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#CHEWIE HES BABIE......
mozart-the-meerkitten · 11 months
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Been rewatching the Mandalorian seasons 1 and 2 and honestly it’s criminal that they didn’t let Din and Luke interact more, purely because Din Djarin is one of the few people in the universe who can match the Skywalker’s pure unbridled chaos.
Like, the man had a jetpack for TEN MINUTES and, after being told it wouldn’t listen to him until he practiced with it, used it to fly up and ATTACK A TIE FIGHTER with his bare hands and some bombs. The man let a dragon eat him so he could blow it up from the inside SOLELY TO GET SOME RANDOM MANDALORIAN ARMOR BACK. He attacked the JAWA’S MOVING FORTRESS with all the foolhardy confidence that the Skywalker clan ever had. I could go on.
He finds out Luke was off his home planet for like two days and managed to free an Imperial prisoner AND blow up the Death Star and he’s like “oh yeah that’s like the time I rescued my kid from an Imperial remnant and tried to fight the entire bounty hunter’s guild on my own”. They would be BEST FRIENDS and you cannot convince me otherwise.
(Also the fact that Din has this ridiculous chaotic energy and is calmer than the Skywalkers ever managed to be is hilarious because the Jedi are supposed to be chill and in control but nah man, not the Skywalkers, and then you have this Mandalorian who seems so chill and you’re like “oh he must be more levelheaded” but NO he’s just as bad he’s just outwardly calm about it [and internally screaming])
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meownotgood · 7 months
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aaAaAAAAAAAUUUUUUGG LOOK AT HIM LOOK HE'S SO TINY AND CUTE I WANNA PUT HIM IN MY MOUTH
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mssr-monagato · 2 years
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Everyone having a go at charles for his terrible flirting skills like my dudes. That was Sir Lewis Hamilton flirting with him on main. I dare any of you to be more than a blubbering drooling mess given half the attention. I certainly couldn’t do it
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chewysgummies · 9 months
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Daydreaming about how killbot 86 will be like in season 3 if he were to actually turn into a secondary antagonist or whatever
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materassassino · 2 years
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The Jacket Fic
Fandom: Star Wars Rating: T Pairings: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Lando Calrissian/Han Solo, Han Solo/Luke Skywalker (brief mentions of HanLeia and Skyrissian) Summary: One jacket, barely worn, passed along.
You know how Luke’s jacket doesn’t fit at the end of ANH? And how those clothes are probably all Han’s? Yeah. I’ve been musing on this headcanon for a long time.
Damn Star Wars gays and their stupid jackets, istg.
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“I have something for you!”
Han has long since learnt that when Lando Calrissian offers you something with that cheerful of a grin and that lilting of a tone, the something being offered is probably going to land you in a heap of trouble. It’s happened twice, and Han has unlearned any curiosity he might have once harboured about, well, pretty much anything, at this point. He’s not going to take the bait.
Nonchalantly shirtless, he continues peeling his sunfruit, feet propped on the table, and refuses to even glance at Lando. Lando, who is leaning on the table, arms folded, and probably wearing that ridiculous smirk of his, a tempting thing that’s fun to bite. Which isn’t something Han should be thinking about right now, because he might trip up and give in and wind up locked in a cage on Junkfort Station. Again.
“You’re not curious?” Lando asks, sounding hurt.
Han makes the terrible mistake of looking up with a scowl, mouth open to utter what will surely be a highly witty retort – he’s full of them, after all – but something stops him.
Lando isn’t smirking. Instead, he’s looking at Han intently, his smile smaller and more hopeful, the kind that wouldn’t take kindly to rejection. Han lets out a long huff. It would be so much easier if it were massiff pup eyes instead of this… sincerity. Han doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “What is it?”
There’s the grin – or a grin, at least. It’s bright and warm in a way that, ironically, makes Han more nervous than if it were one of his usual suave ones. Han knows how to navigate those, how to counteract them. Sincerity is an alien concept between them.
Lando pushes himself off the table and heads into the hallway, coming back with a large flat box. It’s not wrapped, thank the Stars, because Han definitely wouldn’t know how to deal with that. Lando hands it to him, leans back against the table, and waits expectantly. Han catches him bouncing his leg, which makes him consciously stop, clearing his throat.
“Tell me what you think!” Lando says.
Han sets his sunfruit and knife aside with a sigh. He puts the box on the table and slowly tugs off the lid. Then he blinks.
“Oh,” he says.
“Your wardrobe is so drab,” Lando says airily, waving a hand. “All those dull colours. I thought you could do with something a little brighter.”
Han gets to his feet, grabs the contents of the box by the shoulders and lifts it up.
