#PI!din

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

i really like writing about boring people. i like putting the most mid guy in existence next to the protagonist suffering from glorious purpose. here is a guy with no special skills, no blessings from the narrative, no outlandish identifying traits. and he can be just as interesting as the other guy as long as you make him feel real. banality is sublime to me.

[celesteablack]

pookieeeee🎀 ne finally chai bnai....sabasssss

....... finally ka kya mtlb hai be🤨🤨🤨

And fyi main roz chai banati hu theek haina infact it is one of the few things I actually can't make perfectly huh😤✋

[knifesxedge]

i know this joke is a year and some weeks late but apparently i was the only one who thought of this when first watching this scene

[jade-curtiss]

Ok mais y vo tu aller a okinawa tu seul (ça serait ben drole et assez normal (nooon c'pas sketchy snskdkskaak) mais comme de toute les places à aller, au moins y devrais se débrouiller vu son nom sur ses cartes slsldlslslslaflfls)

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Epilogue

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set immediately following Chapter 13: The Jedi.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, angst, bittersweet-ness, so much love and fluff, SMUT - Din take this helmet off, thigh riding, oral sex (m receiving), P in V sex, reader on top, Din's dirty mouth, all the praise, cursing in Mando'a (I had to let these two go out with a bang, they would have rioted otherwise)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Read on AO3

Your return to Nevarro was bittersweet in a way you hadn’t fully expected.

You hadn’t anticipated the swell of emotion you would feel at the sight of the coal-black sands and the rugged white architecture, a pang in your heart that reminded you of the relief of coming home. You hadn’t planned for the immediate ache of Grogu’s absence, always there but particularly poignant when you realized that you hadn’t thought you would be coming back here without him. You hadn’t thought to steel yourself against the rush of affection that washed over you as you said your goodbyes to Fennec and Boba, wishing for all the galaxy that they could stay even while you knew that they had their own priorities to look after back on Tatooine. The sensation had almost choked you when the former pulled you into an unexpected embrace, cradling the back of your head in her gloved palm in a way that reminded you painfully of your mother.

“Keep working on that right hook,” she murmured into your shoulder, arms tight as durasteel around you as you clung to her lean frame. “I expect you to give me a run for my money on the sparring mat the next time I see you.”

You hadn’t expected Greef Karga himself to greet you on the tarmac as you disembarked from the Firespray. The way his handsome, weathered face had gone from cheery to confused to mournful as he swept his gaze across Din, then Cara, then you in search of little green child and not finding one, the way he had immediately opened his mouth to ask only to be interrupted by a wave of Din’s hand.

“My quest is completed. He’s with his own kind.”

You imagined there might have been a time when those words would have been said with triumph or satisfaction, but instead they sounded flat and hollow as they crackled through the bounty hunter’s helmet.

Victory and loss. Comradery and loneliness. Homecoming and homesickness. You wondered how long this dichotomy would linger, how long it would be before you could experience one emotion without also being overwhelmed by its opposite. Would anything ever feel quite right again, now that Grogu was gone?

---

After dropping off her belongings at her apartment, Cara Dune took you both out to lunch at Ninda’s, the same cantina she had introduced you to before your departure for Tython. Din had protested, insisting that the two of you ought to be heading for the port office, but thankfully, the marshal had refused to take no for an answer. Now, bellies full of savory meat pies and mugs of ale, you could feel an air of anticipation settle over the table as Cara leaned back in her chair and asked the question that had lingered in the back of your mind since departing Gideon’s cruiser.

“So. What’s next?”

You glanced at Din, catching his gaze only briefly through his visor before he replied, “We’ll be moving on. There’s nothing left for me here now that my covert is gone, and we’re still out of a ship. I need to find work.”

“Plenty of work to be done here,” Cara retorted. “City’s growing every day. I could always use a deputy, and I’m sure we could find a spot for your girl somewhere. Not nearly enough people with your skills around here yet,” she continued, flashing you a smile. “You could be one of the first. Open your own shop. Karga would approve your business license in a heartbeat.”

You huffed a soft laugh. She was right, of course. You could do it if you wanted – start your own business. Perhaps you could repair broken hardware, design custom mods, restore vintage ships. You could probably even build them from scratch if you found a good parts supplier. It would be a good life, a stable life. Shipbuilding was a lucrative business, and you could be your own boss, something that had felt like a pipe dream during your years of servitude on Chardaan.

But one look at Din had you shaking your head and slipping your hand under the table to rest on his thigh, giving him a comforting squeeze. Your bounty hunter wasn’t ready for that kind of life just yet. You could feel it in the tightness of his muscles beneath your hand, could see it in the way he crossed his arms over his chest at the suggestion.

Someday, you thought that might be something he wanted, but for now, you could feel the itch to return to his nomadic life among the stars burning under his skin as if it were your own.

“That’s generous of you. But we can’t stay,” you said after a beat. “It’s not time for us to settle just yet.”

Cara accepted your response with moderate grace, ensuring that you each had her personal comm link code should you change your minds. She also informed you that Karga had offered to put you up in a temporary apartment for as long as you wished while you decided your next destination.

“It’s nothing special,” she quipped, passing Din a sleek, black keycard. “Just something he used to rent out to clients back in the day, when they wanted to do business in person. But it should have everything you need until you’re ready to move on.”

A swell of fondness rose up in your chest, making it difficult to swallow as you fought the urge to launch yourself across the table and wrap the other woman in a fierce hug.  Meanwhile, the Mandalorian appeared reluctant to accept. Slipping the keycard into his belt, he rasped, “You can tell Karga I’ll be paying him back.”

The marshal laughed, loud and brash. “He’d shoot you for even suggesting it.”

“It’s too much. I won’t be indebted to him like that.”

“Indebted?” Cara looked almost offended at the suggestion, dark eyes flashing sharply. “You know better than anybody what it means to take care of your own, right? Let Karga do the same.”

This response seemed to take Din aback; you watched his helmet cock to the side in confusion as he processed her words, as if it were the first time he had considered that others might be willing to show up for him whether there was something in it for them or not.

You wondered then if he knew how much he meant to people, if he knew how strongly others were drawn to him without any effort on his part. You wondered if he knew how his sense of honor, his generosity, his steadfastness all made him a natural leader. He was the type of person who inspired loyalty, whether he actively sought it or not. Such a thing was a rare gift.

Almost absently, your eyes dropped to his utility belt where the inactive hilt of the Darksaber hung limply against his armored thigh. Should he wish it, he could take up Bo-Katan’s mission – reunite his people. He would be a tremendous Mand’alor, and that sword would give him more legitimacy than if he had been born to it.

“Fine,” he replied, pulling you out of your musings. “Just this once. We won’t linger long anyway.”

Cara shrugged. “Like I said – it’s yours for as long as you want. Just promise you’ll stop in and say goodbye when the time comes, okay?”

---

The apartment was in the market district, a little one-bedroom unit on the fourth floor of a white-washed building edged in royal blue trim.

The first floor was taken up with a tidy little caf shop that you looked forward to patronizing, and both sides of the cozy cobblestone street were lined with market stalls shaded by colorful linen awnings, all varying shades of red, orange, and gold. In spite of the charming surroundings, the marshal’s assessment of the unit itself had been accurate – it wasn’t nearly as lavish as the inn you had stayed in the last time you were on Nevarro. However, after spending weeks in deep space, the full kitchen, running water refresher, and large bed felt downright luxurious even if it was a bit barebones.

“I wonder how many places like this Karga has across the city,” you mused, pacing the length of the living space. The place had been sparsely furnished in nondescript shades of gray – a charcoal sofa, a light gray leather armchair, a two-person dining table in an ashen wood with a shining steel surface. Not unwelcoming but decidedly devoid of personality.

Din cocked his helmet in thought, following close on your heels. “A few, I’m sure. He likes to be prepared.”

You hummed thoughtfully. You could see that; Karga struck you as the type of man who was accustomed to holding all the cards.

