#and its implied he was aware of this. he picks up on the likelihood of someone else being involved in the project almost immediately

[dippersguidetotheunexplained]

maybe a bit niche but a ford hater justification that particularly drives me crazy is still when people are like "well ford should have picked up on a bunch of red flags in fiddlefords behavior and intervened before everything with the gun/society got out of hand" like even ignoring how insane it is to blame someone for not noticing small cues like that particularly when its made clear fiddleford went out of his way to hide everything (not like that would even be on ford anyway?? fiddleford is his own person) do you honestly think fiddleford was not in the exact same position with ford. they lived together

[toasecretsanta]

Family Time

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Apollo, Nico, Will, Austin, Kayla, Jerry, Yan

After a stressful day of family arguments disguised as a council, Apollo really wanted some less stressful family time. A gift for @crystalcatgamer from @tsarinatorment using the prompts “Apollo visiting his kids” and “Apollo and Nico bonding”.  Couldn’t fit the third prompt in, unfortunately!  This is set in winter so it’s year-rounder campers only, and I headcanon Gracie as a summer-only, which is why she’s missing.

Campers were just beginning to peel away from their breakfast tables when Apollo strolled into camp. The winter solstice the previous day had been full of its usual family tensions and thinly veiled posturings – things Apollo only really enjoyed when he wasn’t directly involved, and in the darkest depths of the year, when he was cold and tired and maybe Artemis wasn’t completely wrong when she said he got lazy in the winter, it lost most of its entertainment factor even then.  No wonder, then, that he wanted to spend the next day with his children, away from the tense politicking of Olympus.

His intention had been to spend it relaxing, but immediately he noticed something a little odd at his table.

Nico was there (not odd at all, the son of Hades frequently joined his children and was incredibly welcome to do so), but Will was not.

When Apollo thought about it, Will’s absence wasn’t completely surprising – even whilst dealing with the biannual family argument disguised as a council, Apollo had felt and responded to his son’s healing prayers as they reached him, so he was well aware that something had happened late into the previous night, although the lack of unease throughout the camp implied that nothing was concerning the demigods now.

The only question was whether Will was doing the sensible thing, or the worried healer thing, but even that was quickly deduced by Nico’s unhurried presence at his table.  If Nico thought Will was doing anything remotely daft, he would be telling him so at the very least, and almost certainly attempting to stop him, so Apollo approached his table with the reassurance that Will was fine.

“Good morning,” he trilled, sliding onto the stone bench between Austin and Yan and putting an arm around each of their shoulders, reaching out to grip Kayla and Jerry’s shoulders in greeting and sending Nico an enthusiastic grin which had his future son-in-law rolling his eyes – but also the hint of a returning smile playing at the corner of his mouth, which Apollo’s keen eyes definitely spotted.

“Hi, Dad,” his kids chorused.  Yan leant against his side subtly and he gave their shoulder a brief squeeze as he began with the usual questions – what had they been up to since he last saw them, anything fun or exciting?  He’d been keeping as much of an eye on them as he could get away with, of course, but it was always so much better hearing about Austin’s latest youtube fame straight from his son’s mouth, or the fact that Kayla’s experimenting with bow styles outside of her mastery in recurve had her currently focusing on a specific type of horse bow (Apollo had wondered if she would ever pick one of those up, and if she did, if it would be because or in spite of the memory of a certain older brother).  Jerry’s continued determination but tragic failure to convert the primarily American born-and-raised kids to the wonders of cricket always made for a riveting story, and Yan’s own strides in increasing their distance at the archery range filled Apollo with pride.

Nico, Apollo noticed as he listened to his kids’ stories, was quietly piling a plate full of food which looked suspiciously geared towards Will’s preferences.  The fact that he wasn’t running off with it as soon as he was done, but rather set it to one side with a glare towards table eleven that just dared someone to try and touch it (not even Hermes’ children were that foolish), added weight to the likelihood that Will was still asleep.

Eventually, after their tales were fully regaled, his kids helpfully confirmed it for him.

“There was a new arrival late last night,” Austin told him.  “Will didn’t get back to the cabin until…” he trailed off, clearly trying to remember although Apollo was pretty certain none of his children had any real sense of time when the sun was down, if they’d even stirred when Will had no doubt stumbled back into the cabin, exhausted and bleary-eyed.

“Three in the morning,” Nico finished for him.  “I was the one that dragged him out once he was done,” he informed Apollo, who gave him an approving look.

“You’re good for him,” he said, not for the first time and certainly not the last, either.  The Italian boy’s pale cheeks flushed slightly pink, although Nico didn’t look away or otherwise acknowledge his words.

“He’ll probably wake up soon,” his son’s boyfriend continued instead.  “Seeing as for some reason he always seems to wake up at dawn, or near after it.”  The accusation was pointed.

Apollo shrugged.  “What can I say, it’s the best time of the day,” he said, fully supported by his four awake children who were, of course, all natural morning people.

Nico scoffed.  “Just keep telling yourself that,” he retorted, and Apollo pressed a hand to his chest, swooning back in dramatic offence.

“The betrayal,” he whined, to the beautiful sound of four children laughing and a fifth snorting almost imperceptibly.  “Nico di Angelo, I thought we were friends!”

“Am I supposed to be friends with my boyfriend’s dad?” Nico asked, eyebrow raised, and Apollo spluttered, remembering at the last moment that Nico might not like the reminder that he was also Apollo’s cousin in the context of the current conversation and redirecting his response into safer waters.

“Are you telling me we weren’t friends before you met my son?” he demanded instead, hand still splayed across his heart.  “I don’t give just anyone a ride in my chariot, you know!”

“You would if you could.” Nico’s call-out wasn’t wrong but he didn’t need to say it.  Apollo chose not to respond to the accusation, partially because that was the sort of thing he didn’t really need as more than a passing remark where certain gods might be listening.

“So, what are you all planning to do without Will to keep an eye on you?” he instead asked his children.

“Yan promised to help me get enough people for a game of cricket,” Jerry said instantly, and Apollo glanced down at the child in question, who scoffed.

“Are there enough people in camp to make a full game?” they asked, not disputing their British brother’s claim but ruthless with their logic regardless.

Jerry was undeterred. “We can adapt it,” he insisted.  “Smaller teams, with less wickets…”  He continued along the vein for several minutes, having clearly thought about the topic in great depth, while his siblings rolled their eyes good-naturedly.  “…and Harley already agreed to make us bats, wickets, and balls!”

That got the alarmed attention of Austin, who had at some point during his youngest brother’s impassioned speech withdrawn an oboe reed (Apollo suspected it was one of Alice’s spares, left behind when she’d gone back to her mother for the school term) from one of his pockets and started absent-mindedly blowing into it.  The loud squawk that erupted from it at Jerry’s proclamation earned him a punch from Kayla, who had the misfortune of having her ear a little too close.

“No,” Austin declared immediately.  “Will would kill you.”

“Will’s asleep,” Jerry pointed out, with all the flawless logic of a preteen.

“And staying that way,” Nico interjected, a little forcefully.  “Not being dragged out of bed to patch up everyone who gets in the vicinity of Harley’s latest death traps.”

“Cricket is a safe sport!” Jerry argued back, and Apollo sensed the potential for some injured pride and genuine sibling arguments – things he had left Olympus to escape.

“It is,” he agreed, reaching for Jerry’s shoulder once more and giving it a soft squeeze.  “What your siblings and Nico are trying to say is that Harley, while a very impressive young man and inventor, has a tendency to make things that are supposed to be safe… not so safe.”  He remembered the three-legged death race all too clearly.

“But camp doesn’t have all the gear,” Jerry whined, shoulders slumping dejectedly.  “I’ve got Mum’s ball, but…”  There was the hint of a quiver to his lower lip and Apollo was not letting that happen.

A snap of his fingers and one flash of bright light later had a pile of cricket equipment on the ground next to table seven, complete with all the safety gear Jerry had forgotten to mention.  Instantly, bright brown eyes lit up in delight, and the threat of tears disappeared. “You’re the best, Dad!”

He all but launched himself from the table, rummaging through the gear until he found the brand-new ball nestled inside one of the wicket keeper’s gloves and held it aloft proudly.

“Dad,” Kayla complained, just as Jerry excitedly insisted that Yan join him and the other demigod slipped off of the bench with far less enthusiasm to get drawn into a game of catch.  Jerry jammed a helmet on their head, and Apollo had to fight not to laugh at the unimpressed look on their face.

But Yan and Jerry had managed to develop a strong bond at some point while Apollo had been mortal and forcibly unaware of his children’s lives – he had later heard that the two of them had met on the way to camp, escorted by satyr guides who didn’t all make it, and that sort of shared experience usually prompted a powerful connection – so they didn’t take it off despite clearly disapproving of their younger brother’s antics.

They did, however, throw the ball a little hard and high, and smirked when Jerry let out a wail and tore down the pavilion after it.  “Yaaaaaaaaan!”

Yan chuckled and reclaimed their seat next to Apollo, tugging the helmet off but keeping it in their lap.

“Cricket’s not so bad,” they shrugged at the disbelieving noise Kayla made.  “Just a lot of throwing, catching, and running.”

“Archery’s better,” she grumbled, and Yan – also a fantastic archer and general marksperson – shrugged in agreement.

“It keeps him happy,” they said, which was a point she had to concede on, if rather ungracefully.

Nico muttered something under his breath which wasn’t as grumpy as the son of Hades tried to make it sound, and stood up.  “I’ll go leave this where Will can grab it when he wakes up,” he said, picking up the heavily laden plate.

“I’ll come with you,” Apollo said instantly, giving the still-sitting kids another shoulder squeeze and making his own way to his feet.

It was somewhat of a surprise that Nico not only acquiesced, but also waited for him rather than walking to cabin seven by himself, and Apollo certainly didn’t waste time scrambling to join him, throwing a “be good!” over his shoulder at his awake children – Jerry had finally caught up with the ball and was hurtling back to them with it held triumphantly above his head, and Kayla’s bright hair splayed across the stone table as her forehead connected with it – despite being well aware that four demigods between the ages of twelve and fourteen left unsupervised was a recipe for chaos.

The thick curtains of cabin seven were all drawn tightly shut, a sure sign that there was an occupant either sleeping or recording a video inside.  Given that the only one of his children currently in camp that wasn’t outside and causing a ruckus was not one with particularly musical proclivities, it was a clear indicator of the former – or at least, that Will was supposed to be asleep.

Neither Apollo nor Nico made a sound as they edged the door open and slipped through, but something had apparently alerted Will’s trouble’s brewing big brother senses regardless, because Apollo’s eldest in-camp child was blinking blearily as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

The blankets pooled around his waist as Will yawned, running a hand through an impressive bed-head of tangled waves.  He still looked exhausted, skin a little too pale and an indication of bags threatening to form beneath his eyes, and in a wordless agreement Apollo and Nico were immediately at his bedside, the plate of food set on top of his semi-cluttered dresser and promptly ignored.

“Go back to sleep,” Nico said bluntly, gripping his boyfriend’s shoulder and pushing him back down with arms that were far stronger than their thin appearance implied.

“What time is it?” Will asked, his voice thick, as though Nico hadn’t spoken, and Apollo added his own hand to the fray as, between them, he and Nico got Will once again laying back down.

“For you, it’s sleep time,” he informed his son, and got wide blue eyes as Will registered his presence.

“Dad?”

Apollo smiled at him, pulling the covers up and tucking them under his chin as Nico hovered, ready to stop any attempts to sit up again.

“You did well last night,” he promised, fussing with the edge of the blanket until it sat just right.  “But that’s no excuse to go without sleep.  Camp is fine, your siblings are fine” – it was a testament to how much Nico wanted Will to continue resting that the son of Hades didn’t have any quips to make on the subject – “you are tired, and need some sleep.”

“But-” Will protested, and Apollo shushed him.

“But nothing,” he said, brushing a light hand over his son’s forehead.  Messy stands of hair tried to cling to him as he did so.  “Everything will be fine; I want you to stay in here for a few more hours.”

“’m not tired,” his son tried, but the fact that he hadn’t even managed to vocalise I’m at the start of the protest defeated his argument before it even started.

“You’re being an idiot,” Nico grumbled at him.  The son of Hades had perched himself on Will’s bed, near his legs, and was regarding his boyfriend with dark, slightly worried, eyes.  “You need some more sleep.”

“So do you,” Will pointed out, which was clearly true on a technicality because Nico, too, had been awake at three in the morning, but also the son of Hades’ sleep schedule appeared to have finally settled into something that was far more akin to frequent naps rather than a single long sleep.

As adorable as their bantering could be, right then it was starting too feel too much like the bickering that Apollo had had more than enough of at the solstice yesterday, so he cleared his throat and drew both of their attention back to him.

“A few more hours, Will,” he said gently, adding a slight pleading tone beneath the words to make it clear that, at the end of the day, it was his son’s decision – although Apollo had strong opinions on the decision he should be making.

“I’m already awake,” his son pointed out, still not sounding like the most awake demigod the world had ever seen, but with a clear point regardless – Will, like the majority of Apollo’s children and unlike his boyfriend, was not one for naps. Having woken up already, getting back to sleep would be a greater challenge than before.

“I can help with that,” Apollo offered.  Will looked torn, and Nico stepped in.

“If you sleep now, you avoid the insanity of Jerry dragging the rest of the camp into his stupid game,” he said.  “Apollo gave him what he needs to torment the rest of us with it.”  There was a dark look sent his way, but Apollo just shrugged it off.

“They’re bickering,” he said instead of responding to the accusation.  Instantly, a look of tired resignation crossed Will’s face; head counsellors did not enjoy separating bickering younger campers, especially when said campers were also their siblings.  “Escape while you can.”

Responsibility and tiredness waged war across the battleground of Will’s eyes, a battle Apollo could well appreciate.

“I won’t let it escalate,” he promised, and those words seemed to be enough to have the tension draining from Will’s muscles.

“Just a couple of hours,” his son demanded.  Apollo was relieved to get any agreement at all – Will had a deep well of stubbornness which he frequently drew upon, which was probably not entirely from Naomi’s side, but apparently the idea of facing his younger siblings bickering over cricket was enough to make him want to roll over and go back to sleep for a few more hours.