It’s a jacket. It’s a pale yellow, the same colour as the greater star on the Corellian flag, with ribbing down the sleeves and binding up the sides, slightly padded. From the feel of it, it’s Corellian leather, supple, durable and almost as soft as meelweekian silk, which means it was expensive. Which makes the situation all the more tragic, because he hates it.
He stares at it, and he can feel the silence lengthening awkwardly, like it’s sitting in the room with them, staring. Lando raises an expectant eyebrow.
Han quickly tugs it on, tugging it smooth, and spins, arms held out. It fits perfectly, like a glove, as if Lando secretly took his measurements and handed them to a tailor (maybe he did, Han wouldn’t put it past him). The shoulders sit just right, there’s plenty of give beneath the armpits without it feeling baggy, there’s no tightness at the back that sometimes happens when Han finds himself looking for a new jacket. The sleeves and the body are the perfect length. Truly heartbreaking.
“How does it look?” he asks. Lando looks him up and down and nods, stroking his moustache appreciatively.
“I made a fine choice,” he says, giving Han one of his more flirtatious looks. Which, for Han, is now a perfect chance for a distraction. He tugs Lando in for a kiss, and the jacket is soon off again, discarded on the chair and forgotten about.
Which is wonderful, because Han’s never going to wear it again.
-- 
“I couldn’t exactly bring a change of clothes,” Luke grumbles, trying desperately not to think of the reason why, blinking it away and pretending it’s not because of the threat of tears. He should be happy, ebullient. He’s just done the most heroic thing possible, saved the galaxy from the greatest weapon it’s ever seen. He will feel joy, even if it kills him. There’s tomorrow morning’s ceremony to be joyous for, after all.
“It’s fine, kid, you can borrow some of mine,” Han says.
He leads Luke to the Falcon, all the way to his own cabin. Luke sits on the bed, leans back on his hands, and tries very hard not to think about the fact that Han sleeps here, on this mattress, between these sheets.
He shakes his head, making his hair bounce. His brain is all over the place, a thousand different emotions jostling for attention: the carved out, bleeding wound of loss, the exhilaration of victory, the way Han seems so warm and solid and real and present and there, within reach, and Stars know Luke needs something, anything, to distract him from the terrifying knowledge that Biggs doesn’t exist anymore. His head is full of sandflies, buzzing incessantly, and he might go mad with it before the ceremony has even happened. His mind has never been quiet – sometimes it was loud enough to keep him awake long into the night, staring, exhausted but somehow, agonisingly alert, at the synthplas ceiling – but right now there’s just… so much in there, he felts like he’s about to overflow.
He tightens his grip on the sheets and watches Han dig around in the cabin’s storage compartment, breathing through his nose, holding it, letting it out again. It helps a little, takes the edge of the permanent panic attack he’s teetering on the brink of.
“Here, these are too small for me,” Han says, tossing a pair of brown pants at him. They’re followed by a black shirt, which hits him right in the face. Luke splutters, tugging it down, and holds it up.
“I think they’ll fit,” he says, getting to his feet. He briefly considers absconding to the ‘fresher to try them on, but stops. He could… just try them on here, couldn’t he? Peel off his own layers, the last things he owns from a place he once called home, and wear Han’s as if he’s not going to be painfully conscious of the fact he’s wearing Han’s clothes. And so what if he were to bite his lip, quirk his eyebrows, toss his hair a little? He’s flirted before, he knows how to do that, it would be fine, he could do it–
The moment passes, leaving him slightly breathless, as if he’s been running. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and both are stupid reactions to something that only existed in his head.
He strips perfunctorily, pulling on Han’s clothes without a second thought: tucks the shirt in, buttons the pants. The single, tiny shaving mirror is absolutely useless for looking at an outfit, so he turns to Han, spreads his arms slightly with a huff.
“Well?”
Han turns, gives him a critical look, up and down, and Luke fights the urge to squirm.
“Hang on, one last thing.”
He returns to rooting around and pulls out a jacket. It’s yellow, sand-in-the-morning colour, and it looks nice, Luke thinks, though he knows precious little about fashion at the best of times.
“Why?” Luke asks. He was perfectly happy to just wear this.
“We’re in what used to be a temple,” Han says with a shrug. “Gets chilly.”
Luke pulls it on. It’s too big, that’s for sure, it hangs on his frame. The sleeves are too long, sit awkwardly halfway down his hand instead of at his wrist, like they should. It falls lower than it should at his waist. But it’s also incredibly comfortable, and feels very nice indeed. He smooths down the front.
He looks up, catches Han’s eye just in time for the other man’s gaze to dart away.
“Keep it,” Han says, voice ever-so-slightly strained, and Luke feels something hot and hopeful stir in his gut.
