando, we're coming! Over."

"Did you hear that, Deputy?" He says, as he gives back his toys to the child.

"What? What did he say?" Jude is almost shaking with excitement, waddling from one foot to the other.

"The Mandalorian said he's in trouble near the Beggar's Canyon and that he needs our help. You know what it means?"

"It means that we must pro-vide ass-i-ss-tance", Jude answers with an audible effort to repeat the exact words his hero has told him.

"Exactly, well done, partner!"

Petrified on the spot, you watch, entranced, as Cobb lifts the toddler in his arms to sit him in the side-car of his speeder and secures him there. As he gets around the engine, the Marshal notices your presence and winks at you and a storm of butterflies erupts in your stomach.

"You ready, Deputy?"

The Little Jude takes a few seconds to think about it before putting his scarf in front of his mouth and answering a slightly muffled "Yaaaaay!"

"Here we go, then!"

Cobb puts his scarf in front of his own mouth and starts his speeder at full speed, almost drowning the child's happy cries with the noise of the engine.

And that's why he's your hero.

#cobb vanth #timothy olyphant #the mandalorian #star wars #cobb vanth x reader #cobb vanth fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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elviraaxen · 4 months

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Guys guys this is it this is Ricky's voice (at least his singing voice) also the song slaps yeyeyeyyeey

#it's PERFECT #puppet tag #Spotify

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justagalwhowrites · 1 year

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Beskar Doll - Ch. 32: The Palace

Din used his bounty hunter skills to track you down, now he just has to get you out. A continuation of Beskar Doll Ch. 1-31 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: The Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and a bit beyond. Torture. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ only

Length: 4.1k

“You’ve been with us for 36 hours now.”

You were back in the chair. You had been for a while, though you weren’t sure exactly how long. They’d injected you with serum again, keeping you conscious and your body in a heightened state of sensitivity.

Though you’d been in that state so long, the agony from where they’d taken skin had faded to a dull roar. It had been too loud and too constant for too long to still mean something, that part of you fracturing off. That pain had been deemed unimportant, like white noise.

“I’m sure you’d like to eat something,” the woman said. “Drink something. Sleep.”

You scoffed, even though your mouth was dry and your body kept trying to put you under and failing. Even hunger pains were magnified with this drug, the ache in your stomach violent and gnawing.

“You really think that’s what’s going to do it?” Your voice was raspy. “Food, water, sleep?” She shrugged. You rolled your eyes. “Maker, you really are new at this, aren’t you?”

The man pressed the electroshock probe to your side. You would have screamed if it didn’t make your whole body seize, the pain of it radiating down every nerve ending. It felt like you could trace a map of your nervous system with the agony of it, so all consuming and clear cut. He took it away and you went limp with a whimper.

“Sounds like we’re getting closer,” the woman smirked. You panted for breath.

“You know,” you managed. “There is one thing you haven’t tried. It’s how I know you haven’t done this much, at least not with anyone who can withstand it.”

“What’s that?” She asked, her brows raised. Your brain was foggy, you couldn’t get enough of a bead on her to know if she was being serious or humoring you.

“You haven’t asked if there’s anything I want outside of the obvious,” you watched her. “Food, water, sleep. Freedom. Death. All obvious. You should ask if there’s anything else I want and what I might be willing to trade you for it.”

She looked you up and down for a moment, considering. Or, at least, you thought she was. You were starting to feel yourself fracture in your mind. The things you’d locked away - your rebellion secrets, your real name, the most important things like Din and the child - were safe. Everything else felt like wet sand, loosely held together but malleable, easy to break away, threatening to crumble at the slightest provocation.

“What would you like?” She asked after a moment, curious. “Besides the obvious, of course.”

“Some information,” you replied. “Some that probably wouldn’t matter to your organization at all but matters to me.”

“And what would you give me for that?” She asked.

“Information in return,” you said. “Not what you’re really looking for, of course. But things that can give you insight. Maybe be of use. Almost certainly of greater value than what I’d ask for.”

She looked you over again and you tried to make sure you looked strong, durable. Like she wouldn’t get anything out if you for a long time otherwise.

“What do you want to know?” She asked eventually.

“When you moved into the area, you cleaned up some messes for the Hutts to get in their good graces,” you said it, didn’t ask it. She nodded once. “Was the Barktan family one of those messes? Moisture farmers, only a few clicks outside Beggar’s Canyon.”

She gave you a cocky half smile.

“You were right about the information not mattering,” she said. “Yes, they were. What information are you willing to trade?”

“We weren’t in Beggar’s Canyon looking for your stash,” you said. “I’m guessing you’ve got, what, thermal detonators and disintegrators stored in the caves? Could not care less about those.”

She frowned.

“What were you looking for then?”

“What did you do to the Barktan family?”

She considered you again.

“What we’ve done to you,” she said after a moment. “Though they couldn’t withstand what you have. The Hutts were interested in a daughter. We couldn’t find her. The man died first, he was weak. The woman held on for almost a day. She never gave us anything. We never did find the girl.”

You fought to keep the fire from your eyes. You had to look neutral, even though it felt like your body was going to burn with rage, the hateful ache of it snarling and chewing at your chest.

“You’re the daughter, aren’t you?” She cocked her head slightly. “I think I can see it now. You look like your mother. Got her will, too. Is that what brought you to the canyon?”

“No,” you said. Your voice shook. “No, I didn’t know you had anything to do with them when we came here.”

“Why did you come here?”

