A Thief's Only Enemy
A Thief's Only Enemy
(BASED ON OPLA!Nami) cross-posted on ao3 !!
Nami, the trees whisper. Its tangerine drops against the soil like a ripple in the sea. She remembers the wind passing by the orchard, the dots of tangerines in the horizon, the smell of citrus making every air she breathed worthed and sour.
Her tongue catches the taste. Her words become citrus.
Once and now, the trees would whisper her name. Nami, Nami, Nami— our daughter, look at the curiosity—She doesn’t know what that means. Quite frankly, Nami doesn’t recall a memory that whispered her name the way the tangerine trees would. She couldn’t remember what it had meant, what it had sounded like. She couldn’t remember the significance of names. Of course, the significance of names other than Mom, and Nojiko.
Nojiko, who is her sister, (who isn’t her sister), whose skin reaches more than a tree’s roots, underneath the soil, nurturing and caring. Who had held her, who squeezed her tighter, closer, protectively when Belle-Mere had found them.
Then, there was her mother, oh, sweet mother. Who had said “I just knew” undoubtedly, who had been the first one to answer her questions truthfully, who had left her knowing that she and Nojiko were loved.
(This is what life first stole: her name. It is buried until Nojiko and Belle-Mere latches themselves in her heart. They make a home there. They pump her blood and provide for her. This is what life first stole: when the home is in flames and the trees rots—when her mother fell with her skull-cracked, blood spilling between the gaps of wood, the soil carries her sacrifice. The village carries her body, they dig beside a wide tree of tangerines, they place her there. She is buried there. With a piece of Nami and Nojiko ever-beating love for each other.)
You are my daughters, I will not deny that. Nami remembers, she remembers many things. She remembers Arlong’s stupid gun, his stupid smile. She remembers Nojiko’s spiteful look when she left with Arlong. She remembers the way her sister’s blue hair reflected the emotions she felt.
(This is what Nami stole from herself: the tranquillity and war of sisterhood. She thought of the consequences because her mother had told them to be as strong as boys, and that, if they survived, good times will come. Nami knew—you see, she was a thief, then and now, thievery is mixed up with trickery—that her village would not survive Arlong’s grasp. He is a fishmen, no human in their village could deny that they were scarred with his ever-growing laughter the moment he claimed them. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she would take back: sisterhood.)
Nojiko’s hair never went past its original length, she still looks like her sister: Nami’s sister.
Arlong’s tattoo says otherwise. She would breathe in, her hands were bruised from labour. She used to love the lines that curve to make the islands, cartography offered newness other than the mundane shackles around her once soil-covered ankles. Nesh tears pickled her citrus-covered face, her hair would be dried. She would hug her chest, carry the weight of the knowledge she possessed.
(This is what life stole from her: freedom. The ability to breathe the citrus air, or the raw wind against her skin. Of course, Nami would grow out those shackles, she knew, her mother had told her and Nojiko that their bodies were not meant to stay in this shape. She had known that she would not stay in this vessel of a tiny girl. Yet, she could not bring herself to hope. To hope that she would live one. This is what life stole from her: freedom. The freedom to make friends. The freedom to have ridiculous hope).
Nami grew. She had to. For Coco Village. For Nojiko. For her mother. She had to. She learned how to keep her hair the same shape, she learned to observe the sky while slipping berries out of a stranger’s pockets. She learned the meaning of her name from a stolen book, how reflecting her eyes could be in the ocean.
(This is what Nami stole from herself: a life surrounded with fishmen that would go after her, wherever she went. And she had all but herself to blame, the moment her foot made contact with the wooden floor, the moment she had blurted out that she wanted to join. This is what Nami stole from herself, and what she thinks she would never get back: a life she calls her own.)
(my thoughts are always on the tags!!) ♡ PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG TO SUPPORT ME.
More Posts from Typingfool and Others
The neglect of the Gods
PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS 1x02 "I Become Supreme Lord of the Bathroom" // 1x03 "We Visit the Garden Gnome Emporium"
List of Journalists Killed During this Genocide. Say their names!