Apollo could certainly relate to that.

“Just a couple of hours,” he confirmed, brushing his son’s forehead one more time and this time humming the beginning chords of a lullaby.  Nothing too loud or powerful – Will would benefit best from a natural sleep, which meant being simply coaxed back down rather than being forced under – but just right for a couple more hours of truly restful sleep.

“You’d better still be here,” Will mumbled suddenly as his eyes began to droop, and something in Apollo’s chest did a happy little twist.

“I plan on being here all day,” he assured him – it wasn’t a promise, he couldn’t promise something like that when Zeus might start making ominous gestures and insist he depart, but it was the closest he could truthfully get.

It was enough to bring a small smile to Will’s lips as he slipped back under again, and Apollo pressed his lips lightly to his forehead, unable to resist.

“Sleep well,” he murmured. “You deserve it.”

Part of him wanted to sit in the peace and quiet of the cabin, rather than face whatever mischief his other progeny had managed to whip up in the handful of minutes they had been left unsupervised, but not even the constant bickering of siblings was enough to put Apollo off the idea of spending as much of the day as possible with happy demigods whose biggest issue was whether or not they wanted to play a ball game.

In the shadows of the bunk, Nico’s pale face stood out starkly as he surveyed Will’s sleeping form for several long moments.

“He’s just sleeping?” he asked after a moment, voice barely above a whisper.  Apollo lowered his voice to match.

“Just sleeping,” he promised – that was an easy promise to make.  “He’ll wake up again in a few hours, as agreed.”  He half expected Nico to make himself comfortable and settle down for the hours’-long wait, but once again the son of Hades surprised him as he slid off of the end of Will’s bed, leaving barely a wrinkle in his wake.

“He’ll get mad at me for ‘wasting’ the day looking over him,” Nico explained, apparently sensing Apollo’s faint confusion.  “And I want to see how long it takes Kayla to turn that cricket ball into a pincushion.”

It was certainly a possible scenario, although Apollo hoped she wouldn’t show off her prowess quite like that – Jerry would not react well and then he would have actual fighting children on his hands.  Parenting One-oh-One books tended to advise not to let that happen, especially the godly ones which were fully aware that the children involved could be rather… powerful. And destructive.

Definitely destructive.

“Please do not give her that idea,” he replied as they cautiously slipped back out of the cabin, Nico squinting at the sudden change in light levels.  “She has plenty of feasible targets to try and hit in the archery range.”

“She’ll call that ball feasible,” Nico deadpanned.  “You know she will.”

Nico wasn’t exactly wrong, but Apollo made a mental note to get Kayla her own supply of balls fit to be converted into pincushions so she had no excuse except pettiness to target Jerry’s new collection.

“Even more reason not to give her the idea,” he said lightly.

In the time he and Nico had been in the cabin, it appeared that the rest of his children had devolved even further into bickering – although Apollo was hopeful it remained playful bickering rather than a serious argument – over whether or not Jerry should try and get the entire camp into a game of cricket.

Kayla and Austin were firmly refusing to participate, while Yan stood steadfastly at their younger brother’s side and plucked at the grill of one of the helmets’ mouth guards. Apollo was fairly certain they didn’t actually mind the idea of playing, even though it was clearly more Jerry’s interest than their own.

Then again, Yan had already proven that their aim was as sharp with a ball as it was various other projectiles and knew they’d be a force to be reckoned with as a bowler or a batsperson.

“Is he still asleep?” Austin asked Apollo as he and Nico approached.  The oboe reed had disappeared from his mouth at some point, and Apollo got the feeling that Austin was subconsciously slipping into Will’s role of eldest sibling while his own big sibling wasn’t around.

“He’s asleep,” Nico confirmed before Apollo could compose an answer.  That didn’t, however, stop his mouth from running with other ideas.

“Will’s worked very hard recently,” he said, not sure if he meant just the past couple of weeks, where winter and ice provoked falls from even the most graceful demigods, or recently in the terms of a god’s reckoning, which encompassed Will’s entire life, near enough.

Not that it really mattered, though.  Will deserved a break regardless, and Apollo was determined that, at least for this one morning, he would get one.

The murmur of agreeing noises was the first time since his arrival that all four awake children had been in harmony with each other.  It was far more soothing than the various small bickers and snipes he’d been hearing since.

“Should we do something for him?” Austin wondered, fingers fiddling with one of the buttons on his long, soft jacket.

“He got breakfast in bed,” Kayla pointed out, although Apollo didn’t think she was actually disagreeing.  “When’s the last time we got breakfast in bed?”

“But that was Nico and Dad,” Yan said.  “Not us.”

“He hasn’t actually eaten it yet,” Nico muttered, but if there was one person (besides himself) that Apollo was certain was fully on board with Austin’s suggestion, it was the son of Hades.  Apollo regarded the demigod in question out of the corner of his eye as his children started debating what they could do for their brother – “no, Jerry, we’re not making Will play cricket!” – and was relieved at what he saw.

Nico had been through a lot in his life.  Far too much even for a grown adult nearing the end of a long and fulfilled life, and both physically and mentally he wasn’t even sixteen yet, despite what mortal records might suggest.  Apollo remembered the young, sullen and betrayed child he had seen in the snow, just over four years earlier, remembered doing what he could do distract him at least for a short while from the abandonment of his sister whilst fully aware that the camp he was taking him to would not, at the time, be Nico’s salvation despite his wishes.

Not for a son of Hades, not against the stigma that had been in place for millennium.  In all four thousand or so years of the camp’s existence, it had never been a safe place for children of Hades, although Apollo had tried.

To see him here, now, still standing with a group of demigods despite his main link to them being absent, interjecting in their debate and being listened to – respected, as much as a group of twelve to fourteen year olds knew how to respect someone – and all parties completely comfortable with his presence.

If Apollo was still mortal, he would have burst into tears then and there.

It was still a close-run thing, even with a sliver of godly self-control to hold them back, as he reached out for the son of Hades and gave him a brief, tight, squeeze.

Nico jumped, and fixed him with a confused glare.

“What was that for?” he demanded, interrupting Kayla’s suggestion of archery lessons.

Apollo couldn’t say what he was thinking, not without several suddenly self-conscious demigods in his midst, so he just gave Nico the biggest, brightest smile he could manage without blinding him.  “I’m so happy for you,” he said, which did absolutely nothing to clear up the confusion on the Italian boy’s face.

Nico blinked at him once, twice, then shrugged and turned away.  “Whatever.  Kayla, are you trying to stress him out more?  You know he doesn’t think he’s any good at archery.”

“A concert?” Austin suggested as his sister pouted.  “I could whip up a few things for us to play… Nico, I can’t believe I’ve never asked this before, but can you play anything or would you rather sing?”

The look of stunned outrage on Nico’s face had Austin’s siblings all laughing, and even Apollo couldn’t help but smile, amused.

“Neither,” the son of Hades said firmly, and Austin’s face fell.

“Not even for Will?” he wheedled, and got a glare in return.

“Not in front of you,” Nico countered, and all of Apollo’s children pouted.  There was a gleam in Austin’s eyes, however, that had Apollo wondering what idea his son had suddenly got into his head and if he should be worried about it.

Whatever it was, however, it went unspoken as Yan spoke.  “We could make him something,” they suggested.

“Like what?” Kayla asked. “Best Bro Mug?  He’s not Nico’s brother, though.”

“A cake!” Jerry piped up, and all of the demigods looked at each other, and then, to Apollo’s mild concern, him.

“We’re not allowed in the kitchen without supervision,” Austin said slowly.

Oh.  Apollo could take a hint.

“I think a cake sounds wonderful,” he agreed, before gesturing in the direction of the Big House. “Shall we?”

The thinly-veiled concern on Chiron’s face as Apollo shepherded five demigods into the kitchen was entirely uncalled for.  Dionysus simply scoffed as they passed and informed Apollo that any disasters were on his head, and Apollo beamed back at his brother, reminding him which god it was that tended to leave culinary disasters in his wake.

(So maybe Apollo had left a few.  But Dionysus’ parties were legendary for a reason.)

It was only once he’d nudged all five children into washing their hands – none of them had hair long enough to need tying back, although he snapped his own from its half-up half-down manbun into a low ponytail – that he realised there was an important question that needed asking.

“Who knows how to bake a cake?”

Immediately, they all looked at each other, eyes widening a little as none of them put their hands up and said I do!

“Mum makes them all the time,” Jerry said after a moment.  “It can’t be that hard.”

Genevieve Allen might have baked a lot (and Apollo remembered how delicious the outcomes had always been), but it took less than a minute into the start of the process for Apollo to realise she had never imparted any lessons on her son – or that Jerry had never paid any attention if she had.

Flour was spilt – not that anyone believed for a moment that was accidental when the victim was Nico, whose all-black aesthetic was suddenly inverted in a single incident – eggs were smashed, and Kayla seemed more interested in eating the chocolate than melting it.

Still, Apollo let the chaos continue, plucking out shards of eggshell before they could join the mixture and subtly replenishing the flour and chocolate supplies, because while it was readily apparent that none of them really knew anything about baking, they were having fun with it – despite his makeover, Nico still had a small grin on his face as he attacked the mixture with a spoon – and Apollo knew that that would be far more important to Will than the cake itself being a culinary masterpiece.

It definitely took some godly intervention (mostly in the form of Apollo prodding the five of them into doing things in approximately the correct order, rescuing more shards of eggshell, and in one particularly close call, catching the bowl when Jerry got too enthusiastic in his stirring and it almost fell to the floor), but the thing that went into the oven to make at the end of it all would at least not poison their poor brother.

Actually, Apollo had full faith that it would still be delicious.  What was the use of being the god of knowledge if he didn’t know things, and he definitely knew how to bake a cake, even if for some reason no-one believed him?  The steps might have been rather haphazard and chaotic, but they were still the right steps, overall in the right order.

Then he remembered that he was supposed to be supervising more than just the cake-making process, and that the kitchen looked like a warzone.

His suggestion that the children clean it while they waited for the cake to bake was met with a glorious chorus of whining, and Yan’s suggestion that Apollo do it for them – which was then met with a chorus of agreement.

Apollo shouldn’t.  He knew he should make them do it themselves, but really, who was he to deny five pleading faces (even Nico’s was expectant enough that Apollo mentally grouped him with the other four).

With a sigh, he snapped his fingers and the kitchen was once again sparkling clean.

“Now what?” Kayla asked, leaning against a cupboard with a slightly-open door.  Apollo could see her fingers sneaking inside to grab some more chocolate but decided to turn a blind eye.  If his daughter wanted chocolate, she could have chocolate – at least until it reached the point of making her sick, but he was confident he would notice before it got to that point and stop her.

“Icing!” Jerry chirped. “Mum always makes icing!”

“Cakes need icing,” Apollo agreed.

“How do we make that?” Austin wondered, as Kayla gave up on the pretence that she wasn’t raiding a cupboard and threw it open.

“There’s sugar in here,” she proclaimed, “hey-!”

Nico had swooped in next to her and swiped the half-eaten bar of chocolate, taking a bite with a satisfying crack.

“That was my chocolate!” Kayla protested.  Nico shrugged.

“Mine now.”

“I’ll shoot you,” she threatened, but Nico just smirked at her.

“Try it,” he dared.

Apollo decided to intervene before it got out of hand.

“For starters,” he answered Austin, “we need this.”  A snap of his fingers had the chocolate bar disappearing from Nico’s grip and materialising on the counter.

It was Nico’s turn to exclaim “hey!” in protest.  Kayla laughed at him.

“Dad, do you know how to do this?” Jerry finally asked, and five pairs of eyes settled on him. He smiled back at them.

“Of course I do!” he insisted.

“And you let us guess our way through making the cake?” Nico demanded.  Apollo shrugged.

“You were having fun,” he defended himself.  “It’ll be a fantastic cake.  Now, as for the icing…”

With the five children now looking to him for direction, he split up the tasks between them and with far more concentration and less chaos, by the time the cake was out and cooled, they had more icing than they really needed, in a variety of colours, and Jerry had demanded Apollo produce a pen and paper so he could design how they were going to decorate the cake.

Mess returned with the application of the icing, and more of it ended up consumed than used, but that was why Apollo had arranged for so much to be made – even by the time they were done, there was plenty left over, which he reminded them was Will’s share when Kayla’s sticky fingers made fresh advances.

His daughter surrendered, and this time Apollo persuaded them to clean up the kitchen themselves – although he did at least snap them all clean so they didn’t all need urgent appointments with a shower – rather than doing it for them, which neatly ran them up to ‘a couple of hours’ since he’d helped Will roll over and go back to sleep for a bit.

No-one needed any encouragement to scramble back to the cabin, although Nico threatened all of them with shadowy horrors if their chaos woke Will if he wasn’t already awake. Apollo took care of transporting the cake, well aware that a quintet of hyped-up-on-sugar demigods was a recipe for disaster (maybe Will wouldn’t thank him for that, although there was more than enough icing left over for him to join their number very quickly), and before long they were all impatiently tapping their feet on the cabin floor.

Will, it transpired, must have already woken up because his bed was empty – although not yet made – and the plate of food Nico had left had been partially eaten.  The sound of running water from the bathroom left no doubts at all as to his location, leaving the six of them with nothing to do but wait.

Nico commandeered Will’s bed, even going as far as to roughly pull the covers up before sitting on it.  The other five scattered to their own bunks, while Apollo snapped a low table with plates into existence to place the cake on before perching on Will’s bed, next to Nico.

With enough noise to wake the dead, there was no way Will didn’t know they were all in there, so when the bathroom door edged open to reveal a fresh, healthy looking demigod with still-dripping hair, all they got was a fond eyeroll.

“What are you all doing in here?” he asked, apparently not noticing the new table.  He was eying the clear hyperactivity with an air of I don’t want to know, and Apollo found himself the target of an exasperated look that clearly said I thought you were going to keep an eye on them.

“Waiting for you!” Kayla exclaimed, jumping down from her bunk and landing nimbly on all fours, rather like a cat.

From the look on Will’s face, that didn’t reassure him at all – or maybe he just didn’t like Kayla jumping down from her bunk rather than using the ladder.