“Sure you won’t miss it?” Luke asks, perhaps more softly than he intended. Han shakes his head, folds his arms across his chest like a shield. Luke wants to pry them apart, step between them – to do what, he doesn’t know.
“Nah, never wear it,” Han says. He reaches out, adjusts the collar, his thumb dangerously close to Luke’s throat. “Suits you.”
Luke swallows. He takes a step forward, one brave, reckless hand landing at Han’s belt.
And it might be stupid to lean up and kiss him, but if it will shut his brain up for a while, then it doesn’t really matter.
--
“This feels so very, very wrong,” Din mutters.
It’s one thing to wear something that isn’t duranex and beskar at home – he does that all the time now, loose linen shirts and pants to sleep in and, occasionally, Luke’s oversized Jedi robe (the only thing of his husband’s that fits him) – but that’s precisely it. It’s at home, between their four walls on Mandalore, safe and alone with only Grogu and Luke to ever see him vulnerable. He hasn’t existed in public without the comforting protection of his beskar’gam for twenty-three years. He doesn’t want to exist in public without his helmet and armour, it reminds him of Morak, of revelation unintended and desperate. He feels bare, exposed, unprotected, and even two years after reshaping his faith, it still feels like sacrilege.
And they haven’t even left the house yet.
He looks at himself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the inside of the wardrobe door. He doesn’t know how to feel about what he’s currently wearing, not least because it looks annoyingly like something Solo would wear, the dark blue collared shirt and the annoyingly tight black pants. The belt and bandolier, the ones he always wears, offer some small comfort, as do the boots, but that’s it. The rest is alien, and the more he looks at his reflection the more it doesn’t look like him.
Reflected behind him is Grogu, sitting on the bed, and he looks deeply suspicious of the whole proceedings. You and me both, buddy, he thinks. He tugs down the sleeves of his shirt nervously.
“I know,” Luke says, stepping into his space, and his apologetic tone is sincere. “It won’t be for long, though.”
He presses a hand to Din’s cheek, offering him a small smile. Din leans into the touch and sighs.
“The sooner we get home, the better,” he mumbles. “Calrissian better be grateful for this.”
Luke chuckles at that. “I’m sorry for owing Lando a favour, and I’m very grateful you agreed to come with me.” He reaches up to kiss him, just a quick peck, and it does the job of calming some of Din’s nerves. Din wonders what that says about him.
It would all be so much easier if they could just be Master Luke Skywalker and Mand’alor the Reclaimer, Jedi and Mandalorian, their usual, familiar selves. But they can’t be, not this time, it’s just them and two pseudonyms and Lando Calrissian, and a job that Din doesn’t have a great feeling about.
“It’s going to be chilly on Togominda,” Luke says. His hands have settled on Din’s chest and he’s wearing a thoughtful look. Din is trying very hard not to think about those hands and just how warm they are through the frankly ludicrously thin polyfibe. “You can’t wear just a shirt.”
Din briefly mourns the loss of his touch as Luke turns away, back to the wardrobe, and rifles through it for a moment. Luke has a truly absurd amount of clothes, far more than Din would consider practical. A lot of them are variations on the same tight black theme (which Din isn’t complaining about in the slightest), but occasionally the depths of Luke’s closet throw a curveball.
Today it comes in the shape of a jacket.
“This should fit!” Luke says brightly.
Din eyes it, frowning. Just from Luke holding it up he can see it’s too big for him, which is odd, because everything else Luke wears is tailored to perfection. It’s also yellow, which isn’t a colour Luke wears often, or, well, at all. Both mysteries to be unravelled at some other point. Din takes it, pulls it on a little awkwardly and then looks in the mirror, although he isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking for: he relies mostly on Luke to figure out if something looks good on him or not.
He rolls his shoulders. It’s a little tight, but certainly not enough to be complained about, he can move about just fine. Strangely, he feels slightly better with the jacket on, less like he’s walking around begging to be stabbed. The garment in question isn’t padded enough to offer much protection, so it must be some psychological effect, but at the moment anything that helps him feel less awkward is welcome.
“Not bad,” Luke says, tugging down the front and straightening the collar. He looks Din up and down, reaches up to smooth his hand down his shoulders. “Not bad at all.”
Screw the jacket, that does wonders for his discomfort. He settles his hands at Luke’s slim waist, thumbs stroking just above his belt, and he can feel the constant banked fire within give off sparks.
“Oh?” he asks, soft, suggestive. Luke smirks, his blue eyes burning, licks his lips and leans in closer–
A pillow collides, hard, with the back of Din’s head.
“Patoo!” comes the indignant babble from the bed. They both turn around and Grogu is scowling at them, eyes narrowed.
Luke bursts out laughing. Din huffs.
