#I had a blast writing this!

[cubes-of-sugar-and-pepper]

Ch. 7 So these are the consequences of our actions

E || Ch. 7/7 || 23K || Hurt/Comfort || Omegaverse

Summary: Something was wrong. Very very wrong. One moment Alex and Henry were talking about his omega's awful family and the next Henry became placid and compliant to their every wishes.

Something was wrong. And Alex was going to get to the bottom of it.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I hope you take this as the compliment it is intended to be, but you strike the same chord of irreverence-as-love, jokes-to-showcase-sencerity that I get from Chuck Tingle, and I adore both of you.

You have bestowed the greatest honour upon me.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Established relationship from my WIP 'Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight'. Stephen happy & head-over-heels in love.

Tagging a few:

@ironstrange1991 (because you might enjoy the fluffiness of it) @aeterna-auroral-avenger @groovyqueer @icytrickster17 @mousedetective @hithertoundreamtof23 @stewardofningishzida @paperclippedmime @strangesunicornsparkle

25. Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain.

Ooooooo, @strangelock221b...thanks so much for the prompt! I think you’re gonna like this...

Stephen and Teyla (Streyla) - wet kisses worth waiting for

moodboard by @strangelock221b

Stephen had danced this night, as never before in his life---and it had all been Teyla’s doing.

Their excursion to Hadeeth had been thinly veiled as a diplomatic mission, with the Master of the New York Sanctum playing the role of guest of honor at a rare, but long-standing, Hadeethan celebration.  Lavara est Til-Manya.  Roughly translated to English, Feast of the Sister-Moons.  Stephen and Teyla were still deep in the honeymoon stage of their relationship (and he would be more than happy to have that go on indefinitely), so that he hadn’t even considered declining her pretty invitation to join her on her homeworld for a tradition which was clearly dear to her heart.  

Teyla’s eyes had sparkled as she described the week-long holiday observance.  “Only once or twice in a generation, beloved,” she had explained, “Do Anya, Enya, and Nonya align in this way.  And so the People celebrate with a festival of games and artisan markets and many entertainments...including the Hadeethan version of fireworks.”  She had lowered her lashes demurely, certainly aware that that never failed to win her way with him---but perhaps not as cognizent of how sublimely happy Stephen felt knowing that she reserved such looks for him, and him alone.  “The last such celebration took place when I was but seven Earth years old, and though I would joyfully partake now, without you by my side to share it, the experience will be dimished,” she finished, adding a seldom-used, but very pretty pout, that instantly sealed his fate.

Three weeks later his schedule had been cleared enough for him to spend a few days away from Earth, and Wong had taken his place at the New York Sanctum in the interim.  Stephen and Teyla had arrived the evening of the halfway point of the festival, thinking they would both be staying near the city center, in the trim, cozy cottage that was her family home.  Instead, Teyla’s mother, Moraine (a true force of nature by both Hadeethan and Earth standards, in Stephen’s view) had arranged for him to board several cobbled streets away.

“Teyla will guide you to the Bachelors’ Quarters, Doctor Strange.  You will not be the only man there required by honor and tradition to sleep beneath a roof separate from that of your intended,” she informed him briskly.  “If you had seen fit to wed my daughter by Hadeethan protocol, this would not be neccessary.” 

With a quick glance at Teyla (who rolled her eyes, but nodded for him to comply), he had thanked the formidable matron and High Councilwoman for her hospitality, biting his tongue against pointing out that she had given them her reluctant blessing months ago by providing her only child with the traditional, handsewn garment that normally marked a Hadeethan maiden’s wedding night. And that she herself, had found a mate outside her culture’s strictures, in the form of Teyla’s human father.  What’s good for the goose was apparently not so good for the gander, when it came to her much-loved daughter.

And so Teyla had left him after making a proper introduction to the other, younger men required to observe the same decorum---though not before they had lingered a while in the velvet darkness, sharing deep, abiding kisses meant to see them through the days ahead.  “I am so sorry, beloved,” she had murmured as he trailed kisses from her lips along her jawline and onto the tender flesh of her throat, “It had not occurred to me she would force us apart in this manner.”  She ruffled her fingers through his hair, sighing as Stephen pulled her flush against him, assuring him, “I do not believe I will sleep a single wink this night, as I have become spoiled by sharing your bed these many weeks.”

He growled against the hollow of her throat, wishing he could just whisk her away by portal to the lovely field of talat-akeylum outside the city gates, and have his way with her a time or two before they had to part.  Teyla sighed even harder--knowing his mind without needing to read his emotions--and laid her hands on his face to make him look into her eyes.  “I feel the same, Stephen.” She soothed her hand across his brow, and he felt the silken touch of her empathetic magic, meant to cool the heat of his blood.  “I would tarry there with you the whole night through--but neither of us would enjoy Mother’s ire come the light of day, for even now she awaits my return.”  

As he fell asleep a short time later, Stephen was fairly certain his sweet little Healer had cast a charm enough to give him the rest he would need---though thankfully, his dreams were full of the sight and the taste and the feel of his gentle, loving woman.

                         _______________________________

The next few days were busy ones, and Stephen was feted at the midday and evening meals, as befit an important, foreign dignitary.  And though Moraine arranged for Teyla to be ever at his side as translator, there was barely a moment when some pair of eyes or another was not set upon them.  They soon fell back on the thought communication that had grown stronger and stronger between them as their bond of love had deepened---so at least there were moments of humor shared and silent reassurances between them that they missed each other in equal, desperate measure.

Stephen learned much of Hadeethan culture over those days, confirming his belief that Teyla represented the best of her people.  The first two nights concluded with performances by troubadours and troupes of actors performing short, comical plays, followed by a themed display of fireworks, celebrating various events of Hadeethan history.  At least during those, Stephen had the luxury of sitting next to Teyla, and holding her hand---although the times her thigh pressed against his left him with a wicked ache for more.

The morning of their last day there, Moraine sent for Stephen to break his fast with them in her cottage.  She watched him as carefully as usual, though she seemed far more relaxed than at any point in his stay on Hadeeth.  As Teyla cleared away the dishes, Moraine actually thanked him for following her commandments without complaint.  “Perhaps I have been harder on you, Doctor Strange, than I would be on a Hadeethan suitor.  But you have weathered this trial with the grace and maturity evident in the reputation that proceeds you---and I know now that no mother could be more pleased with the choice her daughter’s heart has made.”

Stephen had bowed his head, truly humbled by her kind regard, “I am honored that you find me worthy of your daughter, Mistress Moraine.  And grateful, knowing that her bright and gentle light is a gift of the way you have raised her, and of the love that lives within these cottage walls.”  He noticed that Teyla had come to stand in the archway that led to the kitchen, and added with a heartfelt smile, “And I swear on my soul, I will cherish her as much, and even more, than you have throughout her life.”

Afterwards, the women brought him to the small courtyard tucked behind the cottage, for a very important lesson.  The final feast of the festival was followed by joyous folk dancing beneath the light of the Sister-Moons at their shared apex---and thus they spent the morning teaching him as best they could.  Moraine also presented Stephen with  a finely made garment, in keeping with those worn by the male celebrants at the closing feast; and as she had done for Teyla’s gown months back, she had embroidered the open neckline with symbols fit for the wearer.  Having spent time training in Kamar-Taj in her youth, she used her knowledge to fashion symbols representative of Stephen’s work and of the Mystic Brotherhood.  Stephen had bowed low, as he accepted it, knowing this gift was the best token of Moriane’s acceptance which he ever would receive.

