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oliversrarebooks · 5 months

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fuck you, I'm a goddamn menace part 2: you can't be fucking serious

Masterlist > Next

TW: abuse, injuries, concussion, sedation, medical whump

Morgan awoke slowly, the sting of antiseptic in his nose. The only thing he could hear past the painful ringing in his ears was the soft beep of medical equipment. His body ached, especially his knee and upper back, and his head was pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He knew exactly where he must be -- in the medbay at his boss's lair -- and the longer they thought he was unconscious, the longer he could relax and heal before the punishments began.

His memories were vague. Lights overhead. Voices. The beeping of medical equipment. A rubber mask on his face.

He lay there, drifting in and out. The pain felt so fuzzy and indistinct. Painkillers? That was new. Salcedo never gave him painkillers. He loved to watch Morgan suffer way too much for that. You wouldn't make it far among the crime lords of the city if you didn't enjoy your work, after all.

Maybe there was some trick to the fact that he was being allowed this pleasant buzz. Let him relax and let his guard down so it'd hurt more later. He could figure that out when his head felt better.

"...awake..."

Fuck. It was starting. Morgan tried not to react.

"Morgan, are you awake? We just need you to respond to make sure you've woken up from the anesthetics, and then you can go back to sleep, promise."

Morgan couldn't help his face twitching as he recognized that absolutely infuriating voice. Arthur. His blasted nemesis.

Oh, that's right, he had been captured. Lucky fucking him. He got to be completely at the mercy of the hero he'd been tormenting for years. And at the end of it, he might get the wonderful experience of his boss busting him out of captivity only to punish him for his failures.

"Morgan, please, wake up."

Begrudgingly, Morgan opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't. Even the dim light of the room was like an icepick to the brain. He looked over to see the smug fucking face of Arthur, and that was even worse.

"I'm awake. What do you want?" he said, his voice weak and slurred. He was definitely drugged, he could tell, because he could barely even muster up the strength to be scared of what was going to happen to him.

"Good. That's very good," said Arthur. He sounded kind. No, he sounded like he pitied Morgan. Oh, fuck that. "You gave us all quite a scare. It was a little touch-and-go for a bit there, but the surgery went well, and you should make a full recovery, as long as you get lots of rest."

Morgan swallowed hard, trying to comprehend this. He'd been given surgery? What the fuck had they done to him? He was in pain all over, but he certainly didn't feel like he'd been turned into a mantis-man hybrid or anything like that. Or been lobotomized.

...Had they seriously just patched him up? After everything he'd done? If there was anyone naive and soft-hearted enough to do that, it was his fucking nemesis.

"How are you feeling?" said Arthur, his voice too gentle.

"Like your whole team shoved me into a woodchipper and danced on the mulch."

"Yes... Julie went a little too hard with the energy blasts. She's still learning how to control it," said Arthur. "But you know, you were..."

"None of this would've happened if I weren't trying to install a zombification device inside city hall? Yeah, got it, lesson learned, next time I install it in your stupid fucking hero lair."

Arthur scowled. "Was the plan your idea or your boss's?"

"As though my boss could build something like that. Did you even notice the craftsmanship, or were you too busy punching it apart?"

Arthur sat back in his chair, looking as if something was on his mind.

The room was filled with medical equipment, the kind Morgan could control with his technomancy. He reached out slowly, feeling like he was fighting through a wall of cotton, and got no response. The familiar, tell-tale feel of power suppressors. They were probably in the restraints.

"You know, Morgan," Arthur said after a long moment, "when we had you under for surgery, our medic, Laurel, performed an examination."

Morgan turned away. He could tell where this was going.

"There were a lot of injuries there. Injuries that didn't seem like ones you got while fighting us."

"Training."

"It looked like you'd been kicked in the ribs repeatedly without proper healing," Arthur said. "And there were marks that looked like they'd been left by a taser, and a lot of electrical burns."

"Heavy training."

"That's not training, Morgan!" Arthur actually sounded angry, now, and it took all of Morgan's willpower not to flinch away. "I'm not even discussing the massive amount of nasty bruises or that infected cut on your shoulder. Those could've been sustained while fighting heroes. But not all of that. And even if they were, everything looked like it had healed wrong or been left to scar. There's no way that's normal. I know your usual activities. I see the reports of all of your fights. No hero did those things to you. Certainly not my team."

Ugh. What was the point of all this? To humiliate him? Now his nemesis probably knew all about his poor condition, his chronic pain and his trick elbow and the scars littering his back. And it wasn't like it was going to get any better when his boss got him back. Fucking wonderful.

But Arthur didn't sound humiliating or mocking. He sounded concerned, which was almost even worse. "Morgan, did your boss do those things to you?"

Morgan rolled his eyes and turned away. Or he would've turned away if he weren't so heavily restrained he couldn't roll over.

"Morgan, I'm serious. Did your boss --"

"No, of course not," said Morgan, packing his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "You know how Salcedo is. Every time you defeat me, he gives me a nice pat on the head and a participation trophy, and he tells me that it's okay I failed, because I tried and had fun."

Arthur sighed. "He's abusing you."

"He's giving me my quarterly performance reviews. You're abusing my patience."

"While you were sedated, you kept fighting us off, saying you weren't allowed to sleep. Does he prevent you from sleeping?"

Fucking drugs. Morgan barely remembered what had happened, much less what he'd said. He remembered hitting the wall, pain, pain, pain, and then the most beautiful and relaxing feeling in the world, and finally oblivion.

"...It's been obvious to me for a long time that your health is deteriorating."

"Shut the fuck up," said Morgan, his sarcasm dissolving with his frustration. "You don't understand a goddamn thing about my life, so don't pretend like you do."

"I understand that you're being abused!"

"I'm being trained to fight your team," said Morgan through gritted teeth. "Rich of you to go on about being abused when it was Julie who gave me a sixty mile per hour impact with a concrete fucking wall."