“You wasted your second question,” you said. You wanted to hurt her. You wanted to do it with your bare hands, with your teeth and your nails. You wanted to taste her blood, rip at her flesh.

“The Hutts will still pay for you,” she said. “Alive or dead.”

“They’re mercurial creatures, those slugs,” you replied. “Smarter to leave me alive. They’ve had years to change their minds about what to do with me. You can’t bring me back once you’ve finished me.”

She crossed her arms and slowly walked over to you so her face was only inches from your own.

“If you weren’t so subborn,” she said. “I’d want to keep you.”

“If I weren’t so stubborn, you’d have no use for me.”

She smirked and jerked her head at the man who pressed the probe to your side again. Just as he pulled it away, the floor shook.

For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. It would make sense, your nerves relaying false information to your decaying mind. But the woman’s eyes went wide and she looked toward the door. There was a crackle of a com link. The words were fractured.

“Attack… coming… armed…”

The man and woman looked at each other.

“Stay with her,” she ordered him. “Don’t you dare fucking kill her.”

The building shook again. She went for the door. The man looked nervous.

“Something have you worried?” You asked, smirking a bit. He glared.

“She said I couldn’t kill you,” he snapped. “Didn’t say a damn thing about anything else.”

***

The location the woman had given Din was vague enough that it took him hours to find the palace. He’d been right, much of it had been swallowed by the sands, only a single, domed roof with a makeshift entrance visible through the dunes. It would have taken him who knows how long to find on his own, the hot sand muting the heat signatures inside the walls.

There were guards stationed immediately around the entrance - all camouflaged - but it wasn’t more than he could handle.

He put the child in the pod, his chest tight. The baby cooed, his eyes wide, ears low.

“We’re going to get her,” he said gently. “We’re not leaving here without her.”

He cooed again. Din gave him the toy you’d gotten him on Nevarro and the small silver ball from the Crest.

“You’re staying in here,” he said. “You’ll see her soon. I promise.”

Din closed the pod and put it under an arm before igniting his jetpack, flying high before moving closer to the palace. The guards weren’t looking up.

He dropped into them, releasing the pod the second his feet were on the ground. He kicked the first guard, who just stood there looking at him in shock, in the chest, sending him stumbling back before he grabbed his blaster and shot him. One down, five others alerted to his presence.

One of the fools threw a thermal detonator and Din swatted it away. He glanced down and watched it roll down the dune, far enough away that it wouldn’t do damage to him when it went off. He continued on.

The first blaster bolt pinged off his armor and he didn’t even need to look to return the shot in kind, catching sight the man as he fell out of the corner of his eye. The thermal detonator blew, the sands shaking and shifting.

“We’re under attack,” the man furthest from him fumbled with his com. “Don’t know how many are coming, they’re armed with…”

Din cut him off with a shot to the head.

A staff struck him in the side, catching him where the armor wasn’t there to protect him. He shifted focus. The man came at him quickly, swinging the staff for his more vulnerable points. Din caught it and shoved him back before shooting him.

The strike from behind was harder, a knife to the leg. It was an indirect blow but was enough to rip his flight suit and cut his skin. He barely felt it. He’d barely felt anything since you’d been taken. It was a flash of shock more than pain, something his mind filed away to do deal with later, once he had you. Nothing else mattered until he had you.

He rounded on the man with the knife. The man was familiar, young. It took him a moment to realize that it was the bounty, the whole reason you’d gone into the desert to begin with. The reason you’d been here to be taken at all. He backed away from the Mandalorian with fear in his eyes and an almost pitifully small blade in his fist.

Din hit him, hard, dodging the man’s second strike with the knife. He sprawled into the sand and started scrambling to get up, the ground shifting below his feet. The Mandalorian stalked over to him, standing over him for a moment, his head cocked to the side.

“Warm or cold,” he said. “You’re worth the same.”

He shot him and the man slumped into the sand.

The next blaster bolt pinged off his helmet. He rounded on the final man, blaster drawn. He backed away, fumbling at his belt for a thermal detonator. He threw it at the Mandalorian who just swatted it away again, into the building. Din shot him. The detonator blew, a hole opening in the roof of the dome.

Din called the pod alongside him and peered into the dome. The Palace was either sparsely populated or the syndicate had taken cover, the room below empty. He dropped inside, the pod following close behind.

He kept his weapon drawn, moving silently as he looked for signs of someone who could give him directions. He switched his helmet to heat sensor mode, the interference from the sand no longer a problem now that he was inside the building that was buried by the dune. There was a cluster of people in an antechamber to his left, huddled at the back, likely trying to avoid detection. He stalked to them, weapon drawn.

There was a hail of blaster fire when he walked in, the shots ringing off his armor. He knew he should feel the impact of each one and part of him could, but they mattered so little. All they were was an obstacle, something to be overcome to get to you.

There were more than a dozen people here, so he raised his wrist and fired the whistling birds, the tiny projectiles flying forward, finding their targets and sending them collapsing to the ground. Three men were left standing. They kept shooting.

He shot one before he spoke.

“I need information,” he said over the sound of blasters. They stopped shooting. “Tell me where interrogation is and I’ll let you leave this room with your life.”

The men looked to each other for a moment before one shot him again. Din sighed, shooting him and then pointing the blaster at the other man.

“Where is it.”

The man swallowed. His weapon was still drawn. He looked over the Mandalorian.

“Sublevel one,” he said quickly. “Center of the level…”

The Mandalorian stepped to the side. The man ran. The moment his feet crossed the threshold of the room, he shot him. He’d left the room with his life. It was all he had been promised and more than he deserved.