             _________________________________________

Peels of far off thunder had begun to resound just as the huge bonfire around which the dancing would take place, had come to full life.  Stephen noted this did not deter the eager, boisterous crowd as they assembled in at least a dozen concentric circles around the bonfire.  As an honored guest, he was given a place between Teyla and Moraine in the innermost circle; and as he understood it, the ritualized dance would have each circle work it’s way outward, until eventually the formation was the opposite of how it had begun.

Several groups of musicians were stationed just beyond the circles, and each had a vital role to play at their appointed time.  The dance began, and the music flowed seamlessly from group to group, strings and woodwinds, harps and tinkling chimes of varying sizes, taking up where previous  groups left off, until at last they joined in together, picking up the pace as the dancing grew more enthusiastic.  Such an intricate dance, but it seemed all the dancers were well practiced, so that Stephen was very glad the women had tutored him well enough to acquit himself with only minor missteps.

Storm clouds has spread gradually across the dusky sky, promising to obscure the stars and the sacred light of the three moons all too soon.  Yet the joy of the Hadeethan people seemed unabated, so that Stephen understood their cause for celebration went well beyond the ancient intent of the feast-time.  It was the celebration of a people united; people who had weathered storms, and met many challenges from nature and from within, and survived to become a culture that valued family and kindess beyond wealth and power.  Love and generosity of spirit beyond the accumulation of material goods.  Spirituality beyond the rigors of the scientific method.

When the first raindrops fell, a mighty cry of amusement went up, as many raised their faces to the sky to welcome that which helped make life possible.  And the dance continued on.

Stephen had clapped hands with countless Hadeethans as the inner circle moved outward, and at some point Moraine had left his side, weaving her way into another circle as almost all the other dancers had.  But he’d kept Teyla’s hand firmly clasped in his, for she was his anchor here as much as she was the center of his world.  By the time they reached the outer circle, they were both soaked to the skin.

Realizing that at last they were unobserved, he reeled Teyla close, though he still nearly had to shout for her to hear him.  “I think we’re in the clear, honey---do you think that we could slip away for a while?”

She looked surprised, but very pleased at his suggestion.  “Whither thou lead, my darling, I shall ever follow!” and Stephen’s heart leapt a little, for he adored when she fell into that archaic, but lovely, pattern of speech.  Tugging her along, he sprinted toward a deadend alley, knowing that was no impediment to their progress.

Quickly conjuring a portal, he led them to the sweetly scent field of flowers that grew outside the city walls.  Teyla was laughing, “But we’re no drier here, my love, than in the city center.”

Stephen held up a finger, grinning at the surprise which he held in store for her.  The air around him tinkled with crystalline notes, as clear walls and a ceiling enclosed them, cutting off the fall of rain.  “The Mirror Dimension,” he beamed, answering the question on her precious lips, “We’re undetectable right now, and we have privacy at last.”  With a pass of his hands over the closest blossoms of the talat akeylum, the water that soaked the field began to evaporate in a wave that moved outward until it came up against the clear wall bordering their private sanctuary.

Hands on her hips, Teyla looked at him, so perplexed that Stephen forgot to cast the drying spell on their hair and clothes.  “Please don’t tell me you’d rather go back to the festival, Teyla.  I think we’ve behaved respectably for long enough---and I miss holding you, like I haven’t missed anything in half a lifetime at least.”

Teyla bit her lip, and looked at him from head to toe, before wrapping her arms around his neck and boosting herself close enough to lay a deep, delicious, and very damp kiss upon his lips, only pulling away when they were both too starved for air.  “Brilliant you are, my love,” she panted, “As no man I have ever known...”  Teyla nestled her wet cheek against his, softly humming her satisfaction at finally being alone together after far too long for her satisfaction, then kissed his wet skin on a sure path back to his lips, to sigh against them, “But by the holy light of the Sister-Moons, why did you not show me this wonder days ago, and instead leave me starving for your touch?”  Stephen chuckled quietly at his own foolishness, as she added, “And leave me thirsting for the bliss within your kiss?”

He smiled despite his oversight, and took her mouth with his, lavishing warm, wet and eager kisses on his beloved, determined to make up for every single kiss they had missed, before he would even consider leaving the Mirror Dimension.

[for more on Hadeeth, it’s people, and it’s Moons, see this chapter and this chapter Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight] 

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.1)

oh boy oh boy am i excited for this one buckle up boys it’s gonna be a long one. analysis under the cut (WITH PICTURES!!)

i, like many others, have many thoughts and opinions about juni ba's the boy wonder that i'd like to express. i was having trouble formatting my rant, though, so i decided that it was easiest to just address some of the common complaints i've seen about the comic and jason's characterization and insert my ramblings throughout it. so far i've seen three main complaints:

the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one"

his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character

the neighbor's kid interaction

to start with the first one-- when introducing jason's character, in both the second and first issue, ba uses the descriptors "coarse", "bitter", "hardened", "brash" and, of course, "rageful".

so, yes-- i understand where people are having issues with this characterization. however, even if it's overplayed, it's still important to remember that jason is angry, and is driven, in part, by his anger at bruce and the joker. and, as ba highlights, he deserved to be! completely erasing jason's anger is just as bad as defining him with it.

i also don't think it's wholly accurate to say that ba is boiling jason down to just his anger. it might seem like that when only considering the dialogue and narration, but jason's behavior in the comic doesn't perfectly align with how the narrator describes him. while the narration describes him as "rageful" and could be an instance of generalization, jason's actions throughout the comic are more aligned with two other emotions/motivators: fear and despair. we never see jason get actually, properly angry; the closest we get is when he's seemingly annoyed by damian (which i believe could be performative) and when he becomes violent, accidentally hurting damian.

even in this instance, though, he is not driven to this violence by rage, but rather fear. so, while ba states in the narration that jason is driven by his anger, he contradicts himself by highlighting how jason's sadness and terror motivates his character. this could be interpreted as lousy writing on ba's part, but i'm not going to attribute the paradox to that inference. to me, it actually represents a critque of the "jason is the angry robin" generalization, because it calls to attention the discrepancies between how one is described versus reality, an issue that jason both faces in the comics (bruce using him as a cautionary tale when dying WASN'T HIS FAULT) and outside of the comics, as mentioned previously.

furthermore, this highlights the difference between what jason believes about bruce's perspective and bruce's actual perspective (according to damian). jason believes himself to be a "failure", but damian refutes this by describing his conversation with bruce concerning jason, a conversation that does not align with jason's belief. if you couldn't tell by now, perception versus reality is a BIG theme in this comic (and for jason's character in general!)

i was really fascinated by ba's take on jason, because it veered pretty far from a lot of contemporary comics, most of which do, unfortunately, play with the angry robin jason generalization. they've been doing a bit with his fear, too, which has either been pretty fun or the most awful thing ever (i'm looking at you zdarsky. gotham war was fucked up), but what makes ba's jason stand out to me is how he grapples with his grief.

this boy is so sad. ba's jason might actually be the saddest rendition of him i've seen in canon content. we've seen jason grapple a little bit with the despair rooted in his death and resurrection, mainly in lost days, where he cries 3 (?) times, fresh out of the pit and very traumatized.

even in this comic, though, he reacts to his grief with anger more prominently than sadness. that obviously doesn't mean the despair isn't there, though-- anger is just an easier outlet for it (which i could really get into the masculinity aspects of that, but then this would be wayyyyyy too long).