"That was an accident and you know it. And there's a huge difference between thwarting your plans and casually abusing you."

Morgan looked down at his hands. Like he hadn't noticed how the hero team always pulled their punches to avoid injuring him too much, even when he was scheming something really nasty. Like he wasn't so much more afraid of his boss than his nemesis. Like he really needed his nemesis's smug pity.

Why couldn't Arthur just fucking take revenge or whatever? It wouldn't even be that bad while he was hopped up on drugs. Hell, Arthur was probably too soft a heart to pull half the shit Salcedo liked to, even though he had far more reason. Just get it the fuck over with.

"Could you spare me your fucking after school special bullshit and just tell me what you're going to do with me?" With any luck, they would throw him in ordinary jail and not that awful psychiatric hospital. Either way, it wouldn't stop his boss from finding him and pulling him out again whenever he decided Morgan was needed. Or needed to be punished.

"Well, we can't let you go free, obviously," said Arthur. "But if we put you in jail, you're just going to get captured by Salcedo again."

Oh, Morgan hated the way he phrased that. Captured. Like he was a civilian being taken hostage and not Salcedo's right hand man and a terrifying villain in his own right.

Arthur was leaning in closer. "You don't have to work for Salcedo, you know."

Morgan's eyes went wide with shock as he realized the turn this conversation was taking. He laughed sharply, a little maniacally. "Are you serious? Are you fucking serious, Arthur?" he said. "Did you also hit your head on a wall? Did you forget who you're talking to?"

"I think I know you quite well by now, yes."

"And you're seriously trying to get me to go straight? Join your merry little band of idiot heroes?"

"...it would take a lot of work, and a lot of trust, but yes, eventually. It's something I've thought about on more than one occasion," said Nemesis, who, against all odds, seemed to be completely serious. "Look, let's cut the bullshit. Salcedo is abusing you. Don't even try to deny it, because I've seen more than enough evidence. He's beating you, burning you, god knows what else. He's working you to the bone on ridiculous plans that will never work, and makes you the fall guy for them while he escapes unscathed."

Every word of that was true, and hearing it from Arthur made him want to punch him in the face.

"You're a smart guy. Ridiculously smart. And despite what you claim, you have ethical standards. Remember the time the two of us teamed up to get those kids out of the burning school?"

"They were kindergartners, c'mon --"

"You have ethical standards, no matter how shaky they can be. And you have courage and talent," said Arthur.

"You think I can be won over with cheap flattery, seriously, Arthur?"

"How about cheap flattery and a cool costume?" he said. "But seriously consider what I'm telling you. You're a smart guy. We pay well, maybe not as well as Salcedo, but enough, and you'd get overtime when you have to work late. We have health insurance. Most importantly, nobody is going to beat you to within an inch of your life if you screw up."

"Oh, yeah, sure thing, I'll just do that," said Morgan. "And I'm sure that, after everything I've done to you, you're all just going to protect me when Salcedo shows up to get me back."

"Yes. I will. I absolutely will," he said. "...Because he's going to kill you. We both know that. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday. And you don't deserve that."

Fuck. He sounded so serious. He was using his superhero voice. The one he used to tell terrified hostages that he was going to save them and that nobody was getting hurt. The one that was usually directed at the civilians Morgan was menacing.

"I don't expect you to make this decision overnight," said Arthur, standing up. "You've got a lot of healing to do. A lot of time to think over where your life is headed."

"And you're just gonna let me heal?" said Morgan skeptically. "You've got me totally at your mercy in what I assume is your underground secret lair, and you're just going to let me lay here and heal up my injuries?"

"Yes. I mean it. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. As long as you don't try to cause harm to any of us, no harm will come to you while you're here. I swear it." Arthur turned as he was about to walk out the door. "All I'm asking is that you think about what I said to you. We'll talk again. The nurse is here to see you."

And he was gone, and Morgan felt utterly exhausted.

An older woman wearing scrubs with pride-flag-colored fish on them entered the room. She looked tired and a little scared. "Well, uh, Arthur tells me you're awake and lucid, Mr.... uh... Mr. Morgan," she said. "That's good. You were in pretty bad shape."

"Hmph."

"Can I look in your eyes with this penlight, please? You had a really nasty concussion, so you're probably going to be very tired and disoriented for a while as you recover."

Great. It was super great to be concussed and useless in the hero's lair. Still, he submitted to Laurel's eye exam without a fuss. It was one thing to sass his nemesis -- putting up a fuss for the medic was pointless when she was just trying to do her job.

"The only thing you can really do right now is get some rest," she said. "I can give you some painkillers, and some sedation if you think you'll have trouble sleeping. Would that be okay?"

Morgan let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, sure, yeah, I really want to be drugged up and helpless in the hero's lair."

"Well, you're not going anywhere," she pointed out. "You'll heal a lot faster if you get some rest."

Morgan scowled. He couldn't afford to be lounging on a bed in a drugged haze. He had to work on finding a way to escape, preferably with some valuable information or a hostage, in the hopes he could catch Salcedo in a good mood.

But no matter how he looked at it, he was already exhausted, concussed, power-repressed, and in restraints. He wasn't successfully escaping a team of heroes in this condition, sedated or not. And if they wanted him at their mercy, they could come knock him out whenever they felt like it.

So what difference would it make if he were drugged again? God knows his life was going to fucking suck enough once Salcedo came to drag him back. Might as well feel artificially good for a few hours.

"Yeah, I'll take it. Give me the good shit," said Morgan.

"Right away," she said with a laugh. She pulled a few bottles of clear liquid from her pocket, and, consulting a chart attached to his bed, began to measure out doses. "You know, it's really interesting to finally get to meet you, Mr. Morgan."

"Scared?" he said, attempting his most menacing grin.