“You can’t tell me you’ve had nothing better to do than wait for me to wake up,” he said, putting his hands on his hips – every inch the big brother he was.

Apollo decided to put him out of his misery.

“They made something for you,” he prompted as Austin joined Kayla on the floor with far more suave and much less chaos in his approach.  Yan and Jerry scrambled to join them, and Apollo watched Will’s eyes widen in a surprise that quickly shifted to delight as Nico slunk to the back of the pack but unmistakably part of it.

“You helped, Dad,” Austin told him.

“I just supervised,” Apollo deflected.  “You all did the work.”

That was the moment Will finally spotted the table.  His siblings and boyfriend crowded him as he approached it, while Apollo settled himself by it and waited.

It would not be winning any fancy cake-decorating tournaments, but in his humble and not at all biased opinion, it was one of the best cakes he had ever seen.

THANK YOU was picked out in golden calligraphic icing – Jerry had a much steadier hand than most people equated with twelve year old children, although there were still some wobbles where he’d lost control of the piping.  Around the words, each of the five had drawn something with various levels of skill.

Austin’s musical notes notated the opening bars of his latest composition in a perfect copy, while the saxophone he’d attempted to draw looked more like a smudged banana, especially when he’d started trying to scrape it off before Yan told him not to. Yan themselves had drawn the rising sun, with its rays just starting to poke over the horizon, while Jerry’s artistic talent had been used up on the calligraphy and he’d opted for a simple red cross, and a dark red blob that everyone knew was supposed to be a cricket ball, even if it rather resembled a splotch of blood.

Kayla, predictably, had attempted a bow at full draw.  Bows weren’t difficult to draw, if kept simple, but she’d tried to add on all the accessories on her recurve so it had ended up a rather indistinct mass of various shades of greens and greys.  Nico appeared determined to pretend he didn’t have any artistic talent at all, and had simply drawn a bright ring of gold around a black circle – Apollo was pretty certain it was supposed to represent Will’s ability to glow, although it also looked rather like a simplistic solar eclipse.

“I-” Will started.  “Wha-  Guys, what is this for?”

“It says right there!” Jerry protested, pointing at his calligraphy.  Will put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I can read it,” he assured him, “but… what for?”  His confusion rang through the cabin clearly.  The six of them looked at each other; Apollo wondering how to say ­­everything in a colloquial way that would get through to his son as the demigods seemingly faced the same dilemma.

It was Nico who answered him, in the end, summing it up with a blunt succinctness.

“For being you.”

Will blinked, but then Kayla grabbed him in a hug, and that was the cue for the rest of them to dog-pile their big brother.  The blond boy went down in a flail of too many limbs, and Nico and Apollo both laughed at the sight before catching each other’s eyes.

It was only a split second, but they came to an instant, silent, decision.

Will shrieked in protest as two more bodies joined the pile on top of him, but then there was laughter, and maybe a few tears, and far too many demigods hyped up on sugar and emotions – and maybe a god, too.

It was a long time before they got around to eating the cake – which was absolutely delicious in the way all things made with love were – and catching Will up to the rest of them in terms of consumed sugar and subsequent hyperactivity that Apollo could already sense Chiron’s despairing disapproval for, but he loved every moment of it.

This was how family gatherings were supposed to be.  Olympus: take note.

[no-droids]

Whenever You Want

Part Fourteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: Listen there is some dirty smut in this one yall okay like I was blushing when I wrote it, it has a very stark beginning and theres a pagebreak afterwards if you would prefer to skip over it. Smut includes oral sex (female receiving) rough sex, sensory deprivation, butt stuff (ass to mouth, anal fingering/penetration) so PLEASE LOOK OUT FOR IT PLEASE. Also there is jealous/possessive mando in this, season 1 Karga makes another appearance, and some angst/fluff towards the end

A/N: Nothing much today yoditos just love you all

***

Din said he’d meet you here.

You’re currently sitting across from Greef Karga in a cantina on Nevarro, a closed shield next to you and a blaster tucked into the back of your waistband, hidden underneath your shirt.  You’re barely even looking at him, though—your eyes are attached to the door by an invisible string, forcing your gaze back to it no matter how much it bounces around the room.

You don’t know where Din is, you haven’t seen him in hours.  But you do know that when he left, he was moving slower than you’re used to.  You don’t think anyone else would notice, but you sure did.  Not that he was obvious about it—you only picked up on very subtle hints.  Leaning up against things just a bit more than he usually does.  Taking slightly longer exiting the ramp of the Crest than his normal strides would carry him.

He didn’t say what he was going to do—just that he needed to find someone before meeting with Karga, and you accepted it.  But truthfully, you didn’t want to.  You were worried about him—still are, actually.  But for all intents and purposes, he was speaking and acting like himself, showing no real signs of exhaustion other than the smallest instances you described before, so you didn’t really have a leg to stand on.  He’s been through way worse, and you know it.  You just… find yourself worrying about him so much more than you used to, and you need to learn how to gain some control over that part of you.

The kid was still passed out from healing him and you remember Din carefully setting four pucks down in the sleeping baby’s sphere and giving his ears a gentle rub between leather fingers.  He turned back to you and told you to meet him at the cantina in three hours, but if it ended up taking him too long for any reason, to try your best to see if Karga will let you exchange on his behalf.

Admittedly, he didn’t sound too confident about it—the instructions were delivered with a tone that implied a doubtful, just-in-case scenario he wasn’t foreseeing happening.  Or maybe he just doubted the likelihood of Karga agreeing to do business with you, you’re not entirely sure.  All you know is that when he left, you were almost certain he wouldn’t be late, but you also took the time to grab the smallest blaster from his armory before heading out just in case.

Yet—here you are, three and a half hours later, eyes flicking between the door and Karga as you attempt to keep up polite conversation.  After turning down his offer of alcohol for the fifth time and still not seeing any glimpse of beskar coming to your rescue, you figure this may be as good a time as any to start the exchange.

During an extended break in the small talk, you slowly reach over to the corner of your booth and press a button on the face of the kid’s shield.  It hisses open and you completely miss the way Karga’s hand raises while three of his guards automatically reach for their hips.  The little green monster is still snoozing comfortably while you pull out the four glowing pucks Din left you and set them on the table one by one.

They scrape along the top of it as you slowly push them over to him, before sitting back in the booth and clearing your throat, flicking your eyes between Karga and his guards.  To you, nobody appears to have moved, so you muster a polite smile at him.

Karga smiles back, but makes no move to gather or inspect the offerings in front of him.

“Um…” you say after a moment, suddenly feeling your heart start to beat a little faster.  “Mando… Mando gave me permission to exchange on his behalf.”

“I believe you,” he drawls out in response, but the pucks still sit untouched in front of him as he leans back in the booth and studies you.  “Mando has always had a… let’s say, a frustrating penchant for disregarding the pillars of our code.  My apologies, young lady, but I’m afraid that I cannot accept these from you.”

Your voice comes out quieter than you’d like it to sound.  “Why not?”

“It is… unlawful,” he answers after a moment.  “Our organization operates under strict rules.”

Does it?  You blink.  No, it doesn’t.  You’re nothing to the Guild and you’ve sat next to Din quite a few times while Karga talked, listening to him drunkenly boast about return rates and out members by name.  You’re not sure why he’s barring you like this, but you’re also not self-assured enough to put practically any spine into it whatsoever.  “I’m… afraid I don’t understand.”

“I cannot legally do guild business with individuals not recognized as members in an official capacity,” he sighs, sounding grave and almost apologetic about it, but you don’t know him well enough to know if he’s a good actor or not.  “There’s nothing I can do for you besides provide you with my company, not until Mando decides to show.”

Well now that doesn’t make any sense, and you’re starting to worry that for some reason or another, he isn’t going to show.  Though it was incredibly well concealed, you’re well aware that Din was still lingering in the final recovery stages when he left the Crest earlier and all you have to go on is his word that he’d be here.  Something could’ve happened.  Something could be happening right now, you need to push.

“People pick up bounties for extra credits all the time,” you mumble, still way too fucking quiet about it.  Maker, you’re not even sure if he could hear that over the sound of the cantina.  Speak up, speak up.

“Yes, but those quarry are listed on the New Republic’s most wanted database,” Karga acknowledges diplomatically, educating more than he is arguing, before uncorking the bottle of glowing blue alcohol in front of him and beginning to pour himself another shot.  “They’re fodder.  Up for grabs—names, last known locations, and biometrics published for the entire galaxy to read.”  He tilts his head down at the four metal pucks on the table without removing his gaze from the gradually filling glass.  “Those pucks are different, they’re commissions.  Tied specifically to Guild contracts.”  Karga clunks the bottle back down again and corks it, pinning you with a stare.  “For all I know, you could’ve murdered a member of our ranks and come to collect payment for his bounties.  Can’t have that.”

Your blood suddenly turns to ice at the implication, eyes wide and your heartbeat rocketing as you look from Karga to the three guards casually stationed behind him.  “You—You think I murdered Mando?”

“No,” he says, easily and in the very same breath, before throwing the shot back and wiping his mouth with a grimace.  “Not sure I’d care too much if you did.  It’s not my rule, but I am required to follow it or risk losing my position in the Guild.”

Shit.  Shit.  What do you do?

You’re blank, left quiet and feeling increasingly unsure of how to proceed.  Karga, however, seems completely unbothered and even appears to be enjoying himself and your company.  He gives you another smile, this one a lot friendlier and more genuine than the one earlier, before setting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“Look, I want to help you,” he admits, keeping his tone light, “but my hands are tied.  Just relax and share a drink with me until he gets here, it’s not a problem.”

Fuck, you don’t like this, and a quick look around brings another reminder of Din’s continued absence.  Your chest feels tight, the anxiety starting to compound and make you jumpy.  It’s been too long—it’s been at least forty minutes or so of waiting by now and something just feels wrong about this.  Not having him next to you feels wrong enough on its own, but when he specifically told you he’d be here?

You clench your jaw and try to work up your nerve.  Karga is a nice guy, right?  He knows you by name, he knows who you are to Mando.  And while you never really thought about the bounty hunter’s omnipresent protection as being anything other than metaphorical, you suddenly realize that… it might be literal, too.  How much sway do you actually have here, you wonder?  You’re not stupid, you’re not going to try anything stupid, but maybe just another question won’t hurt?

“Well, um… how do you become a member, then?”  You ask him, and you watch as he leans back in the booth, raising both eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me?”  He asks, though there’s a genuine amusement in his voice.  Stunned that you’d even say the words aloud.

“I have four bodies,” you tell him shortly.  You’re still quiet about it, but his thoroughly entertained astonishment is beginning to rub you the wrong way.  You don’t want to be part of the Guild, you don’t want to be here, you’re doing this out of growing necessity.  “One of which I dragged through a blizzard on Hoth by its ankles and put into carbonite myself, so please just tell me what I have to do to get you to take them.”

“I can’t,” he repeats, shaking his head like you’re just not getting it.  “New members are only accepted if they bring in an S-level criminal from the database or if they complete a commission that was granted to them by someone of my station—neither of which apply to you.  If you cannot present me with any sort of reasonable argument for which they could, then I’m afraid this is not a favor I can swing.”

“I was sitting right here,” you return, suddenly finding your voice.  If Karga wants an argument from you to get this to happen, then you’ll do it.  You just need to finish this exchange, go back to the Crest, and scan around for Din’s signal.  “When you first gave the pucks to Mando, I sat right here and you pushed them over to this side of the table—I was present for the commission and now I’m here to complete it.”

He shakes his head.  “But I didn’t give them to you, I gave them to Mando—”

“Yes, but you only wanted to give him three,” you immediately point out.  “The last one, the one I told you I put into carbonite—you said you threw it in because you liked me, it could’ve been for me.”

Karga suddenly stops and blinks at you for a few seconds, and you bite your lip, wondering if the logic will hold.  It’s flimsy as fuck and you know he could very easily rip it apart if he wanted to.  It could’ve been for you but it wasn’t, he gave it to Mando.  You also purposefully leave out the fact that you’re also the reason Mando only gave him three bodies in the first place; your only goal here is to complete this transaction as quickly as possible and leave.  You don’t like the fact that it’s taking Din so long, and you also don’t like the fact that Karga seems so keen on keeping you here with him, no matter how many reassurances he provides.  He said he wants to help you?  This can be his chance to prove it.

After a few extended moments of consideration, Karga finally shrugs like he really couldn’t care less before reaching across the table for the pucks and beginning to stack them in his palm.

“What is your last name?”  He asks, turning behind him to gesture for one of his men with a jerk of his head.  The bodyguard exits the cantina without another word and your eyes flick back to Karga’s.

“Why does it matter?”  You ask uncertainly, watching another guard approach with a holopad as he shrugs once more.

“It doesn’t, but we need something for our records,” Karga explains, grabbing the device as it’s tapped against his shoulder without removing his gaze from yours.  “I can just use Doe if you don’t feel like sharing—most of our members tend to prefer anonymity, including your companion.”

Your eyebrows furrow even as your heart continues to pound, wondering how they can afford to be so lax about some things but take others so seriously.  “You have him down as John Doe?”

“First name Man,” Karga grunts in response, finally breaking eye contact to begin navigating through pages on the holopad.

“Ah,” you say shortly, knowing you’d probably find the joke funny in other circumstances.  You’re not out of the trenches yet, you still feel the worry tugging hard at your chest.

“Very well,” Karga announces with a sigh, pocketing the pucks in his leather overcoat and then handing the holopad back to one of the men flanking him after a moment.  “Someone is collecting the carbonite plaques from your vessel as we speak.”

You give him a nod, taking a deep breath that you hope is slow and subtle enough to not give your anxiety away.  He helped you out, you’re halfway through this.  Now comes the exchange.  Now it’s his turn to give you the credits and four more pucks, that’s how this should go.

Only, Karga leans back in his seat and cocks his head at you.  “Unfortunately, I believe we have found ourselves in the midst of yet another predicament.”

Your heart continues to slam, praying you haven’t somehow majorly fucked things up by getting this far.  Din still isn’t here, why is he so fucking late?  He nearly froze to death and you handled a dead body just to make this meeting on time, where the fuck is he?

You raise an eyebrow at him, willing the building panic not to show on your face.  “Have we?”

