#god please let this be the last tag

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 4

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Four: Wyoming (Part One)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din have a bad morning.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.9k+

Content / Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, half-hearted suicide attempt, half-hearted homicide attempt, gun, fennec shand, boba fett, yearning, do u feel the slow burn now mr krabs

Notes: Hey, hi. Please be mindful of the trigger warnings on this one. It's a little (a lot) angst-heavy at the top, but it gets lighter. Big thanks to @frannyzooey for proofreading this!! Let me know what y'all think :) letsnottalkabouthowturnedoniambydincallingherbluff

Consciousness finds you like a crack in a dam. 

A trickle at first, when you register the slow, steady rhythm of the dog’s snores lifting and lowering your arm. You feel the flannel innards of your sleeping bag clinging to your sweat-drenched legs. Your ears tune into the low, constant hum of the old Peterbilt’s engine, and you blink open your eyes to see the subtle light of dawn creeping in through the windows. 

Then, as you realize you’re still alive, still being held captive in this fucking truck… whoosh. 

Blood rushes through your body, hot and furious, sending you upright in an instant.  You find the man propped up against the passenger’s side door like a rag doll, staring at you with dull, vacant eyes. It takes him a moment to process the fact that you’re awake, then all at once, his eyes go wide and he sits up straight. Both of you freeze. 

That’s when you see it. The darkened bags under his eyes. The exhaustion slumping his broad shoulders. 

The gun in his hand. 

Fire floods your veins and you growl, “You fucking coward.” 

His eyelids flutter when the insult hits him. A nod rocks his head back slightly. 

“All you had to do was pull the trigger,” you seethe, emotion cracking your voice, “How fucking hard is that?” 

His jaw clenches. Head tilts to one side. Eyes flit around the cab before settling back on yours, “Do you want to see?”

You blink at him, “See what?”

The man pulls himself to his feet and shimmies between the front seats, holding the gun’s grip out to you. 

You drop your gaze to your lap and grit your teeth, “Fuck you.” 

He crouches beside the bed and nudges your shaking hands with the weapon, “Take it. I want you to see.” 

“I fucking hate you.” 

“I know,” he mutters, grabbing your left hand, your dominant hand, pressing the heavy grip into your palm, “Come on, show me how you hold a gun.” 

You swallow the thickness in your throat and correct your hold to proper form. He nods in approval and searches your face, then points to his forehead, “Right here.” 

No. 

You shake your head. Tears distort your vision, blurring his face into an abstract mess. The gun is solid and cool in your sweaty palms. You can’t bring yourself to move it. 

So he does it for you. 

His hand wraps around yours and guides the aim to his forehead. A sob wracks your body and you shake your head again and again, begging him in a soggy whisper, “No no no—”

He ignores your protest, talking over the cries sounding from your throat, “If you kill me, you can leave. Take whatever you need. Flee to Canada. That was a smart plan,” he searches your face and gives a small shrug, adding, “Please take care of the dog, though.” 

He’s right. You know he’s right. 

Tears streaming down your cheeks, you hold the muzzle steady between his dark, unblinking eyes. Your thumb pulls back the safety with a metallic crackle. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“How hard is it, Charlie?” he asks, his voice a low, daring trickle, “Hmm? How fucking hard is it to pull the trigger?” 

“Fuck you,” you tell him in a pathetic sob, “You’re a piece of shit—”

“Then do something about it.”

Red blinds you. It burns you from the inside out, pulsing and furious. You flirt with the trigger, lightly stroking the hard curve of it, imagining all the potential futures branching out from this moment. 

A future where you kill him, take his dog and your meager belongings, and head for Canada. Another where you give him back his gun, he delivers you to Portland, and you die in a cage. 

Another option becomes clear to you. One that could make this nightmare end in an instant. Where you get just what you wanted. 

The numbness of resignation dulls your senses, even as your heartbeat speeds to that of a hummingbird’s. You pull the aim away from his head and point it at your own, thinking: How much pressure would it take? Would it hurt?

His features quickly shift to panic. He holds a hand up and says, “Hey, no—” 

Thinking: How hard is it, Charlie? How fucking hard is it to pull the trigger?

“Give me the gun, Charlie.” 

A damp, painful knot tangles your throat. You try to swallow it down, but a sob bursts through anyway, and you hear yourself choke out, “I don’t want to die.”

“Hey, look at me,” he instructs.

You can’t. You can’t focus on anything but the barrel buried in your hair and the allure of the trigger. He touches your chin and coos, “Eyes right here, kid.”

Your gaze flicks to his. 

He carefully wraps one hand around your wrist while the other tilts the barrel up and flips the safety back into place, “There we go.” 