"...well, I haven't forgotten the things you've done," she said, which really wasn't what you wanted to hear when someone was preparing a syringe for you. "But the team thinks you deserve a chance, and it's a medical professional's responsibility to provide care for anyone, no matter their past. So I'll treat you like I would any innocent person. You have my word." The look in her eyes was distant. "You're not so frightening now, anyway."

Morgan tried to push down his unease. "Fuck you, I'm a goddamn menace."

"Of course you are," she said, injecting the drugs into Morgan's IV line. "This should kick in in a few minutes. It's going to make you very drowsy. I suggest actually getting some sleep and not fighting it. We'll be monitoring you, but if you have any complications, hit this button."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," said Morgan, smarting from the fact that he couldn't even intimidate the medic. He was at her mercy. He didn't like being at anyone else's mercy. He knew how he treated people he had at his mercy. How his boss treated people.

He hated being on the receiving end, when he was normally such a fearsome and threatening...

Fearsome and threatening...

Ohhh.

Whatever Laurel had injected hit him like a truck, because suddenly he was feeling real fucking good. It was like all of his anxiety melted away, his tight muscles loosening, the pounding in his head finally lightening up. He felt like he were being wrapped up into a wool blanket and carried off on a soft cloud to slumberland.

Any thoughts of trying to scheme his way out of the hero's stronghold evaporated from his mind. He didn't even bother fighting as his eyelids grew heavy and threatened to close. He was so tired and felt so good. Sleep would feel amazing.

You're a smart guy. Just think about it. Arthur's words echoed in his mind as he began to drift.

Fuck you, Arthur. Like it was all so fucking simple.

Arthur probably knew him better than just about anyone. He must know that it would never work. Why even bother?

Morgan couldn't help but picture himself laughing and joking with Toshiro and Satomi and Julie, dressed in one of their ridiculous bright uniforms, working on gadgetry to help people instead of constantly getting his beautiful machines smashed to bits.

Ridiculous. The fact that he was even thinking about it was the drugs talking. And now, the drugs were whispering to him that he should really just get some sleep. When would he ever get to sleep this well? Certainly not when his boss came to pick him up.

Part 1 >> Masterlist > Next

@cardboardarsonist @zeiniszein @crystallizedme @mistythedritten @pigeonwhumps @whumpshaped @sparrowsage

#whump #villain whumpee #whumper #medical whump #sedation #concussion #abuse #morgan #arthur #laurel #fuck you i'm a goddamn menace

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scriberye · 4 months

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Distance

➥ Megatron x GN!Reader | 1133 | Ao3

⚠️ Emotional Distress, Physical Injury, Hurt/Comfort Your human heart is soft and delicate, nothing like Megatron's.

It’s here in the vast empty coldness of space, aboard a ship filled with mechanical beings, that you find something you hadn’t realized you’d been searching for — love. Cupid chose the oddest of places to work his magic and picked the worst bot to be the object of your affection. Things are difficult at first, and love is seldom easy. And Megatron, the very bot who caused the fluttering swarm of butterflies to come alive in your stomach, seemed to hate your guts.

He refused to be in the same room as you in the beginning, excusing himself whenever you entered. With time and a lot of patience, Megatron allowed himself to be within a tolerable distance of you, despite the heavy tension that lingered in the air. He tolerated your presence. It’s small, but it gives you hope.

When the plan to keep you at arms length failed, he used his words.

His words are sharper than any blade, and he wields them with finesse. Each word cuts through you and claws at your heart, but your feelings never waver under their harshness. It’s unfair. A small and terrible liability, he called you.

You are human — and weak.

You face Megatron’s relentless efforts to put distance between you with unwavering determination. The more he pushed, the more you dug your heels in and pulled. Until you couldn’t do it anymore — not physically, at least.

The strain of these feelings you carry for him has become a burden on your poor heart. In a moment of vulnerability and frustration, you corner Megatron one evening and unleash a torrent. Angry tears burn your eyes as you unburden yourself — from the hurtful words that cut too deep, and how much you still cared about him. You’re tired of nursing this flame that Megatron seems so determined to snuff out. It’s ugly and gross. And he says nothing — does nothing but stare at you.

You lash out.

With all your strength, you kick him in some futile hope of breaking whatever barrier separates you two, yet you only succeed in breaking yourself. It wasn’t the smartest choice, but in the heat of the moment, it felt like your only option. The sharp, searing pain surges through your foot and rips a scream from your throat. Megatron’s spark seizes, and for all his reluctance, he never wants to hear that sound again.

Ratchet confines you to the medbay while your broken foot mends.

It’s safer for your mental and physical well-being, he says, instead of letting you hobble around the ship, risking possible further injury. You hate it, but you wisely don’t fight him about it. The days drag on. Each moment feels more monotonous than the last, and it’s lonely with nothing but your thoughts. Some bots come to visit you with news of the latest drama.

But he never visits you, and you resign yourself to the fact that your outburst may have pushed Megatron even further away. So, it surprises you when it turns out you’re wrong. Late one night, well past visiting hours, and after all the other bots have settled in for recharge, Megatron appears in the medbay. A dark, imposing shadow among the dim lights, with his helm hung low, heavy under the weight of his worries.

“Megatron?”

“I wanted to apologize for how I treated you. There was — no, there is no excuse for my behavior,” he says, his words heavy with remorse. He hesitantly extends his hand, resting it on the edge of the berth. “I understand if you wish to return to Earth.”

“Do you hate being around me that much?” you ask, and Megatron falls silent. The only sound is the rhythmic hum of medical equipment and your pounding heart.

“No,” he finally responded. “It’s the opposite. I wish to be around you more than I should. I don’t —”

“—think you deserve to, right?”

He visibly deflates, and the walls he had built around himself crumble, leaving him weak and vulnerable. Megatron shutters his optics as if he were shielding himself from his feelings — from you.

