#and AU after the book of boba fett

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"The Routine"

Type: One-shot

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

Every morning, on the clock, Omera wakes up to make breakfast for the Mandalorian and his little green child. 

(Written for Mandomera Week 2022, first prompt: “Memory”)

The Routine

It was certainly like clockwork.

Every morning for the past three months, Omera had woken up at nearly the exact same time, when the sun rays would hit the exact same spot on the thatched walls from her hut’s half-open window. 

Under the dawn’s mild and glimmering light, Omera would make the bed, freshen up, go to the kitchens and make breakfast not only for herself and Winta, but for her two other guests (probably still snug in the barn, but she knew they would be up early as well). A small, content smile played on Omera’s lips as she diligently laid out her cooking, hummed as the kettle whistled. There was a brightness in her spirit that hadn’t been there for a long time. 

She hummed some more, a little off-key, exhilarated as she arranged the steaming breakfast on the tray. It was almost muscle memory, like the ones she kept for survival, like when she first held the blaster rifle as she had been trained all those years ago, and she hadn’t forgotten.

This was a new kind of muscle memory, a new kind of path her steps took every morning, every single day, for three months.

Omera was about done with a dash of decorative garnish—would they like a little foxglove and a little thyme? A little bouquet of forget-me-nots? The green child seemed to love all those little purple flowers. When his small, green nose touched the blooms, he giggled and he sneezed.

The silver warrior would look at his son, and Omera could only pretend that she saw his own fond smile underneath the heaviness of his visor.

Her smile grew wider.

Omera continued to hum her placid song as she lifted the tray skillfully, effortlessly, as she had done so for seemingly countless days. Perfectly balanced, she strode down the stairs of her hut and into a clearing.

She was greeted with a series of “good mornings” and “lovely day!” as she made her way to the barn. She had steady and well-paced steps—and that was why she grew puzzled, indeed, when the early risers of the village whom she exchanged the usual pleasantries with were staring at her strangely, and some with visible amusement. Caben and Stoke, on the other hand, had their mouths agape as she passed them by. 

“Good morning, Caben! Hello, Stoke!” she called happily, her tone belying her slight confusion.

“Uh, Omera…” Stoke began, but Caben struck him lightly on the shoulder and they both grinned innocently, and went on their merry way to the ponds.

What’s gotten into everyone? Omera wondered, suddenly doubtful—

And when she arrived at the barn, she froze on her tracks.

“Oh…”

She had never felt so embarrassed in her life… thus far. The heat crept to her face and a wash of melancholy hit her.

So that was probably what everyone had been trying to remind her about, but had been too nice to break the enchantment which was palpable in her gaze, in her gait, in the way she carried herself.

The barn was tidied up and empty, and there were no longer any traces of their Mandalorian guardian and his little boy. 

They had already left. They’ve been gone since yesterday. 

The village had even showered them with a warm send-off. How could she have completely forgotten?

Omera wondered how foolish she looked, just standing at the foot of the platform of the barn, staring at it as if she beheld it for the first time. 

She was holding the tray of food proudly, ready to advance, to call out her usual knock knock by the threshold in permission to enter the Mandalorian’s territory. The man valued his privacy to the utmost.

But he wasn’t there. The baby wasn’t there—she could see the empty cradle from where she stood.

Stupid girl, she chastised herself. A great weight had tugged at her heart. She knew it was silly of her to feel tears forming in her eyes, but she’d taken a huge, deep breath, and the weight abated a little. The tears refuse to fall.

A full day had not even passed, and she’s already missing them so terribly.

“Mama?”

Omera was just about ready to turn heel and return to the homestead, a little angry with herself—she was half-thinking of just tossing the entire tray on the little kitchen sink, and she would find time for herself there, alone for hours, wondering how everything had suddenly changed in her world to a normalcy that refused to settle within her.

Her heart glowed for a beat and then it fell. 

She found the source of the voice to be Winta, of course; she saw her little girl already inside the hut so that her small face peeked out timidly, sadly.

“Winta…” Omera softly called out. “Winta, get down from there, please. They’re… they’re not…”

She couldn’t finish. Her voice shook and for sure, Winta would pick it up.

“I know, Mama,” Winta replied with equal dolefulness. Omera flinched. Her daughter sounded so… lost. “I forgot that they’re not here anymore. I was going to give baby a kiss on the forehead before school. I always do that.”

Omera’s throat tightened. “And… and the Mandalorian had let you?”

Winta gingerly stepped out of the barn’s shadows and into the morning dew. The little girl gave her a barely perceptible nod.

“Yep. He’d said it was okay. He’d told me the baby liked it. I think so, too!”

Omera noted the brief burst of gladness in Winta’s voice. Omera sighed; she smiled. 

“That’s very nice, sweetheart.”

Winta now was fully out of the hut and she was carefully making her way down the steps. There was a knowing look in the child’s eyes, and Omera wasn’t sure whether to meet her daughter’s gaze or to avoid it…

“You forgot that they’re not here anymore, too, haven’t you, Mama?”

Omera tempered a scoff, but it was useless. They’ve both caught each other red-handed. They would need to come into terms with the reality that their routine could no longer be.

The noble warrior and his precious child had left, now gone to follow their own path—for the father to protect the son, and the son to bring joy to his father’s heart.

Omera did find some consolation in the fact that Cara Dune had decided to linger a bit more, but after months in their village, the soldier within Cara had grown restless. She was, perhaps, miles away, back in the common house enjoying the rest of her early retirement.

However, a greater void was left deep within Omera’s heart caused by the absence of father and son.

“I miss them, Mama,” Winta openly expressed the sentiment stirring in both their souls. “I wish… I wish they didn’t have to leave.”

Omera couldn’t bear it, to see her own sweet child carry the burden of another loss. Winta may not have remembered her birth father all too well, but she had been very lucid when the Mandalorian was around. Omera’s heart had skipped a beat when she saw her daughter perpetually hovering over the Mandalorian and the baby whenever the man allowed her to. The warrior was a very patient, and an even very timid man, stoic but with a strange, beautiful softness Omera couldn’t put her finger on.

Winta stayed on the foot of the step. The girl looked back wistfully, and Omera was surprised to see tears roll down Winta’s cheeks. 

Omera felt a plan brewing. She puffed her chest in resolution.

“My darling,” Omera said endearingly with a bit of intrigue. “I’ll tell you what: Since school doesn’t start in an hour, why don’t we both stay in the barn awhile?” She held up the tray of deliciously smelling food, to hopefully tantalize Winta, even when Winta had her own usual breakfast, one unlike a grown man’s and a baby’s. 

Winta sniffed messily; she ran a hand over her face, but to Omera’s delight, she saw it—there, in Winta’s eyes, was a spark of happiness. 

“We can pretend that they’re still there!” Winta offered, figuring out her mother’s plan. She recoiled a little, hesitant. “I know it sounds silly, pretending and all that…”

Omera laughed her musical laugh. “Well, only for now. Maybe for a few days, just to wean ourselves away from… from their presence. We can’t just suddenly go Cold Grinjer, can we?”

Winta’s smile had grown enough for her dimples to show. “No… going Cold Grinjer is a bad idea, Mama!”

****

And so it was for the days that followed—Omera waking up on the clock, the rhythms of her hands and her feet and her entire body flowing to the beat of her routine, as if the Mandalorian and the child were still there. 

Sometimes, she would pray for their safety. Sometimes, she would sing—and her cheeks were on fire—as if she sang to him. Sometimes, she would be silent altogether; eyes closed in the middle of the task, she would imagine the sound of the Mandalorian’s voice, full and rich and kind, conversational yet gruff, succinct yet meaningful. 

Then she would carry the breakfast tray to the barn and meet Winta there, all spruced up for classes during the weekdays, pretty teal ribbons adorning her wavy dark hair. Her daughter would smile, dimple-wide, and they’d set up the breakfast on the low wooden table where the Mandalorian set his food down sometimes. The Mandalorian had let Omera and Winta dally for a moment, saying he’d “eat later” as he fed his son as Winta would feed the child on occasion. He’d make sure that the baby ate a “balanced meal,” and invited companionship as he asked for some pointers on child-rearing from Omera.

Winta and Omera sat around the low table. Like small children in their fantastical realm, they’d re-enact their favorite scenes which they’ve both shared with the Mandalorian and the baby. 

“Baby would be making a fuss there,” Winta recalled, pointing solemnly on the empty cradle, and she’d lift a glass of warm blue milk to drink. “Then I’d say, ‘Baby, you forgot to have your pudding!’” then the Mandalorian would take the bowl and scold Baby for neglecting his pudding…”

Omera giggled. The Mandalorian hadn’t really introduced his son by name, so in his usual gentle and patient (and amused) way, he let the village children name him, and the best they could come up was Baby. Not very creative, the children admitted, but very straightforward. And Baby seemed to appreciate it all the same.

One hour, every morning for the past week turned to two weeks… and then, to three.

Omera knew that this “make-believe” breakfast with absentee participants was finally reaching a point where it was no longer healthy. But Winta had been so wonderfully and eagerly obliging, and her daughter enjoyed it thoroughly as much as Omera did. 

She had to break out a final reality check to Winta.

“We need to stop now, my darling,” Omera truthfully advised Winta, a note as well towards her own self. She kept her tone from wavering. “I think… I think we’re ready to move on. Don’t you think?”

Winta was silent for long moments, like a Sorgan sprite with her glimmering hazel brown eyes on her sweet face framed by soft, brown curls. 

The child’s reply was barely audible, and her face grew forlorn. “Okay, Mama.”

****

Winta had begged for a compromise a few months later. 

Omera was truly stunned at how the Mandalorian and the baby had such an encompassing impact on her daughter; there was still an unmistakable sorrow in Winta which needed appeasement. It wasn’t as pronounced as it had been when Omera first encountered it in her child, but at the end of the day, it was, after all, a compromise.

“We can celebrate the breakfast ritual,” Winta suggested—as they had christened their new routine—“like, one morning every other week. Like—like an anniversary, even when it isn’t—Oh, Mama! I’d like to celebrate Mister Mando and Baby once in a while. They did help us save our village…”

Omera held back a deep sigh of resignation. Winta had small, conniving ways to convince her every now and then, and this was one such event. And her daughter was right. The Mandalorian and Baby could—and perhaps should—be celebrated, even if it’s just the two of them: Winta and Omera, together. 

The widow knew, in a flitting moment of profound sadness, that she had found the fiber in her being to move on, as she had finally lost track of time since the Mandalorian departed from their krill farm. 

On the other hand, the village was indeed grateful, but they had all moved on more easily. Omera discovered, however, that they’d drink to the Mandalorian’s health once in a while, when an excess of good spotchka was to be had.

If the village celebrated in their own ways—and Omera couldn’t possibly have spotchka with little Winta yet!—she knew she had found a reason to agree upon a compromise.

Winta hugged her hard and peppered her cheeks with kisses. 

One morning every other week: that was the arrangement. It wasn’t as stringent as the old clockwork, of course, but muscle memory was still intact—the swiftness of movements as Omera prepared the milk, the cream, the caf, the bread, the meats, and the baby’s pudding— and then a small vial of foxglove flowers and thyme blooms and forget-me-nots. 

She worked with grace. And Omera knew, even when it was not meant to be—she worked with love.

It seemed like another dewy morning with its misty sun rays and birdsong. The night before, Omera thought she’d heard the soft rumble of a faraway starship in the skies. She blinked hard in concentration as she arranged the cream pot neatly at a corner of the tray.

It couldn’t be.

It’s never going to be.

She brushed all suppositions away and wore her small smile as she made a beeline to the barn where Winta was waiting.

The village looked happier, looked livelier as they greeted her with bigger smiles—and Omera thought, it’s great to be in a good mood…

She plodded on, tray balanced perfectly in both hands, as she had always done before the compromise, and she took one step up the barn platform, and another.

“Winta, darling, here’s breakfas—“

When Omera raised her eyes after she safely found her footing through the threshold—

She froze. Her breath had caught so tightly in her throat, she thought she’d suffocate where she stood.

Before her eyes could catch up with this unlikely turn of events, her ears had caught it first—the delighted giggle of Baby, and Winta’s ecstatic response in  turn.

There, in the middle of the barn, was the Mandalorian.

He looked the same yet changed; he still wore the same silver armor, but there were new adornments on them, and Omera realized how much time had flown, and yet… now, at this very instant, it had reached a dreamy standstill.

The Mandalorian’s visor regarded her; the man nodded once, and with an audibly affectionate and playful lilt in his gruff voice, the Mandalorian greeted her: “Knock, knock.”

“Mama,” interjected Winta in overflowing excitement, adding very needlessly, “they’re back! Isn’t it too awesome? We don’t have to pretend anymore—”

Baby giggled and cooed and laughed.

Omera’s breath hitched further as she shot her daughter a look. She knew she blushed so intensely, and she couldn’t speak—

Then the Mandalorian chuckled. It sounded muffled under the helmet, transmitted by vocoder, and Omera was simply about to marvel at the sound of the man’s gentle laughter when—without as much as a warning, and perhaps, to surprise her so entirely that he probably got the reaction he wanted…

The Mandalorian had pulled the helmet off his head. He then cautiously set the shiny helm upon the low table.

Wait… wait… Omera thought in panic that morphed into bliss. What happened to their Creed… What happened to… ‘This is the Way’…??

Omera only saw the Mandalorian’s brown eyes, as depthless as a dark lake in calm afternoons, when she accidentally let the tray slip from her hands. It could have shattered noisily over the floorboards had the man not possessed quick reflexes and caught the disaster before it fractured into many pieces. 

The Mandalorian may have said his name—his real name—and baby’s real name too, but Omera seemed unhearing as she rummaged through the caverns of her mind, so new memories can set up camp and stay there for years and years. 

In that moment, she only saw the coy smile on his handsome face, and when she let out a sigh of disbelief and pure joy, Omera knew that the Mandalorian was committing her smile into memory, too.

*****

A/N: Want to support this fic on AO3 too? 💚 The link is here. TYSM loves!

[vodika-vibes]

Okay for the 650 follower event. I'm thinking something spicy~

Maybe Alpha or Boba in a Western AU ( Bonus points, though not required, if you can work in careful princess if you use Boba 🙈)

Fancy

Summary: Jabba, an absolute slug of a man, has been ruling the small town that you call home for your entire life. When you hear about the new bounty hunter in his employ, you fear the worst. Though, as it happens, Boba Fett isn’t half the monster that you feared.

Pairing: Boba Fett x F!Reader

AU Prompt: Western AU

Word Count: 2444

Warnings: Reader runs a brothel, smut

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Alright, I wasn't able to add the actual smut part without it throwing off the flow of the story, but it goes right up to the smut part and then stops. I hope you like it. Also, when I wrote it I was picturing ROTJ Boba.

“Madame,” You lift your gaze from your ledger at the soft voice of one of your girls, “I...have you heard?”

“I hear a lot of things,” You reply, scanning the girl for any visible injuries, before dropping your gaze back to your ledger, a frown pulling your lips down. Once Jabba takes his cut, you’re going be barely make any profit this week.

“Honorable Jabba has hired a new bounty hunter.” You lift your gaze again. You hadn’t heard that. “Do you...will he be...do you think he’ll be like the other ones?”

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly, “But so long as you’re nice to the gentleman-”

“They’ll be nice to me, yes Madame, I know.” The girl, because that is what she is, only recently nineteen, smooths her long skirts and straightens her corset, “We will be opening soon?”

“We will. All of you have been reserved for the evening. With familiar names,” You reassure, and you’re relieved to see some of the tension drain from her shoulders. “Off you trot,” You don’t turn your gaze back to the ledger until you hear the soft click of her bedroom door shutting behind her.

And then you drop your gaze back to the numbers in your book.

Maybe, with some careful editing, you can make Jabba believe that you made less money then you actually did. And then you’ll be able to afford the food that your girls need to survive.

It’s not as if the slug himself checks your numbers.

And his accountant has always had a soft spot for you, and your home.

You are the sole owner and proprietor of the Desert Rose, the only brothel in the town of Old Ashton. You used to be a regular employee, yourself, until some clever gambling and even more clever money hiding allowed you to buy the previous owner out.

So now you protect the girls to the best of your ability.

Unfortunately, the best of your ability isn’t good enough.

You close your ledger with a snap and slid it into the locked drawer in your desk, and stand. You smooth your dark green skirt and make sure your corset is laced properly, and then you head to the front of the house.

You may not entertain the gentlemen anymore, but that doesn’t mean that you can neglect your appearance.

The men are already lined up at the door, joking and laughing with each other. And, as you open the door, they settle themselves into a more respectful manner. They know that you will toss them out if they become a problem.

You have before, after all.

“Gentlemen,” You greet with a dainty smile, “Welcome to the Desert Rose. The girls have been eagerly awaiting you.”

It’s all a show. An act.

