#you will see this format again

[slavhew]

jakey + dirkjake sandwiched between my organic chem notes. a poem in there somewhere

[dovalore]

sillies from the training fields 1/3

[tusks-and-claws]

The Death of Peace of Mind

Miguel O’hara x female reader

Summary: "I miss the way you say my name/the way you bend, the way you break"

You think your fearless leader needs help relaxing, but another door is opened entirely

Tags/warnings: smut (18+), oneshot, fingering, blowjob, pronebone, blood, biting, unprotected sex, paralytic venom, dominant Miguel, dirty talk, God there’s so much to list : )

Word count: 3.3k 

Can also be found on Ao3 here. Please give it some love if you enjoyed ;_;

-

"I know better than this, I shouldn't be… we shouldn't be doing this."

Miguel O'Hara sat at the edge of your bed, your room softly illuminated by a candle on the bedside table. He liked the dark. His back was to you, his broad shoulders slumped forward, as you had your back against your headboard. He was still in his suit, his mask off.

"Miguel…" you said, starting this conversation again for the umpteenth time. "You have needs, too, y'know." 

He waved a hand dismissively. "What are my needs when compared to all this?" He gestured to nothing. You weren't even at HQ. You were both in your dimension. A vacation, you had said. You could never get him to leave HQ for long. "I know what happens when I try to get what I want. When I go where I don't belong."

You furrowed your brow. "But you do belong here, I invited you."

"You know exactly what I mean." He spoke quickly. Trying to expel the words as fast as possible. 

Your arms crossed over your chest as you eyed him. He'd been through a lot, yes, but what Spider hadn't? How long was he going to keep ignoring himself for the greater good? What purpose would he serve if he tore himself apart? 

"You're right," you said, finally. 

"What?" He asked, peering over his shoulder to look at you, incredulous. 

"You're right," you repeated. "You can leave."

"I… well. I suppose I can leave. Do you… want me to?"

You suppressed a smile. "I don't really care," you lied. 

"You…?" He turned around at that, hands on the bed as he swiveled his torso to meet your eyes. "You can't be serious. I- I made the effort to make sure Jess could cover me so we could come here, I… it's a huge waste of time. You see that, don't you?" 

"I guess so." It was hard for you to break eye contact with him, but you managed to do it, and stared pointedly out the window. 

"You 'guess,' I can't-" he rubbed his face with his hands. "You're so frustrating, I can't read you, you-" 

Your face broke, betraying you, a smirk cracking your façade.

He narrowed his eyes, fully turning around now, bringing his knees up onto the bed to crawl to you. His claws came out, and they pulled at the threads of your comforter, threatening to tear holes. "Is this what you want? You want to make me mad?" 

You blushed as he made his way to you, his sudden intensity stirring you into silence. 

"Well?" He asked. "Suddenly so quiet." He reached you now, looming over you with both hands on the headboard on either side of you, his muscular thighs straddling your legs. His huge frame took up your whole vision, his presence overwhelming your heightened senses. Heat was radiating from his body. His scent washed over you. He was all clean musk and warmth and something deeper, something primal. It played to your baser mind, telling you to lose control and give in. 

You swallowed. "You have no need to stay here." You weren't done teasing him just yet. 

"But you have need, hm?" He looked down to study your form, releasing his hands from the headboard to touch the hem of your shirt. "Don't you?"

You held your breath, nodding.

"Say it." His tone was casual. Flippant.

Your breath left you as your lips parted to speak, the words far from you as your brain grew foggy. He always liked to hear you admit how much you wanted it, how much you wanted him. And he always asked you when he knew you'd struggle to form a response. 

"Yes." It was the only thing your brain made abundantly clear. Yes. Yes, you have needs. Yes, in this moment, he was one of them. 

"Yes what?"

How cruel. Under his gaze for this long, intense and bloodshot, you grew more flustered and delirious. 

"Yes, Miguel, I have need of you." You impressed yourself with the eloquence of your reply. 

"Oh? Oh, do you?" His hands finally moved again, snaking under the bottom of your shirt, the fabric of his suit keeping your skin from touching his. "That's kind of selfish of you, isn't it?"

You nodded, biting your bottom lip and closing your eyes as his hands moved to firmly hold the sides of your waist, thumbs stroking soft skin. He was being careful to not scratch you. Though his claws were retractable, you noticed throughout your encounters that he had a hard time keeping them hidden when his passions were running high. But part of you didn't care if he marked you up. Part of you wanted to keep something from him. Something more than awkward passing glances and intimate encounters that were few and far between. 

"M-Miguel?"

"Mm? What is it?"

"You don't need to be gentle, y’know."

His gaze flicked to meet yours as he raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. 

"It's just that," for some reason, you felt the need to elaborate. "I'm strong, too. I can handle it. You've been so stressed."

"So… you want me to use you?" His voice was low and level. 