“I don’t understand why you would care,” he admits, sadness tinging his voice. “Everything I’ve done… The pain I’ve caused to them, to you.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Megs,” you sigh. “Everyone deserves a second chance, especially if they want to change.”

Megatron lifts his head, and for the first time, his optics soften, a flicker of hopeful understanding crossing his features. “Rung told me the same thing.”

“You’ve talked to Rung?” you ask, surprised.

“I did, but I don’t want to hurt you…”

Warmth blossoms across your cheeks as the tendrils of hope weave through your heart. These feelings are raw and fragile, but you believe in this. You two can build a bridge. You want to touch him, to reach out and close the distance. Encouraged, you place a small hand on one of his much larger digits.

“You won’t. I believe in you, Megatron.”

He smiles. The hurt gives way, replaced by a gentle, hopeful warmth, like the first rays of dawn.

Megatron remains by your side through the night. No longer held back by shadows of self-doubt, he speaks with you in hushed tones. Whispered conversations and confessions that bring your hearts closer together. He admits openly to his flaws and the unease that surrounds them. It wouldn’t be perfect, but if a relationship with him was what you wanted, he commits himself to trying. And you vow to be understanding.

From that moment forward, things changed. Everyone, having tread on eggshells, exhaled in relief. Megatron’s once harsh and hurtful words took on a gentler tone of support and encouragement. He held fast to his commitment, carving out time to spend with you. The gradual pace of your relationship allowed you to explore and discover each other’s boundaries.

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Megatron settles in for recharge, and you take your usual place next to his head. You caress the expanse of his cheek, feeling the coolness of metal beneath your fingers. It’s a ritual, one you take great pleasure in, content to admire and adore him. A gentle servo presses you closer, and you nuzzle closer, pressing your cheek to his.

“I feel I don’t have the right to be thankful,” he whispers. “But if there is one thing I can be thankful for, it is to have you.”

Megatron had given you his spark, something no one had ever touched before, and in return, you’d give him all the love you could muster. Your life is short compared to his, but at this moment, surrounded by love, you feel a bittersweet ache. You hope that every moment and touch will be a cherished memory to comfort him in his grief when, inevitably, the distance will be too great.

#transformers #maccadam #megatron x reader #megatron x you #reader insert

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corazondebeskar-reads · 3 months

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live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #gladiator!din #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x you #fic: live to rise

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marlynnofmany · 8 months

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Medical Assistant

I was organizing a storage closet, for want of anything better to do on a long trip between space stations, when Paint appeared at the door with a message from Eggskin.

“They want your help doing something in the medbay,” Paint said, blinking in a particularly lizardlike way. Everything she did was lizardlike, because she looked like an orange lizard, but that blink was more lizardy than most. “They didn’t say what.”

“Well, this can certainly wait,” I said. Scooping up the unsorted shipping labels and alien packing tape (good stuff), I shoved it all back on the nearest shelf and headed for the medical bay.

I’d helped Eggskin with a number of things at this point, since my veterinarian training was handy and so was I. Also I was much taller than the little Heatseeker. Very useful when tending to tall crewmates, and reaching supplies that somebody had stashed on top of a cabinet instead of inside it. The medbay was very small.

Today I was greeted by the sight of a medbay that was far messier than the storage closet had been. Eggskin stood among containers and tools laid out on every flat surface, their scaly arms crossed, glaring at the jars on the examination table. The good doctor-slash-ship’s-cook looked mightily peeved. Which is a funny expression on a yellow-green lizardy type who was elbow height at best. But of course I didn’t say so.

“Hi,” I said. “You called?”

“Yes!” Eggskin lit up, and scrambled for a sensor tool. “Show me your hands.”

I did, waiting for an explanation.

The sensor scanned my palms, then beeped. Eggskin grumbled at the readout. “Mmf. Too cold.”

“Too cold for what?” I asked, feeling my own fingers. “They seem fine to me.”

Eggskin waved their own clawed hand as if brushing the question away. “What would you say is the hottest part of your body?”

“Uh, the inside? Is this a trick question?” I wondered if, despite Eggskin’s vast knowledge, they really weren’t that familiar with warmblooded species.

Another hand wave. “No, no. Sorry. It’s just—” Eggskin gestured toward the closest jars. “These are expired, and we will definitely want them on our next planetside landing, just in case, so I have to mix more.” The doctor paused for breath. “The components need to be stirred at a certain temperature, or else they won’t set right.”

“Dooooo you,” I said slowly, “Want me to put the jars in my armpits and jump around?”

Eggskin didn’t say anything, but raised the temperature sensor. Thinking dignified thoughts, I let my armpits be measured for heat levels.

“That should work,” Eggskin said.

“How long will I have to jump?”

Eggskin’s wince of regret was a toothy one. “Two minutes.”

I heaved a gusty sigh. “Yeah, okay. Can I play music to make it fun?”

The doctor nodded solemnly, gathering ingredients. “Take your pick. A fresh stock of dart-leech antidote is worth two minutes of auditory discomfort.”

I got out my phone. “I suppose it’s worth some jumping around too,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not likely to film this for laughing about later.”

Eggskin opened a jar. “It hadn’t even occurred to me. But if this works, I may call on your incubation skills in the future.”

“I look forward to it with great anticipation,” I said with only a little bit of sarcasm. And a lot of dance music at my fingertips.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

#my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #warm-blooded #science fiction #writeblr #writblr #haso #hfy #eiad

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jujitto · 3 months

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▬▬ [𝗘𝗡𝗛𝗬𝗣𝗘𝗡] 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 YOU BETRAYING THEM ON AMONG US

𝖺𝗇; 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖼/𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗈....𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗁.

HEESEUNG, the only person who would probably trusted you besides jake. though at times he can't help but be suspicious of you. the one who follows you to make sure you aren't doing anything suspicious. when he sees you venting he races to the button. he probably was thinking you didn't see him but you did. you killed him before he could press the button. for the rest of the round, he haunted you throughout the remainder. he didn't bother to speak to you even after you guys finished playing among us not that you cared because you did what you had to do.

