Trash Sideblog for me and my mutuals Blorbos

and you almost fall to your knees as din speaks. his voice, somehow both as unfamiliar as the breath that fans your wrists and as familiar as the hands that grip your waist.

there's an iron focus to how he moves that scares everyone who is unfortunate enough to cross his path. he's usually stoic, difficult to read, easy to submit to, but it's like a flip switches in his head when he's trying to get information about your whereabouts. there's rage behind every step he takes, slicing through doors and holding up informants with just an arm pressed to their throats.

dozens of bridges lie burnt in the wake of his disappointment and he doesn't even care.

it's an obsession, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he doesn't allow himself a single moment of rest, not when he knows you're out there waiting. every second counts. and he'll be damned if he lets you sit in fear and anxiety when you could be—should be—with him.

he almost convinces himself that he would do it for anyone. leave no stone unturned, reconnect with everyone that has ever owed him a favour, work leads until he's bloody and beaten and bruised.

he's noooooot highhhhhhhhhhh and undersleeeeppppt, he's eeevil now

Pedro at Mandalorian and Grogu Promo.

i like to think that every so often when one of them starts to lose the light behind their eyes, whitaker and santos make bleary eye contact after their shift has ended and they go to the nearest acceptable gay bar

Nurse Jesse off shift 🤘 or just Ned Brower, let's be real here.

A birthday art request for @thedamnqueenofhell for March 🥳