Din pressed on.

***

The man seemed like he wanted to test just how long an electroshock probe could run before it needed to be activated again. Without the woman to rein him in, he kept it against your side until your body thrashed and your eyes rolled back in your head, only removing it for a moment before starting again.

“Can’t kill me now,” he snarled. “Thought you were strong when you killed him, thought you could fuckin’ scare me…”

He pressed the probe to your side again, a small scream managing to make it through your lips before that part of you seized up. Crying out wasn’t the relief you’d hoped it would be, the pain still consuming in spite of it. He kept the probe against you until you started to feel it in your heart, the electricity making it stutter against your ribs.

“Mandalorian!” The single word came through his com link. You weren’t sure if it had been preceded by anything else. Everything around you was muddy, you couldn’t discern much. But that word it seemed like you would always hear. He pulled the probe from your side. You panted for breath. He held the com to his lips.

“The hell do you mean a Mandalorian?”

You smiled, your head lolling to the side. You weren’t able to hold it up, unsure if you were exhausted or if your body had just stopped working.

“He’s here for me,” you managed. The man looked at you, skeptical. You just held his gaze. “You should run.”

***

Any other time, Din would have been concerned about being so outnumbered. He’d faced odds this bad before and survived, of course. But it was dangerous. The only reason it crossed his mind at all now was because of the pod at his back. If it weren’t for the child, he doubted he would have even noticed the numbers.

He’d made it to sublevel one and so, it seemed, had the rest of the syndicate. He’d killed several dozen men so far and there were dozens of others standing between him and you. They were keeping you from him. They had taken you. He activated a thermal detonator he’d taken from a body, waiting as long as he could before he threw it.

“Shit!” Someone screamed before it blew, the palace shaking, sand and plaster falling at his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that, either.

The detonator had charred the walls of the corridor, bodies blown apart. He didn’t care. He was nearly to the center of the structure, judging by his scans, nearly to you. You were close. If the first man had told him anything remotely accurate, you were close.

He heard you before he saw you, a small, strangled cry before you went silent. He snarled, running for the sound. He almost collapsed when he saw you.

The man beside you had an electroshock probe pressed against your ribs and your body shook with it. Your face was bloody and bruised, skin had been stripped away from your stomach and the man beside you twisted the probe, grimacing as he did.

Something took over him in that moment. It was like the moment on Garqi, seeing your husband hurt you. It consumed him, the need to protect you, to avenge you. He roared, the man jumping in shock and pulling the probe from your side. He lunged for him, tackling him to the ground. The man punched Din in the helmet, serving only to rattle the Mandalorian and fracture the man’s hand on his beskar. He went to put the probe to Din but he knocked it away, sending it flying before bringing his fist down on the man’s head.

The man scrambled, managing to get a grip on the Mandalorian and sending him onto his back for a moment as he tried to pull a blaster, but Din was too fast. He leapt to his feet, freeing his knife as he went, and brought it down into the center of the man’s throat. His eyes went wide as he dropped to his knees, blood pouring from him and spilling onto the ground. Din panted for breath as he watched the man crumble, not moving until he landed in a heap on the floor. He turned to you then, your eyes hazy but finding his below the helmet. You were always able to find him, always able to look through him.

“Cyare,” he breathed. You smiled slightly.

“Hi,” you said.

He reached out and cupped your cheek and you pressed your skin into his palm.

“You came for me,” your voice was hoarse. “Shouldn’t have done that… Told you not to…”

“My hunt, my call,” he replied. “I’ll always come for you.”

The building trembled around you. He glanced around, plaster falling to the ground. The thermal detonators were too much for this structure. He needed to get you out of here. Now.

He went to the controls for the chair and released them. You slumped forward and he jumped to catch you. You cried out when he touched you, grimacing.

“They’ve got me drugged,” you gasped. “Heightens pain, makes it so I can’t pass out… Old Imperial shit…”

“Is there anywhere…”

“No,” you shook your head. “It all hurts, I can take it, I just need to get out of here…”

“Can you walk?” He asked. It hurt seeing you like this, like someone was tearing into his chest seeing you struggling and in pain.

“Put your arm around my waist,” you were looking at the ground, grimacing. All he wanted to do was touch you, hold you, comfort you. It would only hurt you now. “Try to not touch where they cut me…”

He obeyed, trying to bury the white hot fury that was swelling in his chest. He wanted to rip and tear for you, he wanted to destroy for you. It would have to wait. The building shook again. Your hand was on his chest, your fingers bloody. There was skin missing at your arm, too. You took a shaky step but managed to stay upright, a gasping groan escaping from you. He went to pick you up but you shook your head.

“Walking is better,” you said quickly. “I can’t fight right now, don’t think I can shoot, I can’t see straight, you can’t carry me.”

“We need to find a ship,” he said. “Can’t get you to Mos Eisley on a bike in this condition…”

“I’ve only seen this room and a cell not far from here,” you managed as you started off. You hissed when you took a step. “I’m not even positive we’re still on Tatooine, but I think we are.”

“We’re in an abandoned palace in the northern Dune Sea,” he said. “Know of it?”

“No,” you grimaced. “Sorry, I’ve been a pretty useless partner this hunt…”

He glared at you and you must have sensed it because you smiled for half a second before crying out in pain again. Din switched the helmet back to heat sensor mode, saw one person in a room up ahead. He led the way, leaning you against the wall just outside the door. You were panting for breath but gave him a nod as he went into the room.