ba's jason, though? that motherfucker is so. sad.

christ he's depressing. AND THAT'S SUCH A FRESH PERSPECTIVE!!!!!!! THANK YOU JUNI BA!!!!!!

now i'm pretty sure some people would argue that this rendition in out of character because he's so sad. to me, though, he's still the same jason; he covers up his sadness with anger and pettiness, redirecting his own insecurities onto those around him to mask his true feelings.

ba quite literally illustrates this in the comic. whenever he is being his snide, normal self, he has his red hood mask on; but when he actually opens up to damian and expresses himself truthfully, the mask is off. ba is highlighting how the classic jason anger and bitterness is, in part, a performance and coping mechanism.

this post is already too long, so i'll go over the two other critques in a different post, which i will link below (eventually). if you guys have any thoughts you'd like to share or discuss, my dms and asks are completely open! if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed my ranting. look out for another post soon! :))

part 2 / part 3

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 1

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The first time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — on set, with lots of paint involved.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.1k

Tag List: let me know if you want to join! :)​

Author’s Note: This is part 1 of what I hope will be a six-part series, but it can be read as a stand-alone too. I am so obsessed with Colt right now that I can't even see straight, so just take this and do whatever you want with it!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The first time Colt Seavers almost kisses you, you’re not sure it actually happened.

You’ve been on set for about two months now, and your job as set decorator for the biggest action thriller of the decade has ended up being way more challenging than you expected. Every day, it’s a new demand from the director — more realistic graffiti, more subtle light fixtures, more beat-up furniture. It’s going to look amazing, but you’re exhausted just thinking about another day of smearing grime on the set walls by hand.

The one bright spot of every day is Colt Seavers. He’s the best stuntman in Hollywood, so naturally he’s been recruited to perform stunts for almost every scene in the movie. Watching him get thrown against walls, riddled with bullets, and dropped from dizzying heights is heart-pounding for you, but nothing gets your heart pounding as hard as when he leans a little too close to you, so close you can see the dusty brown of his eyelashes against his soot-stained skin.

“Nice sign,” Colt quips, dropping onto the picnic table seat next to you. You’re hand-painting a bright-red Do Not Disturb sign for the next scene, and you barely manage to keep from smearing the paint when you whirl to face him. “Is it for your trailer door?”

You give him a mock glare, laughter slipping through the edges. “Very funny. It just so happens that you’ll be kicking this sign in half in tomorrow’s scene, so show a little respect.”

Colt’s eyes sparkle at your words, all his attention focused on you. He leans forward on one elbow, the other reaching up to ruffle the dust out of his hair. “Wow, a handmade prop just for me to kick in half?” He grins, inclining his head in a mock bow. “I’m honored.”

You can’t hide your return grin, or the blush rising under your skin at his close proximity. Colt always has this effect on you — never pushing the limits to make you uncomfortable, just taking up space with you in a way that steals your breath.

“What’s this?” you ask, using your free hand to tug on the shoulder of his fireproof vest. One side is seriously singed, close enough to his skin to set you to worrying.

Colt shrugs, flashing you a crooked smile that makes his left eye crinkle. “Little pyrotechnics mishap,” he informs you casually, brushing imaginary dust off his arm and onto you. You roll your eyes at him playfully. “Ray got a little overexcited with the stun grenades.”

“What?” You can’t keep the concern from slipping into your voice, even though you try to disguise it behind a joking tone. “You’re working with real stun grenades now?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “It’s only a stunt if it’s real, you know?”

You narrow your eyes, cocking your head to one side. “I think that’s the opposite of how it works, actually.”

Colt just laughs at that, the golden rays of the setting sun turning his tanned skin golden. His smile is warm and directed entirely at you, heating up the blush in your cheeks again. You turn your eyes back to your painting to keep from completely giving yourself away.

These past few months have been both paradise and torture for you. You thought you could hide your crush easily enough — it’s not like you haven’t done that before. But with Colt, it’s different. He sees through your stoic facades and teases out your laughter, searches for ways to make you smile even on your bad days. Whether it’s pulling a goofy face at you from his rig or remembering that you like sour cream in your soup, Colt has found some new way to surprise you every day that you’ve known him.

The thing is, you’re not sure if he’s actually interested in you or just being flirtatious. Misinterpreting the signals would be awkward and painful for you at this point, so you’ve decided that he’s just going to have to make the first move. You’re too old to play middle-school games with him.

Even if he does give you middle-school butterflies all over again.

You don’t realize that you’ve been lost in your thoughts until you notice that Colt has imperceptibly moved closer to your side, peering over your shoulder as you put the finishing touches on the purposely-sloppy sign.

“So I kick the sign in half tomorrow,” he says softly, his husky voice in your ear sending goosebumps over your skin. “What happens if we have to do another take?”

You risk a glance over your shoulder at him, letting a coy smile slip. “Do you really think this is the only one I’ve done?”

Colt just lifts his eyebrows at you and smiles, returning his eyes to the sign in your hands. Colt has a way of burning you up just with his gaze, and you can’t help breathing an inner sigh of relief every time he focuses his attention elsewhere. Concentrating on anything when he’s looking at you is impossible.

“You know, I could definitely give you some pointers on set design sometime,” he mutters, as if he’s genuinely musing on the thought. You know he’s warming up for a joke, so you let him continue, hiding your smile while he watches over your shoulder. “I have tons of experience in your department.”

“Oh, really?” You grab your black paint and begin the focused task of sprinkling the sign with the darker color for a realistic touch. Realism is the key to making memorable set designs, and you’ve mastered the technique.

“Mm-hmm.” You feel the murmur reverberate in his throat when he leans forward, resting his chin on your shoulder while you lightly dab your paintbrush in your paint bottle. Your heart skips at least three beats when you feel his hair tickling the side of your neck, his eyes still locked on the sign as if he’s studying it. Does he really not know what he’s doing to you, or is he doing it on purpose?

You try to keep your hands steady while you feel his chest rise and fall against your shoulder. Struggling to hide the tremor in your voice, you tease, “What could I improve about this piece, then? I can always use an expert opinion.”

He tilts his head to the side, his chin still resting on your shoulder. You can feel the bristly stubble on his cheeks now. It’s an oddly comforting sensation, one that forces every bit of your self-control to the brink in order to keep yourself from moving your face to the side and nuzzling your cheek against his. You feel his face move slightly as his mouth turns up into a smile.

“If you really want some advice…” he begins, lifting one hand up to trace the edge of your sign.

“Careful,” you warn him, “that’s wet paint.”

Colt doesn’t even get close to smudging your paint, but that doesn’t stop you from lifting your free hand to rest on his wrist, holding it in place while you set your paint bottle down. Colt stills at your touch, and your heart accelerates again at the gentle way his fingertips rest on the edge of your sign.

He lets the moment hang in the air between you for a moment, then comments, “I was just going to suggest a nice artist’s signature. See this big gap right here between Not and Disturb? Your name should go there in big red letters.” You’re already swatting his hand away playfully as his serious tone devolves into snickers. “Just like Bob Ross does on TV.”

“You are so ridiculous,” you laugh, glad to feel the tension slipping out of the atmosphere. Colt lifts his chin off your shoulder now, his hair brushing your earlobe as he does.

“No, it would look perfect,” he insists, his eyes sparkling as his smirk widens. “And then I can aim right for your name when I kick it in half tomorrow.”