“Grogu, no throwing things!” he says, bending down to pick up the pillow.
“Even if it does show solid mastery of the Force,” Luke adds, walking over to pick up their son and failing at not undermining Din’s already pitiful authority in the house hierarchy.
Din tosses the pillow back on the bed and places his hands on his hips, glaring at Grogu. Grogu sticks out his tongue.
“Mind your manners!” Luke admonishes, giving one of Grogu’s ears a gentle flick.
“That’s all Solo’s influence, I know it,” Din mutters. Whatever, he’ll kiss Luke later, when they’re in hyperspace and have the Wayfinder all to themselves.
--
It is always a joy to see Luke Skywalker, Lando thinks. The man is always wonderfully easy on the eyes, his sense of humour just tart enough to be amusing, and if Lando always feels that slight twinge of melancholy at what could have been, well, he’ll always have the memories. It’s slightly less of a joy when his frankly intimidating husband is in tow, but Din Djarin is always polite and that’s more than can be said for most Mandalorians Lando has met. They haven’t had an unpleasant conversation yet.
He strides across the landing platform towards the rustbucket they travel in, arms wide in welcome.
“Luke!” he exclaims, beaming. Luke, first down the loading ramp, smiles and waves.
“Hi, Lando!” he says, accepting the warm hug. Lando holds him at arm’s length once they part, looks him up and down.
“No holy robes this time?” he asks, moustache twitching. Luke snorts.
“You did say we had to be undercover,” he says.
Someone else comes down the ramp, and Lando is about to turn and welcome the Mand’alor with all the grace and decorum the Baron Administrator of Cloud City should rightly show to a visiting diplomat, but he frowns in confusion.
“Han?” he asks, surprised.
The man raises an eyebrow. The rest of his face is covered by a red scarf, leaving only his eyes exposed, but Lando knows his mistake immediately. Those eyes look nothing like Han’s, they’re far warmer and softer, the laughter lines look nothing alike.
“Definitely not,” says the man, and the voice is familiar enough even without the monotone of a vocoder for Lando to realise this is actually the ruler of Mandalore, but with none of the usual trappings of a Mandalorian warrior. He flicks his gaze up and down the other man, and he has to admit it’s not a bad change at all.
“You certainly cut a different figure without the armour, Mand’alor,” he says with a grin. Din gives a full head roll as he sighs, and it looks frankly ridiculous without the helmet. “Did Han lend you that?”
Din gives him a confused look. “Lend me what?”
Luke clears his throat. “The jacket,” he says. “It was Han’s.”
“‘Was’?” Lando echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“He gave it to me just after the Battle of Yavin.”
“This was Solo’s?” Din says, sounding as if he’s in great pain.
“It hasn’t been Han’s for twelve years, Din, get over it,” Luke retorts breezily, giving him a gentle whack on the arm.
Lando chuckles at wedded shenanigans, gesturing for them to follow him back into the city. Solo has got some explaining to do, and if he dodges his holocalls, well, then Lando will just have to call his wife instead, and then he’ll be in trouble. Leia nearly always takes Lando’s side, after all.
That jacket wasn’t cheap.
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in keeping with my nature, i’ve been accumulating some little guys to unsuccessfully fill the void being away from my cats leaves in me…
and you guys, pls don’t tell the others but i think i have a favorite and he’s the littlest of little guys…
I MEAN LOOK AT HIS LITTLE FACE !!!!
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pastelprince18 · 1 year
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🐶
I love both but gotta go with dog
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Proof, here’s my rat /affectionate dog :3
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kazieka · 1 year
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thinkin abt chewbacca today boys
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unhingedselfships · 10 months
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@piplicious
Here ya go XD
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rat-nest · 1 year
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They should invent a fake chew my dog will actually use
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imwritesometimes · 1 year
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I will never get over how Santino will open his mouth for treats/cheese and just... wait for me to put it in his mouth. Like he's taking communion.
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littlepetbee · 1 year
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my cousin told me that one of her fourth grade students is named “anakin” this year and i just wanna know why his parents would do him like that
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lewisrises · 2 years
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sometimes i see a v specific fashion ad and associate it with x driver. like. they could've been in that ad. it would've just worked.
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chewysgummies · 2 months
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Okay dead ass, after I'm done with my mer frog plushie I really want to get that bearlieve bear just so my baby bear can have a brother.
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hotniatheron · 2 years
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luke is so lucky, i would have beat his ass if he tried to tell me that my baby would be better off with him. like YOU raised as an ONLY CHILD? AND YOUR FATHER IS DARTH VADER? i don’t think so 
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losersclublol · 1 year
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troops i have lost my wallet. there is no where it can be that I have not looked. it is not outside. it is not inside. preparing to interrogate my brother.
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