Rizq Arrouq (22/12/23)
Muhammad Al-Saidi (22/12/23)
Adel Zorob (19/12/23)
Abdullah Alwan (18/12/23)
Haneen Ali Al-Qashtan (17/12/23)
Mashal Ayman Shahwan (16/12/23)
Assem Kamal Musa (16/12/23)
Rami Badir (15/12/23)
Ali Ashour Abu Malek (15/12/23)
Samer Abu Daqqa (15/12/23)
Khamis Hussain (15/12/23)
Ahmed Abu Abseh (13/12/23)
Hanan Ayad (13/12/23)
Narmeen Qawas (13/12/23)
Abdel Kareem Oudeh (12/12/23)
Mohammed Abu Samra (10/12/23)
Doaa al-Jabour (9/12/23)
Ola Atallah (9/12/23)
Hossam Omar Ammar (8/12/23)
Hamada Al-Yaziji (6/12/23)
Abdul Hamid Al-Qarinawi (3/12/23)
Mahmoud Salem (3/12/23)
Shaima Al-Jazzar (3/13/23)
Hassan Farajallah (3/12/23)
Hudhayfah Lulu (3/12/23)
Muhammad Farajallah (2/12/23)
Abdullah Darwish (1/12/23)
Muntaser Al-Sawwaf (1/12/23)
Marwan Al-Sawwaf (1/12/23)
Adham Hassouna (1/12/23)
Nader Al-Nazli (25/11/23)
Amal Zuhd (24/11/23)
Mostafa Bakeer (24/11/23)
Mohamed Mouyin Ayyash (23/11/23)
Mohamed Nabil Al-Zaq (21/11/23)
Assem Al-Barash (21/11/23)
Jamal Haniyeh (21/11/34)
Farah Omar (21/11/23)*
Rabih Al Maamari (21/11/23)*
Ayat Khadoura (20/11/23)
Alaa Al-Nimr
Bilal Jadallah (19/11/23)
Abdelhalim Awad (18/11/23)
Sari Mansour (18/11/23)
Hassouneh Sleem (18/11/23)
Mostafa El Sawaf (18/11/23)
Amr Salah Abu Hayah (18/11/23)
Mossab Ashour (18/11/23)
Mahmoud Matar (15/11/23)
Ahmed Fatima (13/11/23)
Yaacoub Al-Barsh (13/11/23)
Mousa Al-Barsh (12/11/23)
Ahmed Al-Qara (10/11/23)
Yahya Abu Manih (7/11/23)
Mohamed Abu Hasira (7/11/23)
Mohamed Al Jaja (5/11/23)
Haitham Harara (3/11/23)
Mohamad Al-Bayyari (2/11/23)
Mohammed Abu Hatab (2/11/23)
Majd Fadl Arandas (1/11/23)
Iyad Matar (1/11/23)
Imad Al-Wahidi (31/10/23)
Majed Kashko (31/10/23)
Nazmi Al-Nadim (30/10/23)
Yasser Abu Namous (27/10/23)
Duaa Sharaf (26/10/23)
Zaher Alafghani (25/10/23)
Jamal Al-Faq’awi (25/10/23)
Saed Al-Halabi (25/10/23)
Ahmed Abu Mahadi (25/10/23)
Salma Mkhaimer (25/10/23)
Hudhayfah Al-Najjar
Mohamed Al Hassani
Mohamed El-Shorbajei
A’ed Ismail Al-Najjar (24/10/23)
Iman Al-Aqili (24/10/23)
Mohammed Imad Labad (23/10/23)
Roshdi Al-Sarraj (22/10/23)
Mahmoud Abu Zarifa (22/10/23)
Hany Al-Madhoun (21/10/23)
Mohammed Ali (20/10/23)
Khalil Abu Aathra (19/10/23)
Sameeh Al-Nady (18/10/23)
Mohammad Balousha (17/10/23)
Issam Behar (17/10/23)
Abdulhadi Habib (16/10/23)
Yousef Maher Dawas (14/10/23)
Salam Mema (13/10/23)
Ali Nisman (13/10/23)
Husam Mubarak (13/10/23)
Issam Abdallah (13/10/23)*
Abdul Rahman Shihab (12/10/23)
Anas Abu Shamala (12/10/23)
Ahmed Shehab (12/10/23)
Mustafa Al-Naqeeb (11/10/23)
Rajab Al-Naqeeb (11/10/23)
Mohamed Fayez Abu Matar (11/10/23)
Saeed Al-Taweel (10/10/23)
Mohammed Sobh Abu Rizq (10/10/23)
Hisham Alnawajeha (10/10/23)
As’ad Shamlakh (8/10/23)
Mohammad Jarghoun (7/10/23)
Ibrahim Mohammad Lafi (7/10/23)
Mohammad Al-Salhi (7/10/23)
*lebanese journalist | could not find date of martyrdom
spent the whole day confirming all of these names and looking through multiple resources. the ones with dates are journalists who’s date of martyrdom and/or exact cause of death is stated by sources besides the government media office official list.