He laughs out loud when you slam the sign down on the picnic table surface in mock irritation, your grin making your amusement at his joke obvious. The slam sends a few drops of the black paint from your brush flying up, spattering your jawline.

You reach for a dry rag nearby, still grinning as you prepare to respond, but Colt stops you with a hand on your arm. “Allow me,” he says seriously, placing your hand back into your lap and raising his other hand to the side of your face. You freeze in place, unprepared for the wave of emotion that washes over you when Colt touches the side of your jaw softly.

His eyes are still sparkling with humor, and you know he’s about to do something to make you laugh, but you can’t help the feeling that sweeps through your heart when you’re face to face with him, one of his hands holding yours on your lap and the other just beginning to cradle your face. It feels so gentle, so intimate, so right, and your heart aches as you realize that there is no going back from the feelings you’re developing for Colt Seavers.

He hesitates for a split second, his hand hoving on your jaw for practically no time at all, but it feels like a lifetime to you. You watch his dark blue eyes as they dart down to look at your lips, flitting back up just as quickly to latch onto your eyes with a stare that could melt diamonds.

Then the corner of his mouth turns up again into his usual smirk, and he strokes his thumb across your jaw to smear the black paint up the side of your face.

“Now,” he offers, “don’t you think you look more realistic?”

He dissolves into laughter as you reach up and feel the streaks of black now smudged across your face. You immediately reach past him to dip your fingers in your bottle of red paint, giving him a mischievous grin as you slather three fingers’ worth of paint across his nose and cheeks. The combination of his semi-shocked expression and the ridiculousness of his painted face pushes you over the edge into another fit of laughter.

“You’re the one who will be on camera,” you retort, smiling wider than you can remember doing in a long time. “Shouldn’t you be the one who’s realistic?”

“Touché,” he acknowledges playfully, rubbing his face and only succeeded in smearing the red paint further across his face. “Though I doubt Tom Ryder is going to accept any glimpses of my face on camera, so I won’t even have to wash this off.”

You impulsively reach up and drag your fingertip through the splotch of paint on his cheek, resisting the urge to draw a heart and settling on a simple smiley face instead. His own smile resurfaces at that, eyes twinkling as they stay locked on yours.

“If you keep it until tomorrow, you’ll match my sign,” you muse, trying to lighten the atmosphere, which has suddenly grown a bit more intense now that Colt’s gaze is focused on you again.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t play it off, doesn’t do anything that you expect from him. His breathing seems to slow down, while yours feels like it takes off in a flurry of movement. Colt doesn’t make a move to touch you, but you can feel the distance between the two of you closing infinitesimally.

You’ve never noticed the flecks of silver-gray in his eyes, or the almost-invisible smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, or the ragged cut of his hair right beside his ears. Even the brilliant red streak only serves to bring out the golden tones of his skin, the swirls of blonde in his hair. Every detail of his face seems vivid, as if you’re seeing him for the first time.

His eyes seem to drink you in, too, traveling over every inch of your face before stopping on your lips again. This time, though, he doesn’t flick his eyes back up. Words escape you, as do any coherent thoughts. This is it. He’s actually going to kiss me. This is real.

“Seavers, on set, ASAP.”

The squawk of his walkie-talkie shatters the intense moment, and both of you release a breath that felt like it had been held for an hour. Colt swallows, smoothes his hand over his beard, turns to slip the walkie back into his pocket. You turn back to your painted sign quickly, trying to regain some composure.

Uncharacteristically, Colt doesn’t speak as he stands and turns to walk back to the filming set. He does, however, glance back at you the moment you lift your eyes to watch him walk away. Your heart is still hammering, recovering from his closeness to you.

With a wordless smile, he reaches up, swipes a bit of red paint off his face, and presses it onto the tip of your nose in the shape of his fingerprint. Then he walks away.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Part 2

[backfliips]

I illustrated a scene from my latest Wyllstarion smut fic --- in which twenty years after the fall of the Netherbrain, Wyll returns to Baldur's Gate to slay the one monster he left behind.........

RATED EXPLICIT - NO CONTENT WARNINGS APPLY

[goodluckbabeheffron]

BAND OF BROTHERS & ain’t it fun by paramore

[peggingdemons]

Thinking about you

Basically Satan jerking off thinking about reader

Satan x Gn Reader

Satan's fantasy is is the same font I'm using right here so to (hopefully) not confuse people

Warnings! Satan thinking about reader (duh) , petplay and one use of a "good girl" on Satan (in his dream)

Satan couldn't help it he was only a man after all.. But the way you talked to him yesterday, teasingly calling him a "good kitty" after seeing him run after a book you threw...

Fuck just thinking about it makes his pants feel tighter..

Those words just purred out of your lips, the little smirk you had and the way you just looked at him like he was just a little house kitty.. He felt hot, needy and excited just thinking about that.

Being your kitty

Just yours and no one else's

Fuck his pants were getting tighter... He needed you..

Satan couldn't help himself as he brought his pants and boxers, watching his cock spring out and hit his stomach

Those words you said just set him ablaze. Satan slowly teased his tip trying to get pre to use as lube before he started slowly stroking himself.

Those words.. Your words.. Calling him a "good kitty".. What if you did it again? What if you petted him while saying how good he was?

Satan let out a small breathless moan just thinking about it

What if you told him to act like cat? Crawling on all fours for you.. Collaring him.. Allowing him to please you-

Satan started speeding up his hand, whimpering out at the idea

"You're a good kitty.. Right, Satan?"

"I know you are~.. So crawl.. Crawl over here and please master~"

"Uh huh.. S-s'ho good for you..." Satan whined out loud. Dreaming about you owning him, all yours, your kitty made more pre leak out from his tip

You grabbed his hand bringing it to your sex "be a good cat and please me" Satan nodded "Y-yes.." "yes what?" "yes... M-master". He started rubbing on your area letting little moans come out of you

"That's it.. Good kitty... Good girl.. That's it.."

As soon as the dream you came Satan shot his lode all over his hand

"Ah.. Ah.. Dammit.." Satan groaned , now he had to clean this up... At least the idea was nice.. Maybe he could get you to actually make him a kitten for you

[gayferrari]

‼️CHARLANDO BUMPING COOCHIES FIC REAL ↓↓

make a bitch go on and on

charles/lando; charles/lando/carlos;

magical realism, canonverse, magical vaginas!!!! some genderfuckery.

Charles’s face feels very hot. The edges of the small room are blurring around him. This is ridiculous. This is a tragedy. This is all Lando’s fault.

releasing into the universe: 9k words of Charles/Lando bumping coochies. ft. that one trope where a driver wakes up with a pussy and has to fuck it back to normal but OH NO!! that guy you don't fuck with is in your exact situation :/ and you both went to the same person for help?? and then you have the world's worst threesome about it 😋

read on ao3!!

[deedala]

art for shameless big bang fic:

Last Night at the Verona Grand Hotel by @the-rat-wins

special thanks to @whaticameherefor for taking over the organizing!

[thefrogdalorian]

Ner Aliit

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: Travelling through the galaxy in the Razor Crest with a formidable Mandalorian is a harsh, unforgiving life. The feelings you have developed for him as you soar through the stars together have mitigated the unpleasant aspects. Still, you know it can't last. After all, you and Din are from different worlds. He follows a strict Creed and you know that you do not have what it takes to be Mandalorian.