“You’re lucky credits are attached to commissions instead of rank within the Guild,” he prefaces, pulling out a large handful of them to begin counting, and your eyes flick around the cantina while you know he isn’t looking, “or else you’d be getting about half of what I’d normally give him.”

Heart galloping when you still don’t see any sign of him, you just decide to keep extra quiet as you watch Karga divvy out a sizable stack of credits, hoping your prolonged silence will protect you somehow.

“The question now becomes…” he lifts an eyebrow at you while sliding them across the table to you, “how many pucks do I give you in return, hm?”

Fuck, you don’t like this, you’re trying to make it crystal fucking clear that your intentions do not extend beyond the perimeter of this table.  There’s no you to be found in this deal, you’re just an emergency proxy in Din’s absence and you only inserted yourself in the situation to accomplish that task.  “I told you I’m only here to exchange on Mando’s behalf, that’s it.”

“Be that as it may…”  Karga glances around the cantina like he’s thinking extra hard about it.  This is a made-up problem, you both know there’s no predicament here.  He knows you didn’t kill Mando, he knows there’s no real reason to be giving you such a hard time about this, and you clench your jaw as he still seems to take his time considering it.  “Tell you what, young lady,” he finally turns back to you.  “Do me the honor of sharing one sip of this fine spotchka with me and I’ll give you four pucks to pass along to Mando.”

Okay.  Okay, you can do that, if he really cares that much.  Karga gestures for the closest droid to come by with a glass for you, but you just grab the bottle in front of him and uncork it without thinking too much, balancing the glowing blue liquid with two hands and diligently taking a small sip of it before setting it down again.  Appearing satisfied with your demonstration of upholding your end of the bargain, Karga grins and reaches into another pocket.

“Four for Mando,” he pushes four pucks across the table, “same rate and return as last time, as promised.”  You nearly deflate in relief as you quickly gather them up and begin dropping them into the snoozing baby’s shield along with the credits, but then Karga reaches back and pulls out another puck, pushing it over to you.  “And one for you.”

You blink at him, frozen in place.

“Lowest level, lowest pay.  Not even a criminal by New Republic standards, just a missing person,” he goes on to say, but then quite suddenly… 

Quite suddenly you’re absolutely fucking horrified.

You don’t want it.  Everything inside you surges up to scream that you do not want that puck.  It’s a waste of time, even if it’s an extra job—it’s too much trouble, too much fuel for such a small reward.  You already know good and well that Din won’t want to bother, getting this extra puck would be considered a detriment to him.

“What if I don’t want it?”  You ask, sounding nervous and vaguely out of breath as you look down at it.

Karga scoffs.  “Of course you don’t.  Nobody wants these, why do you think I’m trying so hard to pawn one off on you?”

Shit.  This is not at all how you expected any of this would go.  You know he’s not really asking, even if his tone and continued courtesy implies it’s only a request.  There’s an expectation attached to this, and it appears you take too long pondering an offer that isn’t actually voluntary.  Karga stares at you and your clear apprehension for just a few seconds more, before finally giving you an ultimatum.  “You said you’re here on his behalf.  You either take all five pucks now or Mando only gets three next time, your choice.”

Oh.  Oh, no.  This is a lose-lose; three pucks means more fuel and less credits, five pucks means more fuel and less credits.  It’s not like you have any real bargaining power here—almost everything he’s done for you today has been a favor of some sort and you’re well aware that things can always get worse.

Still, you take a deep breath and try your best to throw around whatever weight you have left in one final agreement.

“Give me your word you’ll go back to giving him four from now on, no more hassling or hard time constraints and we’ll take it just this once,” you tell him, trying to conjure and put power behind your words even though you’re unsure if they’ll stick.

“Deal,” Karga readily agrees with a smile, reaching his hand across the table.  You have no choice but to meet him in the middle and clasp it, unable to feel anywhere close to good about your performance here.  It was clunky and insecure and even though you just barely succeeded in making the exchange overall, you’re massively disappointed in the specifics.

But then Karga’s eyes quickly flick over your shoulder.

“Ah, Mando!”  He suddenly calls out, and your hand nearly snatches away from his while your body goes rigid.

Oh, this isn’t good, this is not good.  Well, it’s good that he’s here but it also really fucking isn’t.  You don’t even turn your head; you sit completely straight and still while the cantina falls to a hush and heavy footsteps begin to approach behind you.  You fucked up—you fucked up, you didn’t wait long enough and you feel the sharp regret instantly twist in your stomach.  He said he’d be here, why didn’t you trust him?  Your anxiety and stress compounded and spurned you to act too quickly, you made the deal a few fucking seconds before he showed up.

And, as Din eventually comes into your peripheral, taking his time leaning his rifle up against the table, you immediately realize that you should not have worried.  Recovery isn’t even a word in his vocabulary right now—he’s more intimidating than he’s ever been, more powerful and certain and dangerous while he lowers himself into the seat next to you than he’s ever felt to you before.  Everything is so quiet now that he’s here; you feel like even just swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat turns into an audible gulp.  The man sitting across from you may own this cantina and every material good under its roof, but the one sitting by your side feels like he steals the literal air from the room just by walking inside it.

Yet, in spite of the daunting presence of the Mandalorian, Karga beams and tips his glass at him.  “I believe you’ve arrived just in time for your favorite part of the conversation, friend.  The farewells.”

You stare wide-eyed down at the table as Din leans back into the booth and very slowly extends his arm behind your shoulders, saying nothing at all to him.

The testosterone is radiating from him to the point of near suffocation, you can taste the alpha in the air.  Your heart slams in your chest at the unspoken claim he just made with a subtle movement, and though you’ve never been one for masculine displays, this one weirdly feels… good right now.  You know it’s primitive and crude and you’re not a piece of meat to be fought over, but it doesn’t feel like that at all.  It’s the immediate feeling of security that serves to heat your cheeks, the fact that you’ve been a nervous mess trying to be extra brave this whole interaction and then suddenly you have the backup of an entire army contained within one single suit of armor next to you.

If you weren’t internally panicking at how badly you screwed this shit up, you’d probably be going fucking feral for him right now.

Karga says your name and your gaze snaps to his, feeling like you can’t breathe.  “My associate has collected the plaques, nothing keeps you here any longer.  It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

Still, nobody at the table moves.

After a moment, you carefully glance up and to the side at the sharp, metallic profile of his helmet.  Maker, you can’t explain it—it’s like you feel terrified but not really for yourself, if that makes sense.  You’re upset with yourself for not having enough trust in his word, absolutely, but something in Din’s demeanor tells you that he’s going to be considerably less understanding of how Karga handled this situation than the way you did.

The helmet slowly turns down to look at you, and you bite your lip while carefully placing your hand on his thigh brace under the table, letting him feel your fingers brush against the bend of his knee.

He turns back to Karga after a few seconds, still not saying a single word, until eventually Din’s arm is lifted from behind your shoulders and you feel his leather fingers gently clasp your hand, before he starts to rise from the booth and pull you along next to him.  You both stand, and he silently presses a button on his vambrace without dropping your grip, urging the kid’s shield to follow along behind him.

“Um, goodbye,” you just barely remember to tell Karga as Din begins leading you away, apparently not waiting for the polite farewells he arrived in time for.

“Wait!”  A voice calls out just before you can make your exit, and Din pauses just in time for Karga to extend that damned fifth puck out for you to grab.  Right in fucking front of him.  “Can’t forget this!”

Fuck.  Great.  Thanks.

Blood rushes to your face while you go to reach for it, taking the puck and then placing it in the open shield along with four others in a way that you hope is casual but you know isn’t.  You close the lid on it and then squeeze Din’s hand slightly, but he stays rooted to the spot for a few more seconds, having watched the entire exchange play out.  Though you obviously wouldn’t be able to read his facial expressions even if you could lift your head to look up at him, you can’t will yourself to do so right now.  You’re too disappointed in yourself and nervous—you just stand there silently as he looks back at Karga, staring at your feet and praying he doesn’t do anything brash.

After too many moments of uncertainty, you squeeze his hand again and slowly begin to pull on it.  Without needing much pressure at all, he goes where you go, and you end up being the one to lead Din out of the cantina by the hand still tangled with yours.

*** 

The walk back to the Crest lasts an eternity.

Neither one of you say anything at all to each other the entire way there, and you know he’s not mad at you yet, but you’re worried.  You feel incredibly self-critical right now and it’s really not helping that he seems even quieter and more wound up than usual.  You don’t know if it’s because he already figured out that you just handed him extra work or if it’s because whatever made him late to the cantina also altered his mood, hit a reset button and reminded him of the way he used to be, the armor he’s wearing.  Was there a confrontation, you wonder?  Is he okay?  He seems like he’s… extra Mandalorian right now, there’s not really a better way to describe it.

He doesn’t drop your hand, though.  As you pass through the markets and shanty huts lining the streets, Din holds onto you.  Shoulders tense and strides heavy, but his fingers stay tangled in yours.

Regardless, you keep your mouth shut and eventually the Crest comes into view.  The ramp drops to the ground and the three of you make your way up, and you have enough foresight to carefully drop Din’s hand and lead the baby’s shield over to the unused cot built into the hull walls, closing him in a safe quiet place to sleep and continue building up his strength again.

You turn around to see Din press another button on his vambrace.  He stays with his back to you as the ramp slowly closes, but as soon as it latches up against the hull and locks into place, he nearly whips around and suddenly he’s right in front of you, gloves cupping your face.

“What happened?”  He asks sharply, the helmet looking you up and down.  “Are you alright?  Why did you look so scared?”

You reach up to rest your hands on his, blinking up at him and not knowing what to say.  How are you going to tell him?  He’s gotta waste extra fuel and time on a bullshit quarry because of you, what are you going to say?  You don’t even know if it’s last known location is nearby; he might have to fly to some remote, desolate corner of the galaxy just for a handful of credits because you couldn’t wait a fucking hour for him.

“I, uh…  I-I’m sorry, I just…”  But it’s nearly impossible to form a coherent thought when he’s this close to you and sounding fucking sincere, genuinely concerned about you while you’re stuck worrying about how to break the bad news to him.  “Oh, stars, um…”

“Did Karga fuck with you?”  He asks in that same sharp tone when you don’t finish your thought, but you’re so absorbed in your own conflict that you barely even hear him.  “Because I can go back right now, the cantina is just—”

“Okay wait, please—” You suddenly speak up, “before I tell you, just… please keep in mind that I did save your life two days ago, so…”

“Sweet girl,” Din rumbles slowly, a subtle warning for you to hurry up and spit it out.  His fingers tighten just slightly on your cheeks, still so gentle but needing you to communicate with him right now.

Tell him, you just need to tell him.  If he gets mad, then he gets mad, but at least he’ll know at that point and you won’t just be springing it on him out of nowhere.

“I fucked up,” you breathe out, eyebrows pulling up in the middle as you tighten your own grip on his hands.  “I’m so sorry, I fucked up and you were late and I got nervous and I didn’t wait long enough and I tried to make the exchange like you asked me to but then I had to take a fifth puck and I didn’t want to but Karga threatened to short change you next time around unless I agreed to take an extra one for the lowest pay just this once and I didn’t have any bargaining power and you showed up right after I agreed to the deal and I’m so so sorry—”

You cut yourself off with your own ragged gasp, not having paused once to breathe throughout the entire thing while your expression twisted up with regret more and more the longer he allowed you to speak.

Din stands there in front of you and doesn’t move, hands still attached to your face.

“Okay,” he eventually tells you.  Stunted words, like he’s trying extra hard to find them when yours just fell out of your mouth in a complete mess.  “It’s okay.  You did… good.”

The silence is tense and you’re becoming more and more anxious the longer he takes to speak.  He’s lying for your benefit, he must be.  When he drops his hands from your face and takes a full step back, you take the gesture as symbolic and nearly launch into panic.

“Maker, I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for—”  You start to say, but Din cuts you off.

“Did he make you…”  His back suddenly goes a little straighter, voice finding a quiet edge through the modulator as his fingers subtly twitch at his sides, “…Uncomfortable?”

You pull back at the sudden change in subject and furrow your eyebrows.

“Who, Karga?”  You have to think about it.  Did he make you uncomfortable, or were you just uncomfortable already?  You might’ve just been scared because you were making it scarier than it really was, you can admit that’s a valid possibility.  “Um… no?  I don’t know, not… not really, I don’t think.”

“No?”  He asks, taking a small step forward.  “You don’t know?  Or not really… you don’t think?”

You know you can only see the blade of his visor, but something makes you feel like you’re looking right in his eyes.  You even go back and forth between where you’re pretty confident each one is, trying to read his intentions right now.  It’s like he’s purposefully trying to keep space between you even though he looks like he wants to move closer, fisting his hands at his sides when he looks like he wants to touch you.

“No, he just… lowballed me towards the end of it and I got intimidated, but I’m also not…”  Your expression narrows in concentration while you try to find the words to explain yourself, wanting to be as honest as possible with him.  “I don’t know, I’m not like you.  I’m not that strong, but I’m trying to get better.  I think he was probably just being normal.  He did offer me alcohol a bunch, but I’m pretty sure he also did that last time, so—”

“And I didn’t like it the last time he did it,” Din says quietly, taking another small step forward.

You blink up at him, completely dumb.  This is what’s bothering him?  Is he really not upset with you at all for giving him more work?  It’s like the major fuckup on your behalf just went in one side of the helmet and out the other, he barely even acknowledged it other than the role Karga played.  He said it’s okay and you did good, which are like… five of the most common words in Galactic Basic, a Wookiee could probably find a way to say them.  How are you supposed to take that?  Were you just overthinking this whole thing from the very beginning?  You know anxiety tends to be irrational by definition, but has none of your panic from the past hour been justified whatsoever?

“Why were you so late?”  You ask him, but it’s not accusatory in the slightest.  It’s… concerned, worried about his well-being without having a real reason.  He’s clearly more than fine right now, he’s like a hurricane enclosed in metal and holding still in front of you.  Too much potential energy just waiting for a reason to be released, too much tension held tight and ready to snap.