Ghada Karmi and Ellen Siegel, in 1973, 1992 and 2011. Photos by Francis Khoo (1, 2) and Jean-Pascal Deillon (3).
Is the heir to the throne bothering you, Lord Tyland? HOUSE OF THE DRAGON — 2x01: A Son for a Son
Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith | Padme Amidala Concept Art illustrated by Sang Jun Lee
𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; din djarin
Pairing; Din Djarin x gn!Reader
outline —; Peaceful times with Din Djarin were rare. You relish it.
word count —; 1.1k
WARNINGS —; none.
tags / themes —; reader and din are married, grogu (sweetly) interrupting a moment.
A/N —; *comes back with a massive stars wars obsession* hey, i write for them now. it's been a stressful couple months and i wanted to get something out for my birthday. this isn't beta-read, i just wanted to write. please be kind, thanks.
This galaxy raised warriors, heroes, and peace-keepers. Those who fought in the name of their planet, for the safety of the future, and the love they carry for their family. Those who were victims of war survived… or trained to survive, fight, and endure.
This galaxy isn’t raised for writers, painters, and performers. Those who coped in whomever’s name, for the sanity of themselves, and possibly for the love they carried for their crafts. Of course, artists don’t only do it for themselves. They create in order to escape; and luckily enough, they don’t press themselves into the cruel hands of the galaxy. Because it isn’t built for them.
For you, the galaxy seemed to test the waters. Warriors and Artists? Maybe those two weren’t so different, after all. Oh, how history would have written it; when the stars collide, an artist with no place in this galaxy meets a warrior who can’t find a home. Those three long years, what an adventure it has been.
Din Djarin is a victim of war. Like yourself. There truly is a place for people like you. But whilst Din grew up with the Way, you grew up tracing the sky, seeing shapes in every landscape, and memorising the curve of someone’s face. Often asking yourself questions like; Where does the shadow fall? In which direction does the light come from? If you were simplified, which shapes best describe you?
Din Djarin is a Mandalorian. Not like yourself. A Mandalorian. A warrior. He trained and connived his way till he stood in this solid home. He grew up hidden, so he stayed that way for a while in his life; often a mystery to the Guild.
“Din Djarin, do not move.” You warned, tilting your head as the heat of Nevarro’s sun hit your face. The chair, in which you sat, rocked back slightly at your movements. With arms outstretched, thumb against the pencil, you held it feebly upwards, trying to calculate the proportions of the Mandalorian’s body.
If you could see his face out in the open right now, you would’ve caught on with the fact that your husband — your riduur — was smirking. And decided to tilt his head in the opposite direction for the fun of it. You clicked your tongue in annoyance but a smile adorned your face. “I’ve been in this position for fifteen minutes, ner runi.” Din sighed softly, tapping his ungloved fingers against his forearm.
“Fifteen minutes more.” You looked at him over the rim of your notebook, sketching away. A light fire went on above your head, face lighting up as the same smile adorned your features. “I’ll entertain you, what’s our son doing?” You asked, raising your notebook down to tilt your head at him again.
Din chuckled at your demeanour or was it your question? You couldn’t tell, though he answered anyway. “Eating frogs.”
“Again?” You turned to look at the side to see your son doing so; eating frogs. Entirely, it was your fault for looking away. At the time your eyes left your riduur, Din got up, breaking your focus. “Din!” You laughed as you looked back at him.
Your Mandalorian called your name with the same energy. His next words were spoken in a gentle manner, enough to capture your attention. “I’m tired,” He merely said, extending his hand to you. “Let’s be tired together.”
You let a relieved breath. Has it always been there? You weren’t sure, though, at this moment, you let it go. You released it when settling your supplies down the chair in which you sat. You released it when you found yourself melting into Din’s hands.