The man inside was trying to gather up something. He didn’t notice the Mandalorian come in. Din grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall. He yelped, dropping the bag he was stuffing.

“Where are the ships,” Din demanded.

“I… Um…” the man scrambled for words. Din ground his teeth and more plaster fell. He didn’t have time for this. He pulled him back from the wall and thrust him into it again.

“Where!”

“North side!” He said quickly. “Up a level!”

Din released him, shooting him before leaving the room. He glanced at the bag. He’d been grabbing spice. He shook his head, going back to the hall and gathering you against him again.

You’d buttoned your shirt back up, something he was relieved about. He knew the injuries were there, they were burned into his mind, but it was easier to handle not ripping every person in this building apart when he couldn’t see them.

Much of the syndicate had been killed or had fled, almost no one left to intervene as he worked his way up with you. You felt faint against him, your limbs loose. Like you were barely able to hold yourself up.

“Almost there, Cyare,” he said softly.

The hanger was full of ships, but most were one man fighters. There were only two smaller transport vessels and Din opened the hatch of the first one he could reach, helping you up the ramp as quickly as he could. He lowered you into a seat when there was a shot at his shoulder. He turned to face his assailant. It was a woman. She was tall, a tattoo around her eye, her teeth were bared in some strange combination of a snarl and a smile.

“You’re taking what’s mine,” she said, her blaster leveled at Din. “The Hutts will pay for her. I’d expect better from a guild backed hunter, stealing someone’s bounty out from under them.”

“Don’t recognize Hutt bounties,” he replied, sizing her up. You started trying to get to your feet and he gently pushed you back down. You grimaced.

“She killed my parents,” you snarled, singularly focused. “Took them, tortured them… I want to hurt her, I want her blood…”

He lifted your chin delicately, so your blackened eyes were looking at him and not her.

“I’ll take her for you, Cyare,” he said gently. “You don’t need to suffer that.”

Another shot rang off his beskar and he released you, stalking down the ramp toward the woman. She stood her ground.

“You took my Cyare,” he said. She shot his chest, the sharp ping glancing off the armor. He pressed on. “You took her family.” She shot again, starting to back up now. “You hurt her.”

She tried to aim for part of his leg that wasn’t covered by armor but he dropped his knee, the bolt hitting his thigh where he was protected. “You will pay.”

He closed in quickly, igniting his flame thrower. She screamed, her clothes and hair catching fire quickly. She dropped to the ground, writhing in pain, trying to extinguish the flames. He kept the weapon running as he drew closer, keeping her burning, her screams cracking in her throat.

It wasn’t long before she stilled, her body still burning. Din cut the flamethrower, panting for breath as he watched the fire consume her. The building trembled again. He pulled more stolen thermal detonators from his belt, setting the timers on them and throwing them into the hall and around the room before joining you on the ship. He closed the gate and removed his glove, delicately holding your cheek in his hand. Your skin was still so soft against him, even damaged and bruised. You leaned into his touch, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Are you satisfied, Cyare?”

You pressed your lips together and nodded, looking up at him like you were about to break.

“Close your eyes for me,” he said softly. You obeyed. With his free hand, he lifted his helmet just enough to expose his lips, pressing them gently to your forehead. He breathed you in, bloody but still smelling like you, his body calming now that he could touch you again. You melted into his kiss, a choking sob slipping from you. He pulled back and secured the helmet, delicately brushing your lashes with this thumb when it was safely in place.

He took his seat in the cockpit, you and the pod with the child safely behind him. He took off, pulling the ship out of the hanger and entering the upper atmosphere just as the palace collapsed into the sand behind him.

#fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #enemies to friends to lovers #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader

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sw5w · 7 months

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Aurra Sing

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:01:09

#Star Wars #Episode I #The Phantom Menace #Tatooine #Boonta Eve Classic #podrace #Beggar's Canyon #Aurra Sing #Czerka Adventurer slugthrower rifle #DX-13 blaster pistol #shaak hide holster #dwarf nuna #rancor skin boots

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intermundia · 10 months

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The course is outlined in blue—it starts in the upper right-hand corner at the arena; proceeding counterclockwise to the Waldo Grade, which was an elevation change; next is Mushroom Mesa, which is followed by Ricks Rise, an elevation drop; a sharp left turn brings them to Ebe Crater, a big flat area with sinkholes that leads to the narrow slot through which is the curvy Beggar's Canyon; this leads to the Dune Sea portion of the race, but that was deleted; next is Arch Canyon, which leads to Jag Crag, where all the stalagmites and stalactites are, which goes into Lagulla Caves-where Rats Tyrell blows up; next is Tusken Turn, where the Raiders snipe at the Podracers. The last stretch is Hutt Flats, where Sebulba crashes.

the podrace sequence in phantom menace is admittedly long, but it also very visually exciting and uses many pretty environments. the combo of miniatures, matte paintings, and cgi works imho to make a convincing backdrop for the race. it's interesting to see it all broken down into the sequence, and fun to identify what part is the infamous beggar's canyon that luke flew through.

#i love maps #star wars #behind the scenes #sw #sw bts #the map is from Creating the Worlds of Star Wars

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12pt-times-new-roman · 3 months

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c3e90

It looks like no one's leaving the table for the party split, but they did rearrange seating so they're grouped together. Matt cut between their perspectives, but I'm going to keep them separate for ease of access here.