Setting aside thoughts of the magistrate for the moment, you turned to face your companion, taking in the Mandalorian in your first moment of true solitude in weeks. Even through the bulk of his armor and the impassivity of his helmet, you could sense his weariness. It draped across his broad shoulders like a cloak, his emotions nearly tangible to you after so many months in his company. How had you ever thought this man stoic?

Closing the narrow distance between you, you rested your palms against the cool, unyielding surface of his breastplate and gazed up into his visor. “How are you, ner kar’ta?” you asked earnestly.

Your question hung in the still, silent air for a moment before the bounty hunter slipped his hands casually around your waist and pulled you to him. “Hmm. I like it when you speak Mando’a,” he rasped, fingers kneading the curve of your hips through the coarse fabric of your boilersuit.

You grinned, leaning gently into his touch. “Yeah? I’ve been practicing my accent.”

“It’s really coming along,” Din replied with a nod. You could hear the smile in his voice, could picture the softness in his dark eyes as he gazed at you, and you felt a gentle flush rise in your cheeks.

“I’d love to learn more, if you’re willing. All the phrases I know at this point are just…expressions of affection.” You hit him with a pointed look, eyebrow arched, and he huffed a laugh.

“I’d be happy to teach you.”

“I look forward to our first lesson.” Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you shuffled another inch closer and threaded your fingers into the folds of his cape. “Now. If you’re done dodging the question…”

Broad, heavy palms drifted lower then, pressing warmly, firmly into the muscles of your ass, and you struggled to keep your eyelids from drooping under the heat of his hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The arch of your eyebrow deepened, and you drew back slightly, as much as you could manage in the cage of his arms. “Din,” you said shortly.  

Silence stretched between you for a breath, the two of you simply staring at one another, tacitly waiting for the other to capitulate and change the subject. But you would not allow him to best you in this. Eventually, it was him that offered a soft, tentative confession.

“I’m…restless,” he admitted, breaking your gaze to stare down at his boots. “I don’t like the idea of just…sitting around. I’d rather keep moving.”

You nodded in understanding. “I get that. Trust me, I’m not very good at doing nothing, either. But let’s just…” You trailed off, searching for the right words. “Let’s just try. For a few days. Please.”

The Mandalorian glanced back up at you at that, and you could see your own face – the bags under your eyes, the chaotic strands of hair clinging to your forehead, the weary shine of your eyes – reflected back at you in his visor. Your clothes were rumpled, your scarf stained with sweat. You looked, if possible, even more exhausted than you felt.

“We’ve been running at lightspeed for weeks,” you continued. “I’m completely spent. And I would bet if you held still for more than a couple of seconds, you’d feel it, too.”

The shoulders beneath your hands stiffened at your words. “That’s the life I live,” he replied gruffly.

“That’s the life you’ve chosen to live,” you corrected immediately. “But right now, maybe for the first time, there’s no Guild Agent beating down your door, there’s no quarry to chase, there’s no covert to provide for.” Offering him a gentle smile, you slipped one hand up to cradle his beskar cheek. “You don’t have to be…the Mandalorian right now. Right now, you get to just be Din Djarin. And Din Djarin is a human man. Who needs food. And water. And sleep. Just like the rest of us.”

Din was quiet then, though you could swear you could hear the gears in his mind turning as he processed your words. You could sense the battle within him – who he had been before Grogu, before you at war with the man he had become in the time since. The old Din Djarin was a lone ranger, a rolling stone, a clan of one; rigid, impassive, uncompromising. His drive to keep moving, to keep working, to keep surviving had been as much a part of the core of him as his Creed.

Who was this new Din Djarin? You could feel the question even through the silence.

Taking pity on him, you gathered both of his hands in yours, pulling them from your body and instead pressing soft kisses to them, one for each ridge of knuckles hidden beneath thick leather. “Tell you what. Why don’t we get cleaned up, and then we can go downstairs and take a walk through the market? Replenish some of the supplies we lost, then go from there?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the bounty hunter nodded. “All right, cyare,” he agreed. Resignation colored his tone, and you felt your smile widen in triumph. “Go get the water started. I’ll join you in a minute.”

---

You hardly remembered stripping down to your skin as the shower heated up, could not recall leaving your dirty clothes crumpled in a pile in the corner of the ‘fresher as you climbed in and immediately dunked yourself under the stream of too-hot water. It was all done on autopilot, your body moving on inertia alone as your mind raced, echoing with Din’s words.

I’ll join you in a minute.

Join you.

In the ‘fresher? In the shower?

You had left the lights off just in case, though admittedly you weren’t certain it would do much to prevent you from seeing his face should he decide to climb in under the spray with you. There was a small window paned with thick, warped glass cut into the far wall, and late afternoon Nevarran sunlight filtered through it, leaving the room dim but hardly dark. Plenty to see by with hardly a squint.

As you scrambled into the stall, you draped your scarf around the shower door handle as a backup. Another just in case.

Lost in thought, you went through the motions of your routine. Unwinding your braid, soaking the long strands until they weighed heavily on your shoulders, fumbling for the anonymous bottle of generic shampoo that had come stocked with the unit. You kept your eyes on the wall of the stall in front of you, your back to the shower door, and you tried not to let your hands tremble.

It had been so long since Din had touched you, so long since he had bent you over the rickety bunk on Boba’s ship and sent you rocketing through the stars. So much had happened since then, and in the intervening time, there had been days where this side of you had felt so far away, so out of reach it felt almost alien. But no longer. Your skin prickled under the steaming spray, seemingly impervious to the heat of the water now that another heat had reawakened in your belly. It simmered there, a creature stretching and preening after a long slumber, a thing that only Din had ever managed to draw out of you.

You had never wanted anyone the way you wanted him, and that want burned so brightly you could feel the space between your thighs begin to throb at the mere suggestion that it might be satisfied.

Distantly, you heard the hiss of the ‘fresher door sliding open followed by the rhythmic thud of heavy boots. You swallowed thickly as the door slid shut again, as soft clinks joined the sound of rustling fabric. It was like…metal on tile.

Like beskar being peeled off of a flight suit and stacked neatly on the floor.

You pressed your palms to the cool wall of the shower stall, holding yourself steady as you felt your knees begin to tremble with nerves you could not control. You hadn’t even been this anxious the first time you had fucked him – on the contrary, that experience had left you soaring with confidence. What could possibly have you in such a state this time, you wondered?

A brief rush of cool air swept into the shower stall behind you, dissipating the thick cloak of steam that surrounded you and blooming goosebumps across your shoulder blades.

You said nothing, the only sound you made the deep, centering breath you drew as a pair of broad, tanned hands appeared over the swell of your hips. Before you could shiver away the sudden chill of the open stall, the door closed again, and a strong, masculine body pressed tight to your back. His heat bled into you instantly, and you could not stifle the moan that dripped from your mouth as you leaned back into his embrace.

“Shab. I’ve missed you, mesh’la,” Din murmured, voice low and coarse as he pressed his face into the bend of your neck. Against your damp skin, you felt a pair of pillowy lips caress you. You felt scratchy, uneven stubble – longer than the last time you had seen it – drag against your pulse point. You felt the tip of a prominent, aquiline nose tuck into the space behind your ear and breathe you in.

The Mandalorian had, once again, taken his helmet off. On instinct, your eyes fell closed.

“Din,” you gasped weakly, hand flying up to thread your fingers into his hair, holding him to you. Maker, he felt good against you, his skin hot and smooth, his kisses along your neck wet and sucking. The sensation had your knees softening beneath you, and you were grateful for your grip on the wall and his clutch on your hips keeping you on your feet.

“S’all right. You can open your eyes. Ni liser nu haaranovor teh gar tug'yc.” Hands drifting to your stomach, your ribcage, your breasts, Din pulled you deeper into his embrace. You could feel the thick, warm hardness of him pressed against the small of your back, the heavy weight of his balls soft against your ass. “I won’t hide from you anymore. I refuse.”