Use. The word sent a shock up your spine. He could see the emotions flashing across your face, the thoughts of him, of what he might do to you. Was this safe? Could he control himself? He'd have to. You'd just have to trust him. 

You released a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, meeting him in his bloodshot eyes. "Yes. Please."

He grinned, bearing his pearly fangs in the flickering candlelight. The fog in your head grew thicker at the sight of them. Would he bite you with them? How would they feel against your skin? How would they feel piercing you? Would it hurt? Would it-

The feeling of his bare forefinger, claw retracted, gently teasing your slit quickly shut you up. When did he move his hand under the hem of your shorts? You were so deep within your own clouded thoughts, you hadn't even noticed. He caressed you there before carefully plunging his finger into your heat. The feeling was immediately maddening. You bit your lip to keep yourself from asking for more, for another finger, for his mouth, for his- no. You were following his pace. This was what you wanted, yes, but it was mostly for him. You somehow knew that he needed this more than you did, though he'd never admit it.

The whole time, he kept his reddened eyes on your face, studying every reaction. "You're wet, you're so wet…." His voice was quiet. "So, this is what does it for you, huh?" He pumped his finger at a steady pace. You could hear the wet sounds he elicited with his efforts. You braced yourself on his hulking shoulders, preparing for him to quicken at any moment. But he was agonizingly slow. His free hand gripped the headboard above you as he leaned down to whisper into your ear. "Me, your leader, using you." There was that word again. You lightly arched your back into him upon hearing it, trying to keep yourself calm for now. Falling apart could come later. "I try so hard to hold it all together. But you… you threaten me. The looks you give me, your smiles, your smell, estoy cachondo, fuck." Your eyes widened. He only spoke Spanish when his emotions were heightened. He was unraveling. 

Good.

He slipped his digit out from inside of you and circled your clit with a slick fingertip. The feeling was intense and electric, and even though you were still half-pinned by his muscular thighs, your upper body curled into him. "Seeing you like this…" he swallowed, his heartbeat quickening. "Rendering you helpless… It's revenge for how you make me feel when you look at me the way you do. If I can make you feel half of that… that might be enough. You're going to come for me. Feel what I feel." 

You nodded fervently, unable to speak under his attention, his words, his touch. That delicious, warm feeling was building up and coiling in your core as he kept expertly circling your clit, until the coil finally snapped and you came, lifting up off of the bed and throwing your arms around his neck as you whimpered. Miguel continued as you rode it out, reveling in the newfound wetness that came with your orgasm, until you finally settled down, your heart still thumping in your chest. You released your hold of him, your arms weak, your gaze heavy. He seemed to match your labored breathing, his chest rising and falling in time with yours. You had hardly even touched him and he seemed as much of a mess as you were. 

He stared at you like that for a brief moment, seemingly awestruck at your reaction to this newly opened door. 

"God, I need… I need your mouth around my cock." He flipped unceremoniously off of you to lay on his back at your side. "Come here." Before you had time to react, he had a hand on your head, guiding you downward. Despite the forceful movement, he fondly scratched at your scalp with bare fingers, his hand shaking just enough for you to notice. You positioned yourself so your head rested on his hard abdominals while you admired the display he brought you down to see. His hard cock pushed against his nearly metallic suit. The sheen of the fabric left almost nothing to the imagination. You could see his thick shaft, prominent veins like rivers flowing over a landscape, all leading up to the bulbous head. He twitched eagerly as he sighed, trying to calm his heart. 

You reached your hand up to touch Miguel through his suit, and his reaction was bodily. He hissed a breath in through clenched teeth. You played with his hard length, running the flat of your palm up and down the underside of his shaft, until he couldn't take it anymore. He seemed to be able to dismiss parts of his suit at will, and he did just that, creating an opening so he could spring free. It was always an impressive sight, sizable and thick. His golden skin slightly red with anticipation at the head of his cock, soft dark waves of short hair at the base. Reaching up, you gently held it. You couldn't quite wrap your whole hand around it. He exhaled at your touch, skin on skin. The hand he had in your hair gently pushed your head until your waiting lips met the tip of his cock, and you accepted it, closing your mouth around it.

Miguel threw his head back, slamming it against the headboard and shaking the two of you on the bed. The sound startled you, but you knew the headboard would've taken more damage than Miguel. He gave no indication that he was hurt, and so you kept going, sucking on the tip of his cock and being as noisy as possible so it would overwhelm that heightened hearing of his. And overwhelm it did. The soft, wet heat of your mouth was nearly too much for him. And as you started to take him deeper, he reached his arms up and behind him, taking the headboard into a vice grip. You could hear the wood splintering. 

That should've worried you, you should've cared about your furniture being destroyed. But you didn't. You couldn't, not with Miguel O'Hara melting underneath you. He could destroy a thousand bed frames. So long as you could touch him, could hear him moaning, could watch him as he barely held his composure. This would always be worth it. 

You took him further into your mouth, humming around his length at the pleasant,  full feeling. You were slow, holding him there, savoring the taste of him and the weight of him on your tongue.