Your hand goes slack and he takes the gun away, hiding it somewhere as you collapse into yourself. When he returns, the mattress shifts under his weight. The heat of his palm presses into your back, smoothing up and down the length of your spine. It coaxes another bout of crying from deep within your chest. 

For weeks, this dense, dark matter has been collecting inside you the way dust does on framed family photos. And this pitiful blubbering is just an involuntary purge. A seasonal deep clean. 

You expect him to tell you to stop, or to leave, but he doesn’t. He just sits there and rubs your back. You’re not sure if he’s being supportive and patient or if he doesn’t know what else to do, but the effect is all the same. It soothes you. 

Eventually, you sit up and wipe your eyes on the sleeves of your shirt, then dare to look at him. 

He holds your gaze. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him without his face covered by sunglasses or a hat or darkness. And he is… remarkable. 

His deep brown eyes drop to your mouth for a fleeting moment, capsizing your stomach. Heat pulses to your face and you look away, whispering, “You don’t have to do this. You can let me go.” 

He says nothing, just stands and starts disarming the cabin. 

Neither of you have spoken a word. 

Which is typical on your captor’s part. You’re pretty sure if you never tried to say anything to him, he wouldn’t speak at all. 

But there’s something different about his silence now. It seems weighted and intentional. Like he’s actively trying not to break it. 

His movements are clipped. Heavy with hard edges. When it came time for your morning bathroom break, he tossed the handcuffs next to you on the bed and waited for you to restrain yourself on the grab bar, crossing his arms and staring at you, as if that was enough explanation. 

And, you suppose, it was. 

After he returned from letting the dog out, he emptied your latrine, grabbed a black canvas toiletry bag and towel from the overhead compartment, and left again. The morning’s events sucked all life from you, leaving you hollowed-out and zombie-like. 

You were nodding off when he returned, his dark curls dripping wet beneath his black baseball cap. The clean scent of his damp skin wafted back into the sleeper cab. Days worth of grime made your skin crawl. If you held any kind of fight in you, you would have asked to take a shower, but you found it pointless. 

Why perform maintenance on a sinking ship? 

Even so, after the man freed you from the handcuffs and started to prepare the rig for departure, you got ready for the day the best you could. 

While he plugged in coordinates and did whatever the fuck on his dashboard tablet, you crouched down behind the driver’s seat and changed into your cleanest clothes, resigning to the fact that they will likely be the clothing your body dons when it’s discovered in some Portland alleyway within the week. You twisted your greasy hair into two long braids, then pulled out your guitar and strummed a few of your favorite songs. Songs filled with hope and freedom and adoration for this beautiful world. 

But, for the first time since you left home all those years ago, they rang hollow and false. You stowed the guitar away in the overhead compartment, then strapped yourself into the passenger’s seat upfront and opened your notebook with the intention of drafting goodbye letters to your grandma and brother. 

An hour later, the white space sectioned off by cornflower blue lines remains empty. 

You could blame the weight of existentialism crushing your rib cage like an aluminum can, but in all honesty, the scenery keeps distracting you. 

Waves of evergreen trees roll by your window as far as you can see. Every so often, a hill stretches up towards the sagging gray clouds so abruptly, it exposes the pale, stony earth beneath, cliff sides torn into the forest like ripped clothing or stretch marks. A few towns crop up here and there, tiny symbionts feeding off the lifeblood of I-80, none of them much more than a gas station, a church, and a bar. 

It brings you a sense of oneness. Peace. Gratitude. 

In the grand scheme of things, you don’t matter. Not to the mountains and the trees and the streams. They existed for years before you and will still for years after you. Just a speck. 

But that speck was so good to me. 

Regret fills you suddenly. You think about all the people you’ve met, all the things you’ve seen, all the places you’ve been. And you realize none of them will miss you. 

You swear you hear your sternum crack when you realize this. 

But then you hear the dashboard chime. 

Both you and your captor frown at the source. He shakes his head like he doesn’t understand, but starts searching for an exit. By the time one comes along, all you can smell is burning plastic. 

The man pulls over on the side of a county road, then kills the engine. When he pulls back the hood, white-blue smoke billows from the Peterbilt’s innards into the gloomy sky. 

You look over at the dog, whose flat snout steams up the driver’s side window, and snort, “That doesn’t look good.”

The dog whines and scampers onto your lap, pulling his front paws up onto the dashboard. He glances between you and his caretaker, ears perked up with curiosity. Through the windshield, the two of you watch him shake his head at the machinery. He leans forward into the engine bay and touches something, then jerks back like it bit him. Tugging his gloves off, he stares down at the smoking mess, then pulls a cell phone from his pocket and makes a call. 

“Din Djarin,” the velvety feminine voice answers, “How can I help you?” 

“Shand,” he greets, squinting up at the glowing gray sky, “I broke down off 1-80 in Wyoming. Need someone to come take this trailer to make the deadline.” 