“I’m sorry.”  He quickly reaches out to grab your hand and squeeze it, before dropping it just as quickly.  Fucking lightning quick, you’ll never understand how he can be so damn quick with all that extra weight strapped to him.  “It took longer than I thought it would and she’s not really someone you can rush.”  His response, ironically, feels very rushed, like he’s trying to address the tangent but also keep things on track, but something in the answer he gives catches your direct attention.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“Who is she and what can’t be rushed?”  You blurt at the same time, not even taking a split second to think about it.

Din stops short at the blunt question, staring at you in a silence that feels like it’s vaguely taken aback.

After a few moments of that… strangeness, of the two of you realizing that you’re both feeling slightly possessive over each other for absolutely no reason whatsoever, you start to feel… warm.  In another weirdly stupid, primitive way.  You know that letting those kinds of thoughts have their day in a relationship isn’t a good thing, but you can’t explain it.  Some deep-seated, prehistoric instinct inside you just goes fucking nuts whenever he gets in either provider or protector mode.  Now you understand exactly why he wanted to get you alone after you admitted to being jealous once before.  You totally fucking get it, you’re right there with him right now.  He hasn’t said anything, but you think he feels it, too.

“She makes things,” Din finally answers you, careful with his words and somehow managing to address your question while also sidestepping it, leaving you with only the smallest bit of information to go off of.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.  “Maybe.  He could’ve just been trying to be friendly.  What did she make for you?”

“She made it for you,” he responds, again not really answering the question but continuing to juggle two separate conversations for your benefit.  “Did he scare you?”

“For me?”  You ask, eyebrows shooting upwards.  Provider, that stupid cavewoman DNA whispers to your lower body, making your voice go a little breathless.  “You asked her to make something for me?”

“Did he scare you?”  Din repeats sternly, grabbing your hand and giving it a firm squeeze.  “Because I can go back, I swear—”

Protector, it whispers this time, and your knees nearly buckle.

“Everything is scary when I don’t know where you are,” you admit to him, knowing it’s the truth regardless of how self-deprecating it sounds.  The only times you’ve ever truly been brave was because of him or the kid.  Stabbing a Corellian and then immediately flying the Crest out to him afterwards, walking through a pitch black forest believing a dangerous criminal was hiding in it, dragging a dead body through snow and shoving it into carbonite, standing up for yourself and pushing a deal through when odds were stacked against you.  Though it’s nothing to him, it’s nothing, it’s leaps for you.  You’re slowly learning to find a backbone, and he’s the one inspiring it.

Din holds there for a moment, unmoving with his hand still clutching yours.  You can’t get a read on him but you know how you feel right now.  Achy.  Hot.  Needy.  Wanting him to come closer.

“Will you do something for me?”  He asks you after a prolonged silence.  His voice is quiet, but… incredibly restrained.  Controlled chaos—his body is rigid and he’s flexing muscles that aren’t necessary for just standing, feeling like a sprinter holding still on the starting blocks.

“Of course,” you breathe out.

Din lets go of your hand and tilts his helmet over at the corner of the hull behind you.  “Go turn around and face that wall.”

You freeze, immediately recognizing the undertone in his voice.  Heat ladles deep into the pit of your tummy, sends warmth pooling downwards.  He wants to do this here?  Right now?

“We’re—” you look around the enclosed hull, “Mando, we’re not in hyperspace, we haven’t even left the surface yet…”

He looks around too, taking a second to blankly take in his stagnant surroundings like he had absolutely fucking no idea, before turning back to you and not saying a word.  Maker, everything below your waist is already stirring, twisting hot and deep inside, but you’re trying to be the voice of reason for a second.

“What if somebody hears us?”  You whisper, and Din cocks his head to the other side.

“I can help you stay quiet,” he murmurs, and… fuck.  You don’t know what it means, but you immediately imagine his hand held tight over your mouth while he takes some of this stress out on you and you already feel yourself wilting at the thought.  Okay.

“Okay,” you breathe without needing anything else at all, before spinning around and standing exactly where he told you to.  It’s just a corner near the back of the hull, nothing else here to look at besides two metal panels meeting at a right angle, but that’s admittedly what makes your heart start beating quicker.  You can’t see him come up behind you but you can feel it.  Slow, measured, but so restrained.

But then he stops almost immediately, before the back of your shirt is suddenly being yanked upwards and you remember at the very last second.

Din carefully grips his blaster and then eases it out of your waistband, the metal sliding warm along your skin from pressing against it for so long.  You never told him you took it with you, and he’s so fucking quiet behind you.  You have no idea how he’s reacting to that piece of information you originally didn’t think twice about.

“Do you like carrying my gun around?”  Din’s voice murmurs soft through the modulator to you, but then the blaster is tossed uselessly to the side, skittering loudly across the floor of the hull.

“Yes,” you reply, beginning to shyly turn your head back to look at him, hoping to gauge his response.

“Don’t turn around,” he quickly interrupts you, pushing your shoulder back into position and keeping you facing the corner.  You blink at the metal walls in a bit of a daze but follow instructions regardless, feeling your heart pound at the sudden display of dominance from him.  He has a very valid reason for it and you don’t realize what it is until a few seconds later, but even if he didn’t and he was just telling you what to do for the fun of it… you’d still like it.

But then his helmet is carefully being lowered over your head and you shudder as your vision is replaced with a familiar black abyss.  Fuck, his helmet, why does he like it so much when you wear this?  Admittedly, you don’t have much time to contemplate—as soon as it’s fitted and secure, he spins you around and you have to just do your best to maintain your balance, not having any visual to help.

“Can you hear me?”  Din asks, and your clothes start to be ripped off of you.  Your shoulders tip sideways with how quick he is about it, feeling him pull the fabric off and hearing the soft sound it makes landing on the floor.

“Yes,” you tell him, but he doesn’t respond, continuing to strip you completely naked in the hull.  Once your upper body is bare and he’s yanking your pants and underwear down your legs, you try saying it again as you step out of them, louder for him this time.

“I can’t hear you,” his voice grunts after a moment.  You know he’s in front of you but you can’t really tell where, now that he’s not touching you.  “Scream.”

You take a second, not having hard evidence anymore but still very well aware that you’re parked close to a marketplace on Nevarro and multiple people are nearby while you’re wearing his helmet.  This is dangerous for him, and not sure if you should, but then an arm is wrapping around your back and a large leather palm rests directly over your chest.  Din repeats his last word very slowly and clearly for you, waiting to feel it under his hands.

Your sternum lifts while it rises with your deep breath and then collapses as you diligently yell as loud as you can into the helmet, feeling like you might deafen yourself with the trapped sound.

“Good,” he growls, suddenly spinning you around and pushing you back into the metal paneling.  “I can’t hear you, be as loud as you need.  Hit me or something, put up a fight if you want me to stop, alright?”

Arousal rockets through you and you let out a moan already, taking advantage of the noise suppression and beyond turned on at this point.  You feel like you’re buzzing with it, lit up with excitement and wondering with bated breath what he’s planning to do to you.

“Alright?”  Comes his voice from behind you once more, and you quickly jerk the heavy helmet in a nod for him.  You can put up a fight and you know he’ll stop, you don’t have any problem with that and the fact that he specifically made sure to wait until he knew you understood him makes you start to pant inside the hollow beskar.

But then you feel him flick a small switch at the base of the helmet and then everything abruptly cuts out and goes dead silent.

Nothing.  Nothing.  You’re standing in a pitch black room where no other sound exists besides your own labored breathing.  Just like the waterfall on Naboo, but you can’t speak this time.  Temporarily making you blind, deaf, and putting a proverbial gag over your mouth all with one powerful piece of armor.

You shudder and he kicks your legs apart before you can do much else, yanking your hips back while you just try your best to cling to the wall for stability.  You don’t know what he’s going to do, you’re completely isolated in here and the only way you can even tell he dropped to his knees is the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind.

Oh fuck—you arch into position as best you can while hands wrap around your ankles to pull them apart, trying to make the angle better.  His tongue licks softly over your clit and each time is like an electric shock jolting through your body, making you twitch back and up for him, stretching and begging him to do it again.  You can’t see anything right now so your mind readily imagines the visuals instead, providing you with a third party view.  Din, fully clothed and face shielded by your thighs, eating you out from behind while you brace yourself against the wall, completely naked and at his mercy, head tilted down from the weight of his helmet and living for the moments he decides to drag his tongue across your clit.

Without warning, a sudden burst of sensation ripples along your backside and causes you to lift the beskar in surprise, but without being able to hear anything, it takes you a second to figure out that he just smacked your ass.  The realization comes more or less at the exact time he decides to flatten his tongue and follow the curve of you back and up.

You gasp into the pitch black and there’s a moment where you just hold utterly still for him, experiencing and processing the sensation for the very first time.  His mouth is soft and warm as he tastes you here, his fingers digging into the swell of your cheeks to spread you open.  You’re glad your face is hidden so he can’t see the shock in your expression, the way your mouth drops and your eyes close as you let him explore you this way.

His gloved hands leave you for just a moment while he continues gliding his tongue against you, along every single bit of skin he can reach, and then you feel a bare hand reach up between your legs and begin to rub slow circles around your clit.  His other arm pushes against your lower back and you’re forced into the corner even more, your naked breasts pressing hard against cool metal and feeling his hot mouth and strong fingers work you closer to the edge from behind.

You’re panting into the helmet, your hips arching back to feel that stimulation on your clit better, and as his fingers move over it slow and strong, you feel a soft vibration against your skin and you realize he’s moaning into you.  The knowledge sparks a different kind of heat through you and makes you suddenly go still and tense right here.  If he stays just like this for even just a few more seconds, you’re going to cum.

“Din, I’m gonna cum,” your voice warbles inside the enclosed steel—just as his touch decides to abandon your body.  You groan loudly in distress, completely alone without his hands or mouth on you anymore, but all he likely hears is the silence of the hull and the way your palm smacks against the wall with it.  You were so close, everything feels like it’s pulled up so tight and painful and it hurts—

A hand clutches your hip and then a thick cock is suddenly pushing up against your soaking wet entrance, going to alleviate that twisting discomfort.  Your eyes roll back and your whole body goes limp as he slowly eases forward and breaks you open, fitting himself deep inside where you love to feel him most.  Your hands claw down the walls with a swell of bliss as he pulls out and then starts thrusting—and fuck, you love this.  You love the way he’s trapping you up against the corner and making you see stars at the same time, the way he’s supporting your weight but crushing down into you, too.  It makes you go boneless and want to riot simultaneously, groaning loud into the quiet abyss as he gives you what you both desperately needed.

One of his hands sinks down between your legs to play with your clit again, while a slick finger presses up against your ass and you gasp as he slowly penetrates you there, too.  Din’s hips work steady and powerful behind you, pushing you into the wall with every desperate thrust, using the arm shoved between your legs to support you as well as stimulate, and you just feel yourself move into a different place.  You don’t have a name for it but it feels like hyperspace.  Silence so loud it feels suppressing, faster than anything light can touch, nowhere and everywhere, hurtling towards something you can’t see but know lies in the distance.  You can tell he’s still fucking the tension out of his body, you can feel him working another wet finger inside you and stretching the virgin muscles back there, but every sensation begins to slowly blur together in a wicked uprising of ecstasy.

You don’t know where you are anymore, just that his fingers keep rubbing your clit and you think he's trying to ease a third into you when your destination abruptly arrives.

You nearly collapse when you cum, contracting so hard around his cock and fingers that you cry out unexpectedly—and because of the helmet, you think it’s just as unexpected for him.  He stops moving—everything stops moving besides you.  Your hips stutter backwards into his stationary body, dragging your clit back and forth against the tips of his unmoving fingers and fucking him as best you can.  It shatters white hot and goes straight through to your soul, wringing pleasure and wetness between your legs in waves.

Your knees are knocking against each other when Din pulls out, his cock still deliciously hard and now soaking wet with your cum, and then they just suddenly decide to give up without warning.  You don’t fall necessarily, but you do slowly slide down the wall like a slug and Din follows you to the floor instead of holding you up any longer.  His sternum moves quick and heavy against your back as he breathes and then suddenly the same switch at the base of his helmet is flicked, and sound bursts into existence all at once.

He’s panting.  Harsh breaths behind you that match the rapid pace of his chest, and the ambient noise of the rest of the hull.

“Can you hear me?”  He gasps, sounding fucking wrecked, and you nod the helmet against the wall while gravity and exhaustion and his beskar chestplate squishes you into it.  “P-Put up a fight if you want me t-to stop, p-please—” he rasps out, almost the entire thing air and so close to cumming, and then his knees lift just slightly and the blunt head of his cock presses against your other entrance.

And, if you wanted, you absolutely could.  He’s got you boxed into the corner but he’s not constricting your movements, he’s given you every ability to struggle.  You could easily throw an elbow back against his side, push against the wall to shove him away, smack at his arms or even just flail against his body in panic—you could do one or all of those things to signal him to stop and you know he’d do it immediately, he’s asking you to.  You could struggle.  If you wanted.

Instead, you just grab hold of the beskar strapped to his thigh and drop the helmet to your chest, nearly vibrating with the thrill and preparing yourself for it.  You know he’s gotta be inches away from orgasm, you know from the tone of his voice that he’s right there on the edge and it’s not like it’s going to last a long time.  Thanks to him, you also feel like you’re just as slick and wet back there as you are between your legs, stretched open by his fingers while you came all over him.  You want nothing more than to give this to him, to let him be the only person in the universe that knows how you feel this way.

When you pointedly do not put up a fight and even go so far as to arch your lower back for him in presentation, Din curses and his fingers begin jerking back and forth over your sensitive clit once more.  It might normally be too much for you, but your body is sparking with lust and quickly acclimates to the stimulation, learning to burn and ache for it, too.  Fuck, it feels so good, you tense and melt into it at the same time, letting him ease you back up to that peak once more.

He pushes up against the tight ring of skin and you can’t fucking explain it—his fingers keep rubbing your clit and he’s slowly pushing into your ass and—

“I—I think I’m—” you suddenly lift the helmet to gasp out in surprise, forgetting he can’t hear you, “ngh—D-Din, I think I’m gonna c—”

He’s just barely able to breach the tight entrance and fit the head inside before he freezes—and even though everything happens consecutively, it’s all so rapid that it feels simultaneous.