"M-move-" he croaked.

You turned your gaze towards his face, raising an eyebrow. He was straining. Muscles bulging, chest heaving, fangs displayed in clenched teeth. You could see the prominent cracks in the wood.

"Move your shocking head, amor."

His hands came down to tangle with your hair, grabbing handfuls so he could move your head for you. You happily let him, and he bobbed you up and down on his shaft as you opened your throat to him. 

"Oh, fuck, yes… that's it. Good girl. You're- you're taking me so fucking well." 

Your eyes started rolling into the back of your head fondly. Good girl. He'd never called you that before. You'd be good for him. You'd be so good. 

The sounds coming from you were the very definition of lewd, as were the strands of thick saliva that connected you to him. You closed your eyes, continuing to breathe through your nose, when you felt something prick your scalp. His claws. In and out, in and out. He was struggling to keep control of them.

"Ay, coño, I can't fucking do this." His voice barely a whisper. "You're gonna," he paused, swallowing. "You're gonna make me lose control, you know that?" Despite his words, he kept going, kept moving your head, even started to thrust his hips up to fuck your throat more thoroughly. His moans turned into what could only be described as growls, and the sound of them hit you like an electric shock, making you want him even more. If that were even possible. 

His claws kept scraping you, threatening to fully unsheath. But Miguel never let them. He finally let your head go, bringing his hands up to his face and rubbing it in exhaustion. You stayed on his cock for a moment longer, carefully lifting your head away and disconnecting from him with a wet pop.

He groaned to himself through his hands. 

"Miguel…? You alright?"

"No." He finally said, "no, I'm fucking not."

You cocked your head in surprise at the response, opening your mouth to question him further until you were cut off by him quickly grabbing you and positioning you underneath him. He was pinning your legs again, but you were faced down this time, your cheeks pressed against the soft sheets as he pushed you into the mattress. He finally let his claws out, and with one swift movement, tore your shorts and panties into ribbons. In that moment, you were glad he couldn't see your face. You were grinning like an idiot. Finally. You're finally seeing the side of him that you always knew was there. That you desperately wanted him to let out. Your previous encounters had been tame compared to this. He'd been holding back. 

"Because now," he grabbed your waist with both of his large hands, holding firm. "Now I know that you like being treated like a little fucktoy. I know that you'll be good for me and that you'll listen. What a rarity." He started to line up the tip of his cock with your entrance. "And if I thought you took up too much space in my head already, well-" he chuckled, pushing his tip into your pussy. "I'll never have peace of mind again."

He thrusted into you, and you were immediately seeing stars. With each pump, he took himself nearly all the way out of your warmth before plunging all the way back in. You could feel every delicious, hot inch of him. So deep and so filling. He fucked you into the mattress so thoroughly and so hard that you were convinced a crater was forming underneath the both of you. You felt the sharp points of his claws pricking your skin but not quite puncturing you. Your head swam as you grew dizzy. 

He released your waist, left hand steadying himself on the low headboard, which was bound to break again. His right arm snuck up underneath your right arm, reaching around your collarbone to grab at your left shoulder, pulling you up so you were close into him. His chest was flush with your back. You reached up to hold onto that arm for dear life, as he brought his mouth down to your ear. 

"Wanna bite you so bad, amor," he growled. "You smell so shocking good. Drivin' me up a fucking wall."

"Do it," you said, your voice strained.

"Wh-what?" His pace wavered. "You can't mean that."

"I- fuck- I do. Bite me, Miguel. Please."

"Are you," he exhaled a shaky breath. "Are you sure? It's a paralytic venom. I've- I've used it on Spiders before and we can withstand it a bit, but, shit… I need you to know what you're getting into." 

"Do it," you said again. 

His entire body shook against you. "Unbelievable…." His voice sounded reverent. "Hold on tight."

You listened, gripping his arm harder, shutting your eyes. His mouth came down to meet the crook of your neck. He inhaled, letting your scent wash over him, before carefully sinking his fangs into your skin. The pain was sharp and fast, and was quickly replaced with a wave of warmth and laxity. Your muscles loosened, allowing him to easily pull you in even closer. He moaned against you, his thrusts quickening, his cock feeling like it was hitting your cervix. With every smack of his skin against yours, he buried himself to the hilt. That incredible, intense feeling was building within you again, deep inside your core.

"Fuck," he hissed into your skin, releasing his jaws and lapping at the light trickle of crimson blood. "Good girl, good girl, I've got you."

He held you and didn't let go, caging you against his huge form, fucking you until that feeling turned into a huge sunburst that sent spots across your vision. Your body trembled involuntarily as you clenched around his cock. 

"Yes," he encouraged, "yes, come for me. Give it all to me. I've got you, bebé."

You smiled against the venom, and he was right, it wasn't too potent in your system. It was just enough to comfortably loosen your muscles. You came down from your high as he kept pumping into you, his pace merciless. His body started to shake again, his right hand's grip on your left shoulder tightening. 