“Drop off?”

“Provo, Utah.” 

“Send me your location and the work order, I’ll get someone out there.”

“Will do, thank you.”

After hanging up, Din pings his location and sends her electronic copies of paperwork detailing the job. 

He glances through the windshield every once in a while, and can see you and the dog peering over the dashboard from the passenger’s seat. The anxious creases haunting your features throughout the morning have softened. You look amused, in fact. 

Looming financial devastation be damned, relief loosens his knotted shoulders just a little. He corrects himself, pushing his shoulders back, staring into the messy engine compartment. 

Shit. 

This is… not ideal. 

Din started to get an inkling of this unfortunate bout of sympathy while waiting for you to fall asleep last night. 

Actually, that’s not true.

It happened before that. The second he heard your request for a mercy killing, it started twisting in guts. 

By the time he finally heard your breathing alter into that of a dreamlike state, the inhales and exhales becoming deeper and less predictable, he doubted his ability to grant your wish. He tried anyway. Stood above you, aiming straight at your temple. Just one small movement to assure him the collection of your bounty. To achieve financial stability for at least a year. To unburden himself from your presence. 

A minute passed. 

And another. 

And a few more. 

Twenty minutes went by in total with your life in his sight, then he resigned to the passenger’s seat while he tried to sort this all out in his head. 

If you had just tried to escape, or tried to attack him, he could have pulled the trigger and excused his guilty conscience away. But no. He let you pull back the curtain. Something he could have stopped if he really wanted to do so.

He didn’t, though, did he?

As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, he wanted to hear your story. It was unprofessional. He should know better. All it did was surface more questions. Make you more human. 

Rookie mistake. 

He is a killer. Reborn out of blood and forged into this rigid shape. He should know better than to view his target as a person with hopes and dreams and a future. But no matter what lies he tried to tell himself about self-preservation or duty or mercy, he could not fucking do it. 

Which, now that he thinks about it, is much worse than “not ideal.” 

No. It is downright “bad news.” 

He calls the only diesel mechanic listed within a 50-mile radius to arrange for a tow and repair. He tells the gruff man on the other end of the line he’ll “need a new radiator,” then, “yes, I am sure.” The thing had been held together by glue and hope for 20,000 miles. It was inevitable. Din was just praying it would wait until after he received your bounty to fall apart. 

But, as is sometimes the case, fate had different plans in store. 

Fennec Shand called while he was on the phone with the mechanic. He calls her back, skipping formalities completely when she picks up by asking, “Did you find anyone?” 

She doesn’t seem to mind, jumping into the conversation with, “You’re in luck. Boba Fett just finished a job in Laramie and can be there in an hour.” 

Din nods, “Ok. A tow is on the way, taking us to a nearby town. I might be out of commission for a few days—”

“Us?”

His lips part, gaze flashing to the windshield as he stammers, “Me and the, uhh, the dog.” 

“Hmm,” Fennec hums, “Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. I got a real earful from the owners.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry to me, it’s coming out of your pay,” she snorts. 

He props a hand on his hip and glances around, “Do you know what his name is?” 

“The dog?” 

“Right.” 

“I’ll see if I have anything in my notes, mind if I put you on hold?” 

“Sure.”

Some time goes by with silence from the other end of the line. Din steps away from the engine bay and paces the gravel shoulder in front of the rig. 

Eventually, she comes back with a simple, “Grogu.” 

“What?”

“G-R-O-G-U,” Fennec spells it out, then enunciates, ”Grow-goo, that’s the dog’s name.” 

“Oh, I see,” he smiles at the ground, then nods, “Thank you.” 

“Need anything else?” 

“That should do it.” 

As he returns to the cab of the truck, Din repeats the name under his breath, “Grogu.” 

He pulls the driver’s side door open. A robust and rhythmic strumming invades his ears. Sort of upbeat. It cuts abruptly when he closes the door and sits down. 

“What’s the news, big guy?” you smirk, draping one arm over the graffitied face of your guitar, “Do I live to see another day?” 

He glances into the sleeper cab at the dog, who’s napping, then back to you, “The radiator is toast. A tow is on its way from Yellow Seed. Guy on the phone said there’s a motel across the street from the shop. We can stay there until it gets fixed.” 

“How long’ll that take, do you think?” 

“Not sure,” he admits, “He said he might have to order parts, so it could be a day or two before he can start. We’ll know more then.” 

You nod as you absorb this information, teeth struggling to clamp down your curving lips. Then, as if you cannot possibly contain it any longer, the smile explodes across your face. He notices, for the first time, that you have this little gap between your front teeth. Like he could slot a dime between them in a perfect fit. 

He also notices his chest tighten and his breathing alter. 

Bad, bad news. 