JAY, a bitter bitch. you told him that he would be the first person you killed but did he listen? no of course he didn't. now he is sulking and talking shit about you under his breath. the type to make you get caught when you're killing someone. the type of person to try to get you back but fails endlessly. tried to kill you in electrical but ended up killing jake which you instantly reported. in the end he claimed he didn't want to play anyway which you started laughing at.

JAKE, now jake is the one who trusted you out of everyone else. stuck by your side throughout most of the rounds. it made him an easy target for you. especially since you didn't have to chase anyone else around. you killed him in navigation and just stood there for a moment feeling guilty that you had killed him out of everyone. the way he didn't hesitate to leave you on your own the next round made you realize that next time not to kill jake.

SUNGHOON, now sunghoon didn't want to play the game at all until you asked him to. let me just say this boy right here was suspicious of you from the moment you smiled at your phone screen. though he knew you were the imposter he just didn't think you would kill him. you did after the lights were cut off. to be fair you had been acting weird making your character wiggle on the screen and were following him around a lot. so when you killed him he looked at you and narrowed his eyes before leaving the game altogether.

SUNOO, you betraying sunoo is like asking a hellfire to rain upon you. both you and sunoo were the imposters. sunoo thought of himself as the ultimate imposter who couldn't get caught while you were doing ok. the moment of truth came when Heeseung had reported a body claiming he saw someone but couldn't see who it was. that's when everyone was claiming to be nowhere near the scene so you did what you had to do. you called out sunoo who you claimed to see come from that direction before the button was called. everyone didn't hesitate to vote for the boy who told you that he would get you back which scared you. it surprised you that everyone voted him out especially since you had killed the person not sunoo.

JUNGWON, jungwon was just trying to have fun playing the game while you were plotting his demise. it's the fact that you killed him even when he knew that you were the imposter and promised to keep your secret safe. it was the biggest betrayal of the century. for the rest of the rounds, jungwon tried to get you voted out no matter if you were the imposter or not. he just wanted you to feel the way he felt when you killed him.

NIKI, the one person you would regret killing in the end. in the beginning, you knew who you were set on killing and that just so happened to be mr. nishimura riki. the poor boy didn't know what was coming to him. you made sure to kill him in medbay when he was doing his scan which made you smile but if only you knew the boy wasn't going to stand for that. after you got voted off for killing sunghoon you apologized to niki only to not get a reply. for the next round, you were a normal crewmate doing your tasks when niki had killed you which just continued happening every round niki was an imposter. now you knew never to kill niki because he could show you how much he could hold a grudge.

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 months

Text

The 501st Gang Meet their 105th Counterparts

A prequel to my last post

Rex, staring uneasily at the fully kitted captain Carno who is just silently staring at him: ...Uh, welcome aboard. I'm sure you'll feel right at home with the 501st and, should you need anything, we're more than willing to accomodate. Carno, continuing to stare menacingly before finally speaking up in a raspy and very hushed tone: I don't like your face. Rex: Wh-- Carno, shoving past him rudely: Stay out of my way, Blondie. I don't need some flashy Jedi's pet putting a spotlight on me. Rex, starting to think this might not be as easy as the briefing made it sound: Oh boy...

James, looking Jesse up and down while playing with his braid: So, is like, the tat supposed to be some kinda statement, or are you just really into licking boots? Jesse, pausing: I... Excuse me?! -staring at James wide-eyed- James: Oooh, it's a statement isn't it? Dang boy, they should slap you on a poster. Every battalion needs a show fathier, I guess! Jesse, glaring: I don't like you. James: Feeling's mutual. This ship ain't big enough for two token pretty boys. Jesse: No, no it isn't.

Hardcase, excitedly showing Clearcut around while talking like a ship running a click per second: Clearcut, allowing Hardcase to drag him around while sort of tuning him out and only picking up on vital pieces of information like emergency hallways, weapons storage and other such things: Hardcase: You don't talk much do ya? That's fine I'll talk for the both of us! Clearcut: By all means, carry on. Hardcase, happily carrying on: I can tell we're both gonna get along really well. Clearcut: I agree.

Kix, staring at Bon who's been shaking and on the verge of tears since arriving: Bon, staring back at Kix with very wet eyes while holding a fully stocked medkit in hand: I get to use this on anyone who comes in here? Kix, blinking: ... Yes. This is the medbay after all. Bon: And I'm allowed to treat them? I'm allowed? Kix, feeling a little uneasy: Yes...? Bon, openly crying now: This is the happiest day of my life... Kix, incredibly uncomfortable: Ah...

Echo & Fives, having a stare down with Wallflower & Nowt: Wallflower & Nowt, staring back at Fives and Echo with an impassive and a smug look respectively: Fives, opens up his mouth to say something: Nowt: Bitch. Wallflower, turning to slap his brother across the face: Captain said to put a sock in it. Nowt: The captain can suck it! If it wasn't for me he wouldn't know half the kark the others get up to when he's not looking! Wallflower: Karkin' snitch! Fives, closing his mouth and looking at Echo: Echo, nodding at Fives as both of them slowly back away from the now furiously arguing Jenga Twins:

Tup, sitting on the floor wrapped in a thin blanket because he was kicked out of his bunk and had his belongings taken: Can I at least have my brush back? Lobo, tossing him a pair of scissors instead: No amount of brushing will make that rat's nest look any less like osik. Tup, narrowly avoiding getting hit by the scissors and now standing up angrily: I'm gonna knock your teeth out. Lobo, equally angry: I'm gonna make you eat your own hair. Tup & Lobo launch themselves at each other and proceed to start a fight:

Dogma, a little overwhelmed as Caprichoso pulls him along while he's supposed to be the one giving him a tour of the ship: Caprichoso, wide-eyed and extremely excited about everything he's seen so far: Wow! You 501st lot have EVERYTHING! Good eats, tons of new gear up for grabs, full training room setup, clean showers, clean barracks, fully stocked medbay... Your Jedi spoil you so good! You must be the greatest troopers ever! Dogma: I... I wouldn't say they spoil us... That'd be a sign of unfair favoritism and would go against the no fraternization rules. And while the 501st certainly has a degree of great competency among many of the GAR's forces, those things you've listed are all requirements that were put forward to the Republic since the beginning of the army's first year of deployment. An ill-prepared and ill-equipment battalion wouldn't serve properly. Caprichoso: I know what you mean. But our general didn't see it that way. Thought we could push ourselves to be better without extra help... But eh! Who cares? The blighter is dead an' buried while we're here now! Gosh... You think your medic could give me a once over? Or or or, maybe we could hit the mess? Or uh! A shower yeah! I haven't had a shower in two weeks... My armour's getting more rank than I am ehehe! Get it? Dogma, moving slightly away from Caprichoso out of mild disgust: I, yes, a hot shower and a hot meal, then I can continue giving you the to-- Caprichoso: YOU GUYS GET HOT WATER?! I LOVE IT HERE ALREADY! -hugging Dogma tightly- We are gonna be such great friends! Dogma, eyes watering at the intense stench of B.O as well as the bone crushing hug of the rather clingy trooper: Stars have mercy...

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mychlapci · 4 months

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bit of a set of weirder headcanons but i think the autobots are fucking freaks when it comes to sex. like the cons are all rough and tough with each other but kinky interfacing comes with a level of trust in your partner that only the autobots have with each other

i feel like public interfacing is relatively accepted among autobots. you go to get your morning fuel in the canteen and sunstreaker has bluestreak pinned against the bulkhead. average fucking tuesday. oh the medibay is having a slow day with few patients, ratchet has first aid warming his spike as he's going through datapads, keeping one servo firmly wrapped around aid's waist as he squirms helplessly. command meetings have like, a 50% chance to get derailed by prowl's chestplate accidentally popping open to reveal his fat tits and jazz just starts sucking on them and then ironhide smacks optimus' panels and oh god there's an orgy now

kink nights just being a common thing among the autobots. mechs can sign up to do scenes with certain partners or just sit on the sidelines and watch it all go down.

a few of the decepticons end up defecting and they get a weird sense of culture shock with how common it is to see interfacing since in con culture that's stupid slag that only softies participate in. actually i think the decepticons would have a completely separate culture regarding interfacing. i think they would be kinky, but they wouldn't consider the bonding/emotional effects of interfacing unless they're real sappy. like interfacing is to blow off steam after a battle, not for having fun with your comrades

drift joins the wreckers and hot rod gives him the best head of his life and then when they cuddle up next to each other drift just has to fucking sit there wondering why no one in the cons cuddled after fucking because this is actually really nice. he gets bent over a table the next morning by blurr and then kup shoves his spike into drift's intake and oh primus drift is having a religious experience now with how well he's getting pounded

i'm going to beam the image of ratchet walking around the ark with his tits fully out and a pair of pretty golden chains pierced through his nozzles and a few particularly handsy bots reach over and tug on them as he passes.

-burnt ice anon

YES. i've seen some instances of “public sex normalized in cybertronian society” and i am LIVING for it. I like the culture shock aspect of it being only autobots who are so open-minded.

A recently defected decepticon just trying to fit in and adapt to the new way of living and they were wholly unprepared to just walk in on people fucking all the time. They walk in on Prowl in his office chair with Jazz slowly grinding against his spike, the sound of his valve gushing is so loud and yet Prowl just keeps on typing away on his data-pad, only occasionally wincing in pleasure. They go to the med-bay next instead but Ratchet's got First Aid sitting on his spike, and it's still weird. They're sitting in the canteen and someone just starts melting right next to them, overloading silly around a remote control vibrator while their partner watches from across the table. Optimus regularly getting jerked off under the desk during high-command meetings, he's pretty sure his side of the desk is completely stained with transfluid from below. Also thank you so much for the image of Ratchet walking around with his titties out. I bet you everyone's sick that day, and absolutely need to be admitted to the medbay and see the doctor right now. He spends the day smacking away wandering hands, though he's only playing hard to get.

hrghhh kink nights with different themes. They get to vote on them weekly. Sometimes a volunteer gets chained and strung up and used repeatedly throughout the night, repeatedly checked up so they're sure he's alright. Sometimes there's pet-play, bots on leashes being told to “go play” with the other pets (i really want to see Sunstreaker for pet-play night… Sunny letting Bluestreak put a leash on him, gritting his teeth the entire time because he's being treated like a domesticated turbofox and it's humiliating and yet it feels so damn good… Sunstreaker rubbing his valve against someone else's, while his owner coos encouragement at him). Or you have simple orgy nights, where people can just blow off steam having sex with anyone. Glory holes in the bathroom that are frequented regularly. Wrecker orgies that shock Drift to the very core but they're fun and he can't complain. And the aftercare is peculiar. They never had anything like that back in the decepticon order.

#valveplug #yes yes yes i love public sex

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seariii · 4 months

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Milgram characters playing among us

Haruka. Always with Muu. Doesn't do tasks. Hates being impostor. When impostor, he gets anxious and his hands tremble so much he can barely hold the phone. Has thrown the other impostor under the bus so Muu could win. When him and Muu get impostor together they always double kill.