Honestly, you should have gone into show business with how skillful your acting skills have become over the years.

While you’re not sure if the gentlemen believe your words, they at least pretend that they do. Which is good enough.

You allow the men into your home and take the payments in advance, before you send them off to the girl of the night. And then your home is silent, save for the sound of music playing from the old jukebox in the corner.

Shelling out credits to make all of the rooms sound proof was the cleverest thing you’ve ever done. Right up there with the panic button you had installed in each girls room.

You’re about to change the song playing, when the bell over the door chimes as the door opens.

“Terribly sorry,” You say absently, without turning away from the jukebox, “But all of the girls have been spoken for this evening.”

“A rather small brothel you’re running,” The voice is deep and unfamiliar to you, and is surprising enough to you that you turn your attention away from the machine in front of you to regard the man.

He’s tall and broad chested, he takes up a lot of space in your foyer, though it almost seems like he takes up more space than he physically should. He seems to be allergic to color, you note with some distant amusement, everything from his boots to his hat are the darkest black. The only color coming from the dark green shirt he’s wearing.

“Old Ashton is a small place,” You reply as you walk around him and settle behind your desk, and you favor him with a small smile, “Welcome to the Desert Rose.”

He stalks towards the desk, there’s no other word for how he moves, “Boba Fett.”

“Ah. Jabba’s newest muscle.”

“So the rumors have already started.”

“As I said, small town.” You open your scheduling book, “If you’re looking to spend time with a girl, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a reservation. All of my girls are booked for the night.”

“Including you.”

You tilt your head to look at him, “I no longer entertain gentlemen callers, Mister Fett.”

His dark eyes scan you as best as they can with you seated behind the desk, and you’re fairly certain that he’s looking down your top. “Never?” He questions.

“Never.” You confirm.

“Hm.” He finally tears his gaze away from your tits and flashes a small, cocky, smile, “I bet I can change your mind.” He nods at you once, and then turns and leaves as suddenly as he arrived.

The front door closes with a quiet click, and you release a quiet breath. Cockiness isn’t attractive, you’ve never thought that.

But you like to think that you’re pretty good at reading men, and that didn’t read like cockiness to you. No, it reads as confidence. And that makes him incredibly attractive.

You tap your pen against your lower lip, and sigh, “Shame that he works for Jabba, though.” You murmur to the empty foyer, before you go back to work. Your business isn’t going to run itself, after all.

The next time you see Boba Fett, you’re doing your shopping for the week. Not shopping for the girls, but for yourself.

You’re window shopping, to be more specific. Eyeing a lovely green skirt that would pair amazingly with the dark brown corset that has been sitting in the back of your closet...and naturally a new dress would require new boots-

You almost manage to talk yourself into buying the skirt, when you hear heavy footsteps stop next to you.

“It’s a lovely color.” A deep voice, familiar in it’s unfamiliarity, jolts you out of your thoughts. “You’d look very good in it.”

Boba Fett stands less than a foot away from you, his head tilted down as though his words are for your ears and your ears alone.

“I look good in everything,” You reply lightly.

“I imagine you look good out of everything too,” He counters with a sly smirk.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about.”

“Oh, I did wonder. Repeatedly.” There’s no shame in his voice, and you’re grateful that your thick makeup is hiding the blush you can feel burning your face.

Hurriedly, you change the subject before he notices your embarrassment, “I’m surprised that Jabba let you off his leash long enough to come to the market.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He drawls.

“And what job would that be?” You shoot back, “Terrorizing innocent shopkeepers.”

Boba’s dark eyes pin you in place, and you refuse to back down out of sheer stubbornness, “Careful,” He murmurs, “Your sharp tongue is going to get you in trouble.”

“From you?”

He leans back, and somehow still takes up more space than a man his size should, “No. I don’t raise my hand against women. But Jabba is much less kind than I.”

“And yet you work for him anyway.”

“Credits are credits, darlin.” Boba scans your body with a casual ease that should have infuriated you, but for some reason, didn’t. “And you clearly agree, seeing as you run a whore house.”

“It’s a brothel, not a whore house.”

“A brothel is a whore house. You’re just arguing semantics now.”

You prop your hand on your hip, “I’m leaving now.”

“What about your skirt?”

“With the tithes that Jabba demands, I can’t afford it anyway.” You admit with a scowl.

Boba gazes at you thoughtfully, and then he nods and turns his gaze back tot he clothing in the window.

Assuming that he had nothing more to say to you, you cast one last longing glance at the skirt, before you turn and walk away. It’s probably a good thing that he showed up when he did, there’s no way you would have been able to afford the skirt and food for the week.

Later, as you’re putting the groceries away in your private studio, you admit to yourself that even without the skirt, you barely had enough money to get all of the food that you needed for the week.

As you open the Desert Rose for the evening, you come to the realization that you’re going to have to put yourself back on the roster to be able to keep food on your table, and to keep your girls fed.

Once more, several hours after the last man arrived for his appointment with one of your girls, the door opens and Boba walks into the foyer.

“Seems to me that you have rotten luck, Mister Fett.” You drawl without looking up from your ledger, as if staring at the numbers will make your reality less horrifying. “All of the girls have been spoken for.”

“There’s only one girl I want to take me to her bed,” Boba replies as he sets a box on the counter and pushes it in your direction, “For you.”

“What is it?” You ask, ignoring his first comment with ease.

“Open it and you’ll see.”

You squint at him suspiciously, and then nod slowly. You tug on the ribbon that’s holding the box closed, and move the lid and the tissue paper to the side, and then you stop as you see what’s in the box.

It’s the skirt.

More than the skirt, actually. It’s a whole outfit. Skirt and top and stockings and boots-

“What-?”

“A gift, for you. You deserve nice things.”

“How much did this cost?”

“Not so much to break the bank.” Boba replies with a wave of his hand, “The seamstress knew what size you wear, so everything should fit.”

You stare at the present for a moment, and then you groan and drop your head, “Whyyy? You work for Jabba! Why are you so nice?”

Boba watches you seriously for a moment, “Is that the only thing stopping you?”

“I...what?”

“Me working for Jabba, is that the only thing stopping you from taking me to bed?”

“...It isn’t helping, no.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He doesn’t answer and instead leaves the building, leaving you staring after him, absolutely bewildered, and with a brand new outfit sitting in your hands.

In truth, you don’t expect to see Boba again that night, so when he returns to the Desert Rose less than an hour later, something cold and grim in his gaze, you’re genuinely surprised.

“Welcome back?” You offer hesitantly, not sure what to make of his grim, yes strangely satisfied, expression.

“Jabba’s dead.”

His words are so startling that you almost drop the glass that you’re holding. “What?”

“Jabba’s dead. Wasn’t even hard, thought he’d have more guards.”

“You killed-!” Your voice is pitched higher than it should be and you could and lower your voice, “You killed Jabba? Why?”

“Because it’s what I was hired to do.” Boba says with a single arched brow, “And because I’m not blind, I can see what he was doing to the village. And then he insulted your honor.”

His words roll around your mind for a moment, “You killed Jabba, in part, because he insulted me?”

“Is that such a surprise?”

You walk over to him and reach out to lightly touch his cheek, “You’re not...hurt?”

“He didn’t touch me.” Boba confirms.

For a moment you stare at him, trying to determine if he’s lying to you, and as soon as you realize that he’s speaking the truth, you drop your hand from his cheek and hook a finger in his belt loop, “Come with me.”

There’s a glimmer of triumph on his handsome face, “Yes ma’am.”

Your personal apartment is pretty small, but it’s big enough for what you have planned, and for what he has planned for that matter.

Boba’s on you the moment he kicks the door shut, his hands heavy as the drag over the thick material of your clothes. He tugs at laces and pulls at buttons, until your dress falls to your feet.

“Beautiful,” He growls as one of his hands slides down your back to tightly grip your ass, his fingers digging into you and causing you to lift to your toes with a pleased gasp.

“Thank you,” You murmur, before you pull him down to press your lips against his.

Boba takes control almost immediately, and you happily let him.

He lifts you into his arms and walks you over to your bed, where he drops you in the middle of the mattress, “I’m going to ruin other men for you, princess.” He warns, as he starts to strip his clothes off and tosses them to the side.

You scramble to your knees, eager to watch him strip for you, and he shoots you an amused look.

“Someone’s eager.” Boba teases, not unkindly, “I’m going to use my mouth on your cute pussy, and then open you up with my fingers.” He explains, his gaze locked on your face, a smirk crossing his face when you lick your lips, “And then I’m going to lay back and let you ride me.”

“Let?”

“Let.” Boba confirms, “Because I’m going to be in complete control the whole time.”

You shiver in delight and crawl to the edge of the bed, your gaze dropping to his cock. “Can I-?” You ask as you reach out to touch him.

Boba catches your wrists and smirks at you, “You want to taste me, princess?”

“Yes, please.”

“Later. Lay back.” He presses a hand against your shoulder and pushes you back to the bed, before he kneels between your thighs, taking care to toss your legs over his broad shoulders.

You can feel his breath fanning against your pussy, and you squirm to try and push yourself closer to him, but his strong hands stop you from moving.

“Careful Princess,” His dark eyes glimmer with amusement, “We don’t want this to end too quickly, do we?”

[fandom-friday]

Thank you so much to everyone that submitted recommendations this week! A comprehensive list of this week’s submissions can be found under the cut! Recommendations are organized by show/media, and any main pairings will be listed after the title.

🌸 = 18+ content 🟪 = contains spoilers of a currently running show

Fics:

The Clone Wars: 🌸 Hiding in Plain Sight (Commander Wolffe x f!Reader) by @starlightrows 🌸 Walk Me Home (Commander Wolffe x OC Cherise) by @cyarbika 🌸 I Yearn, and So I Fear (Commander Wolffe x OC Kazi Ennari) by @enigmaticexplorer 🌸 Shared Experiences (Fives x OFC Sellé x OMC Aergad) by @sleepingsun501 I Have No Mother, Only a Brother by @frostycatblr-fandom-files

The Bad Batch: 🌸 Falling for Mr. Batchbury (Hunter x f!Reader) by @crosshairlovebot

Rebels: 🌸 One Last Chance (Rebels!Cody x f!Reader) by @wings-and-beskar

The Book of Boba Fett: 🌸 Worth the Risk (Boba Fett x f!Reader) by @daimyosprincess

The Acolyte: 🟪🌸 Darth Plagueis Would Very Much Like to be Excluded from this Narrative (Osha x Qimir) by @thefudge

Batman: Hope the Love We Shared Can Resurrect the Last by orpheusaki (AO3) The Sins of the Father by FairyDell (AO3) Code Cryptid by SummerKnight717 (AO3) Oh Wonder by Luna_Moon22 (AO3) Five Little Ducks by metroidspeedrun (AO3) Repletion by @sardonic-sprite Dwelling on What If by @jinmukangwrites 1-800-GOTHAM by goldfishinabag (AO3)

Crossover AUs: Ding Dong the Sith is Dead (Star Wars x Untitled Goose Game Crossover) by ExtraPenguin (AO3)

Art:

The Clone Wars: Ahsoka Tano Art by @zealfruity Our New Hope Comic by @oonaluna-art Commander Wolffe Art by @itzmoonstar Royalty AU Commander Wolffe Art by @ninjigma Commander Cody Art by @sunflowersinheaven I Yearn, and So I Fear Art by @sleepingsun501 Darth Maul Art by @garchamp

The Bad Batch: The Lone Ronin by @perfectlywingedcrusade Hunter Art by @perfectlywingedcrusade Love from Pabu by @vivaislenska Wrecker Art by @electrikworm Beep Boop Beep by @madsayo Commander Wolffe Art by @baaaaaaaam

Rebels: Sabine Wren Art by @thenegoteator

Republic Commando: Niner and Boss Art by @valkblue

House of the Dragon: Dragon Art by @moonwyvern Syrax and Arrax Art by @moonwyvern

A Court of Thorns and Roses Series: Azriel x Elain Art by @emartsemi

[vanossfan10]

RWBY: Jaune Arc Mandalorian AU: Jaune’s Starfighter

**During the last Two Years at Beacon, Jaune and his friends all got along he managed to have a very loving relationship with Yang and the two Teams became power houses after their first year, but on one night they played Truth or Dare Jaune Revealed in a Truth he has a Starfighter to help him go earn some cash from bounties in space given to him by his Bounty Hunter Mentor; Boba Fett.**

(Night of the ToD game night)

Ruby: BULLSHIT! I call BULL!! SHIT!!

Yang: Ruby! Language! I’m sure Jaune is just joking

Jaune: who said I was?

Yang:…huh?!….

Teams RWBY & (J)NPR: ………EEEEHHHH!?!?!……

They all yelled in shock and saw that he wasn’t joking at all.

**The very next morning he took Team RWBY and his own team down to Ozpin private landing bay for Beacon where bullhead ships were kept, they all soon saw a ship that was covered in a large grey tarp and once they walked over to it Jaune grabbed the tarp and revealed his Starfighter.**

Ruby:…oh wow…(eyes shine and she begins to drool)…

Weiss: mhm this is quite a spectacle~

Blake: I mean I’ve read these in science fiction books but never thought I’d see one in person

Yang: that’s fucking hot babe~💕

Pyrrha: Jaune you always continue to surprise us

Nora: I WANNA RIDE IT! I WANNA RIDE IT! I WANNA RIDE IT! AND I WANNA BLOW STUFF UP WITH IT!!!

Ren: Nora No! (He said trying to hold her back)

Nora: NORA YES!!

Jaune: I’ll think about it Nora, anyway this is my Eta-2 Actis-class light interceptor, years ago it was originally made for a old warrior race of people known as Jedi but they all went extinct and are only a few left in the Galaxy, as from what my mentor told me when he got this for me

Blake: your mentor got you this?

Jaune: yeah it was a gift after I completed my training, but despite it all I wear his family crest on it to show my thanks to him and to honor my mentor

**Suddenly Weiss interrupted**

Weiss: if that’s so, what’s this art piece supposed to indicate mhm~

**she said in a teasing tone as they all looked at the side of Jaune’s Starfighter wing and saw a pin up spray paint art piece of Yang**

**everyone looked at the pin up with blushes, some covered their mouths and some looked at Jaune with a cheeky smirk, but Yang mostly was looking at it in embarrassment but also a little bit happy on the inside seeing Jaune still thinking of her when he’s away**

Yang: J-Jaune WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?!

Jaune: now Yang come on I can explain

Nora: so fearless leader got a sexy mascot to show off to the galaxy huh

Jaune: NORA!

Pyrrha: my goodness Jaune I didn’t think you’d do that and by yangs reaction you didn’t even get her permission, how deviant of you

Jaune: Pyrrha it’s not what y-

Yang: how could you Jaune! (She said blushing harder)

Jaune: Yang please it is just a pi

Yang: how could you get my Signature Wrong!!

RWB(Y) & JNPR:…….Huh???

**they all said in confusion**

Yang: if you wanted me to be your pin up you should have had me sign it!

Jaune:…..umm…ok I’m sorry?….I guess?

Yang: good but I’ll forgive you under one condition

Jaune: what?

Yang: if you take me for a ride in it first before everyone else

**she said tapping her fingers together and making a pouty face along while doing it**

Jaune: (Giggles) sure thing babe

**he said as he pulls her in for a kiss and her soon accepted his apology from the kiss and his promise**

Nora: can I blow up a Cabbage Stand with it now!

Ren: why a Cabbage Stand?!

Blake: you really wanna ask her that question Ren?

Nora: Well my beautiful Ren Ren, it’s because in every universe there is a Cabbage man who yells “No! My Cabbages!!” It’s a universal thing Ren Ren~💕

Ren: What?

Nora: I WANNA BLOW SHIT UP!!

Ruby: ME TOO!! I WANNA BLOW SHIT UP!!

Ren: NORA NO!!!

Yang: RUBY LANGUAGE!!

Fin

[saradika]

— WASTELAND, BABY

part i. the fear and the fire of the end of the world

[masterlist]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 3.4k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, canon-typical violence & death, mentions and use of guns/weapons, death of people and animals, sort of slow-burn

a/n: I’m so excited to share this series with you! Reader is new to the world, so much will be explained (game knowledge not required to enjoy!)

The year is 2297, and your days in Vault 113 are spent among the pages of your books - of fairytale romance, of noble knights and handsome princes. That is, until you venture from your Vault, and are immediately thrust into the harsh and cruel world of the Wasteland.

And when you find yourself being rescued by a man in armor - you can’t help but wonder if those beloved stories might just have come true.

You still dream about the sleep.

In shades of sepia, the perfect days that never seemed to end. That always seemed to be just a little bit familiar, like you had taken each exact step before.

The idyllic neighborhood, slow jazzy notes floating in from open windows. Cars that rolled down the street until they were out of sight, always at the same time. Perfectly behaved dogs, in their neat, square yards.