The demolition team:

We begin with the demolition team: Ashton, Fearne, and FCG, accompanied by Ira. They follow the tunnel to the Sprawl Grotto, an Escher-like mase of buildings and pathways at the base of the canyon that houses this part of Kreviris.

The life here is a unique mirror to Exandria: the general shape and silhouette is the same or similar, but the specifics are alien. The beggars here don't ask for coin, they ask for tools -- but there are still beggars.

There are large beasts of burden here, as well as battle mounts being armored and prepared to ride. Chained to the wall of one of the barracks is the currently-resting Jabberwock of Sorrowlord Zathuda.

Through another series of tunnels, they come to the base of the central pillar of Kreviris, where there's an entrance to the excavation site. "Stay close, talk only when necessary, and if anything goes sideways, find creative ways to do away with unwanted curiosities."

The tunnel they enter has a very specific direction with no deviations like a usual mining tunnel would -- whoever built this knew what they were trying to get to, and the fastest way to get there. Off the main tunnel there are barracks and storage rooms -- it appears that they've recovered rare precious metals like gold and silver, too. The miners are of various peoples, but the soldiers here are almost exclusively reiloran.

They're stopped by a guard, who talks telepathically to Ira; then, Ira leads them to the entrance of a barracks. Inside, the Sorrowlord Zathuda stands at a table with his helmet off. His facial hair is unkempt and he's clearly uncomfortable with being on Ruidus. He's conversing with someone they've never seen: flanked by two Avadons is a massive reiloran hulk with a smooth, polished black iron mask covering his entire face, wearing incredibly intricate body armor with tusks and blades woven in, adorned with black and red strips of leather. He stands at nearly 10 feet tall.

Zathuda addresses him aloud as he leaves: "What thy will might be, Sunder King, the Vanguard will see it through." The hulk is Zuth, the Sunder King, one of the heads of the Dominion of Kruth.

One of Zuth's avadons begins to sniff out FCG and Fearne casts speak with animals to try to speak to it. To my surprise, it works! That means these things are beasts, not aberrations. The avadon is called back by Zuth, and they depart.

Farther down the tunnel, they come to a blast boundary and an inward-opening door that would let something large through -- but it's sealed. Ashton approaches, and Ira's thought-eater visage offers them superiority over the two guards at the gate.

Ira didn't expect this -- they got the blast door up fast, so whatever is beyond it might be what they're using to dig. He buys them a few minutes by telepathically sending the guards away -- with Ludinus' staff, FCG casts passwall to make a tunnel through the door, and they all file through. Since passwall lasts for an hour (and is not concentration), Ira casts an illusion over the hole to hide it so they can use it to escape.

The wall was 15 feet thick -- it was meant to withstand massive explosions. On the other side, there's a lever to open it.

As they continue down the tunnel, it gets more rough and unpolished. There is erosion here, where things have pushed through without reinforcement. There's also a distant grinding sound, and as they approach -- with their path lit by proximity-based mining lights -- they see elements of ruidian glass emerging from the wall like unearthed crystals. As they continue, the glass becomes more prominent, like this tunnel is drilling into the very base of the pillar. The grinding is joined by a hum, and at the end of the excavation, there are a handful of reilorans manning a machine: "a contraption that has some sort of a black exhaust, reminiscent of a burning oil mixed with ozone. It's having a hard time -- you can't tell if it's moving at all, but the sound is deafening. You see the massive device, eight feet wide on rollers with a handle where a hulk is pushing it into the wall... beyond that, there are two simply-dressed reilorans holding the sides, and one with Emperium, Dominion of Kruth armor keeping watch back down the tunnel, toward you."

They debate whether they should plant the explosives here in the return tunnel, or if they should fight these guys, stop the machine, and explode it.

Ira intends to use all of these explosives in this area. This is only one of many of these tunnels -- there's no way this is the only machine of its kind boring into the moon, but it's one of them, at least.

Ira offers to go into the fray and charm or sleep the folks working the drill, plant the explosives, then run -- Fearne and FCG will aid him in charming, but Ashton will play safety on the tunnel. "Let's go destroy something beautiful."

Ira's charm gets three of the four to leave, and Fearne's hits the fourth one. They set the bombs and book it.

Ashton rage build update: The time build increases their speed by 30 feet, to a max walking speed of 80ft.

When the explosion goes off, the shockwave cascades through the tunnels, and the entirety of the ground above the city of Kreviris bulges and starts to collapse inward. As the flames follow the shockwave, every person left in the tunnel is incinerated on contact -- Ashton uses the shard to dash at an insane speed through the rock with FCG in tow, and even though they take half the shockwave damage, they make it out into the cavern. From the amount of dice Matt is rolling, it sounds like these bombs dealt a combined 50d6 force damage (so 10d6 per bomb) for the shockwave alone -- I have to imagine that the fire would've done at least 50d6, if not 100d6.

As they fly through the air and land, barely alive, in the cavern, they hear Gloamglut's screech -- the Sorrowlord may well have been in those caverns, and may well have gotten incinerated in the blast.

From her vantage point, Fearne is able to pick out the forms of Ashton and FCG, and meets back up with them after being jettisoned to the surface by Ira.

The infiltration team:

Imogen, Laudna, Fearne, and Chetney set off, invisible, on the street level of the Sprawl Grotto, heading toward the central spire.

As they travel, they see that the people of the city are packing. Families are loading up carts, stores are putting their goods into crates and pulling down their banners, beasts of burden are laden with full saddlebags. There are also many groups of mycits coming out from the small tunnels in the walls, carrying vibrant bundles of fungi and piling them.