Journeying with the best bounty hunter in the parsec has often brought you face to face with danger. It has never fazed you before. Until one day you come face to face with danger without Din's reassuring presence at your side, and everything changes.

Word Count: 5.4k ✯ Rating:  Teen ✯ Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, reader kills someone with a blaster in self defence (Nothing is described in graphic detail) and subsequently deals with anxiety/panic attacks.  ✯ Author's Note: Today is four years since I watched Mando for the first time so I wrote this to celebrate! Inspired by a little daydream I had while looking at my own Mythosaur necklace. It's an AU where Din never had Grogu but still had shiny beskar, allow it ahah. Really hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading! 🤍

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

You can already tell from how Din’s footsteps thud a little heavier than usual against the ramp that something has angered him during his latest hunt. Perhaps he will share what precisely has troubled him later when you hurtle through hyperspace towards Nevarro. For now, you head towards the door, ready to help Din haul his latest bounty into the antiquated ship you call home.

Except, the man who stands before you is not Din Djarin.

Instead of the gleaming beskar you had been expecting to greet you on the ramp, a gloomy silhouette moves into view. There is something far darker about your presence than the man you had expected to see. It is not just the grimy, worn clothes he wears that send a shiver down your spine. Nor the way his beady eyes bore into you. They are sunken in his wizened face with a look of pure malice which sickens you to the pit of your stomach.

You are initially so shocked by the fact that the man standing before you is not Din, your eyes frantically examining the features of this stranger, that you almost fail to notice the weapon aimed at you.

Your heart skips a beat when you notice that the man is holding a blaster up at you. He stands unmoving, with his long, grungy fingers curled around the dark handle. The gesture sends a shiver down your spine. However, there is something even more terrifying than the reality of having a blaster aimed squarely in your direction. 

It is the expression on his face.

His glare is unrelenting in his coldness as his finger hovers over the trigger. You do not doubt for one moment that he will pull it.

Throughout your life, you have been exposed to danger many times, even before you met Din. Such brushes with death only increased when you started travelling through the galaxy with a bounty hunter. It was to be expected, of course. You think of the numerous occasions when you witnessed Din becoming embroiled in terrible binds and scrapes while you sat back and watched the carnage unfold. At first, you had been terrified by such violence. Now, you have come to expect it.

Perhaps before you met Din and began travelling with him, someone holding a blaster at you and gazing at you with such viciousness as the man before you would have been utterly petrifying.

However, it seems that the best bounty hunter in the parsec has somewhat hardened you to the realities of the galaxy. 

After the initial shock, you feel yourself accepting your current predicament with remarkable quickness. You assess the man's vulnerabilities and weak points, as Din once trained you to do. You notice a slight quake in his hand, the greyness of his scraggly beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He is not invincible. Soon, the terror you initially felt is replaced with anger; a simmering feeling in your gut as you are incredulous at the audacity of this man to threaten your life in this manner. You are furious at his attempt to intrude into your and Din's safe refuge like this. You are disgusted by him.

You have encountered plenty of unsavoury characters throughout your travels across the galaxy with Din. This pathetic coward does not faze you.

"Where is he?" the man finally speaks. His voice is gruff, his tone sharper than you imagined. It matches his wizened, wrinkly face, seemingly hardened by the decades of experience he undoubtedly possesses.

“Who?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

You know that the man will not buy your plea of ignorance regarding The Mandalorian. Yet, your act will buy you a few precious seconds to execute your plan. Plus, the more you converse with the man, the higher the chance his nerve may waver and that his sympathy for you might increase as you humanise yourself. You hope that by talking to him, his determination to mow you down in cold blood may decrease.

“Don’t play with me and give me a story full of bantha crap,” the man snarls, jabbing the blaster towards you, "I know you know where he is."

“I’m sorry,” you respond apologetically.

You know you must diffuse the situation and undo the damage you have caused with your blatant lies. Without hesitation, you raise your hands in a submissive gesture. Then, when the man does not take issue with a simple movement, you begin backing away from him. Fortunately, he lets you go. You can barely contain your grin as you know what you have in store for him.

Unknowingly, this man is playing right into your hands. 

This old rogue may have thought he could get the upper hand on The Mandalorian by returning to his ship and threatening his travelling companion. Unfortunately, he has underestimated the advantage you gain from knowing the Razor Crest inside out, including all of this old ship's quirks.

When you are satisfied both by the distance you have placed between you and your assailant and your relative proximity to the control panel, which is the key to your plan's success, you fake a stumble backwards. Your hand collides with the button that, when depressed, rapidly releases a cloud of pressurised gas into the hull. The jets that shoot out of the walls soon fill the Razor Crest and form a temporary barrier between you and the man that obscures you from his view. The distraction gives you just enough time to grab a blaster from Din’s workbench and aim it towards your surprise visitor. 

Then, without really consciously thinking about the consequences, you squeeze the trigger.

The sickening thud of the man’s body hitting the floor is the last sound you hear before you retreat up the ladder to the cockpit and seal yourself inside behind the secure door. You are pretty sure he will no longer prove a threat to you, but you have no desire to stick around and find out for definite. The reinforced door will provide sufficient protection, hopefully long enough for Din to return. 

Given that someone managed to reach the Razor Crest and callously threaten your life, you cannot imagine that Din will be far away. If the man has accomplices, you do not doubt Din's capability to take them out before he returns to ensure your safety.

Yet, as the minutes pass by Din is nowhere to be seen.

You are unsure how long you sit on the hard floor with your back to the door, trembling as you sit there. At first, the tremors that have overtaken your body may well be thanks to the frigid metal. Its coolness certainly does not help. As the adrenaline wears off and the realisation of what has just transpired dawns on you, you rapidly become reduced to a jittery, trembling wreck. 

Your state of mind following the skirmish is made worse by the paranoia which overtakes you. 

Initially your primary concern is for your own safety. You brace yourself for the companions of the man whose body lies below you to barge in and finish the job their ringleader started. You wonder which weapons they may possess. 

Would you try to fight them off, or should you flee?

You wonder whether you could even begin the launch sequence of the Razor Crest and fly away in search of Din. He has attempted to teach you how to fly the ship for emergencies such as this, but to your presently terrified brain, the dashboard looks like a confusing conundrum of buttons.

At the first thought of him wandering through the forests which cover the planet’s surface, your overactive imagination now runs away with the worst scenarios of what could be happening right this instant, elsewhere on this planet. 

Visions of the Mandalorian you love, lying in a ditch somewhere on this forest-covered planet, injured and frightened after being ambushed by the same band of dastardly scoundrels overwhelm your senses.

The fear that Din will never return to you, that the depth of your feelings towards him will remain unsaid forever, shatters you. 

You are unsure how long you sit there. Each creak and noise of the ship, noises that you are usually so familiar with and accustomed to now work against you, startling you each time. It is a constant cycle of alarm as your breathing rate picks up and your pulse rate thunders in your ears each time there is a faint thud. You feel your resolve draining with each disturbance.

So when you hear the sound of the Razor Crest's ramp whirring as it lowers to the ground, you barely have the energy to react. Instead, you are relieved that you are now seconds away from meeting your ultimate fate. One way or another, you will finally be put out of your misery. Whoever enters the Razor Crest will not be met with much fight from you, whatever their intentions.

When you hear footsteps this time, you believe that the thuds are indeed the familiar rhythmic, certain sounds of your favourite bounty hunter. Until you lay eyes upon him, however, you will not allow yourself to believe that fact.