Now - now that you're out - you don't know why it took you so long to notice.

Maybe you didn't care. Were content to play through that single, perfect day. To ignore - at first - the glitches. The fuzzy part of your brain that said that something wasn't quite right.

The itching memory, that something bad was going to happen. Something you had picked at, until it was raw and aching and oozing.

You wonder if that is why you woke up. That something in your brain triggered the stasis - the reason why on that morning, your eyes opened to shades of green and grey.

A dome of glass overhead, a sick pneumatic hiss when you hand flattened against it. The mask you tore from your mouth and nose as you were born onto the tiled floor, shivering and confused.

It had all come back to you.

The blaring of the siren.

The man, ushering your family into the vault.

The promise, whispered with clasped hands.

It will all be okay.

We'll be together, don't worry.

Climbing into the pod, the slow sleep that came after. Waking up, in your old life.

Never waking up that way, again.

You had sat in silence, for hours. Unsure of what to do, where to even start.

Freezing in place when there was a whirr, the sound of movement - as a robotic being rolling into the room, checking the readouts on the large display.

With thick treaded tires, and a sleek, domed head. A mass that looked like a brain floated inside with one large, fixed mechanical eye. It churned your stomach, as it chirped at you.

You are 1825 days ahead of schedule. Please return to your tranquility lounger.

The pod wouldn't let you back in, though you had tried. The red button pushed flat, the screen unresponsive. Leaving you alone and helpless as you looked at the circle of others.

Of your family and neighbors and friends, still in their perfect dreamland.

You lingered there, a while longer. Too afraid of what was beyond its safe walls. Only nudged into moving when the cramp of hunger became unbearable, until you couldn't take the repeating, robotic lines any longer.

Metal doors had opened into other rooms. Empty and sterile and shades of grey steel. Bits of your memory came back - the hallways you ran through. Glimpses of what lied in them, in your rush to the pods.

Eventually, you found a mess hall. Twin machines lined the walls - white with cherry red accents, rows of cafeteria-style tables in front of them. They were still humming with life when you approached, reading the lettering across the top in blocky, silver print.

VAULT-TEC FOOD SYNTHESIZER

The press of a button dispensed thick, pink paste onto the metal tray beneath. It felt like mush in your mouth, the vaguest flavor of something, but not enough to mask the unpleasant texture.

But, much like everything now - the loneliness, the isolation - you learned to bear it.

There are some things you found, in the days that came after, that were not quite so horrible.

A room full of beds, where you tested each one to find the best. Stripping the pillows and blankets, until yours was as close to cozy as you could get.

There was a device you found, in a room full of bubble-screen computers, with their black screens and green, blinking text. It sat half-out of its box on one of the tables, and you were unable to resist removing it from its casing.

A screen sat in the middle, on top of a thick, leather strap. A booklet fell out - the pages now dog-eared and crinkled from the amount of times you read it. The first lines still seared in your memory.

If you're reading this, a scorching wave of atomic fire has likely turned the surface into a wretched husk of its former self... which means your Vault has been activated! You now have in your own hands one of America's finest, easiest-to-use personal-computational tools: the Pip-Boy.

It becomes one of your prized possessions.

Sitting heavy on your wrist, an endless supply of screens and dials that entertained you for hours. Readouts and documents and even simple, chirping games to fill the empty hours with.

The other thing you came to cherish most was the library.

Well, you called it that - though it barely compared to the ones in your memory. It was a small room - a pair of plastic chairs, beneath a thick, metal shelf lined with books of all shapes and sizes.

You'd read them all, in the months you stayed there. Even ones that made your eyes burn with their dryness; Dean's Mechanics, Infiltration Techniques Vol. 2, Pugilist Quarterly.

Fingering tracing over the thin pages, trying to make sense of things you had never heard of before.

But your favorite were the fairy tales. Just four books, among the two dozen.

Grimm and Perrault. Andersen and Lang.

Their books thick and illustrated, the spines and covers stamped with gold.

The romances were the ones you visited, again and again. Younger you would have loved the macabre - evil witches, plucked out eyes, soul-wrenching betrayal.

But in this new world, you couldn't bear it.

You got lost in the pages. The girl who fell in love with the Beast, who was not so monstrous after all. Another, who risked everything to dance with the Prince, only to abandon him at midnight when the spell was broken.

When you grew bored, you created your own tales. Princesses that were swept off their feet. Knight fighting dragons, a fluttering in your chest when you thought about the romance.

The twisting and twining of limbs and tongues, the slow build that lead into soft, contented sighs.

They became your comfort, as the days passed.

So similar - in ways - to the ones when you had been asleep. The same routines. Paste, read, sleep.

The same clothes - the blue and gold jumpsuit you had woken up in. That the others wore as well, in their sleep. Each one the same, with the vault’s number emblazoned across the back.

On your Pip Boy you read it was to protect you from the elements outside - but here, it only added to the monotony of your day.

Every variation of an afternoon you had done at least once. Poking into every corner of each room. Fingers tracing over the glass screen of the pods, watching your family sleep.

Reading the books again, and again. Using the bits you picked up to learn more about your Vault, what had happened.

It took you a solid month to key into the computer terminal in the main office. Clicking on different words in the scramble of letters that poured across the screen, trying to crack the password protection.

Getting frustrated and giving up - only to come back again the next day.

Finally, the beep as you were let in. Clicking through the files, piecing together a mess of text that was scattered across numerous logs over the years.

That you were in Vault 113. That it was created in partnership with several more, and a copy of the previous, 112.

That some of the Vaults were created to be an experiment. A test to see how humanity would fare, released in key waves after the Great War of 2077.

Held in a cryosleep stasis - the first to be opened at 25 years, and then at 50. Continuing every quarter-century until 225 years has passed. Ending with your vault, scheduled to be released last.

The dread settles in as you started to understand what they had meant when you woke up.

That you were early.

That all you can do is wait.

You don’t even know where you’d even start - no idea if they would fare as well as you did, to be woken up ahead of schedule.

And so, the days ticked by. The marks you scratched on the wall next to your bed slowly increasing. One for each morning you woke up, until there's 182 of them lined up in neat rows.

Finally - coming to the realization that had been nudging at you for days, for weeks. The one that had been keeping you up at night, though you wished for the unconsciousness of sleep.

That you can't sit around for 4 and a half more years, just waiting. That wasn't a life, any way to live.

That you'd go mad, talking to your Pip-Boy, the robots that only had a few lines of verbal programming.

You had to know, to see. To go out.

Into the world. Alone.

You'd watched the videos.

The short animated films. The cartoon boy with the vault suit like yours, as he explained life after the fallout. How it would be different - tips on survival, how to keep sharp, how to use your own experiences and talents to your advantage.

It helped, giving you an idea of what to expect, but you hated them. The little acronyms, the cheesy animation - they seemed to mock the massive loss from nuclear annihilation.

The grainy, black-and-white recordings you find, after.

Prepared and left by the Overseer that no longer stayed there - who passed on the responsibility to the robobrains that still stood watch, when another Vault position opened.

They had made you weep, to think about what happened. Until you chest ached and your eyes stung. You couldn’t watch some parts, thinking about all those who had not been able to get away. Unable to help wondering about your extended family - your friends.

But it still hadn't prepared you for how vast and cruel the Wasteland was.

It had taken you another two weeks to actually open the Vault door. Dragging your feet as you collected supplies. Trying to pack everything you'd need while also trying to leave plenty in case someone else woke as you did.

Canteens of water, extra vault suits. The pink mush spooned into glass jars, clinking in your backpack, as you checked the space another time.

Leaving a note on the terminal, where you hope they'd find it.

But eventually, you had to try. You'd stalled long enough.

And so, after marking the Vault’s location on your Pip-Boy - you left.

You’ve been out for a week now. That alone feels like an accomplishment.

Not expecting how barren the world would feel, even with the preparation. It mirrors the muted browns from your dreams, though there's no hazy edges here.

Just a broken landscape of trees - still standing, stripped bare and bleached by an unforgiving sun. Crumbling roads, and what little grass endured was burnt and brittle. The air dry and thick in your lungs with the dust that kicked up, as you had carefully left the vault.

Misfortune had befell you almost immediately.

Barely out of the crumpled building that held the Vault, down the worn asphalt path, when there had been a scuttling sound. Fear and bile in your throat when a roach the size of a cat crept from the ruins, poised to spring.

Unable to do more than to grasp at the ground, fingers wrapping around a solid bit of wood. You can still hear the crunch of collision when you close your eyes, before you took off running, not wanting to see the aftermath.

The petrified branch still sits by the door, just in case.

In the half-standing farmhouse you've set up base in, until you're brave enough to wander further. That has been unnerving as well - seeing places that were different from your memories.

You had gone home, first.

It had seemed natural, though the fear lingered in your stomach, making your steps heavy. Following the road for three miles, all the while trying to force the puzzle pieces to fit. Broken bridges over dead streams, street signs that lead to crumbling, empty lots.

The road you lived on had been hit hard. It had ached - nothing left but the skeletons of your life before. Tumbling brick and rotting plaster. Chipped tile and broken floors, creaking under your feet as you stood where the kitchen once was. Must like your life before, it was just - gone.

The sentimental part of you had rooted around. Finding a rusting, red bottle cap in the ruins. A silver spoon found in the shattered remains of the counter where you grew up baking cookies.

You took them both, tucking them into your bag.

The farm you had found next, late the first night. You had been there before as a child.

The owners opened their property for apple-picking, hayrides, bonfires with sweet, melting smores. It had been a memory you had forgotten, until the bit of still-standing roof appeared on the horizon, beckoning you to it.

You'd do anything to have more of them. The memories.

The owners are gone now, as is the orchard. Just rows of thin trunks left, the branches dead and brittle.

With the wasteland around you - so very different from the safe, metal walls, the honeycomb of simple rooms - you wish you had stayed.

But much like waking up, you knew you couldn't. That you couldn't undo what happened, or forget the things that haunt you now.

Now - you spend your days wandering out. Poking around the barn to see if there's anything to take with you.

Finding a bit of joy, in some small moments.

In your books, as they soothe you to sleep. The stories are long-memorized but still bringing such comfort.

In the funny, two-head cow that had half-scared you to death when you first found it - that you know think is sort of cute. Almost poetic, in a way.

She wanders the fields behind the barn, and sometimes you go out to sit with her - keeping watch from a distance.

In your Pip-Boy, with the radio that hums out tinny tunes throughout the day - there's only a few of them it picks up, the songs on loop.

Picking through the holotapes of data - finding out that your new friend is called a Brahmin, mutated after years of radiation. It’s not much, but it's something.

It gives you hope that there might be someone else out there. It gives you the strength to think about moving on.

And you do find them - a semblance of civilization - but not in the way you hope.

You’re sleeping when it happens. Curled up in a bedroom on the second story, trying to avoid the holes that litter the hardwood floors.

It’s barely morning, the sunrise a weak, watery yellow as it peeks over the ridge. Though with a start you realize it’s not the light that has woken you. That rarely made a difference, after your time in the Vault.

Too afraid of the dark to turn off the light.

It’s the bellowing.

At first, you don’t know why it makes your skin prickle. After all, Minnie made those sounds when she first saw you - snorting and pawing at the packed earth, both sets of eyes dark and wide. Slowly settling, in the hours after - when all you did was watch from behind the fence.

The pieces click into place.

There was something out there.

You’re just getting up to look, when you hear a wild shout. The sound echoing, followed by a sharp, echoing crack.

The bellowing stops.

Your gasp is loud in the silence. Hand pressing over your mouth as your heart thuds in your chest - aching. The floor beneath you creaking as sink down onto it, trying to make yourself small.

But the voices move closer. Different tones overlapping, arguing - from the open field, then to the barn.

Then, to the house.

Your breath in your throat as the front door bangs open, a sharp voice cracking through the air.

“-lay off the fuckin’ Jet, mate. You’re fuckin’ paranoid as hell.”

The floor creaking as they move through the living room. An annoyed grunt, the rattle as something metallic clatters to the floor, making your stomach flip.

“Told you man, I heard somethin’,” Another voice answers.

Your heart drums so loudly in your ears, you’re certain it has to be audible. Tucked underneath the window, in clear view of the staircase.

If you don’t move, they’ll see you. You’re certain of it. The videos had warned you of the lawlessness, but nothing could have compared you for the fear that paralyzes you.

But, you try to be brave. Three feet to the right and you should be safe - your heart in your throat as you shift your weight, to move just out of sight.

The floor groans.

The voices downstairs stop.

You bolt.

Feet like lead, disconnected from your brain as you make for the stairs - thinking you can make it out. Skipping steps at a time, hoping that you won’t fall and break your neck. Ankles aching as you hit the bottom, sights set on the door the left open.

Almost making it out, when there’s a shout. A sharp “fuckin’ knew it” that sounds entirely too close. A gloved hand that reaches out, snagging your elbow.

Sending you off balance, slamming into the brittle wall. Pain radiates from your hip, the wood splintering from the collision. The hand closing around your ankle, yanking you hard.

The man pulls again - dragging you to the side, through the open doorway.

You’re gasping for breath, trying to yell - though nothing comes out. The air knocked from your lungs as you’re tugged across the porch, one of the steps cracking against your head as you try to grasp onto the railing.

It splinters under your grip, one of the spindles breaking free. He lets go when you reach the bottom, calling up to the second that lingers in the doorway.

“Check inside. See if there’s any more.”

A foot pressing against your shoulder, pinning you to the ground as he leans down, barking out a harsh laugh.

“Thought you could hide?”

He’s even more terrifying up close. Dark paint smeared around his eyes, dripping down his cheeks like tears. Dressed in a mismatch of leather clothes, nails driven up through the fabric at the collar. A spiked shoulder pad made from bent metal, the sharp edges a deep, rusted red.

You take a deep breath… and then swing.

The makeshift weapon collides with the side of his head, and then shatters. With a loud yell he stumbles, and you scramble - pushing yourself onto shaking knees, and then feet.

“Goddamn bitch,” He snarls, and there’s footsteps from the house, calls coming from the barn.

You don’t make it to your feet before you’re looking down the barrel of a gun. Fear and a strangled whimper in your throat as you hover in a half-crouch, hands coming up to shield your face.

A shot fires.

There’s a bright red light that sears through your closed eyelids, the smell of something burning. You open them just in time to see the man pitch to the side, his body glowing with a heat you can feel. Disintegrating as you watch, turning to ash before he hits the ground.

You can barely hear the yell from the others, the sound of your heartbeat drowning the world out. Faintly aware of one cracking shot, and then another, a deep reverb echoing across the flat plane.

Rocks skittering on the ground around you, the tremor of heavy steps and sharp mechanical hisses. Loud cries and shots traded as you cower, unable to look away from the scorched earth where a person just was.

And then, everything goes quiet.

A shadow falls across you, and you’re looking up. Seeing the figure that’s crumpled against the stairs. The unmoving peppering of bodies littering the ground, out near the barn. Never making it any further.

Up, and then up - to where a giant suit of armor towers over you. Painted in shades of green that you thought you had forgotten. A long rifle tucked in the crook of its thick arm, the end a hot, steaming red.

It’s head tilts - as a low, mechanical voice breaks through the silence.

“Its dangerous to wander the wasteland alone, ad’ika.”

ad’ika - little one

thank you for reading! 💚 part ii will be out thursday, the 9th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!

(0-pressure tagging some friends that liked the sneak peek 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights , @wingofshadow , @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force , @valentine-tx, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved)

[dinluke-ao3feed]

We'll Always Have Ossus

Read it on https://archiveofourown.org/works/55469839 by Maered Din pulls off the helmet as soon as the door closes. He walks over to the cabinet full of liquors he’s been gifted over the years, picks a random one and pours himself a glass. He tosses whatever it is back, as if it were moonshine from a backwater cantina, before sinking down into his chair. “Out of all the kriffing planets in all the kriffing systems in the whole Galaxy… he walks onto mine.” ** 20 years after Endor, Mandalore is thriving. The same cannot be said for the rest of the Galaxy. The First Order has captured every planet in the outer rim, save Mandalore, sending refugees it's way. It's leader finds himself on the perilous balancing act of neutrality, with a New Republic set on a strategy of appeasement. However, as Senator Organa arrives on a diplomatic mission at the same time as the First Order, the Mandal'or finds the tight-rope is even thinner than usual. Especially when Organa is not so secretly the Head of the Resistance- something that irks both the First Order and the New Republic. None of that matters to the Mandal'or though, seeing as Organa brings along a bodyguard. A man who the Mand’alor has not seen for a very long time… Words: 19734, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, M/M Characters: Din Djarin, Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, Bo-Katan Kryze, Boba Fett, Vanis Tigo Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa/Han Solo Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Casablanca Fusion, Angst, Mutual Pining, Reconciliation, Mand'alor Din Djarin, Jedi Luke Skywalker, Jedi Code (Star Wars), Bittersweet Ending, Discord: DinLuke Server, The Dinluke Server Made Me Do It, We’re going to ignore that i have already written the middle third, luke teaches din to use the darksabre, sparring as sexual tension, Luke Skywalker Has Daddy Issues, Switch Din Djarin, Switch Luke Skywalker, look far be it from me to change the ending of the greatest movie ever made I’m sorry, luke skywalker has attachment issues, The stardads server made me do it, GFFA AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Star Wars: The Book of Boba Fett (TV) Season/Series 01, Canon through the end of tbof, Flashbacks

[shrinkthisviolet]

talk shop tuesday - I know Lucy's obviously going to have a main role in the films, but will you be having her appear in any of the spin-offs shows/novels? If not, what led to that decision?