A whimper worked its way out of your throat at his words. “Y-You’re sure? I won’t l-look, I swear,” you panted, grinding the globes of your ass cheeks instinctually against his cock like a Loth-cat in heat.

The bounty hunter groaned, his fingers digging sharply into your flesh to keep you still, and the sound vibrated through your body like the roll of thunder. “I know you wouldn’t. My sweet girl. I’m sure.” Using his grip on you to spin you around, you quickly found yourself backed up against the shower wall. Still, your eyes remained squeezed tightly shut as he continued, “It can be…permissible show one’s face. Within the bonds of the riduurok.”

Riduurok. You knew that word. It meant –

Your eyes snapped open, and instantly, your field of vision was filled with nothing but him. Broad, tanned, freckled shoulders. Dark brown curls clinging to his forehead. Deep brown eyes, round and earnest and tender, brimming with love, burning with desire. Your beautiful bounty hunter, somehow even more breathtaking than you remembered.

“Marriage,” you translated breathlessly. “Riduurok is…marriage.”

Din nodded once. “Yes.”

A wave of emotion rose up in your throat, and you struggled to swallow. “We aren’t married.”

“No,” he conceded. “But my intentions have not changed. Have yours?”

You were shaking your head before he had even finished his question. “Of course not.” Your voice sounded tremulous, a bit frantic to your own ears. “I just… I couldn’t stand it if you regretted this. I don’t want you to look back at this tomorrow and not be able to put your helmet back on fast enough.”

A flash of guilt sparked in his dark eyes then, and his proud shoulders fell slightly as he dropped his gaze to the floor. You knew he was remembering that morning on Gideon’s cruiser, the disappointment on your face as he explained that taking his helmet off the day before had been an exception.

“I can’t bear to be the thing that drives you to break your Creed, over and over again.” Bringing your hands up to his face, you cradled his cheeks in your palms, savoring the feel of his beard against your skin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “So I need you to be certain. Is this what you want, ner kar’ta? To be like this…with me?”

Din cupped your face in return, the two of holding each other in mirrored poses under the steaming water. “With you and only you,” he promised. “Forever, cyare.”

And then his lips descended on yours, and you swallowed a moan as he gathered you into his arms and bore you back against the shower wall.

---

You got yourselves clean in fits and spurts, between long stretches of deep, wet kisses, fervent gropes, and tantalizing caresses. Din toyed with your breasts while you rinsed your hair, kneading them firmly, trapping your nipples between his fingers, teasing and plucking and tugging until they ached and you couldn’t stifle the needy whines in your throat. When it was his turn to wash himself, you pressed yourself along his back, reaching around his body to stroke his cock with one hand and cradle his balls with the other. You dodged rivulets of soap that streamed down his back as you pressed kisses to his spine, and he shivered beneath your touch. Hot and heavy in your hands, the tip of him leaked and dripped over your skin only for the slickness to immediately wash away under the rush of the showerhead.  

The moment the last of the soap bubbles had disappeared down the drain, the Mandalorian turned off the shower and threw open the stall door.

“Bed,” he growled. The sound reached deep inside you, tugging on your nerve endings and sending a rush of fresh wetness to the apex of your thighs. “Now.”

You paid no heed to the water you trailed behind you as you burst through the ‘fresher door and staggered into the single bedroom. Din was hot on your heels, crowding up behind you as you went so that by the time you reached the foot of the large bed, he needed less than a second to reach around you, snag ahold of the downy-white blankets that dressed it, and fling them onto the floor.

With a breathless laugh, you spun around, the backs of your calves hitting the mattress as you collapsed onto the bed. You reached for him the second your back hit the sheets, fingers scrabbling urgently over his smooth, wet skin, but there was no need; he went to you willingly, clambering atop you with little encouragement. The weight of him was grounding, the give of his belly and the corded strength of his limbs keeping you anchored to the moment.

“Cyar’ika.” The tender, lilting word vibrated against your skin, tripped down your nerves as his teeth dragged along your collarbone. Goosebumps broke out along your skin, and you arched into his touch, hands in his dripping curls tugging him down, down, down to the swell of your breasts. His stubble teased your skin there, making you squirm, pulling a little giggle from your throat, but the giggle quickly morphed into a moan as his lips locked around one of your nipples.  

“Din!” you panted. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling a groan from him, which he smothered against the pillow of your flesh. You could feel your clit swell and throb in time with the coaxing swipes of his tongue, your nipple now impossibly hard and pebbled in a way that had you squirming beneath him, begging for pressure, for friction, anything to soothe the ache that pulsed between your thighs. “Please. Need you.”

As always, it seemed that the Mandalorian knew your body better than you did. In an instant, he had slotted his knee between your legs, adjusting his weight so that he could press himself right up against the place where you needed him most.

“M’right here, sweet girl. Not going anywhere.”

Your hips moved without your direction, grinding into the delicious pressure the moment it arrived. Maker, the heft and the hardness of his thigh felt incredible against your swollen cunt, and though you had to work for it, it was giving you everything you needed as Din’s soft, sucking kisses traveled across your chest, to the hollow of your throat, to the vulnerable patch of skin beneath your ear where your pulse raced.

“Shab,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, panting into your open mouth. “Can feel how bad you want it. You’re soaking me, mesh’la.”

You bit back a whimper, eyelids fluttering as you nodded. “You feel so good,” you assured him. “Always want you, always.”

Sealing his lips over yours, you felt your core tremble at the heat of his tongue, the plushness of his mouth, the force of his kiss. Against your hip, his cock pulsed and leaked, leaving hot, slick trails of precum across your skin, and you swore saliva pooled under your tongue at the sensation. You wanted to taste him, to feel the warmth and the weight of him in your mouth. You wanted to hear him groan and curse as the thick, broad head of him breached your throat, as your nose pressed into his dark curls. You wanted him to need – just as badly as you needed – and you wanted to be the one to make it happen.

Pressing your palms into his chest, wrenching your mouth away from his, you breathed, “Roll over. On your back.”

To your surprise, he obeyed in an instant, and for the first time, you felt a surge of gratefulness for the size of the bed. Such a move would never have been possible in the narrow bunk on the Razor Crest or in the dusty bounty cell on Boba’s Firespray. Scrambling over him, you nudged his legs further apart and kneeled on the mattress between them.

Lower lip trapped coquettishly between your teeth, you braced your hands on his thick thighs and leaned over him. Long, damp strands of your hair cascaded over your shoulders, the ends dancing over his stomach in a way that had the muscles there jumping. You paid them no heed, instead nuzzling the tip of your nose and the round of your cheek against the underside of his hard, flushed cock.

“Hold my hair back, ner kar’ta?” you asked softly as you dragged your tongue across his glistening head.

Din threw his head back with a grunt, broad hands sinking instantly into your hair. He fisted the locks back from your face, holding them close to the root, tugging at your scalp, and you whined at the bolt of white-hot lightning that licked down your spine at the gesture. You didn’t have it in you to tease him any more after that; pulling a deep breath in through your nose, you drew him into your mouth and began to suck.

“Haar’chak!”

The curse echoed through the empty apartment as you smothered your answering grin against his dense, dark curls. You loved him like this – impossibly hard, flushed and hot, heavy and pulsing and tasting of fresh, clean skin and slick, salty man. You loved the way his hips hitched upward, seeking more of your warmth, more of your wet, and you loved the way he stopped himself from pushing you too far, even if he clearly wanted to. You loved the grip of his hands on the back of your head, the way they grounded you to the moment. You even loved the ache in your jaw as you worked yourself over him, knowing you’d suffer much worse to hear him make those low, breathless little groans and know that you were the cause.

It was a privilege getting to watch a man like him fall apart at the seams. To be the one responsible? Just the thought had your racing heartbeat traveling from your chest to your cunt.