“Too much for me to handle,” he rasped. “I’m gonna come… gonna come inside you.”

“Yes,” you croaked, finding your voice and gaining back enough control of your muscles to push yourself up into him. 

His tempo stuttered as he slammed his hips into you, curling against you as he came. His cock twitched inside of you, spilling hot seed in thick spurts. He held you there for a long while, savoring the feeling of being inside you, like he knew he'd miss the warmth once it was gone. Despite what he wanted, he let go of you and flipped onto his back beside you, placing a hand over his heart as his chest heaved. He closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. Silently reaching for you, he pulled you in so you could rest against his chest, your head rising and falling with each heavy breath he took. He stroked your hair as you stared up at him, his face glowing in the yellow shine of candlelight. 

"That…" he started to say, then stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I…. I needed that." 

You smiled, nuzzling into him. "Thank you." 

"You're thanking me?" He asked, laughing at how ridiculous it sounded. 

"Yeah," you said. "I feel like I finally saw Miguel tonight. Not Spider-Man. But Miguel. And I really like him." 

He rolled his eyes but still smiled, petting your head until you fell asleep on him.

[pendraegon]

thesis updates: sent the draft to my advisor -> she said it was "incoherent" and that she was "shocked" at my work and instead of telling me anything in detail as to what's wrong directs me to the writing center then proceeds to cc my committee members saying that she's at a loss with what to do with me -> was confused because... did i send her the wrong draft?? it seemed pretty solid to me?? like i was genuinely proud of it??? -> next day she sends me another email saying that actually my draft isn't bad at all and it just needs some reworking ???????

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter two

live to rise series

two: morning will come soon

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: As the Mandalorian makes himself a more permanent addition to the barracks, you get to know the elusive man a little more while grappling with the reality of the arena. [We get to know everyone a little better before things kick up a notch in chapter three :) ]

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, prisoner of war, slavery, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide & war, graphic descriptions of violence & injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, major character deaths, minor character deaths, angst, helmetless Din Djarin, themes of grief and loss, slow burn

Please heed the warnings.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

He doesn’t notice until his forty-eighth fight, but there are children in the stands. It’s not their mere presence that simmers his bile. 

It’s the glee.

Violence is a wet nurse for Mandalorian children. They witness the raw essence of life turned to food and know the gush of a foe’s blood early in life. But they respect it. 

They respect the fight and honor the lives they take. They weigh each kill and hang it from their ribs. They know what it means to be capable of exposing a being’s innards to the sun, what it means to hold a creature as blood froths in its lungs. 

These children are reared to crave it. They’ll never feel the touch of violence, he thinks, but they’re fed by it. They play with these lives like it's a game.

The distraction costs Din a chunk of flesh but gains him a rotted tooth on the edge of the gash. 

You’re in the barracks when they bring him back that afternoon. You go still and quiet, ducking into the shadows, but, as usual, they don’t bother to check the cells. He saw you, though. You’re inside C-6, and he has a clear view through his window into the cell opposite. 

Once the guards leave, you pick back up mid-sentence into what must have been an already brewing rant.

“—pride. So stupid. The only—punished when you resist—is you.”

The humanoid grumbles something Din can’t quite hear. 

“Yeah, well, —bacta, and I don’t, so—” you retort.

When you slip out of the cell, the automatic lock snaps shut with a resounding clunk. Your hands are wound up in the underbelly of your skirts and come back out dry, at least, if not spotless. 

Not that Din notices right away. His mouth had gone fuzzy when you hiked up the layers to reveal the length of your calf. He shoves the feeling away and watches as you check carefully around the corners before slipping into the chamber between the barracks and the rest of the facilities. 

He shakes it from his fingertips. It’s the post-fight adrenaline, he knows. Mandalorians are no strangers to fucking out their feelings as the world burns around them. He cannot—will not—entertain these thoughts of you, lest he become more of the monster they make him out to be.

And every part of him is too rough for the likes of you. He won’t be responsible for marring you with his too-tight grip and desperate cock. He wouldn’t press his pain into your cunt and learn to breathe again through your cries and moans. 

He wanted to preserve you somehow, press you like a flower between the pages of a book. Even his protection would see you crushed by his selfish desire. 

So instead, he funnels the feeling into righteous anger and determination, pushing himself in his exercises until his muscles ache and scream for oxygen. He slumps against the wall, not bothering to go to the cot, and dreams fitfully of his son.

He had made the call in his own chambers. The ship had left two hours ago, tracking along the path with no issues—yet.

“Who is this? How did you get this line?” snaps a voice he does not recognize. 

“He’ll know. Tell him we’re going forward with operation esk, and the package is on-route.” 

“Message received,” cuts in the voice he was waiting for. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the stars light your way,” Din returns, and cuts the line. 

Grogu’s fast asleep when Din tucked him into the pod. He slipped the stuffed blurrg under one of the baby’s arms. It’s to be a short journey, but there’s a canteen and a tin of snacks.