This is admittedly TBD, largely because I have to actually catch up on the spin-off books 😅 I do plan on sorta adapting the Legends Thrawn trilogy, since I want to introduce Mara, so yes to that (although how much Lucy will be in it is TBD until I actually read it in full 😅)

I doubt she’ll appear on the Mandalorian in a major way, possibly just a small cameo at most. Possibly in Book of Boba Fett if the timeline lines up…? I don’t exactly feel like watching that again, but Lucy will probably be on Tatooine post-OT for a bit, so maybe a few minor encounters.

Ooh actually I definitely know she’ll appear majorly in Last Shot, protecting Lando from attempts on his life—after all, what better person than a Jedi to help in protection from assassination attempts? Just ask Anakin and Padmé! It’ll be so fun 💞 and a nice opportunity to write more of Lando & Han’s friendship* and explore the underrated Lucy & Han and Lucy & Lando dynamics, the latter of which I’m very excited to write (especially in ESB, when they meet 🥰)

(*tangentially relevant: Lando and Han are the same age in this AU, like in Legends, and like they were before the TROS art book came out. Lando isn’t 10 years older for some weird reason)

talk shop tuesday!

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@arrthurpendragon @ocappreciationtag @raith-way @vexic929 @ironverseocs @thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce @dream-beyond-the-fantasy @starstruckpurpledragon @angst-is-love-angst-is-life

[pridoo]

I love at the end of MHJS (my hot Jedi summer) when Luke thinks he'll get a dog pile of cuddles from all three Dins but instead they're all propped up against the wall lmao I laugh every time I reread it! Especially because it hints at another comic of yours

But that got me thinking, are all of your comics connected? Are they parts of the same universe or are there some that take place in another AU?

Thank you!! ✨

And this is such an awesome question!

Short answer: all comics are "standalone" stories so they are not connected.

A bit longer answer: Because all of the comics are made by little old me, and in different times when SW shows aired, the comics have some connections and also vast differences.

When I was working on Heavy Metal Lover, only s2 of The Mandalorian had aired. I mainly wanted to try if I could make a comic at all, so I decided to pick up right from the end of the season. Also, this is my only comic where Din mostly doesn't wear the helmet.

Basically right after this one was done I started working on Terra Obscura, which I published when Book of Boba Fett was airing. My Luke was a bit more stocky back then and wore a black glove on-off. I wanted to show Din and Luke doing imp-riddance missions for the New Republic while Luke also struggles with thinking of re-building the Jedi Order (and strangely enough, I somehow predicted some canon events lmao). Terra takes place in its own universe.

Boil was a bit of fun and takes place in the same kind of situationship as Terra, where they do missions together. However, it's standalone from Terra, and I wanted to highlight the difference by giving Luke a bit darker hair. The premise is delish but much more lighthearted than in Terra Obscura.

My Hot Jedi Summer was such a long project (yeah, it took longer than 370 pages of Terra) that most of the current Star Wars shows have premiered by the time it came out, and s3 of Mando came out as well. in this comic, Luke is a Jedi academy teacher and Din's role is left open for interepretation (apart from co-parenting Grogu), but you can recognize the hut from the end of s3 in the comic. I wanted all comics have a bit of vague part on some aspects like how they parent Grogu and stuff, and Din's appearance hardly changes.

However – I love intertextuality and I don't mind at all if people see similarities in the comics' universes! They are mainly standalone stories because I love "firsts" so much and usually enjoy writing build-up more than established relationships.

As for the upcoming body swap au, it takes place in a situationship where Luke teaches Grogu sometimes and Din is doing New Republic freelancing. But it's not really that relevant to know to enjoy the story!

[dalekofchaos]

Book of Boba Fett au:actually a crime lord

Earlier this week I made a poll on what Boba Fett's fate could've been had he not fell in the Sarlacc Pit and in this au I will explore the scenario where Boba Fett takes over the criminal underworld and becomes the king of his own Empire.

Boba Fett was tasked with guarding over Jabba's Sail Barge and making sure the grand execution of the Rebels at the Great Pit of Carkoon went smoothly. Normally Boba Fett would agree because Jabba is good with credits. However Boba felt something was off and told Jabba to triple his usual wage and Jabba laughed him off. Boba decided to watch it all go down and decided to do nothing. The Rebels escaped and Jabba is dead. Boba's suspicions were proven correct, but he also saw an opportunity. If the Rebels could so easily plan an escape and overthrow the most powerful crime lord in the galaxy, so could he.

So Boba Fett gathers the deadliest bounty hunters of the galaxy. Fennec Shand, Bossk, Dengar, IG-88, Aurra Sing(kiss my ass Beckett, she's alive instead of being fridged off screen for your reputation) and Black Krrsantan. They kill all of Jabba's loyalists and Boba took the throne.

Eventually Boba Fett would've found like minded people and worked together to destroy the Hutt cartels, the Black Suns and Pykes and divide the galaxy's criminal Empire.

Now why this specific scenario for Boba Fett?

In George Lucas original pitch for the Sequel Trilogy, Maul was going to return and become the main villain of said Sequel Trilogy. His pitch has Maul eventually becomes the godfather of crime in the universe because, as the Empire falls, he takes over. Just replace Maul with Boba Fett and it is perfect.

After the fall of the Hutts and the Syndicates. There would be five heads of the criminal empire, much like there are five heads of the five families in The Godfather.

Boba Fett

Qi'Ra

Cad Bane

Prince Xizor

Tyber Zann

Their goal is simple. spread crime and corruption throughout the galaxy. Show how easily a Republic can fall to the corruption of the criminal underworld and while they all have their differences, they all stand with Boba Fett and under his leadership he will usher them in a golden age a of crime, profit and show the Rebels how easily he let them go and what the consequence of Jabba's death started. Boba's criminal empire.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Mando and Grogu fic recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

A clan of two by Louwhowrites - Rated G

Din was holding Grogu as soon as he came out of Bo-Katan's ship. It was the most natural thing in the galaxy for him, to have the kid in his arms. Or, Din thinks about his relationship with Grogu and seeing Grogu's rondel is the final push he needed to do something he should have done a long time ago.

I Just Want to Make You Feel, Like You’re the Only Buir in the World! by artindistress - Rated G

Grogu didn’t have many good memories before meeting Buir.

For a long stretch of time, he wasn’t sure how long, Grogu had been locked away in a dark, scary place, surrounded by dark, scary people. He could rarely make out their faces, but he could very clearly sense their overwhelming emotions of anger, irritation, cruelty that made him curl in on himself in an effort to be as unnoticeable as possible. He learned very quickly that being quiet, not voicing his hurts, his hunger and cold and desperate loneliness, was the best way to survive. His mind floated in a limbo of empty aches, surrounded by darkness that he was helpless to escape from. He was too little, too weak, too scared and confused and lost to do anything.

Then, one day, there was light.

Buir Bal Ad - Jate Ge'catra Par Sabacc Bal Cin'ciri Striile [Father and Son - A Good Evening For Sabacc and Snow Strills] by Saviin_K - Rated G

Din takes a break one evening while it's snowing and spends some time teaching his son fun and games. At the end of the evening, Din makes Grogu a special promise that means as much to the Mando verd as it does to the ad'ika

skin-deep by uncleanakin (unclemoriarty) - Rated G

When Din first accepted the role of temporary father to a foundling, he hadn't anticipated the obstacles that an inter-species family could encounter. While he'd rather not face those struggles, he had to admit that they helped him see some things in a new light.

Hard Lessons Learned by DragonXKS - Rated T

A routine bounty job quickly gets out of hand leaving both Din and Grogu injured and shaken while coming to terms with what happened.

Dada!! by snickerdoodlecat0 - Rated G

My take on Grogu's POV of reuniting with Din.

The First Night by Yatzstar - Rated G

Din and Grogu's first night after being reunited. Contains major spoilers for The Book of Boba Fett finale.

And we are kind to snails by vaguely_concerned - Rated G

Story time on the Razor Crest! It was obviously way too early to introduce the kid to combat training, but there were other ways to prepare a child for the world, surely. If that meant Din was occasionally stuck trying to imitate animal calls for the enjoyment and edification of a delighted and indefatigable one-person audience, so be it.

I have acquired a child. by stingrcy - Rated G

How can I ensure its welfare without having it become attached to me? Thank you. 🗨 17 comments    ➦ Share    🠷 Save    🛇 Hide    ⚑ Report (The r/Parenting AU some people wondered about but technically did not ask for.)

[fandom-friday]

Thank you so much to everyone that submitted recommendations this week! A comprehensive list of this week’s submissions can be found under the cut! Recommendations are organized by show/media, and any main pairings will be listed after the title.

💕 = 18+ content 🟪 = contains spoilers of a currently running show

Fics:

The Clone Wars: It Only Takes a Spark (Purge Trooper Cody x f!Inquisitor Reader) by @vodika-vibes 💕 Time After Time (Commander Cody x f!Reader) by @the-rain-on-kamino Theirs (Commander Fox x f!Reader x Commander Wolffe) by @vodika-vibes 💕 Don't Stop on My Account (Commander Wolffe x f!Reader) by @dickarchivist 💕 One Spotchka Too Many (Captain Rex x f!Reader) by @twistedsarchive Captain Rex x OC Nia Ficlet by @eternal-transcience 💕 The Last Word (Fives x OC Mal Darroch) by @ariadnes-red-thread Shattered Sunrise (Mace Windu x OC Danica Morrow) by @pickleprickle The Choices We Make, The Paths We Tread by lildropofmagic (AO3) The Number Lads by @jgvfhl

The Bad Batch: The Hostage by @kybercrystals94 Freeze Thaw by AnEchoInHere (AO3)

The Book of Boba Fett: 💕 This Tender Love (Boba Fett x f!Reader) by @daimyosprincess 💕 Worth the Risk (Boba Fett x f!Reader) by @daimyosprincess

Star Wars Original Trilogy: Revelations by shOokspeared (AO3)

Republic Commando: 💕 Off the Grid (Niner Skirata x f!Reader) by @the-rain-on-kamino

Batman: Lavender Blood by @starkskypines

Hetalia: Axis Powers: Grey Skies Over London by Gemini Star 01 (ff.net) Every Generation by Gemini Star 01 (ff.net) Gutters by Glassamilk (ff.net) Ditches by Glassamilk (ff.net)

Call of Duty: 💕 Riptide (Price x f!Reader) by @the-californicationist

Crossover AUs: Edward's Babysitting Service (Hetalia: Axis Powers X Fullmetal Alchemist Crossover) by orphan_account (AO3) Conversations With Patronizing Jerks (Hetalia: Axis Powers X Star Wars Crossover) by @basketofnova

Art:

The Clone Wars: Republic Troops 501st Poster by @boggsart Clone Wars Band Art by @pinkiemme Captain Rex Art by @vivaislenska Captain Rex Art by @kheimerios Captain Rex Art by @rackcty Mace Windu Art by @mudpuddless Fives and OC Elara McTavish Art by @aliettali OC Kazi and OC Daria by @eyecandyeoz (from I Yearn and So I Fear by @enigmaticexplorer) Clone OC Atlas Art by @orionfrommars

The Bad Batch: Bad Batch Selfie Art by @collophora Happy Ending Bad Batch Art by @mroddmod Hunter and Omega Art by @blxem1lk Hunter Redesign by @snw-faatuatua 🟪 (TBB S3) Hunter Art by @soularsss 🟪 (TBB S3) CX-2 Art by @notnyxxy Tech Art by @rexxdjarin Tech and Phee's Children OCs by @nightskyfoxyy A Place to Hide by @the-rain-on-kamino

Star Wars Original Trilogy: Young Boba Fett Art by @mrs2224

Jedi: Survivor: BD-1 Art by @eriadus

Batman: Batman's Boys by @inverted-typo

How to Train Your Dragon: Meatlug Art by @spacenintendogs

Call of Duty: Wraith by @bluegiragi

GIF Sets:

The Book of Boba Fett: Kia Kaha, Kia Maia, Kia Manawanui by @bobafettdaily

[saradika]

— WASTELAND, BABY

ii. the stench of the sea, and the absence of green

[masterlist] | [part i]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 3.2k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, canon-typical violence & death, mentions and use of guns/weapons, corpse-looting

a/n: thank you so much for all the kindness on part i! It is so appreciated! 💖

As your first real taste of life outside the vault comes to an end, you find out just who your savior is.

The figure leaves you retching into the wasteland - empty stomach heaving as he moves to look through the doorway of the farmhouse.

An ache thudding in your hip, the back of your head where it had collided against the wooden steps on the way down. Fingers pressing into the packed earth as you try to look anywhere except the steaming, oozing pile of ash.

You can hear him returning - the hiss of the hydraulics, the weight of his steps. The dark shadow falling across where your eyes are cast downward. Waiting - but for what, you do not know.

"This where you live, girl?" The voice crackles again, the creak as his helmet tips down towards you.

You don't know how to answer.

Not knowing what he wants - not wanting to reveal where your family is sleeping. Not necessarily wanting to stay here either, not with the ground littered with charred corpses.

The lack of a response is an answer within itself, silence filling the space until he speaks again.

"There's a settlement, a few hours from here. I could take you there."

At this offer, you finally look up. Traveling up the miles of forest-green armor, meeting the dark shine of his visor.

And slowly, you nod.

Pushing yourself to shaky feet, your hand touching gingerly at your head - checking for bleeding. Your voice is no more than a rough rasp when you finally try to speak, weak after not talking for so long.

"My stuff is inside. Can I get it?"

There's another moment of silence, and then you see his helmet dip again in a nod. You give the bodies a wide berth as you take the steps back inside.

You'd have to go with him.

Most of your jars of food were shattered in the firefight, only two remain on the broken counter.

Belatedly realizing you should have kept everything together in your pack, but it was hard to forget the old habits. Your things were tucked around the home as if you actually lived there.

They are quickly packed up. The remaining jars, each of your precious books. A spare vault suit, your few small trinkets from your home - the blanket that stopped smelling like the vault days ago.

He's still waiting outside as you approach him. A shift in the broad, armored shoulders as he gives you a once-over.

He's bigger than you thought, now that you're close. Your head barely level with his wide chestplate, his metal boots twice as wide and long as yours. There's a jerk of his arm, the point of a glove in your direction.

"This all you have?”

Your fingers twist together. What else are you supposed to be carrying with you? The pack on your back carried as much as you dared - not wanting to take too many supplies in case someone else had woken.

There's a hum that sounds like a sigh, before he's gesturing at the figures on the ground, "You're going to need more protection than that on our journey. Take his coat, and his weapons."

His words travel through one ear, and then out the other side. Unable to help the look of confusion and disgust you throw his way.

He wants you to what?

Touch a dead body?

Loot a corpse for your own gain?

You can't wrap your head around how he says it so easily, even with those old public service announcements playing in the back of your mind.

There may be times when you must engage in questionable activities.

In the wasteland, essential supplies will be scarce. When an item of value is found, keep it close, and away from bullies.

You hadn't thought that advice was real - hadn't taken it seriously. Childish propaganda, with its blaring music, the radio-voice overlay.

"I can't. I'm not a-," You protest, search for a word that conveys your intense distaste. "A scavenger.”

The barrel of his rifle swings in his grip as he shifts, moving a few steps close to you.

"No, you're not. You really are from the vaults, aren't you?” His voice a low rumble from beneath his helmet - curiosity tinging his words. "I thought you had stripped that suit off someone else."

You shoot him a wild look, worry souring your stomach. At the thought of your vault - and then at the idea of such a deception.

“I don’t want-” You start, shaking your head, but he cuts you off, his words clipped and firm.

"There could be worse things than Raiders on our journey. I can't protect someone who won't protect themself."

His words cut into you. You know he’s right - that things has not gone well for you earlier.

That you had only survived because of him.

That you should probably listen.

Slowly, you approach the body on the steps. It’s hard to look at him, the crumpled form - the charred blast in his chest.

You hesitate, fingers reaching out towards the tattered jacket he wears - long enough to twist around his knees, the sleeves hacked off at the shoulders. Stopping, as you glance back towards him.