Fortunately for your anguished soul, you get confirmation of Din’s return before ever laying eyes upon him. 

“Cyare?” Din calls, his deep voice cuts through the ship up to the cockpit where you continue to cower in the cockpit, “Are you alright?”

You are so relieved to hear him that you could almost burst into tears. Before that happens, you must give him some acknowledgement that you were unharmed in the skirmish.

“I’m up here in the cockpit, Din,” you respond, alarmed at how your voice trembles as the adrenaline has worn off, “I’m alright.”

You push yourself up on shaky limbs to stand and prepare to reunite with the man you have grown so close to. You aren't entirely sure when it happened, falling in love with Din. You certainly never intended it, nor did you imagine that the aloof bounty hunter who was so stoic and barely spoke could reveal himself to have such a beautiful soul beneath his cold, metallic armour. Yet, somewhere along the way, as you hurtled through hyperspace together, you did fall in love with Din. 

It was not one moment but rather a collection of smaller fragments which, when pieced together, form the warmth that spreads in your chest each time you think of Din. It has been the late-night conversations sitting in the red leather chairs of the cockpit, reminiscing on your past lives. The ability that Din possesses in never failing to make you laugh. Even on days when you feel despondent. It is how considerate Din is of you; he never fails to check on your well-being and ascertain whether you can handle one more job or whether you should return to Nevarro for a few days of rest.

All of those moments and more contributed to your present feelings for Din.

You realised how deeply you cared for him when you first noticed your overwhelming desire to please him. The fact that, without even realising it, you had learnt how he liked his ration packs prepared even if you could never enjoy a meal together, given the helmet restriction. You realised that you had attentively watched how Din polished his weapons and studied how he stored them so that you could alleviate some stress when he returned from another hunt and needed to rest. You have noticed that, even though your lives are in many ways different, you both retain the same core values and principles. Honesty, integrity and loyalty are traits you both hold dear.

Only moments ago, it had crushed you to think you would never get to enjoy such moments with Din again.

Now, you stand here, practically bursting with joy as you realise you will soon be back with the man whose presence you yearn to always be in. You can hear his feet hitting the rungs of the ladder that leads up to the cockpit and take a deep breath to steady yourself, even though your entire body quivers with the last dregs of adrenaline and the anticipation of seeing Din again.

The door opens. The familiar glint of the Beskar you had been expecting to see earlier finally comes into view, soothing your nerves instantly. Din surges towards you. You barely have time to react before his arms are around you. He brings a gloved hand up to your chin, holding your face in one hand while he secures his other arm snugly around your waist. You are grateful that he is holding you so tightly. Without his strong arms, you are unconvinced whether you could remain vertical. 

“Oh, cyare," Din exhales, his voice trembling under the weight of his emotions. "I was so worried when I saw the body down there. What in Maker’s name happened here?” Din asks, deep voice full of concern.

“I heard footsteps that I assumed were yours, but when I got there, the door opened. You weren't there, Din. I was so scared," you confess, your voice trembling too.

"Dank farrik!" Din harshly exclaims. You startle in response, and he tightens his hold around you, bringing your chest flush to the cold metal of his armour, before apologetically adding, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay, Din," you whisper in reassurance.

"Forgive me for my outburst. I was just frustrated that I couldn't be there for you. The same group, I assume, ambushed me. It took me a while to fight them off. I should have been here," Din shakes his head, "Anyway, do you want to tell me about what happened?"

You nod, your bottom lip trembling. You take some breaths to steady your nerves as you try your best to ignore your reflection in Din's helmet. If you pause for too long and perceive how fragile and broken you appear, you know you will crumble entirely.

"Well, I stepped up to the top of the ramp expecting to see you. Instead, that man was standing there. He held a blaster up at me. I was so scared that he was going to shoot," you squeak, voice barely above a whisper now. Din moves his hands up and down your back in soothing motions, comforting you enough to continue: "I managed to distract him enough to retreat with my hands up. Then I pretended to stumble and push the button on the control panel, which discharged the pressurised gas. It gave me the cover to grab your blaster on the workbench. And then, well, you saw...” you squeak out as you feel hot tears trail down your cheeks.

You permit yourself to fall apart now, knowing that Din is here to pick your pieces up and place you back together. He brings a hand to your cheek, wiping your tears away with his gloved fingers. A smile ghosts across your lips at the sensation of the buttery texture against your skin.

“You did so well, cyare,” Din whispers. "I promise you, you're safe now. No one will hurt you," he adds soothingly.

Din brings your head into his cowl. He gathers you to him and protects you from the anguish. From this position, you can faintly feel the warmth which emanates from the man beneath the beskar through the coarse yet soft material. The dark brown material is a sharp contrast to the hard, coldness of his armour, a sliver of humanity amongst the many facets of the formidable Mandalorian warrior. You never feel safer or more protected than when Din takes you into his arms and holds you close. The relief is immediate, but it does not stop the emotional outburst. Tears continue to stream down your face.

“I was so scared Din,” you manage out between the sobs that have suddenly overwhelmed your fragile state of mind.

“I know, I know. But I’m so proud of you,” Din says.

His ordinarily steady voice trembles with emotion except when he emphasises how proud he is of you. To know that Din Djarin himself is proud of you makes your chest ache with joy. You have made this strong, stoic warrior proud. It makes your head swim with glee. Yet, it only adds to the myriad of emotions which overwhelm your trembling body.

Din holds you close, but you cannot stop crying. The embarrassment you feel at your outburst further contributes to your distress. The tears flow in earnest now, Din’s cowl surely becoming damp with the moisture that has escaped your swollen, irritated eyes.

“Shhhhh my love, ner kar'ta,” Din soothes as he rocks you, “You’re safe now. I've got you. You’re safe.” 

With his comforting words and the way Din holds you, your sniffles eventually subside. Still, Din holds you until you can barely stand anymore.

When you can stand no longer, when your body finally succumbs to the emotional toll of the day, Din is there to coax you into moving. Somehow, 

Din manages to skillfully manoeuvre you into descending the ladder. You are too tired to question quite how it happens. The next thing you know, you are tucked up in the bunk. There is barely enough room for Din, yet he manages to lie beside you, holding you until you drift off.

Finally, you allow yourself to fall into the warm embrace of sleep…

✯✯✯

You remain confined to your bunk for most of the return trip to Nevarro. The skirmish took its toll on you. In your lethargicness, you struggle to have the energy to do anything other than sleep. Din is patient and attentive with you, taking care of all the maintenance jobs and meal preparation that you usually assist with.

Yet, it is not just the stress of events and the inescapable fact that you have claimed your first life which weighs on your mind. It is trying to figure out what the future looks like for you and Din. 

You have never met anyone like him. He is intelligent, caring and skilled in anything he turns his hand to. He provides for you. Since you began travelling together, you have wanted for nothing physically or spiritually. Din is diligent and attentive, always on hand to pick you up if things prove too much. He makes you laugh like you never have with anyone else you have met. Until your ribs ache and your cheeks hurt from grinning. You think of the hours spent together sitting in the red chairs of the cockpit as the blues and silvers of hyperspace streak outside the windows, illuminating Din's armour in a way that leaves you mesmerised.

When you first started travelling with Din, you were sceptical that you would ever grow close to a man who kept so much of himself a mystery. His face was hidden behind a helmet and you knew him only as Mando. How could you ever form a bond with someone so elusive?