It didn’t take long for the fall to begin – didn’t take more than a handful of minutes to have the Mandalorian trembling beneath you, the muscles in his thighs clenching under your hands, his fingers tightening painfully around your hair as he attempted to anchor himself in the maelstrom. A premature thrill of victory coursed through you at the feeling, and you swallowed sloppily around the thickness of him once more before letting him spring from your mouth.

“Taste so good, Din,” you whimpered, dragging your tongue against his leaking tip to drink down another glistening pearl of precum.

A deep, rumbling sound gritted its way out from between his clenched teeth, and you glanced up to watch the tendons in his neck strain as he tried in vain to collect himself. “Can’t say stuff like that,” he panted. “This’ll be over before it even starts.”

You felt a wicked smirk curl your lips and lapped at him again, a teasing little kitten lick that had his hips flexing desperately in search of more. “I’m sure you’d make it up to me.”

With a shake of his head and a weak smile, the bounty hunter released his hold on your hair, letting it tumble back down around your shoulders. “Not happening, cyar’ika. Now get up here before I sit you on my cock myself.”

Stars. A rush of heat flooded your body at his words, an answering wetness dampening your inner thighs, and you scrambled gracelessly from your crouch between his knees. As it had been from the moment you met, you were at his mercy, though now you reveled in it, for you knew he was just as weak to you as you were to him.

His hands came up to cup your hips as you knelt over him, fingers digging deep enough to bruise as you dragged your dripping slit against the thick ridge of his cock – soaking him, making him moan, catching the plush tip of his head against your swollen, throbbing clit. But just as you had worked him up to desperation, you had done the same to yourself, and you found you could not bear to tease yourself for long. Reaching down between your legs, you wrapped your fingers around the base of him, gave him a couple firm strokes, and notched the tip of him against your entrance.

His name was a pitiful whine on the back of a sob as you sank down onto him, felt him stretch you, fill  you, somehow feeling deeper and thicker than ever before. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized this was the first time you had taken him without his fingers to prepare you first, and you could feel the difference – it felt as if he was splitting you open, carving you in two, hollowing out a place for himself deep inside your body, and your muscles trembled and quivered at the harsh demand. It stung, but Maker, did you hunger for it.

“Thaaaaat’s it,” Din growled, watching you with heavy-lidded, blown-pupil eyes. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful like this.”

“Fuck, it’s – it’s – Din. So much.” The pathway between your brain and your mouth seemed to have deteriorated, every word coming out quavering and half-slurred, but your lack of coherence only seemed to spur him on.

“S’okay, cyare. You can do it.” He nodded slowly, encouragingly, using his grip on you to coax a roll of your hips. “Puhoi bal pakod. Slow. Nice and steady.”

The shift of him inside you, the way he dragged against your walls had your jaw dropping open and your eyes falling shut. You needed more immediately. Before you could fully wrap you mind around what was happening, you found yourself rocking against him again, again, again – back and forth, up and down, rocking him deeper, faster into you, dragging your hard little clit against his pubic bone, digging your nails into his chest for support, moaning and gasping as you went.

Through your blurred vision and frayed awareness, you could sense the Mandalorian practically melting beneath you – head dropping back limply, sinking deeper into the now-damp mattress, hands ghosting lightly over your hips to your waist to your breasts to your ass to your thighs, all the while murmuring faint encouragements under his breath as you rode.

So good for me, keep going, mesh’la, take what you need from me, that’s it, just take it, it’s yours, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop…

“Din!” You could feel it building at the base of your spine, could feel your muscles starting to coil in your abdomen. Gods, every time you came down on him, he pounded that soft, elusive spot inside you, making you shake, making you drip. Sweat glistening on your skin, you felt yourself become almost slippery under his hands, the exertion mixing with the dampness of the shower and leaving you shining in the late afternoon sun. Your hips and thighs burned, unused to the strain, but you couldn’t slow, couldn’t stop, couldn’t think of giving in now. You were so close – he was going to make you –

As though reading your mind, the bounty hunter rasped through gritted teeth, “You’re right there, aren’t you? Go on.” He nodded, eyes locked on yours, dark hair clinging to his forehead with his own sweat. “S’okay, I’ve got you, m’right here. Let it happen.”

It occurred to you then that he was watching you fall apart, that his gaze was making note of every facial expression, every bead of sweat, every clenched muscle that rippled across your body, as you were sure he had done so many times before. But just now, right here, was the first time you were getting to watch him. No helmet, no pitch-dark room, no blindfold – nothing stood in the way of you getting to watch the man you loved hold on to the ragged edges of his sanity while you took him for all he was worth. Even in the midst of your hunger and your need, your heart stuttered at the intimacy of it.

You could see each other – really and truly. Fuck, you loved him –

“Yes!” you gasped, seizing up around him. “Yes, yes, fuck, Din, I’m – ”

And then you were gone – flung over the edge of the precipice with a shout, bearing down on his cock as you trembled and throbbed and leaked more of your wetness all over his lap. It smeared under you, slicking the hair at the base of his shaft, gathering in the little creases at the joints of his legs.

Distantly, you could hear a long stream of curses in Mando’a spilling into the air. “Shabshabshabshab. That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it. Feel so good coming all over me like that, such a good girl.”

Every word sent a little spasm through you, delicate aftershocks tripping down your raw, ruined nerves and making you shiver. They left you feeling weak – muscles slack and bones wobbly in the aftermath of your pleasure. You wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the bed beside him in a spineless heap, but no. You refused to abandon him now, not when he was still so impossibly hard inside you, not when he was still smothering low-register grunts as he tried desperately not to flip you onto your back and take what he needed from you.

Instead, you gently slumped forward onto his chest, pressing your tits against his skin and threading your fingers into his hair. “Your turn, ner kar’ta,” you murmured breathlessly against the underside of his jaw. You sucked on the skin there briefly, tasting the salt of him on your tongue. “I’m all yours. Let me feel you cum.”

Your permission was all he needed. In the span of a heartbeat, Din shifted beneath you, bringing his feet up to press firmly into the surface of the mattress, dropping his hands to the globes of your ass, and using his newfound leverage to thrust up into you with a force you hadn’t prepared for. You let out a sharp, surprised yelp, and you could have sworn the bounty hunter laughed in response.

It didn’t take much after that – a few deep, quick, powerful thrusts from below, his big hands steadying you above him as you buried your face in his neck, and then his hips were stuttering, his cock was pulsing, and a bloom of warmth spilled deep inside you. Your name was on his lips as he came – your real name, one he rarely called you but that sounded so sweet on his lips you almost wished he would use it more often.

You felt the curve of his mouth on your brow as he came back down, the scruff of his beard and the bristles of his mustache catching in your hair as he pressed a weak kiss to your skin, and when you looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, you treasured the rare sight of his crooked, fucked-out smile. You weren’t sure you would ever get used to how beautiful your Mandalorian was, but you hoped that perhaps now, with his newfound resolution, you might actually have the opportunity to find out.

---

It was well after dark that first night before the two of you managed to make it down to the market for dinner. Only a small handful of vendors remained open, so you made do with a modest selection of fresh fruit and the last loaf of bread from a baker’s stall down the block. You ate your meager meal naked in bed, the sheets beneath you still cool and damp from your post-shower romp. Despite the lack of glamor, it was easily the most hedonistic moment of your life, and you felt certain you would remember it fondly even when you were old and gray.

The following week you spent in Karga’s loaned apartment was bittersweet. On the one hand, you and Din had never been closer, and your relationship flourished now that you finally had a moment to focus on one another without other competing priorities. You spent long hours lounging on the couch in the living room or curled up in bed together, talking and napping and touching as you pleased. You told him about your childhood on Chardaan, about your parents, about the bad deal that landed your grandfather in the debt of Orron Halcard’s father. You told him about the morning after your eighteenth birthday, the day Orron came to your home to call in the last of that debt. And you told him how you worked for seven years to pay it off, and when you went to him after the final day of your servitude, instead of signing the documents that would have released you from your indenture, Orron destroyed all record of your years of service and instead fitted you with a cortical tracker to keep you from running away.