"You won't get anything off the other one." He comments darkly, and you resist the urge to look at the pile of ash, starting to scatter in the wind.

You still can’t bring yourself to do it.

He sighs, slow steps taking him over to your side. Making quick work of things - stripping the jacket from the body, scooping up a pistol from where it lays in the dirt.

Pressing them both into your hands, the grip heavy in your fingers.

“I don’t know how to use this.” You admit, holding the gun gingerly, slipping the jacket on. It covers a good portion of your suit, even with the tears and holes that rip through the back.

He makes a low sound, and you think his patience must be wearing thin, “Keep it. If you stick close, perhaps you won’t need to use it.”

At that, he turns - leaving the choice up to you as he sets off, away from the farmhouse. You give the body one last look - seeing the tire iron hanging from the holster around his waist.

The jingle plays in your mind, again.

There are other situations where you may find yourself in close proximity to unfriendly neighbors. For such cases, you must learn to defend yourself using your natural strength.

Use anything sharp, or sturdy enough to swing. Get creative with your implement, but stay reasonable, and look for anything that can further enhance your innate vigor.

You take it - the metal cool in your grip, much more comforting than a gun. The holster fitting around your waist, the gun tucking neatly into it.

When you look up again, your savior has started to look small against the horizon, moving down the path that continued past the Farmhouse.

"Wait," You call, jogging after him. "What is your name?"

The sun glints off the painted metal as his head turns fractionally to the side. Slowing, allowing you to catch up with him.

"My name is Boba Fett."

Your neck cranes up - despite everything, you want him to know. Eyes sweeping across the dark visor as you tell him, "Thank you, Boba Fett."

He nods - and then you find yourself following him into the wasteland.

You stick to the wake of his shadow, tripping after him across the open plane. Silent except for the rhythmic hiss of his steps - you take three for each one of his - and the high whistle of the wind.

Beneath crumbling overpasses that tower above you, around piles of abandoned cars - the glass blown out, rusted beyond belief. You're unable to help thinking about how they've been there since the blast, unmoved for centuries.

The worst is the scattering of houses - strewn out every couple miles you pass. Boba's steps slowing, the unspoken command to stick close as he stands still.

The clicking of his helmet as he watches for movements, checking for heat signatures. Only moving on when there's nothing.

You wonder if everyone in this world are like the men - the Raiders, as he called them. If the massive loss and sorrow had twisted everyone beyond repair, had created a life where only cruelty kept you alive.

But then - you wonder why Boba helped you. Had disintegrated a man that was about to kill you.

Now that you've had time to think about it, it had been very impressive. How he had arrived, just in the nick of time.

How he'd walked away with barely more than a scorch blast on his armor.

How he had offered to take you to the settlement.

The settlement.

Your thoughts loop back to before.

Wondering if he was taking you somewhere worse. Wondering - if he was - if you'd have any chance of escaping. Not with the open fields, you think. Not with his long steps, the rifle now slung across his back.

Eventually, you're unable to help asking. Wanting to know what's in store instead of waiting. You've been doing enough of that, lately.

"What is the settlement like?" Your voice breaks the silence, though he does not slow, "Are the people like... like them?"

Boba makes a low sound of contempt, "Mos Espa has all kinds of types. Bounty Hunters, smugglers, and mercenaries. But none of them are like the Raiders. Lawless sacks of bantha fodder."

A beat, as your legs slow to a stop. His head turns.

"They won't hurt you there, girl."

You're not so sure, but it's a relief that he seems to understand your worry. The journey begins again in silence - through a section of bare trees, the grass rustling beneath your feet.

Finally plucking up the courage to ask, "Can you tell me about it? I don't - I don't know what settlements are like, now."

After a long moment, he does.

Telling you, under the heat of the sun, about the city. An old town, built from brick and stone. Sections that have crumbled - some rebuilt, others laying in waste. The marketplace that curls throughout the circular town square, centered around the old capitol building.

It sounds beautiful, in a way. That the city had been rebuilt. Hasn’t sat empty - filled with the skeletons of before.

You’ve seen a lot of those, lately.

“You seem to know a lot about it.” You comment, your boot catching on a rock - sending it skittering across the packed earth.

“I do.”

A new worry fills you, worming it’s way into your thoughts. Your words quiet over the hiss of his steps, each one hesitant, “Do you think they'll let me stay?”

He doesn’t slow, his answer seeming to come without thought.

“Aye, girl. They will.”

You can’t help but wonder how he can be so certain.

Finally, after hours had passed - the sun creeping across the gold-tinged sky - you see it. The cluster of buildings on the horizon, starting small until they begin to loom like a cracked range of mountains.

Finally back on a road, a real one. The asphalt cracked and crumbling, but it’s mostly flat under your feet - far more easy than some of the terrain you had crossed.

Because the journey hadn’t been all easy.

A crash-course in wandering the wasteland.

Beginning with a shimmer on the horizon, his steps slowing until you almost crashed into him. The rifle on his back swung around, peering down the sight so he could see what was approaching.

“Tuskens,” he had said.

As if you knew who or what that was - but the low edge to his voice had you sticking close again, as his did a slow sweep. Waiting for them to come to you, the figures slowly growing.

People clothed in wraps and robes, their faces covered. Traveling together, the first riding a large, ox-like beast with a thick pelt and curling horns.

Banthas, you found out later. Mutated by the radiation from the fallout, like the Brahmin at the Farmhouse.

His voice, as it broke through your careful watch, “Might not want to meet them alone, but you’ll be fine with me.”

They had halted, when they saw your small party. The rifle slung back over his back, as they signed back in forth - Boba’s slow and exaggerated, with the weight of his armor. The gestures punctuated with calls, carrying with the wind.

You understood none of it - feeling on edge, with their numbers. A little over a half-dozen, armed with carved, tall spears.

“I warned them about the Raiders,” He told you, when your paths finally diverged. “They might use what was left behind. And we’ll need to take a different way back.”

“Why is that?” You asked, though you didn’t have another choice - already throwing a leg over the low fence that he cleared with a step.

The noise he makes buzzed in his helmet. Was he laughing at you?

“You not ready for super mutants, little one.” A sigh, as he added, “They shouldn’t wander this close, I will come back for them later.”

Leaving you to wonder what they were - and certainly not going to push sticking to the path if Boba seemed uncertain - as you followed him over the rough terrain.

Not wanting to think about the bodies being picked over - but you think you understood. That supplies could be scarce, better to take it for yourself than for someone to use it against you.

“Did you know them?” You has asked, once the figures were out of sight again.

“Some.” He has replied.

He told you a little a bit about them. That they lived in nomadic tribes, that he had stayed with one, some years ago. A weight his words that told you that he carried something - regret, grief - that you don’t ask about.

The story interrupted by the sound of scrabbling - the ground shifting beneath your feet. Creatures climbing out of holes - large mole rats with pink, mottled skin and biting teeth.

Another pair of those large roaches, like you had seen after you first left.

Your breath in your throat, they clicked and lunged, the tire iron cool in your fumbling, heated grasp.

A metal hand closing around your wrist as he tugged you behind him. The other reaching for a pistol at his own waist - a kindness, in the way he had fired first.

Even if his words made heat bloom in your chest, embarrassment rising at being so utterly unprepared again.

Definitely not ready.

The rest of the journey, made in silence.

But now - the city looms. You’re grateful to see it, your feet and aching from the hours of walking.

Passing the broken street signs on the side of the old highway. Some things starting to make sense - the edges of them torn off, peppered with bullet holes.

You hadn’t remembered a Mos Espa when you lived here. But there it was now - something new born in the remains of before.

The old name transforming, becoming something else as the sign decayed, letters faded and lost over time.

It’s a skeleton of a town, padded and expanded with hand-made additions. Layers of wood and metal, stacked together with webs of scaffolding connecting them together.

Miles of high fences surrounding the buildings like an embrace, keeping everyone tucked safely inside.

It was impressive. It was a community, and for the first time - there's a relief easing the weight in your chest.

He leads you to the center of the town. A tall rotunda with a dark brick dome, a flight of cracked stone steps cut into the hill to meet it. You wonder where he's taking you - confused by the way people in the streets call to him.

When he had talked before, he had made it seem like he would be passing by. But, he knows people, here.

There's a way that they speak to him that you pick up on, as you still follow close at his heels.

A sort of respect, a reverance.

The wide double doors open for him, bringing you both inside of the old capitol. Inside, it almost feels familiar. Like a moment from your life, before.

Neat floors that are swept clean. A string of actual lights, flickering with electricity. Framing a raised platform that sits between the branches of the ornate, bifurcated staircase. A large seat sits in the middle, pieced together with carved bits of stone and concrete.

A woman lounges on it, lifting up as the doors close behind you. Hair pulled back in a complicated braid, above sharp eyes and an even sharper smile.

"You're back," She calls - as Boba moves to a bright yellow rack, set into the wall of the stairs. "I was thinking about sending Djarin out to look for you."

"Funny." He answers dryly, lining himself up between the metal arms.

And then, there's a hiss. The suit opens.

You watch a man step out, clothed in a dark flight suit. Older than you, powerfully built with a broad chest and broader shoulders. The skin you could see was scarred, but it didn't take away from the depth in his pretty, brown eyes - his handsome face.

A part of you had known, had remembered the power armor advertisements and propaganda from before the Great War. Giant suits of metal, created to carry soldiers.

But you had met him in it - and it had felt like they were one. You hadn't really thought too much about who was beneath.

"I had to track the Raiders further than I anticipated," He comments as he stretches, rolling his shoulders.

Stepping over to an armor stand right next to the rack. Carefully slipping on pieces of a smaller, more compact set - still painted that pretty, dark green, "Ran into a little more than I bargained for."

"I see that." The woman glances you way, where you were left to hover in the doorway, "Who are you, little bluebird?"

You blink at that, glancing down at the bright blue of your Vault suit, before you answer - giving her your name. She smiles, stepping down elegantly from the seat, taking your hand in hers.

Fennec Shand.

She carries herself like a queen - beautifully intimidating, a fighter and a survivor in this new world. You don't know what you could offer her, but you tell yourself to be brave, to try.

"I don't have much, but I will work hard. Would there be room for me to stay?" You ask, hands clasped in front of you.

Terrified this woman will tell you to go - to turn you out after you had come all this way.

Fennec grins, her arms folding over her chest, "Boba Fett is the Daimyo here, sweet girl. Not me. Didn’t he tell you?"

Daimyo.

You remember the word from history classes. Ruler.

Not a mercenary, not an ordinary man. You'd been traveling with the lord of this settlement. All the lands around it - his.

You gape at Boba and he smiles - with a sly curve of his lips, his eyes crinkling with amusement. The rasp of his voice - clearer without the helmet, but still deep and smooth.

"Welcome to Mos Espa, sen'ika"

sen'ika - little bird

thank you for reading! 💚 part iii will be out thursday, the 15th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!

(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @dukeoftheblackstar, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce, @monada43, @rescuethewretched, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ri-a-rose )

[azertyrobaz]

Satellites (2/7)

What if Grogu hadn’t returned to Din in The Book of Boba Fett? What if he hadn’t been given a choice? – Modern AU setting: Grogu is now twelve, and he has to rely on his memories as a young child to track down the person who changed his life. The only person he knows who will be able to protect him from the bad man. The bad man who precipitated his separation from the only family he’s ever known. He embarks on a road trip to piece together his past, and reconnect with the people who might help him find his family again.

Read below or on ao3.

Chapter 1

************

“Are your planning your escape?”

His feet wouldn’t reach the floor let alone the pedals and he could barely see above the huge steering wheel, but the boy was having the time of his life, sitting in the front seat of the parked pickup truck.

“No, driving,” he explained, the words simple but his mind full of difficult questions he wanted to be able to voice. And powerful feelings he wanted to express.

“Show me how?” he asked instead and sat back against the old leather, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture he’d recently started to copy.

The man understood what he wanted and started listing what each lever and pedal and button did. It was all very technical, but the young child’s brain was like a sponge, and he absorbed it all, thirsty for more knowledge and more time spent in such nice company. He was so focused that he didn’t notice that the woman was taking pictures at first. And when he did, he turned towards the old polaroid camera and took a silly pose.

“Show me!” he said with a big smile once she was done.

 ************

Grogu had tried to be careful with the polaroid over the years, but the colors had almost completely faded. He could still see both their faces relatively well, though. The goofy smile on his own and the more guarded one on his father’s. He looked ridiculously tiny and he felt yet another pang of loss at the knowledge that the Razor Crest was gone. He’d always thought he’d get to learn how to drive that car and had been looking forward to the lessons he’d been promised, even as a six-year-old. The man had said he had to see through the windshield first, which was fair enough.

With a small smile, he put the picture back at the end of his notebook, and stared at the words he’d written:

-          New car: yellow convertible Corvette?

-          No news for 4 years: moved abroad? work with military?

-          Boba Fett: be careful

-          Came to the institute 4-5 years ago: why?

He’d underlined the name Boba Fett three times, because even now hours later with already a hundred miles separating him from Peli’s repair shop, he still felt a little shaky. He’d been careful to observe each and every passenger boarding the bus but so far he was certain he hadn’t been followed. By him or the bad man.

There was one thing he hadn’t dared write down after that last question mark. Something that would also explain why Peli hadn’t seen him for 4 years. But he didn’t want to go there just yet. Mostly because he’d already thought about that possibility, and decided long ago that it didn’t ultimately matter – he wanted to know what had happened to him, that was his main goal.

The people around him were almost all asleep – it was close to 3AM and they wouldn’t stop before dawn – but he couldn’t stop his mind from going over the same questions. The main one being, what would he say to him if he found him? The new knowledge that he’d try to visit put everything back in perspective. Maybe he hadn’t lied? Maybe he had intended to see him again, like he’d promised? But then why hadn’t he tried again?

Which brought Grogu straight back to the dreaded words he hadn’t written in his notepad for fear they would prove true.

But there was another possibility. One that had almost made him turn back, so that he could ask professor Skywalker the question face to face: had he turned his father away? Had he told him not to visit again? And yet no matter how much he tried to stick to that hypothesis, since it was definitely not as irreversible as the other one, he couldn’t make it work. It didn’t fit. His teacher had been nothing but kind to him over the years, and seemed to understand keenly what it was to feel like you’re all alone in the world.

Grogu looked at the scratched tachymeter dial on his too big watch and started counting down seconds when he spotted a road sign outside. He didn’t have to focus that much for the numbers to take shape in his mind. Numbers had always been easy. Too easy. And not for the first time he wished that other things had proven so simple in his life. With a sigh, he eventually closed his eyes. They were driving at a steady 59 mile per hour and would reach their destination in 4 hours and 17 minutes, pending no traffic. That was just enough time for a decent nap, pending no nightmares.

************

Two buses later and after a very long walk through deserted countryside roads, Grogu had to face the facts – he was lost. It was early afternoon and thankfully not as warm as when he’d been looking for Peli’s shop, but exhaustion was slowly creeping up on him. That was something he hadn’t expected when he planned his journey. Sure, he knew it was going to be tiring, but with so much time spent travelling on buses with nothing to do, he’d expected he’d have no trouble getting rest. But he hadn’t accounted for the fact that his mounting worry would make it extra difficult or that sleeping sitting down was so uncomfortable. He longed for some place to lie down. Some place where his thoughts would leave him alone for five minutes. Some place where the bad man wouldn’t find him. Some place safe. Food that wasn’t pre-packaged sandwiches would also be nice. A shower. Clean clothes…

Grogu spun around. He had the right address, he knew that, but here in the middle of nowhere it wasn’t proving very helpful. There were no road signs or markings of any kind. The dirt track went in many directions and he’d expected to see a clearing in the woods by now, because he remembered that, but it had been eight years and he had never thought he would need to find that place again. Not alone, at least.

He looked at the sun above the tree line and tried to orient himself again. If he kept heading west he was bound to find it. Hands buried deep in his pockets and teeth set to avoid thinking about his very sore feet, he started walking again. His fist closed around his remaining cash and he tried not to focus on the fact that he still had enough money to go back. But only just about. Depending on what he learned here – if he ever found the house of course – he’d then need to decide whether to go home or carry on.

But the institute wasn’t home, not really. Even if he was starting to feel really homesick. He couldn’t think of any other word to describe the complex feeling. Home was somewhere you felt safe though, wasn’t it? Somewhere the bad men wouldn’t find you. So even if the institute had been home for a while, it couldn’t be any longer. There was no point going back there.

He wished his phone actually worked and he could talk to professor Skywalker. A small part of him realized he was probably very worried and would urge him to return, but his feeling of guilt was nothing compared to his growing sense of betrayal.