With the armour off, the world is all but noisy. The only sound prominent are frogs croaking and the gentle breeze of Nevarro’s ambience. He pulled you into his chest and laid his back against the frame of the metal door.
Music. You could hear music, with your cheeks pressed against the warmth of his chest, and with his arms wrapped around you (and yours around Din’s waist). The world stopped, for a few moments it stopped, and you breathed. Inhale and exhale. The exhaustion left your body through that breath, and you could feel that Din breathed too. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. You could hear his gentle heart, if you listen close enough, you could practically hear his soul. What would it sound like?
Move. Your body screamed to move, but a part of you wanted to stay like this forever. Though, the feeling caved into you, forcing your head to look at your husband’s visor. Your chin rested on his chest as you asked warily. “Can I kiss you?”
Modulate. The Mandolorian’s helmet modulated his voice, if he answered in a chuckle, the other might receive it the wrong way. He didn’t want to move. The embrace held a significant peace, one that physically pained him when he moved a muscle. But Din didn’t speak with his brain at the moment, so he removed his helmet, and the beskar fell onto the floor beside them.
They were in the middle of nowhere, what would you say? — All is well. — That sentence proved its point when Din held your cheeks beneath his hands, and his lips were on yours. He could feel you kiss back, he could feel your cheeks against his, he could feel the lazy smile that tugged your lips. Truly, Din wanted to open his eyes, to get a better look of you without his visor, yet somehow, he couldn’t.
Din is tired. So tired. His shoulder gave in and melted between your arms; he didn’t know how it got there; your elbows above his shoulder, as your fingers explored his hair. But Din didn’t care, he just melted into your kiss, laughing, nearly crying over the unexpected bliss and peacefulness the day had to offer.
His desires of staying like this with you continued to grow within each second—
“Patu!” And then, the moment was sweetly broken.
Your lips disconnected with a sound, pulling away the moment the sound was in ear-shot. Din’s eyes landed first on the green baby, doe eyed, ears high, and head tilted innocently.
You saw him slurp a frog. “Grogu,” A waning smile reached your son’s lips when his name was mentioned, without warning, he jumped into your arms. Thankfully, you caught him. “That’s not nice of you. What if the frogs had parents?” You teased.
Din chuckled beside you, kissing your temple lightly, before opening the door. “Let’s head inside.” He said while bending to get his fallen helmet. The gesture, so simple, caught you off guard. A soft, green hand held the base of your cheek and Grogu joyfully yelled with ‘‘Iek!’
Stepping inside, you looked around, almost nostalgically. This is your home. Reminded by Grogu and Din’s presence, a smile painted your lips. They are your home. “I’ll kiss you once more when he’s asleep.” He muttered before taking Grogu from your grip.
Maybe there is a place for artists in this galaxy.
TRANSLATION(S);
riduur; spouse, husband, wife ner runi; my soul (*ner; my) (*runi; soul)
♡ PLEASE LIKE AND REBLOG TO SUPPORT ME.
I am back on my daily thoughts about Palestine and Congo and Sudan and Armenia and many, many other countries who have been stripped from their human rights and freedom.
Think about them. Think about them always and forever, they are experiencing something that we thought happens only in history. They are being written in history right now, the names you see is just the surface, there are still people in those lands. Millions and they are dying.
Post and repost about them, don't be ashamed.
I know it’s not much in the face of everything but I have been finding hope & resilience in palestinian poetry these past few weeks and I created a google drive file of poetry collections by palestinian poets that I will keep updating as I keep on reading. I also recommend checking out @fiercynn’s palestinian poets series for more poets + poetry available online
I just wanted to share this article about Palestine's right to revolt and why it is important that we support it. It also has sources embedded in the text that debunk misinformation about them and Hamas. I implore everyone to read it and spread this information around.
Edit [12/25/23 3:19 PM GMT+]: I should also emphasize that the article is an opinion piece, so I also encourage you to also do further research to come to your own critical conclusions.
As a whole, the article still explores why Palestinians resist. As someone whose entire history was build on resisting against oppressors (I'm Filipino), I can understand and empathize where they are coming from. This is one way that I wish to express my solidarity.
-
look-away21 liked this · 9 months ago -
jadekomaeda liked this · 1 year ago -
typingfool reblogged this · 1 year ago