“It’ll be in your best interest to behave when we’re around others,” he says while turning his attention to his mounted tablet and pulling up the email app. 

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” you snort, dropping your gaze to the guitar in your lap. 

“I’m sending the coordinates of the motel to the guild. If anything happens—if I end up in jail, or if you run—the next person who finds you might not be as accommodating as I am.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t call the cops. Rule number four,” you raise an eyebrow and pluck a melody into the strings of your guitar, “Fuck the police.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Still—”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you pause your plucking to wave him off, “I’ll be a good girl for you, is that what you wanna hear?” 

A wave of arousal flips his stomach and sends his heart racing. 

His mouth gapes open and his throat croaks before a wide, pleased smile creeps across your face, “Oh, I got you a little flustered with that one, didn’t I, uhh—hey, what’s your name anyways?” 

He shakes his head without answering your question, furrowing his brow at the tablet while typing out the email to Karga. Trying to ignore the heat coiling in the middle of him. Trying to think about anything other than “I’ll be a good girl for you, is that what you wanna hear?” 

With a little huff of annoyance, you go back to playing your guitar. 

When the tow truck arrives, your captor sets up some little orange traffic cones in a curve along the left side of the rig. 

Out of the tow comes a bearded mechanic, outfitted in a navy blue jumpsuit with a name patch that reads Paul. He approaches your captor and shakes his hand. They exchange a few words before Paul moves on to inspect the engine compartment, squinting into the exposed guts of the truck. 

Another semi-truck pulls over ahead of the tow only a minute or two later. It’s an odd green-ish gray color with rusty red accents. Your captor goes to greet the other truck driver, a bald, barrel-chested man. They exchange a polite nod and stand side-by-side behind the mechanic, arms crossed as they talk. The bald trucker seems to be more talkative, his lips moving intermittently, while your captor’s stay mostly resigned to a firm frown. 

A pang of loneliness shoots through your heart. You realize you’re just staring at them, aching to socialize. The sparse, one-sided conversations you’ve had in the past few days have left much to be desired. No offense to your road companions. 

Well, maybe a little offense when it comes to your human road companion. 

You set the pup down in the driver’s seat and go to open the door, using rule #10 as your rationalization: Be a stand up tramp. 

It’s only polite, after all, to go introduce yourself and be friendly. And, yeah, maybe you desperately want to chit-chat a little, too. So what? 

The second the passenger’s door cracks open, your captor is there, blocking your exit.

“Get back in the truck.” 

“I wanna say hi.” 

“You don’t need to do that.” 

You roll your eyes and push on the door. He grabs it and pushes back. The only thing stopping him from slamming it shut are your legs dangling out the bottom.

“Oh my god, seriously?” You blink at him and gesture to the vast, desolated hills outside the rig, “What am I gonna do, big guy, run away? I already told you, I won’t spill your beans, I swear.” 

He stays frozen in place, holding the door a quarter of the way open, jaw clenched, broad shoulders squared, like he thinks he can intimidate you. Although you can’t see his eyes through his mirrored sunglasses, you can feel them burning into yours. 

So you stare him down. Give him your best “do not fuck with me” face. The space between your bodies becomes so thick and ripe with challenge, you wonder what ever happened when that unstoppable force met the immovable object. 

From the driver’s seat, the dog starts to whine in discomfort. This tiny noise pulls the lens back just enough for your brain to formulate a sentence you think could break him. 

“You can stare at me all you want, brown eyes, I’m not gonna kiss you.” 

His lips part and his head jerks back, “I—I’m—what? No—”

Victory. 

A smile spreads across your face.

“I promise I’ll behave,” you tell him, holding your hand out to him, pinkie finger erect, “Pinky promise.” 

He looks towards the mechanic, then his trucker comrade, jaw working from side-to-side, weight shifting to one hip. So close to giving in. 

“Please, I’m so bored.” 

When he turns back to you, he studies you for a moment, then sighs and releases the door. 

“You gotta do the thing or it doesn’t count,” you insist, holding your pinky out to him. 

“I’m not doing that.” 

“Figures,” you scoff. He ignores the retort, stepping aside so you can climb down. 

You start around the truck’s unhinged jaw of a hood, waving to the bald trucker when he comes into view, “Hey there!” 

“Ahh,” he grins, revealing a set of big, porcelain white teeth, and glances between you and the man hovering over your shoulder, “What’ve we here?” 

His accent is interesting. Probably a Kiwi.

You return his bright smile with your own and extend your hand, “I’m Charlie.” 

“Boba. Pleasure to meet you,” he nods, giving you a firm and brief handshake, then looks to your captor, “You’re collecting all kinds of stowaways, aren’t you?” 

“It’s temporary,” he responds mildly. 