In return, Din told you what little he remembered of his childhood on Aq Vetina. He told you of his years in the Fighting Corps on Concordia, of his time traveling with another Mandalorian – a man he referred to only as his “mentor,” for whom he served as an apprentice. He told you of finding the Nevarran covert, of the decades he had spent building up his reputation in the Outer Rim as a fierce, efficient bounty hunter, all the while nurturing the growth and prosperity of his hidden community with contributions from his earnings. And he confessed how lonely he had been, all those years making his way through the galaxy alone – that he had not even known he was lonely until Grogu came along.

And therein laid the “bitter” part. The absence of Grogu was like a physical thing – big and tender and painful and always present, no matter how much good food you discovered in town or how many different surfaces Din fucked you on around the apartment. You found yourself sinking hours into ruminating about him, wondering whether he and the Jedi had gotten to their destination safely, whether he was being properly cared for, whether he was happy. You wondered whether this Jedi had picked up on his love of frogs, whether he knew how much the boy liked to be held and carried and rocked to sleep. You wondered whether the Jedi laughed and played with him, whether he sang him songs or told him stories. When you found yourself in one of these moods, you had to reassure yourself that he would, he did, he was; otherwise you surely would have demanded that Din find where that strange man had taken your little boy and made him book transport there immediately.

As it was, you knew you could never ask such a thing of Din. He kept his feelings about the entire ordeal rather close to his chest, but he had shared enough for you to know that he was struggling, as well – perhaps even more than you. So you knew you could not tempt him. You didn’t know if he would have the strength to refuse you.

As one week on Nevarro became two, the both of you began to grow restless. Though neither of you broached the topic, you knew the time of your departure was imminent, as Din had slowly started to use portions of his reward money from Gideon to restock his arsenal of armaments, first aid supplies, and deep space-friendly foodstuffs. You chose to take your cue from him and spent a sunny afternoon replacing the small wardrobe you had lost in the Razor Crest’s destruction, as well as putting together a rudimentary toolkit, which you could take with you to job sites should the opportunity arise. By the end of the second week, it was clear that both of you were as prepared as you could be to venture out beyond the safe haven of Nevarran space once again.

It was late when you finally worked up the courage to ask the question, the two of you lounging in bed in nothing but your skin, the holoprojector running old episodes of Knights of the Old Republic softly in the background. Turning onto your side, you took in the sight of your Mandalorian in his most vulnerable state – bare and open-faced, eyes half-lidded and sleepy as he watched the holovid with lazy interest. Loathe to disrupt his peace, it took you a moment to swallow and say, “When we were on the Firespray…you mentioned wanting to try to find the remainder of your covert. To look for your armorer.”

Din glanced over at you, a single brow arching as he took in your anxious expression. “Yes. Is that still something you’re interested in?”

“Of course,” you were quick to assure him. “Your covert is your family, Din. If you want to look for them, I’ll help however I can.”

“And…what I said about wanting the seek the naur’alor’s blessing. For us.” He paused then, and you saw the moment he pieced it together – the reason you seemed so uncomfortable mentioning what he had said on the Firespray all those weeks ago. His brows drew up, concern coloring his dark gaze. “Is…that something you still want?”

You nodded. “I want to be your wife someday. Your riduur. And if getting her blessing means we could make that happen, when we’re ready, then yes, that’s something I want.”

The bounty hunter seemed to consider that for a moment, the deep wrinkles between his prominent brows growing even more pronounced as he thought. After a beat, he rolled over onto his side, his posture matching yours as he propped his head up on his fist. “The naur’alor is my Tribe’s spiritual leader,” he explained. “She is the keeper of our culture, the custodian of the Creed. Her word is law. Her blessing would give us…legitimacy. And it would grant you privileges as Mando’ad – protections that I can’t give you all on my own.”

Breaking his gaze, your eyes flicked to the wrinkled sheets between you. You could not bear to look at him as you gave voice to your next question – the fear that had swirled in the back of your mind since Din had first proposed this idea.

“And what if… What if she says no? What if she rejects me?”

A broad, tanned, calloused hand appeared under your chin, tucking his fingers under your jaw and urging you to look up at him once more. “To reject you would be to reject me,” he said earnestly. “Where you go, I go. We are bonded, cyare, in all but name.”

“But if she does. I can’t ask you to give up your culture – your people – for me, Din. I won’t do that to you.”

“You aren’t,” he insisted, caressing your jaw soothingly with the pad of his thumb. “She will understand. You and I are…unprecedented. But the naur’alor is wise. She is good. I can’t believe she would turn us away.”

The pure, unyielding faith in his voice made your heart clench in your chest. You wished you could trust the way he did, but if your time with Boba, Koska, and Bo-Katan had taught you anything at all, it was that there were clearly multiple interpretations of the tenants of the Creed. There was more than one approach to walking the Way, and it seemed that your bounty hunter had been raised among only the strictest of zealots.

The nagging feeling at the back of your mind that this armorer might be a more formidable challenge than Din expected simply would not leave you alone. You could only hope he was prepared for the possibility.

“Whatever she says, I want you to know that I’m with you,” you promised, laying your hand across the back of his, cupping him to you. “For as long as you want me, I’m all yours.”

He grinned then, a wry thing that curled the corners of his soft, plush lips. “I’ll always want you, gotabor’ika,” he murmured. “Darasuum. Forever.”

Emotion swelling in your chest, urging you forward, you kissed that grin with all the tenderness and love that threatened to spill from you at his devoted confession. In return, he cradled you like you were something precious, traced the seams of your lips with his tongue like you were something to be savored. You were flushed and thoroughly breathless by the time you managed to pull away.

“Okay then,” you breathed, tracing the tip of your nose along his to press your foreheads together. “Let’s go find your covert.”

---

Mando'a Translations:

ner kar'ta - my heart cyare - beloved shab - fuck mesh'la - beautiful Ni liser nu haaranovor teh gar tug'yc - roughly translated "I will not hide from you anymore" riduurok - a Mandalorian marriage agreement cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart haar'chak - damn it Puhoi bal pakod - literally translated "slow and easy" naur'alor - smith, craftsman, specifically a metalsmith that works with beskar. It's a title that's called out in the Kyr'tsad Mando'ad, a manifesto of the Death Watch and is later recognized in the book The Bounty Hunter's Code by Boba Fett. Given the Children of the Watch's connection to Death Watch, this felt like an appropriate formal title for the Armorer riduur - spouse, gender neutral term gotabor'ika - "little engineer" darasuum - forever

Notes:

For those of you who have been with me throughout this story, thank you. It means more to me than words can say. It's been a year and a half-long labor of love, and I'm so proud to have finished it. I plan to come back to these two in the future - maybe a string of connected oneshots - but until then, ret'urcye mhi.

[qalbofnight]

Chand dinon pehle humare urdu ke profesor ek sher padhte hue ek gumnam shayra ka zikr karney lagey,

Us shayra ko 16-17 ki umr se hi shayri ka shauq tha vo likhti rehti,padhti rehti lekin Zahir hai apne ghr se muashrey se chup kar, jaisey sabko hota hai unhe bhi allhad si umr mein ishq huwa lekin kabhi samjha na gaya,in sab se ghabra kar 21 saal ki umr mein hi unki shadi ho jaati hai , unhe phir lagta hai ki unhe us mard (shauhar) se mohabbat ho gayi hai, lekin duniya ki tamam ممنوعات (taboos) se bandha kamzarf mard bataur e shauhar mohabbat ka dawa to karta lekin shayra ko samajh na paya, usne shayra ki qabiliyat aur mohabbat ko pehchana hi nahin so shayra ne bhi naummeedi ki aur saada zindagi us mard ke ghar me ikhtiyar kar li lekin bardasht ka vo ghoont khud shayra ko pi gya aur ek din unhone apni tamam diaries,kitabein aur notebooks ko apne sath jala Kay khudkushi kar li , jab shauhar kamrey mein hadsey k bad phncha to ek Jale hue panney pe Sher likha Mila :

" dil hi dekhta koi ,dil ki binayi se

Ek hi Tamanna to thi faqat yahi to chaha tha humney "

Vo pehli baar tha jab shauhar ko pata chala ki unki biwi ek qabil shayra thi aur saheli ke zariye unki ek kitab bhi publish hui.