Why did you turn him away? Why was I never allowed to see him? Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he write me any letters? Does he hate me? Is he disappointed in me? Not proud of me? I’m the best in my class, I’m so smart I can go to college next year if I want to. But I don’t want to. I just want him. He can keep me safe. He can protect me from the bad man. He can make him disappear like he did the first time. And the second time. Is my dad dead, professor? Is that it? And you never found the way to tell me? And so instead you spend all your time with your nephew now? Because he’s family and I’m not? Are you not proud of me either anymore?

Some of it was his own fault, too. He’d never been a big talker and always dreaded difficult and potentially painful conversations. But he should have asked more questions over the years. He shouldn’t have settled for vague platitudes. Of course your friend is doing okay. Of course you’ll see him again one day if you want to.

Why had no one understood that this friend was his family and that yes, he wanted to see him. He wanted to see him right now! Why did he have to explain it? Why did he have to use words? Why couldn’t they just see it? He missed him so much, it wasn’t fair! And now it was too late and he was dead and he would never see him again. Never ever ever ever –

“Grogu?”

He hadn’t realized he was kneeling on the ground and had started crying. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t think. He was so tired. He was just so, so tired.

“Shh, it’s okay, I got you,” the woman whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around him. “It’s all gonna be okay.” And Grogu nodded because he desperately wanted to believe her, the smell of her hair familiar and her blurry shape warm and comforting.

************

She didn’t ask him what he was doing there. Instead, she made him mac and cheese, gave him clean clothes and a towel for a hot shower, and showed him to the guest room for a nap. As he closed his eyes, his achy muscles telling him he’d be asleep in seconds, he wondered if all mothers were like this, or just the good ones. Somehow, they knew everything without you having to say it.

Grogu woke up disoriented but rested, his watch telling him it was late afternoon. He’d been asleep for three hours but couldn’t remember what he was doing there at first. And then the soft clothes he was wearing clued him in. He’d had to roll the cuffs of the sweatpants a couple of times and the sleeves were far too long but he liked that. They smelled nice, and probably belonged to his old friend Winta. He stood up unsteadily, his head spinning still and the blisters on his feet painful, and padded quietly to the kitchen.

“Hi,” he said softly, feeling shy.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Omera asked, standing up from the table where she had been working – it looked like she was marking school work. Was she a teacher? He didn’t remember, but he thought that fitted her.

Grogu nodded, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around. He felt impossibly small in his too big clothes and yet he remembered he’d been even smaller the first time he visited. The place didn’t seem very different from the two or so months he’d spent there years ago with his dad. It was the one place they’d spent the most time in, but it had still been early days then. They hadn’t known each other that well.

“Sorry about your clothes,” she added, assuming he was looking for his belongings, “they’re still in the dryer. I added the ones from your backpack but I was careful to remove all the stuff from your pockets.”

“Thanks,” he replied simply, and didn’t feel concerned that she had looked through his things. He wasn’t hiding anything after all. She probably knew already what he was doing there. She was a good mom.

“Is Winta here?” he asked, and she smiled.

“I have to go pick her up from practice soon. I thought you’d still be asleep, you were exhausted. We’ll get some food on the way back, is there anything special that you want?”

He shook his head.

“It’s still Grogu, right?”

“It’s really Gregory, but I don’t like that name,” he explained. “I prefer Grogu.”

“Grogu it is then,” and she smiled again, making him feel more at ease. He didn’t add that no one called him Grogu anymore – he hadn’t heard that name in years. But Gregory belonged to the institute and he’d already decided he wouldn’t be returning there unless he had no other choice, so Grogu it would be.

“You can stay here or you can come with me, that’s up to you. You can go lie down again or get a snack from the fridge, make yourself at home.”

Grogu wanted to ask her the one question he’d come to ask her – had she seen his dad? But he also knew he was in no shape to go out there again just yet, especially if she only had bad news for him. The fact that she trusted him to stay in her home while she was gone told him she wouldn’t pull a Peli on him and call the authorities. At least not just yet. She was as curious as he was and he could read many questions in her eyes.

“I think I’ll stay,” he told her. “My feet hurt.”

She nodded in understanding and told him she’d be back in less than an hour. Before she left, she handed him some Band-Aids for his blisters and showed him where his backpack was. She knew there was a chance he would bolt before she returned, and she seemed fine with it. Grogu didn’t intend to bolt yet, but he knew he could just grab his clothes from the dryer and whatever was in the fridge and just leave without feeling very guilty.

Well, maybe a little. She’d really been nice to him. And he really wanted to see Winta. So he decided to stay.

He was tempted to go back to bed but he didn’t want to miss their return. So after he made sure all his belongings were still in his backpack – he trusted Omera but seeing all his things in their right place put his mind at ease – Grogu realized he was still parched and opened the fridge. There were no sodas but he was getting tired of those anyway so he opted for a glass of milk instead. He knew it wouldn’t actually make him grow taller, as much as he wished it would, but it was better than a carbonated drink.

His let his eyes roam over all the pictures covering the refrigerator door, and  stopped still when he recognized a particular one. Among all the different pictures showing various outings – weddings, barbecues, beach days – and all the different people smiling at him – Omera, Winta, friends, family, colleagues – he recognized two faces. Right there in the middle and held by two colorful magnets was a polaroid of him and his dad taken in the parked Crest right outside the house. It was a different version of the one he kept in his notebook and Grogu was struck at how vivid it still looked compared to his. The colors hadn’t faded at all and his father’s face was so clear and so full of life he felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes. In this one they were both smiling. They looked happy. They looked like a real family. And the fact that Omera and Winta saw their faces when they opened the fridge every day, same as they saw their friends and family and whoever else was there, pulled at something deep inside him, but he wasn’t sure what it was. There was one thing he was sure of though – he had been right to come here. And whatever he felt for his dad was real – other people had seen it.

************

Grogu was still out of sorts when they returned with pizza, but seeing Winta quickly put a smile on his face.

“Grogu!” she exclaimed, giving him a fierce hug, which he returned with all his strength.

“You’re so tall!” he blurted. She’d always been taller than him – she was five years older after all – but it felt even more striking now.

“I know!” she laughed. “I play basketball, it’s pretty useful. And you look good in my team tracksuit.”

He stared at the soft green cotton clothes he was wearing, happy that his assumption had been correct and that they did belong to Winta, and even happier that she didn’t seem to mind he was wearing them.

“Sorgan Lothcats,” he read upside down on his chest. “Is that your team name? What’s a lothcat?”

“I don’t even know,” Winta shrugged with a chuckle. “I need a shower then we’re eating this pizza, I’m so happy you’re here, Grogs!”

Grogu nodded and wondered if he had time to talk to Omera now or if he should wait. He sighed and clenched and unclenched his fists slowly to calm down. His hands kept disappearing in the too long sleeves but he kind of liked it. He was used to hand-me-down clothes that didn’t always fit him, but those he actually didn’t mind.

“Come help me set the table,” Omera asked from the next room, and he immediately did as she asked. Was this another magic trick good moms used? Because it was certainly working on him.

“You’re looking for him,” she said, handing him three plates. Grogu was glad he wouldn’t have to start that particular conversation. It also seemed that he wouldn’t have to explain much, as he’d expected. “Din Djarin.”

It felt weird to hear that name said out loud, but in a good way.

“Din Djarin,” he confirmed in a soft voice, observing her closely – the name also had an effect on her, it was clear to see.

“I’m sad that you didn’t manage to stay together, but not surprised. How long has it been?”

Grogu took his time answering, carefully setting the plates on the table around the pizza box.

“Six years,” he eventually replied.

“So you did spend more time together.”

“Just two years,” he mumbled, refusing to look at her and missing the fact that she was handing him glasses.

“It’s more than I expected, and I understand why you want to find him. Two years is a long time at that age.”

Grogu didn’t agree but he didn’t say anything.

“So you haven’t seen him,” he concluded, his joy at seeing Winta earlier abruptly evaporating.

“Grogu,” she said in a tone that finally made him look up. “How long have you been looking for him?”

“Four days.”

She smiled softly. “Then don’t despair just yet. I bet he’s an expert at hiding. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, feeling a little better. Those four days felt like forever already, but she was right.

Winta was very good at distracting him some more during dinner, and it felt nice to hear about her life and her projects and her dreams. She still intended to become a vet – Grogu had remembered that – and would start college in the fall. When he admitted he had the same opportunity to start university she congratulated him warmly instead of expressing disbelief or jealousy.

“I always knew you were brilliant,” she cheered, and he felt his cheeks burning slightly at the praise. ‘Brilliant’ sounded a lot better than ‘special’ or ‘gifted’.

“I’m not sure I want to go just yet, though,” he confessed, looking at Omera. He’d talked about the institute in broad terms, and since they were so close to summer break he didn’t think they’d immediately assume he ran away. Or they were just too kind to say anything about it.

“What would you want to study?” Omera asked.

“I’m good at applied maths,” he shrugged, not realizing this wasn’t really an answer.

“Oh good, you’ll be able to help me with my homework,” Winta joked. “Which I sadly need to get back to,” she sighed, standing up. “I’ll see you in the morning if you’ve gone to bed by the time I’m done.”

She’d added that last sentence with a serious look on her face, directed at him – she wasn’t stupid, far from it, and knew what he intended to do. Grogu simply nodded, trying not to feel too bad.

Omera once again had the perfect words to urge him to help her with the dishes, but it meant they didn’t have to talk just yet which was fine with him. He wondered what else he could ask her. Something that would help him decide where he should go next. But his mind kept going back to one thing she had said earlier.

“What did you mean when you said you were not surprised we weren’t together anymore with my – with Din?”

For the first time since he arrived, she evaded his question, and asked him whether he wanted a cup of tea instead.

“I still have some marking to do, but we can keep talking if you want,” she hedged.

“Can I have a glass of milk instead?” he replied, not minding too much that she was stalling.

They sat down again at the cleared kitchen table and he decided that maybe she needed to hear his story from the beginning.

“I don’t know if you remember, but there was someone after me eight years ago.”

“I remember,” she nodded somberly. “He’s the reason you both had to leave. It was no longer safe for you to stay.”

There was regret there, and sadness, and probably some other feelings Grogu didn’t understand very well. Adult things.

“I thought the bad man was gone but now he’s back, and the institute is no longer safe for me. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on staying here long, he won’t find you,” he continued, thinking one of the adult things he didn’t understand was fear. But he was wrong.

“I’m not scared, Grogu,” she told him seriously. “And I wasn’t scared then either. Din helped me – helped us – when you were here, but there’s a reason we live in such a remote place with Winta.”

“Something from your past,” he guessed.

“My own bad man,” Omera nodded.

“And he’s gone?”

“Yes,” she replied firmly.

“I’ve been trying to remember as much as I could, and this place was the easiest to find because we spent a lot of time here, and I knew your names. I also knew the name of a mechanic I saw yesterday, but she didn’t know where he was either. I tried looking for other places, other people, but it’s been difficult. We never stayed anywhere for long afterwards.”

“You can stay for as long as you want, Grogu. I made a promise to Din all those years ago and I intend to keep it.”

“What promise?” he frowned.

Omera looked at her tea cup instead of him. She seemed sad. Something even deeper than that he realized, but there again he didn’t have the right words to explain it. She suddenly gripped one of his hands resting on the table and Grogu tried not to react too strongly.

“He was so new at this. Being a father. Remember?” He nodded silently, seeing tears forming in her eyes and gripping her hand back just as hard. He knew that pain. He understood it.

“And he was scared. He wanted the best for you. The best. He loved you, Grogu. In his own way.”

“I know,” he swallowed hard. “I felt it.”

“He didn’t think he was good enough for you, and you were so young still. He thought you’d be better off here, with me and Winta. He asked me to look after you, and I said I would raise you as my own.”

Grogu let go of her hand, stunned.

“He wanted to leave me here?” he realized, voice empty. “To abandon me?”

“Does that surprise you?” she asked him seriously, talking to him as if he were an adult and no longer a child. Something Grogu appreciated.

“No,” he replied after a while, but he still felt hurt by the revelation, even if he knew, deep down, that it made sense. They hadn’t been together for long when they came here, after he rescued him that first time. And he could admit to himself that he didn’t see him as a dad yet, not then. It was still painful to hear. It didn’t change the fact that he wanted to find him, but again, this made him rethink things, especially when he saw the tears now running freely on Omera’s cheeks.

“When we left you were hurt too,” he realized. “I’m sorry.”

“You had no other choice,” she shrugged. “He did what was best for you, I would have done the same.”

He drank his milk for a while, letting Omera compose herself while he wondered if there was anything else he could ask. But it was difficult to think over the pain he felt. He wanted to curl into a ball and sleep for hours.

“I actually tried looking for the two of you, years ago, but I never found you.”

“You did?” he marveled. “Where?”

“He’d said you’d arrived from Nevarro, so I started there. I quickly realized it was useless so I stopped, though. But we never forgot you. Me and Winta.”

“I saw the picture on the fridge.”

“Yeah”, she nodded. “You were happy here. Both of you.”

Grogu nodded in agreement but his mind was already somewhere else.

“Where’s Nevarro?”

“I don’t think there’s anything there,” she sighed.

“I remember it, but it wasn’t a good place,” he said, thinking out loud. “Bad things happened there.”

“Then don’t go back,” she urged him.

“Where is it?” he repeated. She shook her head but she didn’t look angry – she knew he’d find out on his own anyway.

“It’s a three hour drive, I can take you there this weekend if you want.”

“Okay,” he replied immediately, but they both knew he’d be gone the next day.

“You should get some sleep,” she said instead of telling him not to go alone. “You still look very tired.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, standing up. “Good night.”

“Grogu?” she called him and he turned around, standing by the door. “I still intend to keep that promise. If you don’t find him or if… Whatever happens, there will always be a place for you here. Understand?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“I won’t make you go back to your school and you’ll be free to decide what you want to do with your life.”

“That sounds nice,” he smiled, then wished her good night again.

************

Grogu slept. Much better than he’d expected given the circumstances and he had a hard time getting out of bed but he knew he had to. It was 5AM and he didn’t know when Winta and her mom would wake up, but he walked around the house extra quietly. He brushed his teeth and changed back into his washed and dried clothes – minus the Sorgan Lothcats sweater he’d decided to keep – and found snacks conveniently waiting for him on the kitchen table. Trail mix, dried fruits and oatmeal cookies. A water bottle to fill from the fridge. Omera really was a good mom.

He closed the door as quietly as he could, intent to walk back the same way he’d come and using his torch if he needed to, but Winta was already there, sitting against the car with her arms crossed.

“I’ll drive you to the station,” she said, and didn’t wait for his reply before climbing in. It was scary how much she looked like her mom sometimes.

“You kept the sweater,” Winta remarked as they were driving in silence. He was glad she was taking him, since the dirt track would have been difficult to navigate in the dark, but he hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble with Omera.

“Is that okay?”

“Sure, if you promise to bring it back. And not in 8 years.”

Grogu nodded and looked at his hands disappearing in the too long sleeves. He really liked that sweater.

“I think I would have liked growing up here,” he realized, the trees no longer so scary now that dawn was approaching.

“There’s certainly worse places.”

It was strange to see how little time it took to get to the station when he had struggled so much the previous day on foot. He hoped it was a sign of things to come, and that his next destination would provide him with more clues.

“So where are you going?” Winta asked point blank once she’d parked.

“Nevarro,” Grogu replied, not minding that two people now knew where he’d be. It was almost nice.

“That’s not too far from here, you should be there this afternoon. I’m sorry I can’t take you.”

“That’s okay, I have to do this alone I think.”

“That’s really dumb, but I get it,” she smiled, and Grogu felt a little better.

“Here,” she said, handing him an envelope she’d taken from her pocket.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been saving up to buy a new laptop for college.”

“I can’t take your money,” Grogu shook his head, handing the heavy envelope back to her.

“Yes, you can. And you will. You’re going to need it to find your dad.”

“You really think I’ll find him?” he wondered, the envelope between them.

“Yes,” she replied with certainty. “Get the envelope and get out of here before I change my mind and drive you back home.”

There were tears in her eyes when Grogu looked up.

“Thank you.”

“I want that sweater back, Grogs!” she said as he closed the door.

[a2on1break]

Tagged by @kraytwriter with some 'get to know' questions.

Last song I listened to: "The Answer" from Chris Tomlin. Played his latest CD in my truck as I drove home from church potluck and communion.

Currently reading: The Cestus Deception: A Clone Wars Novel by Steven Barnes. Yoda’s Secret War, a SW comic. Lots of Star Wars fanfic.

Currently watching: The Clone Wars, season 3. Finished season 2 of The Mandalorian, so on to Book of Boba Fett.

Current obsession: Is this not obvious? Star Wars. Obi-Wan and Anakin. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, particularly in my Promises of Fools AU. The clones. Captain Rex. Star Wars timelines. How to build a hyperdrive into a starship only somewhat bigger than a Delta 7. Life and What Comes After by @kingofattolia. Learning to write Star Wars as well as @kingofattolia. (Sorry, hun, is this too much attention? It is all true.) The Jedi. Mace Windu. Hugs. Fresh peaches.