Boba’s eyes seem to sparkle at this as he steps back and tucks a hand under each armpit, giving you a wink, “That’s what they all say.” 

You laugh and shake your head, jerking a thumb over your shoulder, “Trust me, he can’t wait to get rid of me.” 

The mechanic’s head pops out from the inner workings of the truck when he hears your laughter, and you wave to him, “Hi there!” 

“Howdy howdy,” he nods in greeting as he approaches, wiping his hands on his jumper. 

“I’m Charlie,” you smile and point to his name tag, “Paul, I’m guessing?” 

“Yes ma’am, that’s me,” he props his hands up on his hips, jerking his head towards the truck, “Y’all got any more in there, or is it just the two of you?”

“We got a dog. Other than that, just the two of us. We gonna be able to fit in the tow?”

Paul frowns and shrugs, “Might be tight, but I think we can squeeze everyone in.” 

You nod, then step around the upright hood, “What’s it lookin’ like?” 

“Lookin’ like your, uhh,” he pauses here, glancing between you and your captor, probably trying to assess what the relation between you is, finally settling on, “Din here was right. Radiator’s busted wide open. She’ll need a total replacement.” 

Din. 

That has to be his name. 

Another victorious smile spreads across your face. And to think, just a few hours ago, you were longing for death. Things are looking up. 

You clear your throat and attempt to stifle your obvious excitement, “What’s that run?” 

Din sighs from behind you, and you hear Boba chuckle to him, “Just temporary, eh?”

“Top of my head, I’d say about three grand. Don’t hold me to that, though. I’ll know more when I can call around for parts and take a better look.” 

“Right on,” you cross your arms and glance over your shoulder at Din, whose mouth is flattened into an unamused line, then back to Paul, “Anyway, sorry for interrupting, I’ll get out of your hair. Just wanted to introduce myself.” 

“Hey, ain’t no problem,” Paul smiles, hiking a thumb towards the tow, “If you and the dog wanna hop into the truck, we should be able to get this bad boy all hooked up in a few minutes.” 

“Sounds like a plan. Thank you, Paul!” 

Paul returns his attention to the truck, heaving the tarnished chrome hood shut. You turn to Boba, squinting into the sun, and give him another courteous wave, “Hey, it was really nice meeting you, Boba. Good luck in your travels!” 

“Same to you, Miss Charlie,” he nods, his smile stretching wide as he looks between you and Din, “You keep him out of trouble, now.” 

“This guy? Trouble? No way,” you snort as you turn and walk around Din, shooting him a smirk on your way back to the passenger’s side. 

He follows hot on your trail, practically hissing, “Are you satisfied?” 

“I sure am,” you grin back at him as you pull the door open, “Hey, do you want me to let the dog go do his business before we take off?” 

He halts, holding the door open, staring up at you. You raise your eyebrows in question. 

“Sure—Uhh, yes,” he shakes his head, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome… Din,” you beam, and your glee only grows when a disgruntled sigh heaves his chest. 

To your credit, you did not tip off the tow truck driver on the ride to Yellow Seed, just as you promised. 

You did, however, charm him. Which is almost as much of a problem as him suspecting the truth. 

Din sat between you and Paul, hoping it would act as a deterrent for conversation, but neither of you let that get in the way. You just talked around him. The situation took him by surprise, though. He found himself being more perplexed than he was irritated by the back-and-forth. 

It was almost effortless, the way you seemed to control the conversation, keeping the topic centered around Paul and Yellow Seed. This left little space for him to attempt small talk by asking about who you and Din are, and the circumstances surrounding your travel. 

People love talking about themselves. You clearly know this and use it to your advantage. It solidifies something Din has been realizing the past few days: You are very clever. Cunning, even. 

When a sign goes by, marking Yellow Seed’s city limits, you read the population out loud, “One-thousand, nine hundred, and eighty-six. Dang, that is a small town.” 

You hug Grogu to your chest as you lean forward and look at Paul, “Din said there’s a motel here, is that right?” 

“Yep,” he nods, “Right across the road from the shop. If you want, I can show y’all around town after unloading the truck.” 

“No,” Din says. 

You smack him in the shoulder and chuckle, “We can walk. It’ll give us a chance to stretch our legs. Thank you so much for offering, though.”  

“No problem,” Paul squints, flipping on his turn signal, “Here we are.” 

The big wooden sign out front is barely legible, its paint chipped and faded by at least a decade of neglect. Beyond it, a big gravel lot crowded with cars and trucks and rigs in different states of disarray. Some have weeds growing up into the wheel wells like the vehicles haven’t been moved in weeks. 

The garage itself is a simple, box-like structure with aluminum siding. Three two-story garage doors take up most of the road-facing side of the building. 