[aysusydzde]

Neçə vaxtdı “Vətəndaş A” serialı haqqında eşidirdim. Bu gün axır ki, baxmağa vaxtım oldu. Açığı ilk dəfədi bizim seriallardan birinə baxırdım. Yaxşı yaxud pis olduğunu deyə bilmərəm amma o serialda danışılanların çoxu bu gün günümüzdə baş verən hadisələr olmağı danılmaz reallıqdı. “Adət-ənənə”, “Mentalitet” adı altında günümüzdə neçə insanın, istər 16 yaşında zorla evləndirilən gənc qızın, istər də sırf böyüklər istəyir deyə sevmədiyi qızla evlənməli olan oğlanın, sırf pulu olmadığı, kasıb olduğu üçün haqqı yeyilən insanların, din adı altında özünü “seçilmiş insan” elan edən axmaq düşüncəli insana boyun əyməli, etiqat etməli olduğunu düşünən ağılları əllərindən alınmış insanların həyatı məhv olur. Gəlin açıq danışaq biz bunları görməzdən gələn tərəfik. Bəlkə də fikirləşirik ki, “Bir Almaz mı dəyişəcək illərdi insanların beyninə yeridilən “qanunları”?” Ya da bəlkə də düşünürük “Bizə mi qalıb camaatın ailə həyatı? Hamımızın dərdi özümüzdən böyükdü. Onların da həyat tərzi budu biz səsimizi çıxarmaqla nə olacaq ki?” Yəni nə biz Almaz olmaq istəmirik. Nə də bir neçə Almazla o cür düşünən insanlar dəyişəcək. 1931-ci ildən bu yana hələ də bu cür həyat tərzində yaşayan insanların olmağı cəmiyyətimizin bir çox şeyi görməzdən gəlməyindən də asılıdı bəlkə də. İnkişaf sözsüz ki var amma bu yetərli qədərdi mi deyə bilmərəm. Ümumiyyətlə çox nüans var. Nəysə ən azından bu problemləri hamımızın gözündə bir daha canlandırdıqları üçün senaristlərə, rejisora həmçinin aktyorlara təşəkkür etməliyik. Azərbaycan şərtləri altında çəkildiyini də nəzərə aldıqda təqdirə layiq olduğunu inkar etmək olmaz.

[whgmasterofceremonies]

WHG 22 Day 1

It is time. The podiums rise, and the tributes look around upon a clearing in a maze with the cornucopia in the center. There are no trees, and in the distance, there's a rustling of the walls of the maze (which are bushes) moving and changing. The tributes stare at each other as the countdown sounds, and once it hits zero, everyone runs...

...And almost all of them run away. No blood in this bloodbath, but there is plenty of time for the rest of the day!

So, either Sohelia Yazdani has passed the trident around to multiple other tributes, or there are just a lot of tridents near rivers. And there still hasn't been any blood, as Lyra dies from hypothermia! Must be very cold in that arena. And it's just going to get chillier as night sets in.

But first, we must honor the fallen.

May the next world you go to be warmer.

And yes, lots of fires and Mav goes down to the cold as well! An interesting first day, and we shall see where it goes from here!

District 1

Vyxis Fain (he/him) @concealeddarkness13

Saint Hawthorne (he/him) @garthcelyn

District 2

Rhiannon Wu (she/her) @jj-shubert-writes

Valley (xe/xem/xer/xers) @jj-shubert-writes

Gabe (he/him) @pied-piper-of-hamlet

District 3

Najdinel "Din" (she/her) @pen-of-roses

Karathyn (they/them) @pen-of-roses

District 4

Caras (she/her) @pied-piper-of-hamlet

Ariel Walker (she/her) @waltzshouldbewriting

Mav (they/them) @ace-malarky

District 5

Dr. Athena Stonehedge (she/her) @negative-speedforce

Dori Payne (they/them) @negative-speedforce

District 6

Max Wright (he/him) @instant-mochi

Eric Sterling (he/him) @instant-mochi

Syn (they/them) @ace-malarky

District 7

Sohelia Yazdani (she/her) @negative-speedforce

Ruby "RJ" Johnson (she/her) @waltzshouldbewriting

District 8

Emerald (she/her) @maple-writes

Daze (he/him) @maple-writes

District 9

River (she/her) @incandescent-creativity

Aspen (she/her) @incandescent-creativity

District 10

Eshani (she/her) @aalinaaaaaa

Claudia (she/her) @aalinaaaaaa

Petrius (he/him) @aalinaaaaaa

District 11

Kashi (she/her) @forthesanityofstorytellers

Lyra (she/they) @forthesanityofstorytellers

District 12

Chess (she/her) @concealeddarkness13

Conor (he/him) @pen-of-roses

Trevor (he/him) @forthesanityofstorytellers

[dinthoqaf]

I HAVE A QUESTION. When it comes to villainy - I think a number of folks experience this uncertainty where to tread on a day-to-day basis. Many people are driven by goals, etc. But with a different perspective and reception to the world, how does one do a day-to-day as a baddy? :3 You know who this is.

I do know who you are!

So, this is a really good question but it's got a bit of an elaborate answer to it, so please forgive my wordiness!

I can really only speak about Din as a Baddy cause there's at two primary types (with a lot of shades in-between) I feel and Din falls under the one I like to call Methodical.

Methodical Bad Guys tend to have their Day to Day structured around their end goal. Their appearance, their profession, the people they're around regularly and the people they employ to help them achieve their goals, is all part of the day to day. Hell, they may go so far as to even structure the way they eat, drink, or sleep if it means promoting and progressing with their goals if they're so devoted to it. If it helps, let me give you a Day to Day in Dinthoqaf and maybe that will paint the picture for what I mean.

Dinthoqaf wakes up, gets himself dressed for the day, typically in finery that makes him look regal and respectable, if not a bit dark or mysterious as to draw just a little bit of curiosity. (It's intentional.)

After getting ready, seeing Zali and his kids for the morning, he begins his work as the Headmaster of The Sanctum. The Sanctum got all intents and purposes is an organization dedicated to protecting people and Azeroth from dangerous magical studies and practices by giving the people within it a place to do those things. All in all, to the public it has a well known reputation for protecting its people, cleaning up various issues that arise from those lacks of training, and helps guide new magic users in their pursuits while giving those same people room and board. It co.es off as very charitable.

It's through this establishment that Dinthoqaf is able to work with numerous individuals, companies, Houses, and the occasional arm of government to help 'Promote Safer Practices' and it's because of this that Din has his fingers in a -lot- of pies. Why's this important? Because when your end goal is knowing which groups will directly oppose you, which ones will stand with you, and which ones need a chair 'replaced', you want to be ready to move on that when the time comes.

Once his Day is done, Zali and Himself head out in public to put their own ears to the ground, to scout for viable talent, and generally to 'unwind' like a normal person does. It's also on par for making him look like a normal citizen as well! It's all carefully catered to give that appearance and when he has something 'evil' to do?

He can make the excuse of travelling for The Sanctum to acquire or help some new member, to acquire new supply rights, meet with some official to go over policy's that may effect The Sanctum's ability to help those who are magically unfortunate, whatever it is, while still appearing on the Up and Up.

Dins 'evil' day to day doesn't come off entirely evil, but putting all the individual pieces together gives his steps towards a well paved road of Godhood he intends to acquire (but never will, not that he knows that lol). Mix in not caring who gets used as debris to build his road upon?