The rest of his son’s belongings are carefully packed in the small cargo hold of the StarSpeeder 1000 they’d managed to salvage, complete with an RX pilot. Din didn’t favor leaving the child’s fate to a droid, but it had been thoroughly reprogrammed to override its tourist-geared protocol. 

All in all, it’s an innocuous ship with a registered pilot and route. The chain code would suffice under basic examination, and the manifest is set with a handful of false identities. 

He may not understand the Force, but he has to draw faith that it will ferry his son safely into the waiting hands of Skywalker at some destination unknown.

Skywalker had sent the coordinates directly to the droid so they couldn’t be tortured from Din. 

A wise decision, Din thinks wryly, but they haven’t interrogated him yet. 

It makes sour hope bloom—perhaps they think there’s nothing to be gained. In the darker moments, he worries they know there’s nothing to be gained. 

As it was, each of the four of them only knew part of the plan. Din had the main strategy. Vizsla, the backup. Kryze, the route. And Fett—the rendevouz. For a man who claimed no ties to the Mandalorians, he was risking everything. 

Even the loneliest striil is loyal to someone, he supposes. 

He loses count after 60 fights or so. That’s about when he stops hating the idleness of his off days and starts longing for more rest. 

It’s not just the physicality. He does seem to be perpetually bruised and bleeding, but that’s not so much different than his bounty-hunting days. He’s loathe to admit that he’s perhaps beginning to feel the effects of aging. To grow old is an honor for Mandalorians. It means you’ve emerged victorious from your battles. He doesn’t feel he can wear that pride, though.

But no, his weariness is from the killing. He tried to see his opponents as quarry, but it was too hard to maintain. Not when he’d see their sallow faces and sunken eyes. Beings with broken tusks and battered limbs. Rebel starbirds. Shock trooper stripes. Prison numbers and slave brands. 

Yesterday’s fight had him facing a Miraluka who couldn’t have been much past her girlhood. And she wanted to live; oh, she wanted it so badly he could taste it. 

She didn’t know a thing about fighting. Worse yet, their weapons for the day were flails, something even he hadn’t much experience with. He could wield it, but instead, he let it fall to the sands. 

What a terrible way to die.

He saw it before it happened. Telegraphed in the arc of the chain, his brain completing the motion before it became real. She swung her arm out hard, trying to strike him in the chest, but he pushed back on his heel and easily dodged. Without something to crush, the momentum carried.

She grappled at the chain, trying to stop it. If only she had dropped it and moved, Din thought. If only, if only. 

Instead, it wedged itself in her back, spikes between her ribs. She gasped, wavering for a moment in shock, and dropped to her knees. The crowd moaned a collective “ooh” at the turn of luck.

He knelt in front of her, grasping her shoulders. 

“Just finish it,” she said, the trace of a whimper on the end. 

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Biala.”

“Biala, is there a prayer I can make for you? Any rites for your journey?”

She shook her head and coughed. Blood dribbled, and they both knew.

“I’m so sorry, Biala,” he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. 

And then it was over. He laid her body down as the bell rang and rose to his feet. Stomps and cheers from the stands fell muffled around his shoulders, and he sneered into the crowd. 

It only made them chant louder. 

He’s brought back to the reality of today at your entrance, voices buzzing as trays clattered back and forth.

“Come here, girl,” calls a voice from across the way. Din watches as you pause, his own tray of food waiting in your hands.

The gruff old Devaronian in C-4 is reaching his large hand between the bars of the window. 

“One sec,” you tell him, making your way to Din. You go to knock before you spy his shadow between the bars and avert your eyes. 

“Good evening,” you say, sliding the tray through the slot against the floor. “Need anything?”

It’s the same old song and dance. “No, thank you,” he says. 

“Okay, have a good night,” you tell the door politely. 

He doesn’t grab the tray right away. He watches instead as you go back across the hall. 

“Whatcha need, old man?” you tease. Vrar is your favorite, mostly because he’s been around for nearly a year, and you’ve had a chance to know him.

But something about his expression gives you pause. 

Din feels suddenly intrusive as you step closer and let the warrior touch your cheek, his palm much larger than your face. 

He can’t hear what’s said, but something terribly sad comes across you as you close your eyes and shake your head. 

“No, you can’t just give up,” you say, loud enough that Din can hear. 

His heart sinks. He had wondered how many were lost to hopelessness. 

“I’m not giving up,” Vrar tells you. “I’m an old man. I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired.”

“No,” you say, a harsh but quiet protest. You want to yell, but the guards will make you leave if they hear you. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. 

“You can’t change my mind. I just wanted you to know before it happens. To know that I made this choice, that I will be at peace. You’ve been the one spot of kindness in this life.”  

Your voice is softer, breaking, crescendoing at the end as it pitches alongside your urgency,“—how much more you need; I’ll trade another year, please.”