Now, you understand that you do not need to see a person's face to know them entirely. There is no doubt that you completely understand who the man underneath the beskar is. You trust Din Djarin with everything you have. 

Although it took him long enough to honour you with knowing that name, now you speak it often. While he vows that he will know yours eternally, for it is the Mandalorian way to say, “I love you.”

You cannot imagine your life without him. 

However, as much as you care for Din and are certain he cares for you in return, you know you will never have what it takes to become Mandalorian. It is why you have held back from your feelings, never permitting yourself to return the sweet words and affectionate nicknames. Your destinies lie in opposite directions. You will never be truly worthy of his love.

It is a thought that leaves you thoroughly despondent as you lie in the bunk. If you are this distressed after taking a life in self-defence, how would you ever be able to participate in his culture, his identity, which is so dear to him?

Without that fighting spirit within you, you are sure you would never be able to be Mandalorian. Without being Mandalorian, it will be impossible for Din to build a life with you.

Whatever relationship the two of you have is more than likely fleeting. You will part when it becomes apparent that you are too fundamentally different to prove a compatible pairing. You know that. 

Yet, it does not stop the melancholia that such a fact provokes in you.

You understand that one day, Din Djarin will leave your life.

Knowing that evidence of your fundamentally opposing ways of life will become evident once more shortly leaves you inconsolable. Once the Razor Crest lands in Nevarro so the bounties can be offloaded Din will leave you alone for an indeterminate amount of time to be with his covert. 

Since you are not Mandalorian, you are forbidden from joining him. 

The thought of not being with him devastates you. Yet, the prospect of being alone on a planet without Din downright terrifies you after your brush with death.

Although you are frightened, you are determined not to let him see your discomfort. 

After all, it would be unfair of you to hold Din back from spending time with his tribe.

You know you will never be able to join him, yet you still respect Din's creed. You admire his devotion to his Way. You do not judge him for it, even if you are baffled by some rules Din must adhere to.

Yet, there is another reason you keep your emotions to yourself. 

You do not want to worry Din any further.

Following your brush with death, Din has been fussing over you so much that you almost feel smothered. He is watching you intently to check that the fact you have taken another’s life does not leave a scar on you. He constantly reassures you that it was self-defence and that you did the right thing. When you wake up screaming after terrible visions haunt you, Din is there in an instant to soothe your anguished soul.

Even though you are grateful for how much he cares, you want to be left alone. You feel guilty, as though you are a burden to him. Here you are, taking up so much of his precious time and energy when you are not even a member of his tribe. 

So, when Din informs you he will depart the Razor Crest to join up with his covert after the old ship finally touches down on Nevarro, you are glad to see him go.

Even if being on such a skughole makes you unsettled. You wish that you had Din’s comforting presence around to soothe your soul. But non-Mandalorians are not permitted to enter the covert’s hideout, and you respect that rule. 

So, you are alone. 

You pass the time polishing and reordering Din's assortment of weapons so they are exactly how he likes him upon his return. It is penance for the tremendous amount of extra effort he exerted in taking care of you during your journey here.

After you finish cleaning Din's most prized possessions, you stand before the weapons locker, adjusting each blaster and rifle until they are arrow straight. Din is fastidious when it comes to organising his armoury. You want to please him.

It is a task that you are still engaged in when you hear the ramp whirring. The noise makes you panic initially. Until, for your benefit, Din calls your name to reassure you that it is him returning; no one is here to harm you.

Your initial anxiety is soothed instantly by the sound of his deep voice. The apprehension is replaced by a smile at the way the syllables of your name warble through his vocoder.

You hastily close the doors to the locker. You weren't quite finished with your task yet. You do not want Din to catch a glimpse before everything is perfect.

"You're back quicker than I expected," you observe, greeting him with a look of surprise across your features.

"There was only one matter I wished to settle," Din shrugs.

"Oh?" you raise your eyebrows, wondering if it is connected to the drawstring pouch made of dark material he carries in one hand.

"Concerning you," Din simply says.

You are rendered speechless. Your initial concern is that Din has confessed to travelling with a non-Mandalorian. Perhaps it is forbidden for his tribe to befriend outsiders. Your stomach drops as you panic that Din has been forced to leave his covert in disgrace.

What if, after the skirmish, Din decided to leave you behind here on Nevarro and simply needed to ask his tribe's leader for advice so his nerves did not waver?

Your frantic train of thought halts at the thuds of Din's footsteps approaching you. Mercifully, it seems you are about to discover the nature of their conversation.

"I have something for you," Din explains as he reaches into the drawstring pouch and produces a shiny object attached to a string.

You are curious about the mysterious relic before you. You do not hesitate to reach your hand out, your palm up, ready to accept it. It glints in mid-air before Din places it into your palm. 

The sensation of the cool metal of the mysterious object

proves to be an intriguing yet comforting presence in your hand. It soothes you instantly. It is a grounding sensation you badly need. Especially after the dark places your mind has wandered to. Terrible visions and eventualities your imagination has frequented a lot recently since your brush with death.

You realise now that it is in your hand that Din has brought you a necklace. Peculiar. You wonder what in the galaxy an item of jewellery could have to do with his covert.

The metallic pendant is a shape you do not recognise; there is a long, thin strand of dark brown leather attached to the charm.

“Do you know what this is?” Din finally asks after he has left you alone to survey your gift.

You shake your head, looking up at him questioningly.

“This is the Mythosaur, an ancient creature our ancestors once rode. It is a symbol that belongs to all Mandalorians,” Din explains, gesturing a gloved fingertip at the shiny object.

You see now that the metallic outline appears to be the skull of a creature you have never heard before. With its sunken black eye sockets and intimidating, sharp features; the Mythosaur is a little intimidating. Still, you are mesmerised by its pointy teeth and long tusks. It is quite unlike anything you have ever seen. You run your thumb over the ridges, enjoying the sensation of the metal in your hand.

"I had it forged by my tribe's Armorer from the excess beskar of my new armour," Din explains, "The chain is taken from a strip of my bandolier, too."

"The craftsmanship..." you whisper, awestruck, "It's beautiful."

Then, Din says something which catches you completely off-guard. 

“I want you to be part of my Clan, cyare,” Din announces.

Your mouth falls open. You look up at Din, stunned at his declaration. He does not want to leave you behind or cast you out. He wants you to be with him forever. You begin to feel the rumbling of tears somewhere deep inside your gut. You almost allow yourself to smile.

Almost.

Your moment of happiness shatters when you realise joining Din's Clan likely comes with an expectation to be Mandalorian. You hope the necklace does not come with the assumption of committing yourself to something you remain unsure that you want for yourself. 

Yet bringing that up to Din would surely disappoint him, a terrible prospect. His Way is of utmost importance to him.

“But, Din… I’m not Mandalorian,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as you remind him of your differences.

“It doesn’t matter,” Din shakes his head.

"Are you sure?" you breathe, stunned.

"I'm positive, cyare. You can take this necklace to any Mandalorian and say my name. If you present this to a Mandalorian covert and tell them Din Djarin set you, they will ensure you are protected and safe for as long as you need. No matter where you are in the galaxy.”

“Even though I’m not Mandalorian?” you whisper, astonished. 

“Yes. One does not have to walk The Way in order to be protected by us," Din nods.