Your hips could go forward, but they don’t.  Your body decides to send you backwards into him, pushing him inside nearly halfway all at once as your muscles lock down and just fucking strangle his cock.  Your piercing scream gets trapped in the silence of his helmet as you cum once more—painfully, madly and with every fucking part of you for him.  There’s maybe one or two mind shattering pulses of ecstasy before the rest of your body catches up and starts convulsing, and by then Din is already gasping and fumbling behind you, suddenly realizing what’s happening without hearing the sound of your ragged warnings and then ripping himself away just in time.

He punches out your name when he cums like you just fucking snapped him in half—his body hunches and the beskar digs hard into your back as warmth starts splattering along your skin.  You crumple while he shoves his hips up against your spine, riding and working the orgasm out of himself while yours just fucking obliterates you.  You think you whine his name—or a curse word or something, but it gets strained and your lungs lose air every time his powerful armored body humps you into the wall of his ship.

Finally he eases up and you just lay there and listen to the ringing in your ears.  Blissfully empty, still pulsing from cumming so hard and feeling like your bones just decided to stop existing and the rest of you was okay with it since you were already on the floor anyways.  You feel him shudder and twitch behind you, letting go of that last bit of tension until he too allows gravity to slouch his heavy torso over onto you.

You both stay like that for a while, until your eyes close and your everything below your waist goes numb.  Eventually you feel him shift and your head bobbles as the helmet is slowly removed, but a large palm cradles your chin to stop your face from slamming into the wall in exhaustion once it’s off.  You just continue to melt into the paneling like you’re nothing more than goo of a human being while he trades it back to its rightful place on his shoulders and tucks his cock back into his pants, before wrapping his arms around you and lifting you both up.  The floor and metal walls, once feeling like you and them were one, suddenly decide to disappear entirely as you’re hauled up into Din’s powerful arms.

He slowly carries your naked, fucked senseless body over to the fresher, and you squint your eyes open over his shoulder to see… he’s still got his rifle slung around his back while his cum is dripping down yours.  Not a single thing on him is out of place and you’re, well… a mess is a word that works.  Limp and doll-like, carried like your weight is practically nothing to him after years of having the densest armor known to the galaxy strapped to his body.

Setting you down is a mess, too.  At some point you think he just gives up and decides to return you to your humble floor abode with a patience and care unexpected from someone who just defiled you so thoroughly.  You hear the fresher door open and the faucet squeak, before he turns back around and crouches to your level.

“Stay here,” Din tells you lowly, his modulated voice coming gentle and warm through the sounds of water raining down against metal.  You don’t feel his touch directly, but your hair moves away from your face.  “I’ll be right back, okay—just stay here.”

Can do.  Easy.  He waits until you murmur a soft mhm to him before he leaves the tiny compartment, and then you soon hear his heavy footsteps ascending the ladder to the cockpit.

***

You don’t think you fall asleep, but the powering up of the Crest’s thrusters make you realize your eyes were closed.  Opening them barely qualifies as a squint though; you look around to see steam slowly filling the fresher, the water already running hot and welcoming in the small room.

You know you need to shower but you’re so fucking exhausted, you feel like you can’t even move your body.  You also know you can just do the same exact thing in there as you’re doing in here, you just need to muster up the energy necessary to get inside it and then fall back asleep.  He set you down in the small little space outside the shower door and then got everything set up for you, you can at least stand up and take a few steps.

Unfortunately, you might pick just about the worst time possible to plant your hands on the ground and work to struggle upright on all fours like a newborn animal.  The steady rise through Nevarro’s atmosphere pushes gravity down harder than you’re expecting—is he trying to fly quickly or are you just that dead-limbed?—and then of course, by the time you do manage to fight it and successfully get on two wobbly legs to hold yourself up, the subtle shift of the hyperdrive kicking in nearly knocks you back down again.  You stumble and grab the walls, bracing yourself against them and looking down at your knees in exasperation.  Come on, work.  Move forward.  Come on.

You’re glad he’s not here to witness this monstrosity, honestly.  Just opening the door and taking a few steps into the fresher is a feat—while you’re not in any pain and he didn’t leave any marks on you, you just feel… steamrolled.  Ran over by a truck.  Only having the strength to keep your feet beneath you as you finally move under the water and close the door behind you.

Oh, but this is wonderful.  This was such a good idea, he’s so fucking smart.  The shower falls warm and lovely against your body, wetting your hair and immediately heating you down to your bones.  You don’t move really at all—you kinda just stand there and slouch, closing your eyes against the spray and slowly breathing the mist into your lungs.  It feels so nice—not really restorative even though you like that word, it would imply the water provides you with any energy whatsoever.  It just feels like a comfort, a relief and sedative for your already wildly fatigued body.

You haven’t been in here for more than a minute or two when knuckles tap gently against the metal walls of the fresher, before the natural bass of Din’s unmodulated voice murmurs from somewhere beyond it.  “Hey.  Keep your eyes closed.”

How did he know?  You figured you’d be way ahead of him.  You’re standing but slumped over, wanting nothing more than to just say fuck gravity and pass out right here.  The walls are too cold to lean against now that you’re all toasty from the heat and steam, so you’re just unconsciously swaying on your feet, trying to balance the precedence of sleeping versus not falling over.  You don’t even comprehend the sudden flip of the light switch overhead beyond the fact that it makes it easier to snooze without being so bright behind your eyelids.

The door eventually opens at the very same time you realize you never answered him, but you just commit to the silence at this point.  It’s easy, you like it.  Soon you feel warm hands touch your shoulders, slowly spinning you around while you follow and hang your head, your neck not wanting to support it any longer, and then suddenly a bare chest is pressing up against you and powerful arms are wrapping around your body, and you can just lean all of your weight into him while your head rests right here on his shoulder.

He holds you without moving for a long time, keeping you just like this—your ear pressed against his skin while water rains hot and comfortable down your back.  Knowing you’re facing one of the walls, you crack your heavy lids just the slightest bit and finally notice the tiny compartment is dim and shrouded—the only light source is a single one coming from somewhere in the hull beyond the partially closed doorway.  It’s dark and quiet and you can barely see anything besides the metallic fresher walls and unfocused droplets chasing each other down Din’s naked skin.  Just you and him, flowing water with a sheet metal backdrop.

You think you spend an eternity like that and yet you still find yourself wanting another when he finally shifts, reaching over you to grab a bar of his generic soap but making sure to use the arm whose shoulder you’re not currently resting against.

It glides slow and hypnotic down your back, dragging up over your sides and then back down the curve of your spine.  He’s so sturdy and he doesn’t say a word while he does it, lathering it along your body and rubbing it into your skin.  His bar of soap, not yours.  They started out almost the same since you picked them up at the same vendor, but there’s just a slightly bolder and sharper scent to his that you recognize.  How the bar is far larger than yours because of how often he’s gone away.

Your eyes droop and you feel the water trail over your lips, dripping down your chin and pooling the dip of his collarbone.  The only other time you two shared this fresher was terrifying and he’s rewriting the memories right now, whether consciously or not.  Hot water, not freezing cold.  Standing upright and supporting you.  Heart beating strong under your ear, taking care of you this time until you can care for yourself.

You… you just worry so much more now, it’s becoming an issue.  You didn’t realize how much until you nearly lost him, and you know in your heart that he’s just going to go away again.  Throw himself into more danger, tempt death as always, risk his life for mere credits while all you can provide in return is this.  Skin to skin contact.  Someone to hold.  Someone who knows him, who knows the way he struggles between reaching out for a softness that life has always denied him and clinging to what is rough and familiar.  Someone to remind him that there’s still gentle and forgiving things in this galaxy that won’t disappear when he’s gone, and that he can always come home to them, as long as he can manage to find his way back.

Something sad tugs hard at your chest.  You want to tell him not to leave.  Again, again—you want nothing more than to beg him to stay.  You don’t have anything better to offer instead; if he asked you how it would work, how you imagine your lives would go if he wasn’t hunting quarry on a constant timetable, you’d be hard-pressed.  You don’t know.  But you know what you want to say, because it’s two words you shouldn’t say but always find yourself needing to say regardless.  

Don’t go.

But, instead of two words, you give him three.

Instead of asking him not to leave you again… in the haze and comfort of his arms, you think you just tell him that you love him.

And… you also don’t think the water falling down on the two of you is loud enough to cover it up this time.

It’s not ideal, you know.  You know.  From his point of view, he just got finished releasing all sorts of pent up tension on you, overwhelming your body with the strength and power of his in a way that normal people wouldn’t take as an expression of affection.  But you know him.  You know that he finds it much easier to express the things he feels in a physical way, which is why there’s a bar of soap against your back right now instead of his voice in your ear, telling you all the things you’ve always wanted to hear from him in return.  You know that sex is how this all began and it’s likely just the closest link between roughness and sweetness that he can really put his hands on, something that can fit him equally as well as it fits you.  Love is different, it’s thrilling and scary.  Even to someone like him, who lives everyday of his life surrounded by thrilling and scary things, who’s seen more bloodshed and suffering and pain than you can ever even imagine, you know that it’s scary.

Din doesn’t say anything back to your confession, and truthfully, not a single part of you was expecting him to.  It wasn’t said so he could say it back.  It just is.  Some things don’t need explanations, they just are.  You’re okay with that.

But, you eventually come to realize that he always waits until you’re just on the very edges of sleep, holding out until your blurry vision and fading consciousness can trick you into thinking you only imagined it.  You won’t ever figure out if it’s purposeful or if he just needs that long to find what he wants to say.

Another soft, lilting sentence in a language you wouldn’t be able to translate, even if you could pick out a single word.  It sounds so beautiful though, regardless of how mysterious and far away its meaning feels.  There’s something hidden underneath.  You ache to know what it is.

But you’re so tired.  You just whine softly against his shoulder, not being able to transform the thoughts into sentences anymore but hoping he understands regardless.  He can’t just resort to bearing his soul in Mando’a all the time now, especially when you’re always on the verge of sleep when he chooses to do so.

But at some point, his arms subtly tighten around you and the pressure is one of the only things that’s keeping you awake anymore.

“I won’t ever ask you to,” he says to you, the quietness of his baritone getting lost in the gentle spray and your looming slumber.  “I’m…  not allowed to ask.  I can’t.”

Your expression twitches just the slightest bit against his shoulder in confusion, wondering distantly what word or sentence you must’ve missed from before that would make him make sense.  Was that a translation?  Or a continuation?

But then your wet hair is slowly moved away from your nape and his head tilts down, face pressing into your neck and voice lowering until it’s nothing more than a breath against your skin, nothing more than a confession that he couldn’t ever say out loud with his full chest.  It’s a secret he only ever wants you to know, a truth he’s choosing to admit to even though you could ruin him with it.  You have no idea how much, you won’t know for a long time just how much power he’s giving you by telling you this one very simple thing.

“But whenever you want to look,” Din finally whispers, the only version of I love you too that a Mandalorian knows.  “You can.”

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

In your latest post, you said that Dumbledore MEANT to put Harry in a abusive household. That, or when he found out he did nothing to stop it. Why is that?

You’re going to get a lot of people angry with me. Well, I suppose they’re already angry. Somewhere out there, on the wider internet.

Right, anyway, the evidence of Harry’s abuse is so overwhelming that it seems improbable to me that Dumbledore wasn’t aware of what was happening. More, every interaction he has with not only Harry, but characters in similar circumstances, lends me to believe that in the event that Dumbledore does know he’d take no action.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: Scene 1

We start out the entire Harry Potter series with Minerva and Dumbledore waiting in the early dawn for Hagrid’s arrival and to place Harry with the Dursleys. Minerva immediately announces her discomfort with this, 

She specifically says the following:

"You don't mean — you can't mean the people who live here? Dumbledore, you can't. You couldn't find two people who are less like us."

Lily Evans’ relatives are infamous enough such that Minerva McGonagall, who is presumably not as close as her like aged peers (i.e. Sirius, Remus, and Peter) knows about them.

Granted, some of this is anti-muggle sentiment. Minerva isn’t sure that suburban muggles raising a magical child like Harry Potter is a good idea. Nevertheless, she has deep misgivings, and relays them to Dumbledore.

We know from further evidence that Dumbledore is perfectly aware of what Petunia and Vernon are like as well. He gives Harry to the Dursleys anyway.

Dumbledore, for his own reasons, chooses not to listen.

Dumbledore’s Letter to Petunia

Dumbledore writes a letter to Petunia, knowing it is highly necessary, as he gives Harry to the family. The letter is... vaguely threatening but in a very polite Dumbledore way. It pretty much implies “Take Harry, or else, also be nice to your dead sister.”

The point is, Dumbledore is aware that this letter is highly necessary. And then... other things happen.

Dumbledore Sends Hagrid

Dumbledore sends Hagrid to pick Harry up.

Ordinarily, in such circumstances, Minerva is sent to introduce muggleborn children to the Wizarding World. “Perhaps she was busy,” you say, too busy for Harry Potter? Wizard Jesus and the child of perhaps her favorite students who she openly favors throughout the series?

“Perhaps Dumbledore was being nice to Hagrid, and he had an errand to do anyway,” well, it’s all well and good to be nice to Hagrid, but is he really the best guy to introduce anybody to the Wizarding World?

This is Hagrid, the likelihood of him having taken Harry to an exotic pet shop where Harry then gets eaten by the Chupacabra is 95%. The 5% where it didn’t happen is because Hagrid went to the pet shop alone and some, distant, rational part of his brain told him that Harry would want the pretty owl vs. the one-eyed blood sucking rat demon in the cage next to her.

You don’t send Hagrid if you want a child returned to you with all its limbs intact.

So why do you send Hagrid?

When you want someone who’s so painfully oblivious, loyal, and stupid that they could stare a hellscape in the face and wouldn’t even notice.

Hagrid gets a firsthand view of Harry’s living conditions. He learns that Harry’s relatives have been actively blocking Harry’s letters, that they have run across the country to avoid them. He sees the state of Harry’s clothing in comparison to Dudley, how thin Harry is in comparison to Dudley, and the way the family interacts with each other.

Harry’s child abuse is staring Hagrid right in the face.