Paul puts the tow in park and kills the engine, then swings the driver’s door open to climb down. You don’t move, and instead, regard Din with a smug smile while scratching Grogu between the ears, “How’d I do?” 

He gives you a nod, “Good,” and after a beat adds, “Thank you.” 

Your smile stretches and warms. It curls around inside him, beckoning a gentle, hungry hope that feels intrusive in his body. Inwardly, he chides himself. 

Such soft things are not made for him. They are a luxury he cannot afford and does not deserve. 

You pass him the dog and crack the passenger’s door open, then turn to him, “Ready?”

The ambiguity with which he interprets this question makes his mind whir. Is he ready for the next leg of this journey, and the uncertainty it brings? Can he rebuild the carefully constructed walls you’ve been dismantling? Or is it a fruitless endeavor? Is he ready to face you without the distraction of the open highway stretching out in front of him? 

Not at all. 

But he nods, “Ready,” and follows you into the crisp October air, letting his feet touch down in Yellow Seed. 

[randomminty]

This post goes out to the ilima and mina switched types theory believers

[turtleplushi]

Some drawings I made earlier and yesterday

[moongothic]

[artificialdogs]

Kalos fans are finally winning after 10 long years im gonna cry

[crossbackpoke-check]

the deweys photos are from this video: https://youtu.be/5xTwJho44ao?si=bPw8MZZ327lCogVZ aren’t they just everything

kissing you and the minnesota wild official media team (with consent) full on the mouth, THANK YOU THIS VIDEO IS EVERYTHING 🥰🥰 i have seen pieces of it before i think (connor petting a shark 🥹) but the entire video start to finish is such a delight, 10/10 would recommend

[bilestat]

not to be all worked up over a stupid twitter poll but the person running this account is SO annoying like

i didn't take a screencap but they also (jokingly, they claimed) encouraged o//fmd fans to commit voter fraud AND also added an extra poll in the last round for g//ood o//mens and w//wdits which is so unfair. i//wtv won fair and square why did you have to put in another round to get the "true" winner when you already have the true winner. sorry you forgot a couple shows but who cares

i am just so sick and tired of the disrespect shown to i//wtv like. we already do not get nearly the promotion we deserve and then this?? from a queer news outlet??? run by a person who fully admits they haven't even bothered to watch the show

[llycaons]

Sibling Showdown 2022

It’s finally here! The 2022 Sibling Showdown is now live!!

Cast your votes NOW to determine the MOST sibling of all siblings. Round one split into two: vote in part 1 HERE and part 2 HERE. Voting ends Friday 10/7 11:59 PM.

I spent far too much time on this. Happy voting!

[ratcandy]

you're joking what do you mean they spayed a main character in the most recent warrior cats book

[i-just-think-that-clones]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo & CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo & CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo & CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives & CT-5597 | Jesse, Clone Troopers Echo & Fives & Hardcase & Jesse & Kix (Star Wars) Characters: CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo, CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-6116 | Kix, Clone Trooper Hardcase (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Coric (Star Wars) Additional Tags: The Medics Consume Too Much Caff, CT-6116 Needs A Nap, he doesn't want it but that's irrelevant, clone medics are terrifying, if you separate a medic from the caff you gotta bear the consequences, listen idk what to tag this, no beta we die like fives when coric catches up to him, Let The Medics Sleep, also let me sleep please i appreciate writing this in one go but im holding on by a thread Summary:

... and try to have some positive impact on all the medics' caff consumption while you're at it.

The plan works perfectly. That is, until the plan is finished.

Or, why it's a Very Bad Idea to separate medics from their caff.

-----

"Come in, Jenth. Come in, can you hear me?"

 "I hear you, Esk. In position."

"Forn?"

 "In position."

"Ready?"

 "Ready."

 "Target is in sight."

"Escape ways secured?"

 "Duh."

 "What 'bout you?"

"Munition is ready. Everyone ready? Go, now!"

The connections cut off and Echo strode into the hallway with every ounce of authority he'd gained as an ARC-trooper. A couple shinies on night duty came his way, saluted hastily, and didn't question what he was doing here at ass o'clock in the night, when everyone knew he and Fives had returned a week ago and were very much in tune with the day cycles on ship. There were many benefits to being an ARC-trooper.

Just around the corner he could hear the crash of two fully-clad troopers and an active droid popper meeting much too close to one another. He stopped right at the corner, just shorter of being able to see into the hallway - and being seen.

He didn't have to wait long. In fact, it only took about twenty seconds before he heard a door swish open, followed by a very angry "This better not be what I thought- what are you doing here-". The tone clearly stated that if Fives and Jesse wanted to live past this minute, they better start running.

Instead, there was clacking plastoid and a pained yelp from Jesse. "I- my leg-"

"It can't have been that bad," Fives said, sounding a touch worried, and like he was lying badly. Echo tilted his head in worry, but Kix was evidently too tired to notice.