Muu. Always with Haruka. will never do tasks. When impostor she can kill in front of Haruka and he won't say anything. Has accidentally killed Haruka in the past. Will throw Haruka under the bus for a victory

Yuno. Really good at getting away with murder. When impostor, will gaslight her way to victory, people will hard clear her. Does her tasks when she remembers. Calls out other's bluff

Mahiru. Picks a random player and sticks with them. "I was holding hands with X". Rarely finishes tasks. When impostor loses or gets carried, when she kills she always gets caught/sussed out, but she usually just forgets and just enjoys hanging out with the others. Giggles while running around another person

Shidou. Focuses on finishing tasks but tries to stick with someone else to keep them safe. Always at the wrong place at the wrong time, usually dies first or gets framed. When impostor, gets carried by the other one because doesn't want to kill, his excuse is "im sorry, i don't know how to kill", occasionally wins by sabotage

Kazui. Doesn't get the appeal of the game, plays to fit in. Slow on doing tasks. Always find the body and gets sussed because of that "Haah... come on... I'm not smart/dumb enough to self report". The first time he got impostor "were we always able to go into the vents?" When he learns, decent impostor, but 50% of the time gets caught red handed

Amane. First one to finish tasks. Reminds people to not vote on 7. Says "We could win by doing tasks" and gets ignored. Hangs out on the edge of the map or if someone is on cams, she stays where the person in cams can see her. When impostor, first kills whoever killed her or sussed her last round, if no one then she always goes for Shidou, doesn't care if she gets caught.

Mikoto. Doesn't take it seriously. Rarely finishes tasks, gets distracted. Calls emergency meetings because he was feeling lonely, gets voted out. "Gasp guys I have medbay scan!" gets followed by impostors. When impostor, decent when he takes it seriously, but when he doesn't he grows attached to one crewmate, roleplays a scene of impossible love and kills in front of them, they usually immediately report and get him voted out

Fuuta. Rushes tasks. When crewmate paranoid. will throw out accusations "X was following me!" (they weren't) "Y is really quiet" and so on, tries his best to be a good detective, ends up being third impostor by accident. When impostor actually good. Has watched streams and videos on how to be the best impostor and win

Kotoko. Plays religiously. Takes it too seriously. Always finishes tasks. hyperaware of who she passed by, what direction they were going, who was last with who and so on. Deadly when impostor, good at getting away with it. Makes the videos Fuuta watches

Bonus Es. Is the one that made the lobby and gets spammed "START START START START". Knows how everyone plays and identifies how they change when they get impostor. Quick to finish tasks and always hangs out on cams.

#what can i say i still like this game #did i project myself into Haruka? yeah maybe I did. i just wanna be a crewmate #milgram #es milgram #haruka sakurai #muu kusunoki #yuno kashiki #fuuta kajiyama #shidou kirisaki #mahiru shiina #kazui mukuhara #amane momose #mikoto kayano #kotoko yuzuriha #my hcs #amongus #milgram hc #seari writes

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literallyjustanerd · 10 months

Text

Should've Switched Majors (Clone Shenanigans)

Summary: A very unfortunate grad student at the University of Coruscant is just trying to finish her thesis for her Investigative Journalism degree. Unbeknownst to her, she's picked the galaxy's worst interview subjects.

Words: 1,492

Characters: Commander Cody, Captain Rex, Domino twins, Waxer, Commander Fox, Commander Bly

University of Coruscant School of Arts Student Number: 218249662 Student Name: Lila Un’qara Course: Masters of Media and Communication – Majoring in Investigative Journalism Final Thesis: Unsung Heroes: Silenced Voices From The Republic’s Front Lines

[Recording Start]

Lila: Okay. The time is now… 0935 standard hours. We’re here in Briefing Room B of the GAR headquarters on Coruscant level 5127, where I’ve been graciously allowed time to speak with some of the Republic’s most decorated soldiers. To start, I’m sitting down with CC-2224 of the 212th Battalion. Though if I’ve been informed correctly, I believe you go by Cody?

CC-2224: Commander is fine, thank you.

L: Oh. Uh, right. My apologies, Commander.

CC-2224: Don’t mention it.

L: So… Your records indicate you’ve been in active service since the beginning of the war.

CC-2224: That’s right. I was decanted from Kamino with the first batch of Clone Commanders.

L: I’m looking at a transcript of your prior operations. There are some major battles here – Christophsis, Ryloth, Saleucami… You’re a true veteran.

CC-2224: As much a veteran as any of us can be, I suppose.

L: And as a Marshal Commander with such a prolific record, you must be highly regarded among your peers and superiors?

CC-2224: My brothers trust me as their Commander.

L: And your GAR command? Generals and Admirals? The Jedi?

CC-2224: …What about them?

L: Do they afford you the same level of trust?

CC-2224: That’s… [pause] Yes, I am trusted. My decisions and conduct are respected as any Commander’s wound be.

[Audio file is silent for 6 seconds]

CC-2224: There are those for whom it takes more for us clones to prove our competence. I don’t allow that to impact my performance. My record speaks for itself.

L: Must get frustrating, though. The pressure to demonstrate your worth. Probably leaves you without much time to let your guard down.

CC-2224: It’s our job. We do it with pride.

L: Surely you can’t keep that up all the time, though? It’s only human to want to have a little fun.

CC-2224: [clearing throat] I maintain a respectable bearing at all times, as do my men. We were trained from birth to uphold the highest standards of professional conduct and I take pride in the reputation of the 212th Battalion as highly proficient, honourable, and—”

[Sound on audio file is briefing room door opening]

CT-2534 (“Waxer”): Hey, Cody…? Remember that thing you said not to do? Uhm, Boil’s in medbay and Fox says you gotta go bail Wooley out before—oh. Uh, hello.

CC-2224: [heavy sigh]

CT-2534 (“Waxer”): Is… this being recorded?

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: Thank you for moving our appointment up, Troopers. The Commander had to leave on some… unexpected business.

ARC-5555: Ha! Guess Waxer wasn’t bluffing after all.

ARC-1409: You owe me five credits.

L: May I refer to you as ARC Troopers, or do you prefer—

ARC-5555: Fives, please.