You are stunned. For so long, you had mistaken Mandalorian covertness for exclusion. You had believed they disliked and distrusted anyone who did not follow their way of life. Now you realise that you had entirely misconstrued their seclusion. Mandalorians, it transpires, are fiercely protective over anyone they care about, an honour not restricted to their own kind.

"After what happened, I want to feel reassured by knowing that you would have somewhere to turn to for refuge if something like that were ever to happen again. More than that, I want you…” Din sighs, steadying himself. “I want you to be part of my Clan,” he adds, his voice full of certainty.

“I couldn't possibly be worthy of such a thing,” you shake your head, unable to meet his gaze, "I shot one nerfherder in self-defence and look at the toll it took on me," you scoff, fiddling with the necklace and avoiding Din's gaze.

Din is unsatisfied with your words. He brings his hand to your chin and tilts it upwards until your eyes are level with the steely gaze of his dark T-visor.

“You are absolutely worthy,” Din adds with finality and certainty in his voice that causes your chest to constrict, “You have shown as much fight and resolve as any Mandalorian warrior would be proud of. You may not be Mandalorian, but you have our spirit. Our manda, our soul. You do not have to be Mandalorian to be loved by one. So, it would be the honour of my life if you would join my Clan, cyare,” Din adds solemnly.

He takes his hand from under your chin and balls it into a fist. Then he raises his clenched fist to his chestplate and holds it over his heart. He bows his head in your direction, wordlessly demonstrating his affection for you.

With his beautiful words and deferent actions, how could you refuse such an offer?

“Then, I will happily join your clan, Din Djarin,” you whisper.

You watch with curiosity as Din takes the necklace from your hand. Then, he softly places a gloved hand on your shoulder and gently turns you around. You realise what he is doing when the pendant slides down over your chest. You smile as you feel the cool metal make contact with your skin through the cloth of the simple clothes you wear. The thin leather is a comforting presence around your neck, especially when combined with the weight of the Mythosaur.

You turn around to face Din once again. You are unable to prevent the grin that spreads across your features. For the first time since that terrifying encounter with that ghastly man, you feel a true sense of tranquillity. You no longer find yourself plagued by fear for the future.

You realise that you should probably make some profound speech of gratitude. Instead, you sigh in contentment as you stand before Din. You are too happy to find words, perfectly content merely to stand before the man you adore. A man whom, thanks to the necklace you wear around your neck, you are now bound to. 

Din brings his hands to your sides, resting them against your body as his thumbs rub fond circles into your hips. There is no fear, no uncertainty anymore.

The future for you and Din is bright.

Din eventually sighs fondly, cupping your chin with his gloved hand.

“It suits you,” he nods in approval.

You smile at the gesture and turn your lips into his fingers, placing a kiss on the soft leather there. Then, Din brings your forehead to his helmet in a gesture he has assured you is akin to a kiss in his eyes. For now, at least, it is the only way he can kiss you.

You stay like that for a few moments. 

Eventually, Din's deep voice breaks the silence. 

“Ner aliit,” Din whispers. Then adds in basic, for the benefit of your ears:

“My family.”

[ribbittrobbit]

Delicious D20 a zine for @d20zinejam from me and @yeehawpim

Featuring three recipes from Gilear, Mother Goose, and Colin Provolone, with additional baking tips from Mrs. Molesly!

More Zines for 2024 D20 Zine Jam!!!

[yikesharringrove]

Steve had his mom have had a fairly rocky relationship.

When he was really little, they were close. She was a stay at home parent, and she genuinely loved playing with her toddler every day. Teaching him the alphabet, playing with dolls and trucks on the living room carpet, putting him in his high chair so he could watch her cook.

Things got tense when he started middle school. Steve was going through a severe awkward phase, and he didn’t really like anyone looking at him for too long. Including his mother. He started pushing her away, and she let herself be pushed. She started volunteer work with some other women in Hawkins, throwing galas and fundraisers at the country club.

Once in high school, Steve refused to be a momma’s boy. He was finally good looking, and he didn’t want girls to e weirded out by the fact that he spent more time hanging out with his mom than anyone else. He’s heard the donuts about Jonathan Byers. No thanks.

But, something happens in 1981. Something that meant Steve was about to bond over with his mom.

Princess Diana.

They are both obsessed. Steve’s mom let him stay up all night with her to watch the wedding live on TV. Steve would come home from school to see magazines with Di on the cover and riffle through it as fast as he could so he could talk to him mom about the latest photos, the latest philanthropical endeavor, the latest fashion moment.

It was something they always shared. Even when they didn’t share anything else.

When Steve fell in love with a man. And his parents cut him off. When he and Billy fled to the city at eighteen, nineteen.

Steve hadn’t even spoken with his mother in nearly a year, when she called him to ask if he’d seen the news, that Princess Diana had shook hands with an AIDs patient.

They talked for hours, and Steve cried on the phone, and he cried after. Because the last time he’d seen his parents, his mother called him disgusting and his dad had called him something even worse, and now his mom was calling him because Princess Diana didn’t wear gloves to shake a man’s hand.

Steve’s parents got a divorce six months after Diana did. Steve bought his mother a cake and an apartment five miles away and a recreation of the revenge necklace.

His mom pounded on his front door a few months after that. She was sobbing when Billy answered the door, and she hugged Steve Rochester than she ever had when she told him that Princess Diana was gone.

They both cried, and Billy made them tea and didn’t say anything because he thought their obsession was a little silly, but he would’ve killed Diana personally if it meant his mother holding him like that.

And nearly fifteen years later, at his mom’s funeral, Steve spoke about the two women that raised him. That his mom taught him how to forgive, how to be kind, and how to love, because Diana taught her those things. And Billy surprised Steve by playing Candle in the Wind on the piano.

[minecraftbed]

Grian snorted, and Scar returned the laugh in a small giggle. “Right. Um- yeah. Guess I changed my mind at some point. You’re so… different from what I was expecting. In the best way possible.” He paused again, cleared his throat. “You know I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth, right?”  As soon as he said it, he regretted it, his face heating up - those were the thoughts he was supposed to keep private, supposed to push deep, deep down - but Scar smiled. “I do know. And I’d do the same for you.” 

HELLOOOOO YIPEEEE. here are my pieces for the incredible fic to the ends of the earth by the talented gaylotusthatexists for @hermitshippingbigbang !!!

i really really really loved this fic, if u like scarian, fantasy, and beautiful world building then i need u to go start reading it RIGHT now. <3 (my pieces here are being posted with the final chapter, today, so it is ready for you to read in full!!!!!! go go go)

[virtues-end]

I see that Shea is probably the most popular RO at the moment (which I totally get but I just like my MC seeing then more as an older sibling) so I'm just going to amuse myself in the corner by pointing at Elexis and going "that one, the one holding all the red flags".

On that note, can you share any interesting facts about Elexis? I'm desperate for crumbs.

... maybe the red hair was a little too on the nose in hindsight. :-)

I always struggle with providing facts about characters. Feels hard to just boil them down to a few sentences, I suppose. And I'm wary of spoiling things, especially since we're still at the very start of the story. But I'll try:

Elexis loves to read. They were a precocious child, with stars in their eyes, dreaming of knights and royalty and adventure. They appreciate beauty, though it's defined by what they consider to be beautiful. They like to live decadently. They love good food, the feel of rich fabric, glittering jewellery... they're someone who chases pleasure, passion.

And they live as if every day could be their last.

[maomango-doodle]

Preview of my comic for @vashwoodzine !! :D

Preorders are open until August 2nd!