"What did I do to deserve this?" the medic lamented. Jesse groaned. Fives argued to come along.

"Here I can support him. I can be super useful. Absolutely not in the way. Hey, Jesse, you big lump, come on."

"I... 's all kinda blurry. Are you s'posed t' be blurry?"

Kix's sigh was very, very long, and very much concerned, whatever the medic may claim. "I swear to the Ka'ra-"

"Run," Fives stage-whispered.

Loud steps came Echo's way, a useless "hey, get back here!" trailing after. Fives and Jesse skidded around the corner and kept running, Fives sending a casual, two-fingered salute towards Echo.

"Now, Esk!" he called.

Echo trusted his twin's judgement of distances, pulled his blaster and shot.

Kix didn't even have the time to look at him in surprise before he dropped like a stone. Honestly, Echo wasn't even sure the stunning had been needed - Kix had been hanging on by a thread for days already.

Echo activated his comms again. "Target hit. Begin next phase now."

"Got it," came the reply.

"Herf? Come in."

 "Oh, already? I'm with you in a sec."

It was, surprisingly, really just a few seconds before Hardcase showed up - to be fair though, they had set this up very carefully and Hardcase was very much able to concentrate when needed. He picked up Kix's feet, and together they began hauling Kix off. Only now did Echo notice just how unfairly far away the barracks were from the medbay - an oversight, really.

(Maybe it wasn't that far. And Kix wasn't exactly heavier than anything Echo had to lift on the daily. But still, a limp body was incredibly unhandy and only Echo's ARC-trooper privileges stopped two more patrols and a late-night straggler to demand an explanation or straight-up report them to the higher up staff.

Finally, they entered the barracks. They dumped Kix on the closest empty cot they saw. Thankfully, Kix was only wearing his medical grays, so they didn't need to take off his armour. Small mercies, he supposed.

Echo left Hardcase to make sure Kix stayed in place and asleep and went back to the medbay. He entered without warning but with very much needed caution - there were other medics, after all, and they'd strongly object to their mission.

He didn't need to worry. Fives and Jesse had everything handled perfectly. Or, in Jesse's case, literally in hands, as Fives went around sniffing out the last hidden non-medical stims and dry caff rations. They had already unplugged and confiscated the caff maker, which really had no business in a medbay if even command staff had to resort to the mess hall for their, frankly worrying, caffeine consumption. Nobody could quite tell how much caff the medics drank in comparison - which meant that nobody could really argue against them, even though everyone knew they were lying through their teeth when they claimed to sleep and drink reasonable amounts of caff.

Well. No more.

Echo checked around with a quick glance; their planning had been truly immaculate: the shift tables had been right, for once, and the medbay was running on minimal staff due to very few injured. Kix had already been taken care of. Coric was standing in a corner, watching them with the deepest and most sleep-deprived scowl Echo had ever seen, clutching one last mug tightly. He didn't try to stop them, though. He was smart enough to know and accept when he was outmatched and when to cut his losses, just as Echo had predicted.

And then Echo realized with cold dread that he had missed one very vital, time-related aspect. They had taken just a little too long.

The door swished open. Snooze strode into the medbay, their own steaming cup in hand, froze and stared.

"Sithspit," Jesse cursed.

"I'm relieving Kix," Snooze said.

"Oh, he's sleeping," Fives informed them happily.

"He's what?"

Ah, so perpetually-brooding medic did have other emotions.

"Not by choice," Coric muttered from his corner.

A mistake, because Fives dumped the last hidden rations in Jesse's arms and went to pluck Coric's cup of caff right from his hands. "Imma just take that and then we'll be off, thanks for your coopera-"

Fives had barely touched the mug when Coric swung at him. Fives swore and ducked.

"You want me to give you a reason for being here?" the senior medic snarled, and suddenly it was all too evident where Kix had gotten his glare from and why the medics were absolutely terrifying.

"Fall back on emergency plan A!" Echo called, as if there was any need for it. Jesse, Fives and Echo took to their heels and fled.

...

Resistance was  futile, and running could only prolong the inevitable. They tried anyway. They failed.

"Consider it an intervention for your own wellbeing. You're all for that, as a medic, right?" Jesse rambled. "Come on, Kix'ika, we were just-"

Kix smiled suddenly. Echo could feel an icy shiver run down his spine, could feel cold sweat breaking on his brow. The hallway Kix had cornered them in went eerily silent with anticipation and low-level panic.

"I won't hold this against you," Kix began, and his calm voice had Echo's already strained nerves going absolutely haywire. "If you pull this off on the Captain, too."

Oh. Oh Ka'ra, there it was.

"But that's impossible, he'll have us cleaning the 'freshers for-"

"Bold of you to assume I wouldn't."