Minerva would demand that Harry be placed somewhere else, they can find some other means of protecting him.

What does Hagrid do?

He gives Dudley a pig’s tail illegally and proceeds to tell Harry that Dumbledore is the greatest man who ever lived. 

Other Evidence Comes to Light

Other characters start getting pretty big warning signs that all’s not right at the Potters.

Ron and Hermione know the situation is “bad” and that Harry’s relatives “hate magic”. They’re also kids and don’t really understand what this means, the idea of being abused and hated by your guardians is unthinkable to them and Harry doesn’t come out and just say it.

That said, they’ve seen enough that they drop hints to those around them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are told about the bars on Harry’s window. Ron was so concerned about Harry in the summer after first year that he steals his father’s car with Fred and George to go pick him up. That is not normal behavior, that is deep concern for your friend.

Despite all of this... nothing happens.

Hermione spends far more time at the Weasleys then Harry ever does. Every summer, he returns to Privet Drive, and it’s likely if Arthur and Molly did have concerns Dumbledore told them off.

Arabella Figg

Arabella has been keeping an eye on Harry for years. She’s noted some very disturbing trends and been witness to years of the Dursleys interacting with Harry Potter.

She passes this information on to Dumbledore.

He knows how bad it is.

Harry Potter

Harry tells Dumbledore he does not wish to remain at the Dursleys, he notes that they don’t like him and he doesn’t like them. Now, he tries to downplay it, but this is a child saying some pretty disturbing things. You don’t brush this off.

Dumbledore does.

Dumbledore Visits the Dursleys

In book 6, Dumbledore visits the Dursleys and sees, in person, how bad it is. However, he shows no surprise, only vague disappointment in Petunia. Tsk, tsk, Petunia, I thought you were better than this.

He offers a few threats and then he and Harry go on their merry way.

Severus Snape

Snape is Dumbledore’s spy who reads Harry’s mind for half a year. Granted, Snape is a bastard who loathes Harry Potter, but he sees evidence of the Dursleys abuse of Harry.

We know, from what he relays to Dumbledore later, that he had at least some concern for Harry and was very disturbed by Dumbledore’s plan to murder him in cold blood due to the horcrux.

I think it’s very likely Severus Snape knew and told Dumbledore that Harry was being abused. I’m sure Albus’ response was, “Bitch, I know, would you like a lemon drop?”

Point being, there is no conceivable way that Albus Dumbledore, even if he was the world’s dumbest man, didn’t know exactly how bad it was. He let’s it happen anyway.

But What About the Blood Wards?

Dumbledore eventually tells Harry that the reason he can’t run away from Privet Drive is because of the blood wards created by his mother. They can only be applied if he lives with blood relatives and protect the Dursley house as long as Harry considers it home.

Now, this is a bit suspect given that Harry really considers Hogwarts his home, Privet Drive is just that hell hole he has to go back to every summer. Even the Burrow is more his home than Privet Drive so... That doesn’t sound right.

More, though, there are other means of protection.

There’s the Fidelius which Dumbledore casts on Sirius’ house in book 5. Given that, Harry really could have lived with Sirius (well, Sirius is not in a good place to have a kid around and that would be a disaster and a half). Point being, Harry could be raised elsewhere and there are wards that could protect him.

More, Voldemort and the Death Eaters are out of commission for thirteen years. Indeed, we see Dumbledore up Harry’s security detail by secretly assigning the Order to tail him after fourth year.

So, for a very long time, it’s not about Harry’s protection and when it does become that we see Dumbledore make significant changes.

So, what could it be?

Well, let’s look at Dumbledore’s other actions. Dumbledore prevents Harry from becoming prefect because “he thought it would go to his head”. Which, Harry should absolutely not be made prefect at all, and Ron’s a laughable candidate too but...

To me that’s very telling.

I hate to say this, but this is Dumbledore, but I think he has a very similar reasoning behind Harry going to the Dursleys.

He doesn’t want Harry to be corrupted by the Boy Who Lived persona. He wants him in a certain state of mind when he enters into the wizarding world and... Frankly, he wants him vulnerable. Dumbledore, in time, will need to either murder this boy or have him kill himself. If Harry has a halfway decent guardian, that task becomes a hell of a lot harder.

Harry has to love the wizarding world so much, trust Dumbledore so much, that these things are worth dying for.

You Mentioned Something About Dumbledore’s Other Actions?

Dumbledore has no sympathy for victims of child abuse.

Tom Riddle, an impoverished orphan loathed by those in his orphanage, he thinks is the very devil and sends him back into the Blitz with a smile and a wave. Enjoy the bombs, Tom, hope you die.

Severus Snape, the half blood child of an abusive muggle father and absentee mother, who is nearly murdered by Sirius Black via Remus Lupin, is told to shut the fuck up and sit down before he ruins the lives of his betters.

Dumbledore has a very bad track record with this and, well, Harry Potter is not an exception.

To be fair, I think the wizarding world has not concept of CPS or even child abuse. There’s no hint of a foster system, you go to the closest relative of the godparents. So, I think to them, you’re stuck with whoever you’re stuck with and if your uncle rapes you then it sucks to be you.

[mrs-tsunderemeitantei]

Wakasa Rumi Theory Series: Part 2 of 3

Hello lovelies! This is my second part of my Wakasa Rumi Theory that will go over my thoughts about Haneda Koji's murder and his dying message.

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Just for reference, I already covered the first three points in Part 1 and the ones in bold are the ones I'm covering in this post:

Why I think she's Asaca.

Her probable relationship to Haneda Koji.

How she became Amanda's bodyguard.

What might have happened on the day of Haneda Koji's murder.

How Haneda Koji's dying message directly refers to RUM as his killer.

Why Wakasa went on a hiatus for 17 years since the murder.

Reason behind Haibara liking Wakasa.

With that out of the way, happy reading 😁💛.

4. What might have happened on the day of Haneda Koji's murder.

So based on the blog that uploaded, we know that two people were killed in each of their own hotel rooms; Haneda Koji and Amanda Hughes (an investor who holds powerful connections to the FBI and CIA). While Haneda Koji showed bruises and signs of struggle against his assailant, the actual cause of his death was unclear, as well as with Amanda Hughes. (In reality, the cause of his death is because of APTX-4869 and the same can be assumed for Amanda). Both rooms were left in a total mess with crockery and glass broken as well as taps left running in the bathroom. Amanda was a huge fan of Haneda Koji and happened to visit him in his room the day of the murder before they were killed. Also on the same day, her bodyguard whom she called 'Asaca' disappeared and she is the main suspect of the murders. Interestingly, something else went missing from the crime scene which was Haneda Koji's Watchtower Bishop (a shogi piece he deemed as his lucky charm). His family is convinced he would never parted without the shogi piece and whoever has it must be the murderer.

All these accusations point to Wakasa because not only has she disappeared for 17 years and her identity is shrouded in mystery, but she also has the exact shogi piece that went missing from the crime scene...So, what exactly happened?

Based on the fact that only Haneda Koji's body was bruised, I'd say he put up a fight after witnessing Amanda's death. The likelihood that he used the taps in her bathroom to cut the mirror before fleeing to his room where he was then finished off is very possible. Why? The case similar to 17 years ago foreshadowed it.

I'm guessing when Amanda was murdered, Wakasa was probably out for whatever reason and upon her return, she saw Amanda's state. She then walked in and saw Haneda's body. The reason why I'm convinced she discovered their bodies and did not happen to be there when they died was her reaction in Chapter 1032 to blood and her obvious knowledge about how bodies do not necessarily smell until days later after their death. This could very well imply she lived through this before, which is why she is so knowledgeable of the topic. And smelling blood, reminded her of when she found Haneda dead in his room.

She then noticed the cut up mirror with one part of it looking like a shogi piece. As she picked it up, RUM returned to clean up and they ended up struggling in a fight before she managed to escape. The reason why I think Wakasa was in a physical fight with RUM was how triggered she seemed when she saw him leave the school after his delivery. The way she looked at him with such apprehension, it shows as if she were remembering their interaction before.

She would turn out to be RUM's mistake. He couldn't finish her off and not only did he leave a loose end, but she also ran away with a crucial part of Haneda Koji's dying message, leaving RUM unable to fully destroy the crime scene. Also RUM is clearly aware of its significance to Haneda Koji's dying message. Especially after he not-so-subtly mentioned it to Conan in Chapter 1057.

The final thing in relation to this part of the theory is Wakasa's flashback of Haneda Koji in the Collecting Edible Wild Plants Chapter. Why was she calling him a fool? It made a lot of sense when I found out the actual meaning of the proverb Haneda Koji said in her flashback.

The proverb he said is 'with a watchtower bishop there must be a brilliant move'. This proverb translates to the Bishop should stay at a distance while aiming at the opponent's camp rather than approaching them directly. Now that we know the actual meaning of the proverb, Wakasa's words make more sense. She guessed that he probably underestimated RUM and approached him rather than escaping him. Hence why Wakasa refers to him as a foolish person because in the end he got himself killed. Not because she thinks he's a fool and she managed to kill him. Again, a classic on Gosho's part to frame innocent characters as threatening and dangerous when the truth is she is just extremely upset over his death. Her collapse to the ground shows just how much Haneda meant to her. If anything, she probably like Rei, feels guilty she couldn't save him in time, which is why the memory of him is so triggering to her.

Phew, finally done with the fourth point 😂 There really was so much to unpack there. Anyways, I hope it made sense...

5. How Haneda Koji's dying message directly refers to RUM as his killer.

Now that it has been confirmed that RUM is Wakita, I'll be showing how Haneda Koji's dying message refers to "RUM", aka Carasuma's number 2.

The key to solving the message lies in the broken mirror and linking it to the shogi piece. Akai and Yusaku already solved the true meaning behind the broken mirror. The remaining pieces on the mirror had the letter PTON. These letters are not needed and the letters that do matter are the scattered ones from the original 'PUT ON MASCARA'. If we remove PTON we are left with U MASCARA which was then rearranged to CARASUMA. However, one letter in particular was cut out in the form of a shogi piece. If we write 'CARASUMA' with the shogi piece border around the letter U, it will seem as if it is hinting to another message within CARASUMA. That would form a word: UMA. UMA translates to Dragon Horse and is the promoted version of the Watchtower Bishop (the shogi piece held by Haneda Koji). (Promoted in shogi means to simply flip the original shogi piece to use its 'levelled-up' power...It's the same piece not two separate shogi pieces). Therefore, if we flip Haneda Koji's shogi piece, it will show UMA which is the more powerful form of the Watchtower bishop.

Anyways, what is the significance of UMA and how does it relate to anything? Well, Uma in shogi is the second strongest shogi piece. The strongest shogi piece is Dragon King (Ryū). Based on this we can assume this is the dying message. UMA of Carasuma (second strongest / number 2 aka RUM) of Carasuma killed me. This might seem too far-fetched but there was too much coincidence when I found out about Uma's strength as a shogi piece that it made sense to me to think that Haneda Koji's dying message points straight to RUM. However, I'm not sure how Haneda Koji figured out that RUM is Carasuma's number 2 in the first place. Maybe it was during his struggle against him before his death or maybe he overheard Amanda before her death talk about it, but so far this is what i came up with.

I hope you guys enjoyed this part of my theory. The final points will be addressed in Part 3 (linked here) so have fun 😁💛

(In cased you missed the first post, this is the link for Part 1)!

[musicallisto]

♬ Pour Your Heart Out (Ashton Irwin)

( I PROMISED I had stopped writing about real people, because, in hindsight, it’s kind of weird to them (esp. bc 5sos used to say they feel sorta uncomfortable with fanfic, I don’t know what their stance is now), and I had done a pretty good job of it for a few years. but then this idea came and as much as I tried to repress it, it wouldn’t go away. I blame @softeninglooks​ and our walk down memory lane for prompting me to write this eventually. I think it’s supposed to give me some kind of closure with the rabid 5sos stan I was in 2015-2018, a parting gift to that teenage girl, a reconciliation of sorts, if you will. In a way, this is all a metaphor for my own state of mind regarding Ashton, whom I adored so very dearly during those years and that I think I’ll always like, deep down. Anyway, y’all don’t care about my Freudian portrait and with good reason, so like, enjoy. )

word count: 4.0k words

summary: In which you cross paths at the hotel bar with a handsome face you prayed to God you would never see again.

warnings: angst, alcohol, foul language, gets a bit steamy, implied sex (but no smut!). we’re gonna be antagonizing Ashton a lot in this one so if you can’t bear insulting him (which I wouldn’t lmfao) I guess don’t read?

soundtrack: ♬

FOR A PLACE so upscale and brimming with obscene luxury, New York City’s Fifth Avenue Hotel’s bourbon was horrendous.

Or maybe it was merely because you’d never been an avid drinker anyway. All alcohols merged in your throat in some bubbling fire, until you couldn’t distinguish anything inside you.

Which was exactly why you were leaning your elbows on the bar, mindlessly playing with a finger of whiskey in your glass, the hem of your slit dress hugging the cold feet of the bar stool, and a completely absent look in your tired eyes. Because you wanted to drown all that stirred inside of you - a chaos in your chest, an incomprehensible riot in your stomach. All because the universe and its sickening sense of humor had thrust in your mind memories you’d rather forget, like a knife to the chest.

All because your work had sent you to a gala in New York City on the exact same night he would be there as well, playing in Brooklyn to a crowd of adoring admirers.

Not that it mattered anyway. The day you left, you had accused him of only adoring himself. You were a revolted fury, and you had spat out every single word you could before your mind would go numb and your throat would constrict forever.

You regretted all of it. The fighting, the accusations, the way you had slammed the door when you had left. Something in your chest, however, growled that you still resented him for never reaching out to you.

And just like that you both had returned to your respective nights - he in the spotlight and the unconditional love, you in the business and the casual dates. It was a crash like no other, coming down from the high of being his goddess every day and every night, but you managed. You always did. You were strong, resilient. Stronger than a sudden pang of nostalgia and certainly stronger than the foolish hope that you’d somehow run into him in New York...