Well... Let's just say you pretty much have the makings of a vile CEO who wants power over money and he will uplift any shareholder who helps him acquire it. (If we were to put it into today's modern political terms.)

I hope this helps! If I missed the mark here or made things even murkier, lemme know and I'll give it another shot! <3

[celesteablack]

can you believe maine 3 din se coffee ni pi??

[jade-curtiss]

Quand Bernier a runné une campagne au complet basé sur "hm, beau layout, belle interface, minimaliste, choix de couleur bien agencé, aucune plateforme, mais c'est bien présenté, bon look, ça sort des sentiers battus. Il ne propose rien, mais sa page est belle." Pis le monde le laisse faire 😭

[yazankalemsiyah06]

BEN TÜRK DEĞİLİM !..

BEN TÜRKÜM,BEN MÜSLÜMAN’IM !...

HEMEN BİR FERYAT,BEN TÜRK DEĞİLİM.

İYİ DE SEN KİMSİN ?

SEN BU TOPRAKLARDA DOĞMADIN MI,BU TOPRAKLARDA YAŞA-

MIYORMUSUN,

SEN TÜRKİYE CUMHURİYETİ VATANDAŞI DEĞİLMİSİN ?

EVET !

E ! O ZAMAN TÜRKSÜN.

ÇÜNKÜ !

TÜRK BİR ETNİSİTENİN ADI DEĞİLDİR.TÜRK BİR MİLLETİN ADIDIR.

TÜRK MİLLET’TİR MİLLET .

SENİN ETNİSİTEN NE OLURSA OLSUN.AMA MİLET OLARAK TÜRK-

SÜN.HİÇ KİMSE SENİN ETNİSİTENİ RED ETMİYOR.BÖYLE BİR HAKKI-

DA YOK.NİYETİDE YOK.

SEN ONU KENDİ İÇİNDE YAŞA,YAŞAT.

ŞAYET TÜRK MİLLETİ BENİ ASİMİLE EDER DİYE BİR KORKUN VARSA?

BUNDAN HİÇ KORKMA.

ÇÜNKÜ TÜRK MİLLETİ KENDİSİ ASİMİLE OLUR.AMA ASİMİLE ETME-

Yİ BİLMEZ.ŞAYET BÖYLE BİR BECERİSİ VE NİYETİ OLSA İDİ :

BUGÜN DÜNYANIN ENAZ YARISI TÜRK OLUR,TÜRKÇE KONUŞUR,

O ZAMANDA SENİN GİBİ “ BEN TÜRK DEĞİLİM.” DİYE ÇATLAK BİR

SES ÇIKMAZDI.AKSİNE TÜRK MİLLETİ ASİMİLE ETMENİN AKSİNE

ÇOK YERDE KENDİSİ ASİMİLE OLMUŞTUR.

MESELA ;

SENİN GİBİ “BEN TÜRK DEĞİLİM.” DİYENLERİN DIŞINDAKİ BOYA-

YI KAZISAK ALTINDAN TÜRK ÇIKAR.BUNDAN HİÇ ŞÜPHENİZ OL-

MASIN.CESARETİNİZ VARSA KAZIYIN BAKIN ALTINDAN NE ÇIKA-

CAK.

BUGÜN DAHİ ; % 89.78 ‘İ TÜRK OLAN YURDUMDA % 10,22’LİK ETNİ-

SİTENİN İÇİNDEKİ SEN VE SİZLER,BİZİMLE AYNI EŞİT HAKLARA SA-

HİPSİNİZ,AMA BUDA YETMİYOR.NEREDE İSE KENDİNİZİ YURDUN

SAHİBİ İLAN EDECEKSİNİZ.

O ! RED ETTİĞİNİZ,HER FIRSATTA ARKASINDAN KUYUSUNU KAZDI-

ĞINIZ,İHANET ETTİĞİNİZ,TÜRK MİLLETİ OLMASA !

O SİZİN ARKANIZI SIVAZLAYANLARIN SİZİ SOKAK KÖPEĞİ GİBİ İT-

LAF EDECEĞİNİ BİLEMİYECEK KADAR KÖR VE CAHİLSİNİZ.

ŞUNU HİÇ UNUTMAYIN Kİ SİZLER ! BİZ TÜRKÜZ DEDİĞİNİZ VE

TÜRK MİLLETİ VARSA VARSINIZ.BUNU SAKIN UNUTMAYIN …

YİNE !

BEN MÜSLÜMANIM !

HEMEN BİR FERYAT.HAYIR BEN MÜSLÜMANIM.O DEĞİL.

NİYE ?

E ! BEN SÜNNİ’YİM. O ! ŞİA – O! ALEVİ – O ! MALİKİ- O ! CAFERİ –

O ! ŞU- O ! BU .İYİ DE KARDEŞİM BEN MÜSLÜMANIM DEDİM.

SENİN GİBİ HİZİPÇİ DEĞİLİM. HİZİPÇİLİK YAPMIYORUM Kİ !

“ALLAH KATINDA DİN İSLAMDIR.”(Ali İmran -19)

KİŞİ ,İNANARAK ;

“ALLAH’TAN BAŞKA İLAH YOKTUR.HZ.MUHAMMED ONUN

KUL’U VE RESULÜDÜR.”DEDİĞİ AN .İSLAM’A GİRMİŞ.

MÜSLÜMAN OLMUŞTUR.ONLARIN İMANINI İSE ANCAK ALLAH

BİLİR BUNU YARGILAMAK SORGULAMAK KUL’A DÜŞMEZ.

KİŞİ BARIŞ VE ESENLİK İÇİN ALLAH’A TESLİM OLMUŞTUR.ONUN

KİTABI KUR’AN,PEYGAMBERİ HZ.MUHAMMEDDİR.

BUNLARIN DIŞINDAKİLER;

HİZİPTİR,TEFRİKA’DIR.ZÜBÜRDÜR,MİŞNA’DIR.ALAH BUNLAR-

LA İSLAMI BÖLENLERİ LANETLEMİŞTİR.

YANİ ;

TAKVA ALLAH İLE KUL ARASINDADIR.DURUM BÖYLEYKEN,

SANA NE OLUYORDA ? İNSANLARIN İMANINI,AMEL’İNİ YARGI-

LAMA,SORGULAMA VE ÖTELEME GİBİ İŞLERE BURNUNU SOKU-

YOR FESAT TOHUMLARI SAÇIYORSUN,İSLAMIN İÇİNE İSRAİLİYAT

FİTNESİNİ VE MUAVİYE ZEHİRİNİ AKITIYORSUN.

SEN KİMSİN ?ELİNDE İMAN ÖLÇER Mİ VAR? ALLAH PEYGAMBER-

LERİNE VERMEDİĞİ GÖREV VE YETKİYİ SİZE Mİ VERDİ?

YAPMAYA ÇALIŞTIĞINIZ İŞİN KORKUNÇ’LUĞUNU BİLMEYECEK

KADAR DE DİN CAHİLİ,AYNI ZAMANDA DİNDEN GEÇİNEN SEFİL

DİN TÜCCARISINIZ.ÇEKİN O PİS ELLERİNİZİ MİLLETİN İNANCINDAN!

SONSÖZ OLARAK GURURLA !

BEN TÜRKÜM VE MÜSLÜMAN’IM. DİYORUM.SİZ ? SİZ BİLİRSİNİZ …..

[postsofbabel]

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[onderkaracay]

] 🇹🇷 Kapital Ahlaksızlık ve Uşaklığı

Bu kadar çok insana ulaşıyor iseniz çok iyi para kazanma olanağını sosyal ağlarda neden kullanmadığıma dair bir eleştiri olarak aldığım en büyük soru ve sorundu.

Bu sömürü nefes alan her insana kendisinin nefes aldırdığına inandırarak nefes aldırmayan ahlaksızlığın kendisi olduğunu gizlemiştir.