“Absolutely not,” Vrar says. “When your time is up, get out and never look back. Look at me.” He waits for your focus. “You can’t save us.”

You break down into tears. Din feels something sharp pricking at his eyes, too. He shuts them and sits down on his cot, food forgotten. 

He doesn’t need to look to know you stay at Vrar’s door until the guards make you leave for the night. You sit against it, skirts splayed out around you like the rising sun, and talk to him, listen to his stories, even the ones you’ve heard over and over before. Especially those, as you try to commit them to your memory, to carry him with you. 

When you bring Din his breakfast in the morning, your eyes are bloodshot, and lips cracked from biting back your grief. For the first time, you don’t say anything. You rap your knuckles and slide the tray under. 

You stay until they come for him. You wait and stand with your hands wrapped around the bars of his window. When they take him to prepare for the arena, you watch down the hall until he’s gone. As he passes Din’s cell, he looks straight in. 

Neither man says a word, but their eyes meet, and Din nods. Vrar returns the gesture, satisfied. 

When Din looks back, you’re gone.

When you return two hours later, as his own turn in the arena nears, he doesn’t have to see your face to know. 

You’re not crying. But you move so quietly, held so tense, as you open the cell and scrub it clean, fitting it with new bedding. It’s the same routine as a deep cycle, but there was just one yesterday, and your sadness, though smothered, is palpable. 

They take him up before you’re done. Din lives to fight another day. He scrubs clean of his opponent’s blood in the cold fresher and tugs on the stiff, starched clothes left behind for him. When they take him back to his room, it’s been cleaned, but you’re gone, and there’s a new prisoner in C-4.  

You’re quiet again when you bring dinner, and though you do speak this time, it’s void of your usual softness. 

“Need anything?” you say, muted tone bristling his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in lieu of an answer. 

You look up at the window out of reflex before quickly looking away. He’s not close enough for you to see, anyway. “What?” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “for your loss.”

Your eyes close tight, and you cover your mouth for a moment. “I—thank you,” you whisper. Your voice cracks a little, and he feels terrible, like he shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have upset you. 

But you hesitate there, outside his door. You swallow hard against the ache. “Thank you,” you repeat, but it’s stronger, now, and laced with the heaviness of recognizing oneself in another. 

Which is why, when you pass by the newcomer’s door, and he tells you to smile pretty for him, Din snarls, “Shut your fucking mouth.” 

You freeze and look back at his dark door. The man is saying something idiotic, but Din can’t hear it from the pulse throbbing in his ears and his single-minded focus on you. 

You shake your head minutely, and he accepts the request to stand down. Before you turn and leave the barracks, you give his door a small, sorrowful smile. 

He worries a little about the newcomer. You shouldn’t have to be harassed and accosted like this. 

When you had brought breakfast, the man had tried to reach through the bars to grab your face. You had recoiled and dodged his grimy hands but otherwise ignored it. 

It turns out he doesn’t need to worry. The next day, the guards take both him and the creep up to the arena. 

When Din returns, your relief is unmistakable. 

You never ask about the fights, so he doesn’t have to lie to you. He doesn’t have to tell you the truth, either; doesn’t have to tell you how it’s the first one he’s dragged out on purpose. How he broke the man’s hands in his own for daring to try to touch you. How he broke his jaw for talking to you like that. 

It’s unlike him, and he hopes he can shrug it off, that the endless killing of beings he knows are fellow prisoners builds a layer of beskar in his bones each day. But Vrar was right. 

You’re a spot of light here, like the yellow blossoms that push up between duracrete. He’s not sure how you’ve kept it up this long, not after seeing how deeply you’re cut when “your” fighters die. But he’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t lose that. Including keeping lowlife scum away where they can’t contaminate the barrack.

He dreams that night of taking you with him when he leaves and isn’t sure what to do with the thought in the morning. 

You paint him, too. Nicolai. The one who made your skin crawl. Even the portrait comes out predatory, and you wish you wouldn’t have to look at it every time until the page is full. 

It’s not the first time a resident has made you feel unsafe. Won’t be the last, either, you reckon. Unlike those of you who are serving criminal sentences, the fighters are all prisoners of war. But just because they were an enemy of the Empire does not make them a friend.

Most of them are good. Not all even raised a weapon against the Imperials. Some were support—medics, pilots, suppliers. Some were strangers who stood up to protect a Stormtrooper’s victim in the town square. Some were no one, who had the unfortunate luck of being related to or seen with a known insurgent. 

But some, well. Some were grifters playing both sides. Some were mercenaries, assassins, slavers. Some, like Nicolai, were druglords who couldn’t be bought—too busy running their own empires to respect the government. 

It’s funny, in that way that makes your stomach bile bite and claw at your throat. Everyone thought you needed to be afraid of the fighters. You have to shut and stow the book, not wanting to smudge Vrar’s portrait any further by thinking of him.

He never liked you being in the servant’s barracks. And for some reason, he never liked your bunkmate. Didn’t like Eli, who had never been anything but kind. Who was maybe your only friend. 