They get the sense that the mycit are also under the rule of the Emperium, but are following the directions of both soldiers and civilians.

As they approach the Prime Spire, the wealth of the populace increases, as does the number of reilorans and the number of military patrols.

They find a path into the spire, but the door is guarded by a number of reilorans.

As they begin their approach to the Prime Pillar, they can see that there are branch-like growths coming from it, liked hooked roots. (Talisein, rightfully, looks very concerned about this.)

They spot a balcony built in to the Colloquium of Candescence that they can get to -- in an alleyway, Laudna uses spider climb, then Imogen casts invisibility on her again, so she can climb up there with a rope and everyone can get up there without dropping invisibility.

Once they're inside, Chetney opens the satchel they were given at the safehouse: from it, Everoa's seita runs out! "Everoa, yes. She's my bormodo. You're helping? Good! My name is Gona." They say that soldiers took Everoa underneath the engineering bay, where she was working. Gona can sense that Everoa is still alive, and can lead them to the engineering bay. As per Matt's ruling, creatures using an invisible creature as a mount also becomes invisible, so Gona climbs under Imogen's coat.

The infiltration group gains a guide toward the engineering bay, and Otohan's signal on the scry ball is still far above them.

Matt describes this building as having been shaped psychically, through pure force of will.

Chetney uses grim psychometry on the Prime Pillar: "You get flashes of red -- stone crushing, feelings of anger and hunger, and you feel a brief moment of loneliness." So it seems like this pillar has something to do with Predathos' imprisonment, like a trammel or shackle.

In the engineering bay, there's an odd chemical smell. Reilora work at metal and stone instruments, inspecting samples; the bay itself is a series of small, laboratory-like rooms connected by thin hallways. Chetney notices that, in a far chamber, there is a device similar to the piece of the Aeorian dispelling array that they found on the caravan.

In the next room, there are jars of liquid, labeled, with organs in them -- they vary in size, but some appear almost fetal. One of them reads "primary zinc input -- failure." Another says "use of strong psychic influence at second stage -- ruined brainstem. Failed." The things collected here are essentially bioengineering experiments kept for research purposes. In the same room, there's a massive glass tube with greenish-brown liquid in it -- similar to the things we saw in Aeor and the Folding Halls.

The next room is the largest, and there are numerous jars with specimens, as well as tubes with metal cages around them. In one is a reiloran shape; in another, a smaller shape, growing strangely. There's an autopsy taking place -- they're picking apart and studying a Judicator. They also see an orrery that displays a theoretical cross-section of the layers of Ruidus, and the center is a teal glass core with pillars piercing it from the crust. It appears to take up about 30-40% of Ruidus' mass.

They see the scientist in one of those tubes, suspended in the vat.

They're still in this room when the explosion goes off. The entire compound quakes -- Chetney gets a couple people to evacuate, but it seems like this level is structurally stable for now.

As they pass by, they look at the Judicator: it looks like a metal mask was seared onto the flesh of the face, and now that it's been removed, it took the skin with it to reveal muscle, bone, and sinew. The eyes are gone.

After a battle, they get Everoa out of the tube and book it back toward the Volition hideout. On the way out, they snag a piece of Aeorian tech, some of the fetus jars, and the Ruidus orrery. The way Everoa wants to go is filled with soldiers, so they go back the way they came and find the balcony again.

And back together:

Fearne and Imogen, as the red glow brightens around them, hear an ear-piercing, world-shattering scream of horror, agony, and fear -- a female voice. Liliana.

As the demolition team runs back to the Volition hideout and the infiltration team emerges on the balcony, they see the Music Hall: the roof explodes outward, the pieces hover in the air and a lavender pillar of energy emanates from it, as Liliana appears to exalt again.

That lavender flame flickers in the air, and Fearne and Imogen hear a single phrase: "Did she know?"

#critical role #critical role c3 #critical role campaign 3 #note watches c3 #critical role spoilers #long post #critical role liveblog

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spell-cleaver · 1 year

Text

Biggs was only meant to join the Rebellion for a short while, to be Lord Vader's eyes and ears while the Death Star bore down on them. But now the Death Star is gone - destroyed by Biggs's oldest friend.

Now, Biggs is stranded on the wrong side of the war, while Luke establishes himself with the Rebels and Vader closes in. But even as Biggs is drawn even closer to his friend, his loyalties to Vader are as strong as ever.

Something has to break.

Biggs landed before Luke did. He always had, even when Luke won the races through Beggar's Canyon; Luke was too fond of victory laps. He spent as much time in the sky as possible, and while Biggs loved it up there, after fearing for his life so intently he preferred to be on the ground.

It meant he got the first view of all the cheering, the veritable fireworks that the ground crews were already setting off as he brought his X-wing in to land. Pilots who had been grounded swarmed up to him to clap him on the shoulder, sympathise with his hit—was he injured? How was he feeling?—but he waved them away. It didn't take much effort: one minute and forty-three seconds after he landed, Luke's X-wing swooped in as well, as smooth as a swallow with as much joy in its flight, closely followed by the barbaric heap of scrap metal that had saved him.

It meant Biggs was left alone other than by the ground crew who wheeled up the ladder to his X-wing. Even they seemed impatient to go and greet the hero of the hour, though elation and the sheer relief of being alive had made them charitable. They stood there for a few minutes while Biggs sat in his cockpit, the top still firmly closed, twirling his helmet in his hands. He could hear the sounds of jubilation, but they were muffled through the thick transparisteel. His thoughts were louder.