Tagging @catkin-morgs, @enigmaabsolute, @mrgartist, and anyone who calls themselves part of Rogue Squadron!

(This is @rainintheevening Main, if you're wondering.)

[hinderr]

Hinderr's Masterpost

(Or; in which I finally cave)

Link to ao3

#hinderr art (i take doodle requests!)

Usually I write. Sometimes I draw. me and the block button are besties <3

(18+ sideblog; ask to see)

Fandoms

DSMP (not active here anymore)

-> notus; royalty au. ranboo-centric. beeduo centric, with benchtrio and sbi. major character death involved (#notus, #notus rambles, #notus asks, #notus rb)

The Mandalorian

-> He is his father's son; long-fic series. grogu-centric. major character death involved. mandalorian!grogu and his adventures in carrying his dad's legacy, with varying degrees of success (#father's son (series), #solus / t'ad / ehn, #something loved (but never known), #like flowers / the bodies tumble)

-> Study on nature and nurture; two-part series. grogu-centric. heavy themes of child abuse and child neglect. canon-divergent. explores the premise of din never making it onto the Imperial Cruiser in the first place, and the aftermath ten years after (#study on nature and nurture) [masterpost of bts stuff]

-> cookies (to share); Valentine's Day Oneshot. Din and Grogu clan of two softness. 4 things that Din Djarin learns and one thing Grogu Djarin has always known

-> flowers for the (un)dead: zombie apocalypse au with a flowery twist, and in which something almost immediately goes wrong for our boys. (#flowers for the dead)

-> spitting image: canon-divergent post season 3. One of Gideon's clones survives, as a young child. Din makes a choice. (#spitting image)

-> a home by any other name: razor crest pov oneshot (#a home by any other name)

-> once more (with feeling): season 3 rewrite. starts off from that episode in the book of boba fett (#once more (with feeling))

-> blood on linoleum floors: canon-divergent AU, post Tython. Inquisitor Grogu. Din is both far too late to find his son and, at the same time, earlier than he thought he was (#blood on linoleum floors)

Sal Skiesly (#sal skiesly)

my dnd character who i'm...im so nromal about guys I'm so normal about Sal Skiesly I'm soooo so oso sososososooso normallll

-> heart a glass sculpture (please be more careful): character study/juxtaposition between Sal, his Patron, and his daughter

-> clipped wings of wax: short story. Sal is 10 and Patron is telling him a story

-> dissect me to find out what's wrong with me (a cancer, malignant): another short story. sal feels bad for no clear reason. patron talks

-> love loses: happy pride month. sal skiesly meets a man and then proceeds to fuck it up

(ob!hinderr: sal skiesly but as he is in the lore of a Minecraft oneblock skyblock server. he is somehow doing worse)

[3pirouette]

Sneak peek of an Untitled and Unfinished Mando x Reader slow burn fic

So, this is it. I have been teasing this now for a while, it’s still SOOO unfinished, unbeta’d and may change. And I’m even afraid of tagging it properly… but this is a touch draft of the Prologues and the first chapter.

Everything is under the read more. There’s no y/n, just 1st person. I’ve never written ANYTHING like this before and am super intimidated to toss my hat into the SW fandom, but here we are.

Important things:

-ANY and ALL feedback is welcome, just be kind please.

-PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNING. I’m not joking. It’s heavy stuff.

Author:Triple Pirouette/3Pirouette

Din Darin X Reader

A/N: Let’s start with this. I love The Mandalorian. I am a casual Star Wars fan as in I love the movies and some of the shows, but I haven’t touched the books or the extended mythos and there’s SO MUCH I just don’t know that I can never catch up on. I probably should not be writing this, but I am anyway. Assume if I don’t write about it, it doesn’t apply. Full on AU in that way.

I also see Din quite differently than it seems a lot of spicy fic writers do. Welcome to the slowest burn I’ve ever written. 

General timeline is after Book of Boba Fett, with the only major difference being Din still has the Razor Crest. Let’s be honest, the N1 is lovely, but it’s lacking space. Did I start writing this before season 3? Yes. Was I heavily influenced by season 3? Also yes. Is no one going to believe that I had the end planned out BEFORE I saw the season finale. Also yes. Oh well.

Also, I almost never write in second person. This is an exercise in that. I’ve done my best with this format as I just generally don’t write it that much. (Or ever) I’ve also thrown a few third person sections in there just for the sake of story telling. I get that “reader” should be pretty vague so that you can feel like you’re in the story, but my character isn’t. “Reader” is  cis AFAB. She’s strong but a little broken, and some pretty horrific things have happened to her. PLEASE take my warnings seriously. If you decide to proceed, you are doing so warned. 

Again, this is my first Star Wars fic. My first long second person fic. Please be kind. Heed the warnings. 

As we said waaaay back when i first started writing fic, I’m open to constructive criticism, but please take your flames someplace else. If you don’t like it, just close out of it. 

Warnings: SA, violence against women, prostitution, nightmares, suicidal thoughts, medical procedures, murder

~*~

Prologue II:  A Different Kind of Bounty

Din tosses his credits across the bar, sliding the drink into his hand. Even through his helmet he can smell too much alcohol in it. Not that he drinks often, but when he does, he likes his drinks to be well balanced and worth the loss of faculties and control. 

He generally doesn’t like not being ready or losing control. 

But he’s thankfully not paying for the drink tonight to drink it. He’s paying for his space. A club, a cantina like this on the farthest reaches of the Outer Rim isn’t about making merry. You pay credits for overpriced drinks for the bartender to look away and for the honor of having no one remember you. 

He knows he stands out in this room, but so do a lot of other patrons. 

He identifies senators, princes, high ranking Republic officials, all doing business of one kind or another that would get them blackballed from other places. Here, an overpriced drink pays for the companion next to them, or for the privacy to do business that is to be left off the books in a dark corner. 

He isn’t new to these sorts of places, but this one has an interesting feature. 

He’d been expecting to find the sweet face from the Holo in his belt behind the bar or trolling the floor. It isn’t his job to ask why you are in what amounted to not much more than a Hutt-run Brothel, it is just his job to find you and bring you back to Skywalker. 

He wants to stay on Skywalker’s good side in case he ever needs the Jedi again, and Grogu’s leaving seems to be a sore spot for the man. 

Din knows he is happier with the little guy back to making mischief in the ship, and he doesn’t question that too much. 

But that’s why he is here: do a favor for Skywalker. It is a rescue mission instead of a Bounty. Seems easy enough. 

Until he sees you for the first time. 

The Dias the Hutt keeps is high and far, looking down on the dark bar from the floor above. It is made so that the full room can see the Hutt on his throne, presiding over the evening lackadaisically, but also so there are private areas towards the back where deals can be made with the Hutt’s Domos. 

And there you are, dressed in bright swathes of thin fabric and gleaming steal accents that show more than they hide, iridescent lines adorning your face to make your eyes bigger and your nose smaller, your lips fuller and your chin sharper, kneeling at the Hutt’s side, miserable. 

He sees it, even though he knows you’re trying so hard to hide it. 

He sees how little you want to be where you are every time he catches you watching him. 

And there’s something about the way you walk that Din doesn’t like. 

It looks like it hurts. 

He watches the Hutt and his Domo parade you around, watches as you greet customers who come to bargain with the Hutt. Some leave with you, some leave without you, and when you leave you never come back out for the night, at least not that he’s seen in the last three days.  

Din can’t quite understand what is going on, but you aren’t a regular prostitute. That much is clear. 

The Hutt is keeping you up there for a reason instead of out on the floor with the rest of them. Din needs to know more before he can get to you, before he can figure out a way of getting you out of here without causing too much of a scene. 

And Skywalker is going to owe him a lot more credits for all the drinks he’s going to need to buy.

~*~

Prologue I: He Stands Out

He stands out. 

His armor is bright in the dim cantina, reflecting what light there is out all around him. This is a place people come to hide, a place they come to let their guard down. He did neither. 

Night after night, for a week, you watched him. 

He would sit quietly at the bar, holding a drink but never taking his helmet off or sneaking a straw under the edge. He may have talked to people, you didn’t know. The noise of the cantina made it hard to know without lip reading, and you couldn’t see his lips. 

You couldn’t see anything but that armor. 

From your place at the Hutt’s side, you watched. You waited. He’d make his way to the Dias eventually. They all did. 

Something made you think you might try just one more time. That if he came and asked for you, that maybe, just maybe, he might be the one to listen. He might not lie to you. 

He might actually help you. 

Night after night, for a week, you watched him come in, sit, not drink, and leave. 

He stood out. 

~*~

Chapter 1:

Chapter Summary:

A/N:

The Hutt pushed you over with his tail, mumbling and grumbling in words you never tried to learn, never cared to pick up. The Senator in front of you smirked dangerously, and that was all you needed to know. He was another, paying for your time. Buying your evening from the Hutt. 

You were eyeing him, trying to guess where he was from by his dress when the glint from across the room caught your eye. He was back. The mysterious Mandalorian returned. It was the eighth night in a row now, and he had yet to actually do anything. He didn’t play games of chance, or drink, or talk with anyone of importance. He simply came in, gave his credits over to the droid at the bar, and watched. 

Hell, he could have been sleeping under that helmet and you’d never know. 

The senator pulled your attention with a cruel laugh before reaching out, taking your wrist in his hand. 

“Shall we, lovely?” 

His smile was kind, but the glint in his eye was feral. 

A different man on the outside, but on the inside he was just the same as every one who came before him. 

You’d struggled once upon a time. You’d fought and dug your heels in over and over again, years ago. Now, you just went slowly, dipping your head. You’d learned there were fates worse than death, and until you could get your hands on a blaster or a vibroblade, you didn’t even have death as a recourse. 

It would have to be quick. Easy. You didn’t have the strength left to work at taking your own life. 

He pulled you behind him, towards the door where the ____ stood guard. As you turned, you could see the Mandalorian’s head turned towards you. 

Maybe he’d be interested.

Maybe tomorrow he’d talk to the Hutt. 

Maybe you’d ask him to take you with him when he left, and maybe he’d say yes. 

Maybe, if he wouldn’t help you, he’d stop paying attention long enough for you to get your hands on his blaster.

~*~

You needed the Bacta tank, but the Hutt wouldn’t allow it. 

He’d made that mistake once, and you knew he’d never make it again. Instead he let you suffer, wallowing on the floor of your cell, fighting to maintain concentration, fighting to heal what wouldn’t with the mod buried deep in your spine.  

You’re tired, you’re hungry, you’re angry. 

It wasn’t the first time you ended up here, it wouldn’t be the last. 

The Hutt knew where his money came from. He’d let them Do what they wanted, as long as they didn’t push too far. The Senator had pushed the limits, and now you were out of commission.  The Hutt wouldn’t like that. 

Not that you cared what he liked. 

The only reason you’d ever had to care about what made him happy was to get through another day, and you weren’t all that sure another day would be a good thing anymore. 

Behind closed eyelids, it was almost easy to pretend the dirt of the cell was the ground under the castle, that the cold air was just the breeze off the creek. These memories helped. Laying in the grass, waiting for your best friend to come bounding back, droid flitting by her side, ready for another adventure. 

This was not an adventure. 

~*~

The Domo wakes you by pulling at your wrist until you’re in a ball on your knees, breathing heavy from startling. “You need to get ready,” he snarls. 

“I’m not-“

“I didn’t ask.”

You know by now not to argue. They know when you’re ready, and they know when to ignore it for the right price. You stand, as dignified as you can, and follow him as he leads you from your cell. 

The tunnel leads front he dirt floors and rock walls of your cell to the compound proper filled with painted sandstone walls and cement floors. You follow quietly until he waves his hand over the sensor on one of the doors. It pops open, and you enter. 

There are clothes on the bed, and there;s a small bag of make up next to the basin filled with warm water. He sets himself at the door, watching invasively as you move to the basin. You strip the dirty jumpsuit off and use the towel to clean each inch of skin. You know what’s expected of you, and you know that disobeying only brings pain. 

You’re still in enough pain, and the only thing you know about who has bought you is that they either rate high enough, or have paid enough, for the Hutt break his own rules and pull you out before you’ve fully healed. You’re not willing to push back with so many unknowns. Soon enough the dirt is gone, and you braid back your hair into a tight plait, rolling it at the crown of your head. Next comes the make-up. It takes a little longer than usual, as you need to cover the bruise on your eye and the finger marks on your arm, but soon enough you’re painting around your eyes with the electric blue kohl that reminds you of a lightsaber’s shimmer and spreading bright pinks stain across your lips that stings and swells them just enough. 

Finally, you move over to the bed and slip into the blue scraps of fabric the Hutt calls clothes. Bright blue and shimmering gold wraps around your hips, just high enough to cover your low back by design, and low enough in the front to barely be descent. The bra is tight to the point it makes it a little hard to breathe, but nothing about this costume is functional. 

Just like the rest of it, it’s all for show. 

You slip back to the basin, grab the make-up bag and your discarded jumpsuit, and hand them to the Domo. 

You don’t even need to ask the question, he just looks you up and down, and tilts his head to the middle of the room. “On your knees. He won’t be long.”

He leaves, the lock On the door clicking into place behind him. 

It’s the not knowing that’s maddening. You move to the middle of the room and drop to your knees on the cold cement floor, head down. If you were not he Dias when someone approached, you can usually sense some of their intentions. Some of them you even know and know what to expect from them. 

You’re in the dark. 

The door clicks open, and you hear a set of heavy boots followed byt he soft slippers of the Domo. 

“She is all yours, sir,” he says brightly. “Is she to your liking?”

“She’ll do.” 

You look up, something you know you shouldn’t do, when you hear the hard, modulated sound. You drag your eyes right back to the ground, heart pounding. It’s him. 

It’s the Mandalorian. 

“And the accommodations?” The Domo is bright, and you’ve heard this little spiel more times than you can count. “We’re more than happy to get you another room or a different girl if-“

“You can go.” The Mandalorian’s voice leaves no room for arguement. All you can see are his boots: worn but heavy, and the complicated leather strappings that hold knives and bullets and maker-knows-what in place at his shins. 

“As you say, sir.” It’s so silent, you can hear the door click as the Domo leaves. 

You dare to do nothing but breathe, hands on your thighs, eyes down. 

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To meet the Mandalorian? To have just a few minutes alone with him to either beg him to help you escape or to try to reach for the vibroblade in his boot? Somehow, confronted with him in one of these rooms, it feels wrong and twisted. 

He’s paid for you. 

He’s like all the rest. 

Why would he be here if he wasn’t?

It makes your stomach sink like a rock. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, voice flat and cold. You chance it and look up, eyes taking in every intimidating inch of his armor. Even though this was exactly how you’d imagined you’d meet him, it feels wrong on far too many levels. He’s not inching towards you, he’s not fisting his hands. 

He’s not excited, not itching to touch you or hit you, and even though the armor undoubtedly has many layers, you’re fairly sure he isn’t hard. 

You’d imagined an impassioned man that you could plead with, or a shy one that you could overcome with surprise, but every iteration of him at least wanted you. 

He didn’t want you, not like other patrons wanted you. He seemed indifferent. Blank. You weren’t sure how’d you get him to want you, to want to help you, if he didn’t care at all. You’d imagined he’d be infatuated. You imagined he’d be rough but still gentle. That he’d tie you up or pretend to catch you like a bounty and afterwards you’d offer him anything in exchange for your freedom from the Hutt. 

His cold stare gives you nothing to work with. 

You don’t answer, you can’t. You let your head hang, the skin pulling painfully at the top of the mod where it is still angry and red from your last customer. This wasn’t going like you wanted. “What do you want it to be?” You look up at him from under your lashes, trying your best to seem enticing. If he wouldn’t help, if you couldn’t seduce him into wanting to help you, you still had one more out. He needed to make an advance, or ask you to come to him. He needed to be closer if you were going to get your hands on his blaster or his blade. 

“You have a name, don’t you?”

He was infuriating. 

If the Hutt was watching, and he or one of his Domos was always watching somehow or another, he’d be angry. Mad. 

They always got mad when you didn’t do what they expected, and they expected you to make your patron feel welcome. The Mandalorian did not look welcome. It had been long, quiet minutes of you staring at one another. No touching, no propositions, just staring. 

It was hard to tell just how mad he’d be, you thought as you got up, because you hadn’t been there to see the negotiation. You didn’t know exactly how many credits the Mandalorian had parted with for your company. 

How much they paid always gave you a clue as to how cruel they’d be, how much the Hutt would watch and what he’d expect. 

You stood, slowly, eyes still only bouncing up to the helmet every few seconds. “You can call me whatever you like,” you whisper, stepping close to him  and setting your hands gently upon his shoulders to push him across the room. He moved back with you as you settled him on the edge of the ornate bed. 