ARC-1409: Echo.

L: Great. So, the two of you serve under General Skywalker?

ARC-5555: Didn’t start off that way, but now we do, yeah.

ARC-1409: Captain Rex picked us personally to join the 501st as ARC troopers. We joined for him. But serving under General Skywalker is an honour, too.

L: Do you feel he respects your input as clones?

ARC-5555: You kidding? He’d be dead ten times over without us, and he knows it!

ARC-1409: Some of General Skywalker’s strategies are… hit or miss. But we owe him our lives as much as he owes us his.

ARC-5555: Nah. It’s 23-19 in our favour. I’ve counted.

ARC-1409: 23? You’re counting the Naboo thing?

ARC-5555: Far as I’m concerned, that’s the closest the General’s come to karking it.

L: Can you elaborate? What happened on Naboo?

[ARC-5555 begins to speak but is silenced by ARC-1409. Sound on audio file is ARC-1409 hitting ARC-5555 on the back of the head]

ARC-1409: Sorry. Sworn to secrecy. ARC Trooper’s honour.

L: Seems like you’re pretty close with your General. Can you tell me—

ARC-5555: So you’re a student, right? Coruscant University? What’s it like?

L: What’s… Uhm, it’s an excellent school. Good facilities, knowledgeable professors, the courses are highly-regarded. Now, if we could get back to—

ARC-1409: So –sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, I just– you can study anything you want? You just get to pick?

L: …Yes, that’s how it works.

ARC-1409: What if you don’t like what you pick?

L: You can change your course. Back on topic, we were discussing—

ARC-5555: You can change your course? You’re allowed to do that? Whenever you want?

L: Yup.

ARC-1409: Did you ever do that?

L: I’m starting to wish I had.

ARC-5555: Wish we could’ve done that. I’d have been a Naval Officer. Way better uniform.

ARC-1409: [chuckling] The navs would hate you! They’d have you decomm’ed on the first day for unruly behaviour.

ARC-5555: The navs wish they had the honour of my unruly behaviour.

L: Can we get back on topic. Please?

ARC-1409: What was the topic, again?

L: [heavy sigh]

ARC-5555: Hey… the 501st is on shore leave for the next two days. What are you doing tonight?

L: …Uh.

ARC-1409: We could…. continue the interview over a couple drinks at 79’s?

L: I… hm.

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: As a member of the Coruscant Guard, you’ve seen more than most other clones of the galaxy’s capital and its senate. Commander Fox, has this given you any opinions you feel are different to other clones about the war?

CC-1010: No.

L: Nothing? You don’t think being able to witness the senate debates has given you any sort of insight into the politics at play here?

CC-1010: Nope.

[Sound on audio file is CC-1010 sipping from a mug of caf for approximately 9 seconds]

L: Uhm. Well. There aren’t many people, clone or otherwise, who get such a close audience with Chancellor Palpatine. Are you and the other Coruscant Guard troopers close with him?

CC-1010: Hm. No.

L: …Thank you for your time.

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: Captain Rex. I appreciate your willingness to, uh, actually speak to me. Have you given much thought to what might happen once the war is over?

CT-7567: Of course. All of us have. But you tend to stop thinking about that pretty early on in your service.

L: Oh? Why is that, do you think?

CT-7567: There’s just not much of a point to it, really. We’ve got too much on our mind every day trying to keep our heads up and keep ourselves and our brothers alive. The end of the war, it’s just not really a factor for us.

L: Right. You’ve been fighting for years now. That must take a toll.

CT-7567: I suppose, but in a sense, it’s just our way of life. We’ve never known anything besides war. How can we imagine a life after it? To a clone, the galaxy has always been, and will always be, at war. I don’t think I would know any other way to navigate the world.

L: That’s… actually very insightful.

CT-7567: You sound surprised?

L: Never mind. Does—does it frighten you, then? Not knowing what might come after?

CT-7567: Not at all. The future might be an unknown, but whatever happens, I know—

[Sound on audio file is the briefing room door opening]

CC-2224: Your boys are at it again.

CT-7567: [groan] Which ones?

CC-2224: All of them. They’re in the quad, Wooley said something about a stolen speeder.

CT-7567: So it’s your boys, then. Your boys who just got bailed out of Corrie holding this morning?

[Sound on audio file is CT-7567 standing]

L: Wait, no, we were just getting somewhere, don’t—

CC-2224: My men stepped in to control the situation.

CT-7567: Face it, your troops kriff around and blame mine when the osik hits the filtration system.

[Sound on audio file is CT-7567 and CC-2224 bumping the microphone as they move toward the door]

L: Captain? Commander? Please, if we could at least finish what we—

CC-2224: All I’m saying is, this wouldn’t be the first time the 212th have had to step in to clean up the 501st’s mess.

CT-7567: Mhmm. Is that what happened on Naboo, too?

CC-2224: That’s different and you know it.

[Sound on audio file is briefing room door closing. Following sound is approximately fifteen seconds of Lila groaning increasingly loudly]

[Recording stop] [Recording start]

L: [long sigh, followed by approximately 7 seconds of silence] It is currently… 1743 hours. I’m still in Briefing Room B, I’ve deleted more useless material than I’ve kept, and I am questioning… every choice I’ve made in my academic career. So. Commander Bly. Can you tell me a little about your relationship with your Jedi General?

CC-5052: No comment.

L: Oh, kark this.

[sound on audio file is Lila removing her lapel mic]

L: …Do you know how to get to 79’s from here?

[Recording stop]

#i just think people would be interested in clone welfare during the clone wars #but also i think the clones would be hell to talk to about it #clone shenanigans #501st shenanigans #212th shenanigans #sw tcw #star wars: the clone wars #sw tcw fanfic #commander cody #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #commander fox #captain rex #commander bly #clone trooper boil #drabble #clone headcanons #domino twins

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