Fives shut up.

"So. Do we have a deal?"

... Rex did need an intervention as well, badly. Just as badly as the medics, in fact. And besides, anything was better than having to face Kix's wrath. Right?

The conspirators exchanged a few glances, all thinking the same. Echo couldn't shake the feeling that they were about to make a deal with the devil, and get themselves into a lot more trouble than already. He nodded anyway.

"Sure. Okay. If you help us."

Kix's grin could only be described as demonic. "We'll discuss a plan tomorrow." He turned to leave, then paused again. "Oh, by the way, this just counts for me. I take no responsibility for what the others might do. Especially Coric, right, Fives?"

He left them behind, miserable and terrified.

"If you run now, I bet you could make it to the next vent cover," Jesse mumbled. Fives booked it.

Echo watched after him. Turned around. Saw Coric walking towards them with a murderous prowl.

His yelp alerted the others, and seconds later they were all running for dear life.

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by the tastemaker @cordiallyfuturedwight for the july list 💕 Category 5 Breakdown in the tags as per usual but tagging some favs if you fancy a go @aprylynn @thvinyl @monismochi @banghwa @pauls-mccharmly @avizou mwah

[quaranmine]

guys if yall are gonna take pearls side and preach about being normal to other people on the internet then you also have to not harass the people who disagreed with her in the first place. the first rule of being a decent person should be "don't be hypocritical" and also like. pearl literally asked u to not do that

[origami-teacup]

the vampire diaries 8.16 // louise gluck, crossroads

“and damon, like the voiceover tell us, he was worried he would never see stefan again. it was just elena assuring him that there would be peace. that we’ve dealt with this other side of darkness for several seasons, but there’s also light out there and there’s peace, and damon will find it. if you search for it, you will find it. and we wanted to get that last moment to see that [...] damon found it too, and it looked just like his brother.” — kevin williamson

[cicada-candy]

tag game: tag 9 people you'd like to get to know better

Tagged by @moosemonstrous!!

Last song: Haunted-Poe

Currently watching: Lolirock (S1 E2 ":] )

Three ships: Nico Minoru/Karolina Dean (Marvel), Paulkins (tgwdlm), Curt/Owen (Spies Are Forever) [ugh why was this so hard asdgdfjf]

Favourite colour: green

Currently consuming: gas-station hot chocolate & brown toast. separately. I am not dunking toast in my hot chocolate.

First ship: probably Toastedghost? from venturiantale? definitly the first i made fanart for asdajfl

Last movie: still Pacific Rim, i think

Currently working on: too many wips and Not Homework lmao

tags!! @battlevann @fleaearred @state-of-disorder

i am. out of people.

[ohworm-writes]

Realizing that the reason I wasn't getting as many notes was because Tumblr only lets you have 30 tags when I've been on Tumblr for years and have had this exact problem every few months. Send in the clows...

[floral-hex]

Two hours. I got two hours of sleep. I’m so frustrated with myself.

Went to the ER. Everyone was very nice. They gave me an IV bag of fluids (I was dehydrated! Sad cactus!) and a little ativan (teeny dose), which was nice at the time! Just a little amount, but the (mostly) quiet room, fluids, and meds managed to relax me a lot. Could have fallen asleep if the bed was actually comfortable. Then they packed me up, gave me another little Ativan to take home for tonight, and said they’d contact my primary. Cool cool. Got some much needed food on the way home, then took the pill and got comfy. Again, smallest dosage they make, so no feeling too good. Managed to muscle past my anxiety to fall asleep, and… 2 hours. Woke up. Tried to go back to sleep. Too frustrated and anxious and I feel like crap. What should I do? Just eat a whole gummy and hope that knocks me out? For me, that feels like playing roulette. Could work, yeah. Could make me sleepy and pliable. Could also backfire and make me feel sick and extra anxious for another 5 or 6 hours. What do I do? Roll back up to the ER? “Hewwo, I woke up and I need more benzos 👉👈🥺” haha funny, but I’ve seriously been thinking about it 😑

God, I’m miserable. Been sitting outside on the porch for a bit. Not quite an hour. Needed to get out of the apartment, but tbh, nearly 4am outside isn’t doing much for me. I just feel alone. It wouldn’t help with sleeping, per se, but just someone, I dunno, hugging or holding me for a few minutes would honestly save me a little. What a mess. Oh yeah, and apparently my kidneys are going 👎👎👎 down. Bad meat. Not great test results. Not what I’m focusing on tonight. I’m a mess. Anyway, this was my update. Sorry for all the walls of text. Suppose this is mainly for me to look back on in the future, but can’t pretend it’s not at least a little validating to put this all out into the world and knowing that maybe one or two people read this and I didn’t suffer completely without recognition. Yeah…