How had this all gone so wrong?

He hadn't been meant to see any of these people again. They were meant to be dead.

Read the rest on AO3 or on FFN!

#luke skywalker #darth vader #biggs darklighter #biggsluke #for darkness shows the stars #my writing #random words on a page #star wars big bang #dark lights

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limnsaber · 8 months

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Oh my gosh I’m listening to the old 1981 radio drama (w Mark Hamill) and it opens with Luke speaking along to the Imperial Academy’s ad for applications on the radio, and then Windy stops by to let Luke know they’re all headed to Beggar’s Canyon ahjsbsjdnfng

I drafted this then finished the drama. 5 minutes solid of Biggs & Luke laughing my beloved.

Luke knowing his duty and not willing to abandon it, holding his hope and dreams and family over everything else>>>

Quiet moments between Luke and Leia…

Humor in this drama wasn’t bad at all either! They made Obi like. half-American which was funny. There’s a little bit of divergence from the current canon but that’s to be expected :) the parts I like most were Luke’s friends on Tatooine and his and Biggs’ heart to heart. Biggs says to Luke that the reason their peers treat Luke as they do is that they know he’s going to get off Tatooine. Like Biggs, who was the hotshot whenever he was around, and not like them who’ll probably stay on Tatooine forever. Luke threads the needle and crashes the Skyhopper and joins the Rebellion :) he laughs with Biggs and talks with Leia and learns from Obi-Wan about the Jedi and the Force and I really did love this drama

#star wars #Star Wars radio drama #anh #luke skywalker #ot #lim posts #lim on Star Wars #star wars radio dramas

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nirikeehan · 1 year

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Thalia & Garrett Hawke - “I’ve got you!” from PUT THEM IN SITUATIONS XD Shenanigans

HEYO thank you for this prompt. I've always been curious about the Hawke you meet in the default Inquisition world state because for so long I believed he was just A Guy and not the protag of the previous game. So here's an attempt to capture that character as I saw him then.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1776

---

“Where did that damned Inquisitor go?” Hawke asked Varric. They sat in the shadow of a tumbledown stone tower, which seemed untouched since the time of the Second Blight. They were taking a break, Hawke had thought, for lunch. Only once he and Varric and the large Qunari had unwrapped their meager rations of stale bread and hard cheese, Lady Thalia Trevelyan was nowhere to be found.

The Iron Bull lounged against a stone wall, taking a hearty sip of their precious canteen water. “Saw her go out that way.” He pointed. “Something about wanting to find out where that ladder we found near the canyon went.”

“Bloody hell,” Hawke groused. “It’s the hottest part of the day. And there’s quillbacks and varghests about, not to mention darkspawn, bandits and the Venatori. And the girl goes off on her own?”

Varric chuckled from where he sat beside by the burnt out shell of an ancient ballista. “You didn’t have to come out here with us, Hawke. We have it all well in hand.”

Hawke ground his teeth, biting back his response — that he’d seen Lady Thalia picking her current field team back at Griffon Wing Keep. He’d been aghast that she found it perfectly acceptable to head out into the simmering heat with his best friend, a Qunari spy, and a boy who couldn’t be a day over sixteen. (“It’s a bit more complicated than that with Cole,” Varric said unhelpfully when Hawke had complained.)

Varric aside, Garrett Hawke didn’t trust the others as far as he could throw them, and so he’d heard himself volunteer to replace Cole, who’d been stymied by tying his own shoelaces after he’d shaken roughly an inch of sand from his boot. Now that Hawke had reported the enemy was gathering at Adamant Fortress, he’d needed something to keep him useful to the Inquisition in the mean time. Low-level mercenary work might have once felt beneath the Champion of Kirkwall, but these days, beggars could not be choosers.

And the Inquisitor herself seemed like she needed all the help she could get.

Hawke sighed, using his staff to leverage himself to his feet. He was regretting the layers of leather and metal he’d worn out to this Maker-forsaken corner of Thedas. He’d thought he was accustomed to warm climes after the years he’d spent in Kirkwall, but the boiling temperatures of the Western Approach were on another level entirely. “I suppose I’ll look for her.”

“Don’t go making it sound like such a sacrifice,” Varric cracked. “Thalia’s fine. She just gets curious, is all.”

He felt a pang of annoyance that Varric would act like he had a better read on anyone in their company than Hawke did. That had been a joint task, those years ago. And there had been a time when Hawke himself had delighted in the unknown, the adventure that might lie around every corner. Maker’s teeth, what’s happened to me?

“She’s young,” Hawke pointed out. “Maybe too young to be running an operation like this one.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Varric conceded, chewing on a crust of bread. “But she’s got the energy for it. Not like us world-weary assholes.”

Hawke trudged away, under the archway of the ruined tower, and out into the blinding orange sands. A scorching wind hit his face, ruffling his dark hair and getting grit under his beard. He stifled another sigh and wrapped the linen scarf he’d bought from a vendor at the keep around his face. He’d oft wondered why nomads in this part of the world dressed so, but soon the need for loose-fitting yet constant shade had become inescapable.

He doubled back the way the party had come, using the prints in the sand to guide him. Four sets of tracks approached, already fading into the rippled dunes. Only one fresher set led away, the side approximately that of a young woman’s boot. Hawke noted they were headed in the direction of the wide canyon, likely proving Iron Bull right.