Para Türk'ün peşinde koşar.

Türk iş ve ekmek verir.

Bak okyanus ötesi köpeklik Anadolu da para peşinde koşarken bir mahşer tufanına bir Türk tuzağı canlı ölü ibretine bu yüzden yakalandı.

Hepsinin işine bu sebeple son verdim.

Bu dünya beni anlamıyor.

Şeytana içinde ki şeytanla uyanlar özellikle!

Babam para el kiri gibidir yıkarsın gider sürekli diyor.

Pis para ile ilgili tüm ibret sözleri babam öğretti bana.

Aşığı yığarlar oynamaya günü gelince çıkartır oynarsın.

Bu söz Türk tasarruf bilincini anlatır.

Sömürgeci hikayeleri ile büyüyen nesiller kendi kültürünü unutunca iki yüz bin bankacı tefeci ordusu olur.

İçinden nedense sadece bir tek o Türk çıkar.

Türk bankacılığı Messi'si.

Şimdi tefeci zulmün kalesinde hal bırakmadı. Zulmün fileleri delik deşik.

Para.. Anadolu mucidi. Takas aracı veya değişim gücü.

Tefecilik elinde kir tuttu!

O kir Anadolu da tefeci bir pislik üretti o pisliği susuz denizde yıkadım ve zalimleri cehennemlerine kapattım Anadolu cennet yine oldu dedim sözle bunu insanlığa anlattım.

Para Türk peşinde koşar.

Türk insanlık devriminin son raconu budur.

Paraya satılmayan güce esir düşmeyen insan yetiştirmek ilk devrimlerden olacak.

Tüm devrim detayları ile hazır.

Birileri koltuk ve makam bırakmam diyor, para diyor, güç diyor, nasıl vazgeçmeyim diyor!

Her insan kendi meşrebi ile sınanır.

Meşrebi din ile insan aldatmak ve tefecilik yapmak veya onlara hizmet etmek konusunda bana söz düşmez.

Kendi kendine düştükleri çelişkiler tarihi yanıtları kendilerine verdi zaten.

Her insanın taptığı tanrısı farklıdır.

Türk kendisine us ve duyunc veren tanrıya inanır.

Türk ve insanlık düşmanlığı ise güce tanrı gibi tapar ve ondan af diler.

Türk yeryüzünde suç işleyen avcısı olduğu için devrimci sayılır.

Söz dozunun ayarını burada biraz kısayım.

Meşrep adlı yır ile paylaşıyorum bu ibret yazıyı.

Cehennem dünyanıza geldi sırat köprüsü ise mahşer tufanı ve canlı ölü ibreti bir sır ile hizmete sunuldu zalimler cehenneme rahat geçsinler diye!

Ahir zaman sözleri neden bu yürekte bir yanardağ ağzı misali lav gibi çıktı?

Son sonu düşünmelik!

Dini siyasete alet edenler ise düşünme imanın gider diyorlardı.

İman kimde şimdi?

İbret Türk o Türk

Önder Karaçay

[burnwater13]

Boba Fett standing at the dinning table in the Palace on Tatooine. Fennec Shand is also present and the Gamorrean guards in the background. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 4, The Gathering Storm. Calendar from DateWorks.

Grogu loved the big table in the Daimyo’s palace. It was a great place for doing his sketches, chatting with friends, and, of course, eating. So much eating. Between them, Fennec Shand and Daimyo Fett seemed to think that every meal had to feed a dozen or more people. Grogu appreciated that most of the time. But at least one time it was too much. Way too much. Far too much. An almost horrifyingly amount of too much. It had actually been terrifying. 

The day had begun like any day on Tatooine when he and the Mandalorian were visiting the Daimyo. They discussed Mandalorian politics (rank amateurs), smash ball (rebuilding, always rebuilding), and the state of the New Republic (‘they are lead by children’). Fennec would pop in for a couple of split seconds to report on all the problems she had solved since the prior evening (Pykes turned away again, spice shipment disrupted and repurposed, bounty hunter after {insert name here} escorted out of Mos Espa and off Tatooine, etc.) as usual. 

Then the droid chef, or was it a mech chef? Grogu didn’t know and on that day he hadn’t even thought to ask. In any case, the chef, who was not a living being, started sending food up to the meeting room. Grogu had been happy to see it. Listening to the others talk business always made him hungry simply because he wanted to do something productive. 

First the chef’s helpers brought up typical breakfast fare. Caf, juice, iced water, hot tea, cold tea, moof milk, bantha milk (huh?), sweeteners, carafes, mugs, bottles, cups, glasses, and a wide variety of other containers. The problem was they didn’t bring up the normal amount of the stuff. It was like they were cleaning out the kitchen cabinets and they thought that this was the best way to handle it. 

Daimyo Fett and Din Djarin didn’t even seem to notice. They were too busy making their morning caf ‘just so’ and since Grogu was waiting for the bone broth to appear he was just observing the scene. Fennec had already left the room. The protocol droid just began to move things around as the Daimyo reached for his favorite sweetener and Grogu watched as the things that had been brought into the room were rearranged in kind of an outline of the whole space. He supposed it made sense. If you wanted more of a thing you could just point at the wall it was lined up next to and the protocol droid would fetch it for you. 

When the next wave of food entered the room it was made up of all the baked things that the kitchen could produce. The Daimyo’s favorite puff pastry with the little bit of quant berry jelly in the center. The heavy Mandalorian rolls that Fennec maintained were the inspiration for smash ball. Then all manner of cakes, cereals, pies, custards, crisps. Still no bone broth, but Grogu was a big fan of crisps and helped himself to no less than fifteen different varieties as they were brought to the table and then, like the drinks before them, redistributed around the room. 

Grogu tried to flag down the protocol droid to request some bone broth, but that was hopeless. The layer of baked goods around the room’s perimeter was twice as wide as the layer of beverages. It was a good thing that droid had long legs and small foot cups. It made it much easier for it to step over the emerging barricade. 

While that was happening, both Din Djarin and the Daimyo were simply ripping fire stacks into small pieces and eating them slowly as they savored the burning hot Mandalorian spice they were caked with. Grogu liked fire stacks as well, but he usually knocked a lot of the hot spice off of them before he ate them. Frog didn’t take the same after eating a fire stack that was just loaded with the stuff. 

After the baked goods, the fried food, boiled food, rotisseried food, the helpers finally served the fresh food. Grogu was happy about that. Even though the majority of ‘fresh’ food was in the form of vegetables, you could still find melons, berries, large and small aquatic critters, like gorgs and scalefish,  and pretty interesting variety of other critters. 

Grogu enjoyed this part of the meal the most, right up to the moment when he heard the words that brought all eating and drinking to an abrupt halt… 

“Where do you want us to put the rathtar?” 

Both Daimyo Fett and the Mandalorian tried to jump to their feet, but they were stuck where they were. So much food had been brought into the room they couldn’t even move their chairs even slightly away from the table. Grogu had to sit on the table just to keep from being squashed by the new dishes being placed in the room and pretended, at least once, to be one of things being served by stuffing a jogan fruit into his mouth and laying very still in his first layer. It had fooled the helpers and that’s all he had aimed to do. 

Once again Grogu had a great view of what was happening as the Daimyo aimed his missile launcher at the ‘rathtar’ and those holding it, while the Mandalorian had turned on his flight pack and forced his way into the air, almost knocking the whole table over. Grogu was certain that he was watching a tragedy unfold when a clear, calm voice cut through the mayhem. 

“It’s not real. It’s a toy for the kid. You just have to suspend it and he can tear it apart with the force. There are a bunch of freeze dried froglets in there and packets of bone broth! Whatever you do don’t fire that missile. It’ll take forever to get the frog out of everything.”

Thank goodness for Fennec! Grogu turned to thank her, but she was already gone. One problem solved and already on her way to solve the next one. He hoped.