“Just something off about him,” Vrar had said. “But you shouldn’t trust anyone.” 

You had shaken your head. “I’m one of them,” you insisted. 

“Oh, how could I have forgotten,” he deadpanned, “you and your criminal record of… what was it again? Stealing from your own farm to feed hungry children? Being too polite to a trooper?”

“Shut up,” you groaned. “Evading tariffs is considered very serious, I’ll have you know.” 

When he was done teasing you, he had sobered right up. “I still don’t like it. Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t trust someone dangerous as a caretaker.”

He hadn’t been so sure, but it’s not like they let just anyone work down here. You had done a stint upstairs for a while, like everyone else, serving drinks in the sponsor’s lounge. 

After all, caretaker neglect could (and did) prematurely kill their stock. And it granted access to much more of the complex than most other roles. 

When you deliver dinner, the Mandalorian speaks to you again. You try to take it in stride. 

“If there’s another like him,” he says, voice like the creak of trees at night, “are you safe? Can you defend yourself?” 

It’s not what you expected. You purse your lips, frowning as you weigh your answers. “Harming a caretaker is prohibited,” you say after a moment.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firm and compelling in a way you can’t explain. Maybe it's the regality that he can’t contain, a tone leftover from negotiating and persuading or whatever kings do. 

“I don’t have to worry about being hurt by a fighter,” you say. 

He hums, accepting your answer.

You wonder if he heard the unspoken words you swallowed back. 

You eat with them again at Disdraa’s request, though it’s a quieter affair without Vrar’s booming voice. You find you don’t have it in you to joke around. 

She takes mercy on you, setting aside her meal to regale the hall with a story from her childhood on Ryloth. It’s not a happy story, exactly, but it ends with hope. 

You feel warm for the first time since Vrar’s death. “Thank you,” you murmur through her bars when you stand. 

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “For what? I just like to hear myself talk, little bird.”

You make a show of returning the gesture, including the solemn smile she gave. 

It wasn’t the story, really. It was the way it reminded you of home. When you would visit the families of the dead and dying. When they would share themselves while sharing their love, how they would leap to comfort despite their own grief. 

Even for you, a stranger until that moment, someone they could easily hate for only arriving while someone was leaving. 

But that was not the way of things for your people. They allowed you, for however small a time, to be the vessel for their loved one, to gather and hold the memories until you could spill them on your canvas. To stand between their spirit and the void of the forgotten. 

To love and be loved, even fleetingly. 

Did you wish that just once, that love would stay? That you wouldn’t love knowing it was to be lost? In the dark of night, though you’d never admit it, you ached for it. 

next chapter

*title from "Prayer of the Refugee" by Rise Against

[shiraishi--kanade]

Another thing I need pjsk fandom to realize:

1) there are literal 10 years old (and younger) children in this fandom;

2) the percentage of these children in the fandom is MUCH, MUCH higher than every single one of you here on tumbrl think it is.

"why do people write so much for popular characters?" "why do people write for kudos only?" aside from the fact that the "write for yourself" is a self-perpetuating issue in every fandom and the fact that every writer deserves engagement with their works, it's because there are kids here. Who want to fit in and get praised for their creativity. Which they can only achieve by writing for popular stuff. So maybe take that into account.

[house-of-cards-and-crime]

thinking about how c!wilbur never really made a permanent home for himself after l'manberg because it was His Legacy and His Thing and then it got taken away from him

thinking about how c!quackity was intrinsically involved in the destruction of wilbur's l'manberg but even still wilbur didn't take issue with his involvement

thinking about how as soon as wilbur found out about las nevadas he wanted to join quackity in it

thinking about how the first real venture wilbur made to regain influence after his revival was a direct competition/rivalry with quackity

thinking about how the past mirrors the future or something and they will always be drawn apart and together like a newton's cradle that will never run out of momentum, crashing together then pushing each other away over and over and everything else is collateral damage because they are both each other's obsession and destruction and nothing else matters to them but their dance

[escapizm]

"No song can reach me, so I scream silently

A sea where all light is silent,

Grab my lost ankle again,

Can't hear any sound,

Killin' me now, killin' me now, do you hear me?"

- BTS, "Black Swan"

[unluckysatellite]

...

I'm craughing because what in the name of everything holy was papergames/infoldgames thinking localizing Qin Che/Sylus to sound like some discord daddy dom in English...when he doesn't say any of that cringe shit in Chinese/Korean/Japanese.

I never thought I would see a localization as disastrous as late 2019/early 2020 MLQC's green stubble, but Infoldgames looked sideways at Elex and said "nah, we can do much worse than green stubble"

but hey I guess I can draw a parallel here:

Victor 🤝 Sylus

getting fucked over by localization and getting wildly mischaracterized by the ENG fandom

[transimailisa]

“I can’t be angry with you…” Princess Alisa spoke before bending down to give a big kiss on Princess Anilaphat's clear cheeks. “However, you should never speak of renouncing your royal status again.”