His hands move up to your hips, gently pressing back, cautiously, not enough to really move you, though you can feel the power he is holding back. “I’m not here for that.” He moves like he is unsure, taken off guard. It doesn’t much matter to you. His blaster is close. Why the Hutt had allowed it in, you don’t know. But if he tries anything, well, it is close enough. 

“That’s what they all say.” You can’t keep the malice out of your voice, but you cover it quickly, dropping your eyes and looking up at him again from under your lashes. “Tell me what you want,” you whisper seductively, in a voice that you’ve learned men will crumple for. 

One way or another, you finally decide, you will going to be free of this place today. 

You aren’t going to suffer a day longer. 

He fights weakly again, pushing as if he doesn’t want to hurt you, his body tense. “Not this.”

His gentleness startles you just a little. You’re not used to men being soft with you, being considerate of you. 

You settle your thighs around his hips as you push him back further, hovering carefully as you lean to where his ear would be under the helmet, your hands settling on his shoulders as you kneel over him. You grow serious as his helmet cants to the side, questioning. “You paid for me, and the Hutt will be… mad… if I don’t please you.”

“That’s not what I’m here to do.”

“That makes you the first,” you mutter to yourself, pulling your hands from the beskar. It is warmer than you expect. “What are you here to do?”

He pulls back to look into your eyes. He says your name, and you freeze. 

Your heart drops. He’s a bounty hunter. A Mandalorian.  If he knows your name, your true name and not a code number or the disgusting moniker the Hutt uses to entice you to his clients, well… maybe today might be your day. 

One way or another, you are going to finally leave this place. 

You just didn’t think it would be in carbonite or a body bag. 

“That’s you, right?” He asks calmly, his voice changing little as it comes through the helmet. He pulls a holo out of his pocket and shines it between you. “Looks like you to me.”

You stumble from his lap, pulling back to the middle of the room. This is it. Today’s the day you finally die. It might be at his hands, or at the hands of the Hutt, and if it’s neither, well, you’re sure you still have enough energy to pull his blaster from the holster or the vibroblade he has stuffed in his boot. 

You’re not going back to the Imperial labs, though. You’ll die before you let yourself be brought back to one of those. 

The labs are the only place you can think of who would know who you are. They must have hired him to bring you back. 

For the first time in a long time, you feel vulnerable. Exposed. 

Your body had been little more than an annoyance for years. The clothes and heavy make-up the Hutt dressed you up in mere annoyances, but the chiffon and silk suddenly weren’t enough. The little bralette and the hanging strips of fabric that barely constituted a skirt weren’t like the uniform you’d once worn. 

For the first time, in a long time, you feel naked. 

And you can’t even tell if his gaze cares. 

You should be terrified. 

But you’re not. There’s fear, sure. It sits cold and knotted in your stomach. But there’s something else, too. 

You’d been courting death, hoping for it for so long now, and yet something in you screams to fight, to reach for life. 

You felt it when you’d touched him. The warmth on his beskar wasn’t just body heat, your mind finally registers, but a vestige of the force you’d once felt, calling out to you. 

There is something about him that is familiar and not frightening. He made you feel safe the moment you’d touched him, and now what you really feared was the thing you’d been hoping for for years. 

“Why are you here?” You whisper desperately, hope blooming in your chest. 

It was a hope for something you’d stopped even dreaming of years ago. 

“I think you know why I’m here,” his voice was almost, not quite, confused as it came through the modulator. 

The problem is, you don’t. You can’t really tell what you should be feeling. You’re afraid and excited, nervous and hopeful. Both are warring within you can his helmet is too blank to give you any kind of hint as to what he is really here for. 

Cold settles in your belly suddenly, a feeling you’ve felt far too often. The hairs raise on your arms, and you know you don't have much time. Your mind screams at you to hurry, but calmly as you can, you settle yourself on his lap again. His hands move to your hips, to try to push you off again, but you cover them with yours, holding them in place. “Just, play along, please.”

He stills his fight just in time for the door to open, his fingers curling up and over your wrists as his visor stays trained on your face. You could swear he’s searching for your heartbeat, that his fingers stop when they can feel your pulse pounding under your skin in time with the Hutt’s Domo’s steps. 

“She… does not please you, sir?” He starts out, voice full of pomp and ire. He’s one of your least favorite, and one of the most cruel. 

What you wouldn’t give to see the Mandalorian’s eyes. Only seconds ago you had a bloom of hope that you’d finally escapes this place, and now dozens of possibilities, all that you’ve lived through before, open up in your path. Without seeing his eyes, you couldn’t know. 

You still don't know what he’s here to do. 

Will he give you up? Or will he protect you?

He tips his helmet to the side, looking at the Twi’lek over your shoulder. “What made you think that?”

Your heart pounds further as you drop your eyes, looking down at his chestplate, struggling to keep your breathing even. 

The Twi’lek slides around the question. “We have others.”

“I want this one.”

You’re not sure if it’s fear or excitement that courses through you with his words, with the deep rumble in his chest that accompanies them. It could mean anything, but you focus on the feel of the beskar on your thighs, and remind yourself it’s warm. They’d stripped most of your abilities from you, but he was warm, and that meant something. He must feel you shiver in his arms, because he tightens his grip, ever so slightly, on your wrists. Just enough to remind you that he’s there, just enough to ground you. 

“Perhaps she is best taught her place then, sir?” You could hear the smile in his voice. “I can provide that service.”

Your breath stutters out of you at his words, your body tensing and trembling and you know the man below you felt your reaction when the Domo said ‘taught her place.’ You’d been brave once upon a time, taking each punishment he doled out with a stiff back and tearless eyes, but you’ve reached the end of your rope. There is no bravery left. You aren’t even sure if you’d be able to reach for the Mandalorian’s blaster if the Domo pulled you from his lap right now: every inch of you feels frozen and broken at the idea of falling to his hands once more. 

You wish you had the bravery and fire you were feeling just moments ago as you made a plan to grab the Mandalorian’s blaster, but the Domo’s stripped so much humanity from you already, there’s so little left to hold on to now. 

It seems your hope is well placed, and the Mandalorian is brave enough for both of you. “You’ll be leaving,” he says, short and clipped, as his hand leaves your wrist and moves back to your hip. Gentle. Calming. 

Possessive. 

His helmet moves back to look at you, but you can’t seem to look at his eyes. Or where you assume his eyes are. 

Shame? 

Is that what you feel welling in your gut, roiling and rolling and making you feel less than human now?

You’d never felt shame before. Not once. 

Not until now. 

Not until you couldn’t be brave enough to face another possible punishment at the Domos’s hands. 

He waits until the domo leaves, unmoving. “How did he know?” 

“Thermal cameras,” you whisper, “Sometimes they listen, too.” Your voice is small when it leaves your lips, filled with too many memories of things you don't ever want to remember. 

He stills under you. You don’t even feel him take a breath for long seconds. His hand slips from your wrist and gently lifts your chin. “How long have you been here?”

Looking into the darkness of his visor, feeling the reassuring warmth under you, that hope blooms again. Something about you is not what he expected, but you feel him, strong and sure and so very, very clear in his motives. You answer truthfully, with the only answer you have. “What year is it?”

That snaps something in him. Something dark and vengeful bubbling under the surface bursts and you feel him fight to pull it back. His hand moves from your hip, purposeful, to your cheek, framing your face with his other hand as he leans closer. 

Your heart pounds. Things are changing, things are moving, and yet this is the softest anyone’s been with you in so long it brings a tear to your eye. There’s no time for tears, not when he’s using his hands to shield his voice from carrying and anyone but him from seeing your lips, not when it’s so utilitarian. 

It has a purpose, even if it feels soft and intimate. 

“Do you need anything from here?” You shake your head: there’s nothing left for you here. “We’re leaving, understand?” You nod, your heart stopping for a second. Every wish you ever had is about to come true.  “What don’t I know that I need to know about this place?”

He’s so sure. He’s so confident. It breaks something in you and the tears fall. “He won’t let you leave with me. Not without killing one of us.”

His hands soften, just enough, to let you know he sees your fear. “That’s not going to happen today,” he replies gently, some of the edge taken from his voice. “What don’t I know? Like the thermals. I didn’t know about them. He didn’t have any in the cantina.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, centering with everything you have. “There are cameras in every hall. Guards at the end of every corridor. Each door is locked with a biometric code.”

“Know that,” he replies, “and I have a plan.” You could swear he was almost warm with you now. “What else?”

You go through every corridor you know, through every memory of this cruel place, and you come up with nothing… nothing until the one thing you try so hard to forget snaps your eyes open, fear running through your veins. 

How it wasn’t the first thing that you said, you’ll never know. 

You take one of his hands, gently pulling it down, guiding him under the high waistband at your low back. He starts to pull away until he feels it, his fingers ghosting over the metal of the mod over your spine.  

You remember the pain. 

The one time you made it far enough, the one other time hope surged through you too many years ago to count, and it was brought down with searing pain until you were writhing on the ground, begging the Hutt to make it stop as he and his guards laughed over you. 

“I won’t make it past the gate,” you whisper, curling in on yourself. 

His hand gently lifts your chin back up. “What did I tell you?”

You shake your head, not daring to believe it. You’ve only been in his presence for mere minutes, and you’ve whiplashed through so many emotions in that time. 

“We’re leaving. Now, lay on your left side.”

You shiver. You’re not sure if it’s fear or excitement, if you’re about to be betrayed or saved, but you can’t do anything but shift to his side and lay on the bed. You’ve begged so many patrons to help you get out, and they all played along until it was time to take you with them. Then they’d simply laugh as they left, leaving you in the hands of the Domo. Something about this one, though, makes you feel almost hopeful. He sits behind you, hand sliding over your hip. “I’m going to take a look at it, ok? I couldn’t see it from where I was.”

He’s good. The way he moves his arm would look like a caress on a thermal, but in reality he only sides the fabric just under the tech, peering closer. 

“What does it do?” 

“It’s components are entangled with my spine,” you whisper. “It pulls something from my blood,” you only half lie, not knowing how much he’s to be trusted yet, “and it can shock me. Sometimes it just hurts for a little while, other times I can’t walk for hours or days.” You take a deep breath. “The Domo’s said he can use it to kill me if I try anything.”

“How?” The leather gloves are soft on your skin. He’s being so gentle it seems unreal to you. 

“I don’t know. But, he has a control unit that he keeps on him.”

He leans down closer to your face. “The Hutt or the Domo?”

“Maybe both,” you search his helmet, the only thing you can see, for some sense of truth, some sense that he’s going to really help you. “I don’t know for sure.” 

He nods. “Alright then.” He leans back, looking over your body and down to your bare feet. “Can you run?”

“I can.” You roll on your side, looking up at him. “I can do anything you need me to to get out of here.” You sit up, reaching a hand out to his chest, heart hammering as you try to tell him everything he needs to know about you. “I will do anything to get out of here.”

You know you look silly, bright and bold make up marking you a pleasure worker, whisks of barely-there fabric only covering your breasts and hips, long panels of skirt that will trip up your legs, bare feet… but you think maybe, just maybe, he understands how desperate you are under all of it. 

“You’re going to follow me, ok?” He takes your hand, standing. “You do what I say, when I say it. Understand?”

You follow suit, standing. You nod, seriously. Your heart is pounding in your chest. 

It’s only when he pulls his gun from his holster that it really hits you. 

The Mandalorian is going to get you out of here. 

~*~

Your eyes open, and for a second you think you’re upside down. It’s black, or brown, rather, and something sharp is poking your ribs, and you can’t quite make sense of the way you’re jostling. 

Your eyes close, just for a second, and when they open again you can see the grounds outside the Hutt’s stronghold. You want to panic, but there’s not enough energy left. It hurts, gives you a headache, and you’re just going to close your eyes for a second. 

He’s carrying you. You’re slung over his shoulder. That much as manages to become clear in your mind as your eyes blink open again, fighting the desire to close, fighting your body’s need for rest. You can feel his pauldron digging into the skin of your abdomen. You must moan, because his modulated voice drifts over to you. You can’t make out what he says, but it doesn't matter. There’s grass under his feet. You can’t remember the last time you saw grass. The Hutt didn’t have grass in his compound. 

There wasn’t grass anywhere in the gates. 

You thought you saw grass once, from a window on the top floor while a customer made a game of holding you out the window, threatening to drop you. But the grass was really far away. Too far away to be sure that it even was grass. 

There’s grass under the Mandalorian’s feet, though. 

He did it. 

You’re out. 

You close your eyes. Just for a second. 

~*~

He leaves you unconscious on the floor, moving quickly up the ladder and to the controls, flipping switches and turning dials in a pattern that’s ingrained so deeply in him that he never has to think about it anymore. 

He can think about other things as he sets the ship into the air, like how you’d wandered around the Hutt’s Dias like a beautiful ghost for days as he watched, not knowing what was truly happening to you. Like how you looked up at him through seductive lashes from your knees. Like how you felt in his lap, trying to tease his wants from him. 

Like how he felt sick when he realized you were something more than just a prisoner, more than just a prostitute, even if he still can’t exactly tease out what you were to the Hutt yet... 

Like how you tried to hide behind him when the Twi’lek Domo met you at the door with a set of guards. Like how you grabbed the vibroblade in his boot and spun on the guard with skill that surprised everyone. Like how he watched you fall to your knees as that Twi’lek pushed that button in his hands, eyes wide with fear and panic as pain spasamed through your body, then how the Twi’lek let his hand fly, catching you in the back of the skull with his fist, sending you face first to the floor.

Like how you felt, limp in his arms when he stopped you from hitting the concrete face first with one arm, blaster smoking from his shot at the Twi’lek in his other hand. 

How the Domo and his guards looked on the floor as he stepped over their dead bodies, carrying you from that place after he’d picked through he Domo’s pockets, taking anything and everything that might be related to the mod on your back. 

These things replay in his mind, over and over again. 

He only ever took bounties before this. He’d never taken a true, paid, rescue mission before. 

It left him feeling disturbed, but he couldn’t put his finger quite on why. 

Once in the sky, once he was back among the stars, he felt like he could start to breathe again. He slumped back against his chair, pulling the small data chip from his belt and running his hands over it. 

He’d thought you were working there. He couldn’t understand why Skywalker wanted a prostitute, but nothing he’d observed in that week of recon while he sat in the cantina told him anything different. He’d watched you flit across the Dias, sad and disconnected, passed from patron to patron, just like the rest of them. Aside from the Hutt keeping you close to his side, you looked like any other offering in that dark, disgusting place. 

There was something different about you, though. The other prostitutes didn’t have mods. The others didn’t need to be shocked to be kept in line. The others were sad, but not desperate. 

The others moved of their own free will. You had been brought in and out in chains and binders. 

The others weren’t prisoners. 

His job wasn’t to ask questions, though, it was to get you to Skywalker. It took him too long to figure out how to get you out, how to get close to you, when he needed to keep you safe as a rescue instead of storing you in carbonite like a bounty. There was a reason he was a bounty hunter. It was much easier to get in, get your target, and get gone when they were guilty of something and when it didn’t exactly matter if they were warm or cold when he hauled them back to Karga. 

The dread, the disgust at finding out you were a prisoner, a slave that fell to cruel hands to the point where you feared them with trembling breath, made him sick. His stomach still roiled at the idea of you needing to please him to avoid some kind of punishment. He’d spent his life bringing the scum of the galaxy into the guild. It wasn’t hard to imagine some of the things that happened in that compound once he really started to think about what kind of place the Hutt was probably running. 

He flipped the chip though his fingers again, then slipped it into the console. He didn’t find much on the Domo, just the small data pad that controlled the mod and this data chip. With a few clicks, the lists opened before his eyes. Most names he didn’t know, but some he recognized. It took him longer than he was proud of to figure out what it was. 

He copied the information to the onboard computer before he pulled the chip out and slipped it in his belt. He’d need it one day. He was sure of it. 

Din wanted to turn around, to use the guns on the Crest to obliterate the Hutt and his patrons, but he held back. There were too many unknowns, and if the Hutt’s list of patrons he had tucked away in his belt was any indication, there might be repercussions from beings in positions of power throughout the galaxy. 

It made him sick. 

But there wasn’t time for that. 

No. 

He needed to get into Hyperspace, get to Navarro, and get that thing out of you. 

He wasn’t sure if Skywalker knew about the mod, or if he expected you to be presented to him with it in, but Mando wasn’t letting you go another day longer than necessary with that in your body. 

Not when he could see the way you convulsed when the shocks ran through your body every time he closed his eyes. 

He didn’t think Skywalker was that kind of man, but if he had anything to say about you showing up without it…

Well, he could try to say something. But it wouldn’t matter. 

It was coming out as soon as he could find a way how. 

Hyperspace first, then pulling out the camping roll he was pretty sure he still had in storage for you to sleep on.

Hyperspace first. 

He couldn’t wait to put some parsecs between his ship and that Hutt.