Why must the girl climb every ladder she sees? Hawke wondered as he marched. It was a near compulsion, it seemed to him. Maker help them if there was no ladder, but only a ruined wall, or tower, or statue, or even a peculiarly shaped tree. Up she went, climbing with gusto and abandon, on the most rickety of structures, beaming down at the party with a lady-like wave. At least the Tevinter mage and the dour Grey Warden had the sense to tell her she was being foolhardy. Varric seemed oddly endeared and far too indulgent, the way he’d gotten with Merrill back in Kirkwall. Some to think of it, there was a bit of Merrill’s bright spirit in Lady Thalia. As well as her recklessness. But more than that, she reminded Hawke of someone else. Someone he tried not to think of for too long. Dwelling on the past, he’d learned, didn’t wake the dead.

He reached the lip of the canyon, where the soft sand gave way to hard rock and Thalia’s footprints disappeared. He had to rely on memory from here on out.

Hawke found the ladder jutting from an outcropping of rock, leading to a splintery scaffolding well above his head. “Lady Thalia?” he called impatiently. “Are you up there?”

“Ser Hawke?” floated the girl’s faint voice on the wind. “Is that you?”

Hawke grabbed a rung and began to climb. “You know, I’m not technically a ser. I was never knighted.”

No, the Champion of Kirkwall had been everything except officially recognized for his accomplishments. Every authority figure in the blasted city came to him for aid, but it was Varric who saw to it that he had lasting recognition. For all the good that had done him.

Hawke climbed to the top of the ladder, where a rickety scaffolding straddled the space between two cliff faces. Another ladder led down into the crevice, which led to a sudden drop off into the gargantuan gorge they’d been skirting all day. Thalia stood near the edge gazing out on the blighted landscape. The Western Approach had never quite recovered from the Second Blight, that much was clear. Ominous smoke clouds drifted overhead at odd parts of the day, and some areas were still scorched black.

Thalia gazed upon one such speck in the landscape now, the hot breeze pulling back the strands of auburn hair that fell into her face. Hawke climbed down carefully, frowning at the uneven quality of the structure. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“Oh, loads. A mosaic piece under that scaffolding, for starters. And do you see the mark of the Blight, over on the other side of the canyon? It’s a living piece of history, right there.”

“I’m not sure about the living part.” Hawke had seen a lot out here in the Approach, and couldn’t shake how most of it was dead. Bleached white bones of those long deceased. Abandoned remnants of mines, quarries, outposts, forts. At first Hawke wasn’t sure that Serault fellow was even truly alive, behind the obscuring mask. “But I’m… glad you’re getting something out of it.”

He couldn’t bring himself to scold her, although he wanted to. But he had no right; she was not a troublesome sibling, strayed too far from home. Hawke strode up behind Lady Thalia, and tried to see the landscape as she saw it, scowling when he failed miserably.

“So,” Thalia said, turning to him. “What do you need?”

“Need? Ah, nothing.” He crossed his arms and avoided her gaze.

The young woman frowned. “You came all this way… and you don’t need anything?”

Hawke shrugged. “Is it a crime to wonder if you’d be all right by yourself?”

“Are you worried about me, Ser Hawke?” Her voice was light and teasing, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something flickered inside Hawke; a lightness he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten himself capable.

“Listen,” he said gruffly. “With the position you’re in, we can’t afford to lose you.”

“I appreciate that.” The way she said it made him suspect she was merely being polite.

An awkward silence stretched, during which Hawke struggled to come up with something else to say. Instead, he thought of Bethany, her bright smile and cheeky demeanor, that damn bandana she always wore around her neck. There was too much of her memory wound up in his perception of this girl, he was beginning to see it now. But who could blame him, when in reality they seemed so much alike.

Thalia looked away first, down the chasm that stretched out before them. “Hey— hang on, do you see that?”

“What?” Hawke peered over the side, to where Thalia was pointing, and a cold trickle of dread wound its way down his spine. On an outcropping of rock, twenty or so feet down, was a pile of skeletons. All of a sudden, he wondered what the scaffolding, the ladders, this entire strange little establishment in the middle of nowhere meant, in the past or in the present. “Maker have mercy.”

“I need to get down there,” Thalia said with impressive resolve. “I need to see how recent this was. Maybe there’s something there that can tell us who these people were.”

“Thalia, I wouldn’t.” The side of the cliff had nothing in the way of footholds. The outcropping itself seemed narrow and unsteady, and beyond it was a drop that would surely kill anyone.

But she was already pacing the space, looking for a way to climb down. “I think if I just braced myself like this—”

She planted her boot against the rock, but lost purchase and slid out from under her. In horror, Hawke watched her fall. Without thinking, he reached out into the open air, seized her arm. She let out a yelp, but stopped short, banging against the cliff face. Hawke jerked with the weight of her momentum, but seized the wall for support. “Hold on. Hold on, I’ve got you.”

It took a few harrowing moments to rebalance themselves, but Hawke managed to drag Thalia back over the edge. She stumbled against him, panting, trousers torn and knees bloody. Hawke grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Thanks,” she muttered, clinging to him and catching her breath.

“See what I told you?” Hawke demanded. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

“You don’t have to be so self-righteous about it,” Thalia retorted. “Who do you think you are, my father?”

Hawke opened his mouth, but words failed him, so he closed it. That wasn’t a can of worms he wanted to open. Not now, not ever.

#thalia trevelyan #garrett hawke #i've been told i should ship them lmfao #but idk what i'm going for here exactly #shit's complicated #fics #varric tethras #the iron bull #dragon age drunk writing circle

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