“...”

“Can you promise me?” Princess Anilaphat only gave Mother a wry smile but didn’t say anything in response. “Hearing that, I almost suffocated to death.”

“...”

“You’re my heart and your father’s heart, don’t you know?”

“Whatever father and mother wish from me, no matter how hard it is, I’m willing to do it.” Princess Anilaphat moved her body away from the embrace to make eye contact with her mother easily. “Having to leave the country to study alone since I was a little kid and barely knew a thing, l did it. When I returned, mother didn’t want me to practice the profession I studied; fearing that I would be in dire straits, I continued my studies to become a teacher like father and mother intended me to be.”

“...”

“Why is the only thing I asked for… mother couldn't give me in return?"

“…”

“So, what is the point of having such a high rank if I cannot grab what I desire?”

“Anil… what you desire is inappropriate for you.”

“How inappropriate is that? Is it so easy to meet the person I love, Mother?”

-

i have been personally loving the work on adaptation the loyal pin has done on the show. the show is extremely loyal (lmao) to its source and all the changes provided do feel in line with the orignal work which is why i cant wait to see the last few episodes.

that being said there is a few changes that sometimes collapse in itself if you havent read the book (prince anan mentioning a past forbidden love or once again prince anan already knowing about anin and pins situation and when he has to confront anin about it in front of their mother and aunt patt) which all could be discussed about how you adapt a book. but i personally want to bring up something that is as trivial as one line in the book but to me !! it is a little nuance that feels too bad to be left out.

anin wanted to find a job in architecture upon returning to thailand but her parents (especially mother) didn’t let her.

the show and books make a beautiful cases to demonstrate how misogyny, class and homophobia are all deeply connected as being the great obstacle for anin and pin, together and both separately, each navigating a cage that is held above them even by their closest relatives.

and so comes the question of independence. financial independence. financial independence is truly one of the biggest shackles to be taken down when mentioning Anything related to self determination. because seeing anin more than willing to drop what gives her the most security in life for pin who knows what that non security implies, means that you must have at least what you must to be self sufficient.

anin wishing for this before the whole mess of pin’s engagement both shows how she already wanted to be independent as early as possible and that her parents, despite specifically sending her abroad for ‘more honorable studies’ and such do see anin getting a job in architecture as a Lesser way to live. because she would not be a comfortable as her current situation and inflict again their wishes on her on which job she should aim for while still remaining tied to them.

this detail is trivial and just one more line in the whole theme of the book of how misogyny ties women down to their position theyre supposed to fulfil, and have other women keep you in check of that. but it also comes with the whole realisation for anin of how despite the looks and support and liberties her class allows her to get, her gender will ultimately always be what societal expectations throws her back into. and that wish of financial independence prior to pin’s engagement shows that she was well aware of that, or at the very least in part, and was once again trying to sneak out of this hold.

[charmac]

Bit of a (late) long-ass personal post, but this past year has been insanely monumental for me and a lot of it, if not almost all of it, was centered around this silly comedy show.

Starting the year adopting the most perfect cat in the world purely because he looked like Agent Jack Bauer, I've ended up meeting amazing people and making great friendships, both online and in person, I met Glenn and Charlie and MEE and Meg (and Humphrey) and Danny?? got my first tattoo, bought way too much whiskey, and I've just really, genuinely enjoyed my time posting on Tumblr, making shit, and writing fic more than I have in half a decade. It's stupid, and sappy, and probably pretty parasocial, but I owe so many of my best experiences this past year not only to the show, but to joining this community. Because I wouldn't have experienced much of any of this if I hadn't jumped the casual fan on r/IASIP ship and washed up ashore here. And being here has improved my life and my mental health in ways I can't even begin to properly express.

So here's a photo dump of what I have to dub "A Very Sunny 2023":

To everyone here, thank you for being a part of my 2023. I'm not sure what 2024 has in store, but I'm happy I'll be here, creating and experiencing whatever it is, through and beyond.

[sirenofstyxx]

This isnt new or original at all but i gotta say some of my favorite characters are always those absolutely awful charismatic bastard villians who in fiction I enjoy but if I met in real live I would punt into the stars. Bonus points when they get their inevitable and extremely satisfying comeuppance and get their ass handed to them

[ari-zonia]

Instead of doing anything productive with my evening, I decided to make spreadsheets of which Factions (not Mirror Worlds, Factions) the Sinners share with each other, as well as who has the most overlapping E.G.O.

Someone else can determine whether there's any meaning to this

Edit: Looking back at this there may be some inaccuracies (Yi Sang having 0 with Rodion is very much wrong), but bear with me, I was counting these by hand >.<

[kyouka-supremacy]

---

[kentopedia]

tbh i don’t think i’m gonna post any of my multi chapter fics on here anymore, but they are posted on ao3 if you still want to read them <3

[deus-ex-mona]

farewell, my idiot son…