And even if you did, he wouldn’t recognize you, anyway. Your hair was different, your face more tired despite the golden hues that the ceiling lights cast on your cheeks. He was different, too - and in all likelihood you would see him on the arm of a young and beautiful starlet. Not that it would matter to you, or that it would break your heart to see someone in your spot, or that it was any of your business who he shared his nights and secrets and tears and laughs with - no, you were stronger than that. You downed your bourbon. Disgusting, and you were still too acutely aware of your emotional confusion for your liking.

A light breeze suddenly breathed on your neck, slightly lifting your dress around your ankles, and the rustling sound of a door opening barely made its way to your ears before you drowned it out. Maybe the alcohol was having an effect after a —

You turned your head around. Your beath hitched. Your vision was suddenly restricted to a single tunnel right in front of you - a tunnel one single silhouette occupied entirely, making his way to the reception with nonchalance, his hair tousled from the autumn wind of the city. Your eyes traveled to his face of their own accord. Before you could make out the outline of his eyes - Gosh, his eyes, you remembered them so vividly, the spark that inhabited them whenever he would play music to you -, you had frantically turned around.

“Bartender, please. Another,” you signaled.

Maybe it wasn’t the best choice to get another drink when you were already starting to hallucinate, but a sudden urge had overpowered you, almost to the point of nausea. The bartender’s empathetic shake of the head did nothing to alleviate the shrill alert that had suddenly overcome you.

“Sorry, miss. The bar is closing for the night.”

“Deliver it to my room then,” you pleaded, and you thought for a moment that your sincerely distraught expression would be enough to convince him. But he shook his head once again as he turned to wipe a plate, his voice dropping.

“I don’t mean to pry, miss, but I don’t think it would be good for you. It’s getting late. Maybe catch some sleep?”

Heavens, you wished nothing more than to go to your room and sleep it all off - to wake up to an empty room and an empty heart, devoid of fear, hurt, and passion, but you were certain now that you wouldn’t catch any sleep that night if you chased it for hours. Not when closing your eyes meant seeing him again, striding towards the reception with his natural ease and focused gaze, that same one he had when he walked up to you for the first time... Almost unvoluntarily, you had turned around once more on your stool. He was leaning on the reception desk and chatting with the receptionist - judging by the bright smile lighting up her tired features, he still had all of his charm and humor. You found yourself observing his back, his relaxed shoulders, then his neck, the ink where you used to leave bruises... his hazel eyes, familiar and stunned... his eyes? He had turned around, mindlessly playing with his keycard, and was now looking straight at you, a glimmer of astonishment pulsing through his pupils. A cold shiver washed over you. You returned to your drink. Empty. Dammit.

You hated them, all the steps that had let you to that moment. You hated your firm for sending you to a gala in New York of all places, on that night of all nights, booking you a ridiculously expensive room in that hotel of all hotels. You hated the bartender for not refilling your glass, and yourself for thinking that running into Ashton would make for a sweet reunion like in the movies. You hated him for walking up to you, footsteps all but timid, bathed in the assurance you knew so well - the one he had after playing a show, when he perspired confidence and enthusiasm, when the blood in his veins pounded against your skin in the dressing room backstage — Godammit, why couldn’t he be in a groupie’s bed, and why couldn’t you actually hate him...

And yet, when he spoke, his voice was soft and warm.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t have turned to face him, even if you had wanted. The voice that called out your name was that of a stranger. The last time you had heard it in his mouth, it was but a strangled cry, a crack that shrouded what little of his Australian accent remained, enough to remind you of home. There was no space for a home in his voice anymore; he could’ve blended with the locals perfectly if he had wanted.

Somehow, yet... you would have picked him in a crowd of billions. Something about his radiance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Same as you.”

“Oh, you’ve started a band?”

You rolled your eyes. You hated him. Always joking. Always fun. Always affable...

“Work.”

“Of course.”

He had mumbled, his gaze dropping to the empty drink in your hands and its pitiful foamy stains. You almost clicked your tongue in annoyance. He was bitter, unusually so; you much preferred the upfront and unwavering Ashton, the one who had told you without blinking that you might as well leave him, since you hated him so much.

Still, for a reason incomprehensible to you, he hoisted himself up on the barstool immediately next to yours. You could've sworn you heard the vibrations of his heart, though you couldn't tell if they were caused by his post-concert adrenaline, or your warm breath on his tense hand.

“What?”

“It was always work.”

“On your side too, Ashton.”

You almost shivered when pronouncing his name. The chant that used to paint your lips, like a prayer you would whimper in the crook of his neck.

“I know.”

You would've expected an apology, and obviously there was none. There never was any with Ashton, no matter how profoundly he wounded you. Why would he need to? He was so unapologetically himself, so radiant and imperial, like a solar king... and you but a common girl in his wake.

You refused to go over all the reasons that had caused your constant fighting and eventual breakup - you had thought them over time and time again, tossing and turning in a bed too cold. And if you let your mind wander astray, it would inevitably come back to his hand on the small of your back, the devilish grin you heard in his voice when he whispered in your ear, and the pulsing between your legs only he could vainquish... it was the last thing you wanted to think about when you were alone with him, with a luxury suite all to yourselves...

With a stir, you finally looked up to him. The fire in your throat, from all the glasses of whisky, instantly descended to your chest, your stomach, then lower, as your eyes trailed down his figure. He looked tired, but blissfully so; the same disheveled hair, tanned and slightly clammy skin you woke up to in the morning. His eyes - Gosh, his eyes - detailed you with this amused attentiveness he always had. And the top buttons of his shirt, untied, revealed the beginning of a strong torso you had cried and laughed and moaned into until the ungodly hours of the night... a few more tattoos, a face older, eyes and jaw sharper, and yet you recognized the stranger in front of you. You had been everywhere inside of him, seen everything; your body ached suddenly for his touch, his warmth, his burn.

Biting back an expletive and squeezing your legs together to calm the throbbing, you grabbed your glass and... Still empty. Dammit!

You hated him.

And yet the sound of him murmuring your name, soft and tender, like a sunray on your eyelids, was an abominable indicator that you didn't really.

“Come on, I'll walk you to your room.”

He extended an arm towards your shoulder; instinctively you bolted up from your stool. Your hand grabbed your handbag; his, hesitant, fell by his side.

“You're the last person I'd want with me right now.”

You're the last person I'd want with me in front of my room.

“Y/N, come on. You can't stay here and drink all your problems away.”

“Yeah, you'd know about that.”

Low. So abjectly low, even in your slightly ebriated state, even in the irascible torpor clouding your mind. Did you regret it, when his gaze darkened, when his lips - Gosh, his lips - twitched in a scowl?

“Fuck you, Y/N.”

“No, fuck you, Ashton.”

Your voice had raised as he stood up from his barstool; his somber figure, now entirely devoid of its post-concert enthusiasm, facing you like an angered god, reminded you all too well of all the nights spent arguing and making up. This time, however, you would utter your parting words. Or so you promised.

“Fuck you, Ashton, you want to know why? Because you're a self-absorbed asshole who doesn't care about anyone but himself. Everything in our relationship was about you. You, you, you, always you, like you were the goddamn center of the universe, and I swear to God, for me before anyone else, you fucking were. All my friends, all my family, everyone in the whole damn world only ever cared about Ashton Irwin. Everything was catered to Ashton Irwin's best interest. Everything calculated to please Ashton Irwin. Everything to prioritize Ashton Irwin's career, Ashton Irwin's comfort, Ashton Irwin's fun. And you know what? Fuck that.”

Your words weren't slurred, you hadn't drunk that much, even. Why, then, was the world suddenly spinning around you? Why were your tears brimming to the surface of your eyes? Why did you get the urge to fall in Ashton's strong arms and close your eyes forever in his embrace?

You opened your mouth to resume, breathless, but your train of thought derailed for a second when your eyes fell on his dark gaze, piercing through you with the intensity of a titan, and every inch of your skin combusted simultaneously. You swallowed, hard. Where were you? Right, fucking him. No! Absolutely not! Not fucking him! Only fuck him!

“All I wanted was you to see a person when you looked at me... not a freaking satellite. And the worst thing is I didn't even see myself when I looked in the mirror, didn't even hear myself in my thoughts. I was you, entirely you, I had you everywhere on me, in me.”

You inhaled deeply, but still, the tears were threatening to spill. To hide them and simulate assurance, you grabbed your handbag, raised your chin, puffed out your chest. A chest your dress did its best to showcase in the most sensual and classiest way, obviously.

“I would've liked our story to work out, truly.”

Oh, how I wish our story had worked out.

“But we're better off on our own, I guess.”

You were about to turn around when a hand grabbed your wrist, and your heart stopped beating for a second. Heavens, it was the first time in years you felt his skin on yours, and your nerves were seconds away from combustion.

When he lightly tugged on your arm to make you face him, however, you swore something in your core exploded.

“You say that as if you hadn't hurt me too,” he stated coldly.

His eyes, dark golden under the lights, eyeing you up and down, stopping imperceptibly longer than decent on your cleavage... his now harsh features, so alluringly enticing... an interdiction you would be willing to die just to taste.

“You'd never talk to me. I'd never know what was wrong, what you wanted, what you needed. I couldn't guess, Y/N, I can't read your mind! You never told me anything - don't you think I suffered from your silence? I loved you and I never knew if you loved me back or if you resented me!”

“You shut me up. You're so important, why would you bother with my input? Better keep my mouth shut, and save everyone the trouble.”

Without realizing, you had both started striding towards the elevator. Too focused on the argument, on your raising, raspy voices, on the brush of his shaky fingers against your skin, you didn't tell him to leave you alone.

Maybe you didn't want to.

“That's bullshit, Y/N, you know it. I always cared about you, more than anyone else.”

“Oh, really, now?”

“Yes, really! Remember how I'd fly all the way from L.A. on each of your birthdays if I wasn't there, no matter what we were doing the day after? Remember all the songs I wrote you and never sold, because they were gifts to you? Remember all the journalists I told off because they disrespected you? God, Y/N, if you weren't so focused on your self-loathing, you'd see that I sacrificed so much of my career, all for you.”

You pressed the button to call the elevator.

“You're one to talk about self-loathing! And is that supposed to make me feel better about feeling like a burden?”

“Stop twisting everything I say, you know very well you never were--”

“Well that's the thing with you, Ashton! I never know! I never know anything! I wasn't your girlfriend, I was just a you in a song!”

The doors opened. You both stepped in. You furiously hit the forty-ninth floor button. Twenty-five excruciatingly long seconds ahead of you.

“You created this idealized version of me in your head, and because I wasn't as perfect as you thought--”

“I wouldn't call being a self-obsessed prick not being perfect--”

“Will you let me talk? Jesus, I can't believe - this is ridiculous - I fucking hate you!”

“Good, because I fucking hate you too!”

And with that the screaming match died as suddenly as it had started, with two panting hearts suspended in the air, facing each other mere centimeters away.

All you could focus on was the boiling fury pulsing under your humid skin, Ashton's face, contorted with exasperation and yet still as handsome as ever, his breath fanning over your mouth... the unquenchable burn in the pit of your stomach and between your legs, the unshakable pull toward him.

Your mouth and throat, all your soul had spat out all the7y had. Now they desperately needed something to fill them back up.

You took a step forward; he did too. Your lips came together immediately after.

Instead of stepping back, he pressed you closer to his body, as if he had wanted to consume you whole, his embrace erratic and furious. With a swift motion, he had pinned you to the back wall; when he lifted a hand to cup your cheek, you swatted it away and deepened the raging kiss instead; you were two pyres desperately clinging onto each other, kissing and biting and grunting. Your head filled with a flurry of touches and colors, the warmth of his lips under yours and the throbbing of your blood desperate to mix with this, and your unforgettable hate for him and how fucking putty in your hands you were, and as you bit his lower lip and he let out the rawest of moans in your mouth and your entire body trembled, you were not sure if you wanted to devour him or be devoured.

“I still hate you--” he murmured against your parted lips, but you shut him up with your tongue.

When his hands tentatively settled on the small of your back, though, sliding under your dress, you let them in. Maybe you did hate him, but you needed him, you needed him filling every angle and inch of your body, every crack of your soul, every side of your senses, just as much as he needed you.

Like someting out of a frenzied dream, the elevator doors opened, and he broke the kiss abruptly, so much so that you barely bit back a whimper. The somber, sinful look he gave you for a split second, though, was enough to make you shiver in anticipation. You grabbed his arm, making sure not to look at him - he didn't deserve it just yet -, and strode towards your suite.

You had barely turned on the light and closed the door behind you when Ashton swooped down on you like a starved man. His lips found yours like they had so many times before, his grip so mean on your back, his other hand tugging at your hair lightly to keep you in place. Your mind pleaded you to push him away; instead your body grinded against his, and a hundred flares roared everywhere he kissed you and everywhere you wanted him. Would you regret this in the morning? Undoubtedly, but his lips were biting your neck and you were sighing and moaning and praying to God he wouldn't let you go, so you couldn't care less about the shame and guilt you'd feel waking up.

Your dizzy head didn't register he had unlaced your dress until it fell to the floor. Still savoring the ever familiar taste of his tongue, you made work of his shirt - your burning skin couldn't stand the agony of being far from his anymore -, but he pushed you back on the bed instead.

Almost bare on your bed, your hair fanned out like a halo around your disdainful face, your breath erratic, you were traversed by a shiver when Ashton took off his shirt and crawled over to you. Your breath hitched. You swallowed. His face hovered just above yours. He bit his lip, and something growled in your belly.

“Can I--”

“Do it,” you spat, your eyes stern steel.

If you let him see how desperately you needed him, nothing would cure the guilt and hatred you'd wake up to. Better to pretend you were still the mistress of your soul... not to give him the satisfaction of owning you whole.

Though as soon as his lips scraped your collarbone and his hands cupped your breasts, then lower, lower, tantalizingly lower, you forgot every good intention and every strong facade. All that remained were the delicious ache at the tip of his fingers, and his name, like a prayer to a demon.

*

New York City was always a hundred times more beautiful in the dead of the night. Faraway lights pulsed like a thousand stars in the ink sky, and a distant buzzing climbed up along the buildings, slithering into the windows. The light breeze from outside, skimming your bare skin, was enough to kept you awake. So were your thoughts, and the heavy, steady breathing in the bed behind you.

For this night, and for this night alone, you had belonged to him and to him alone, like you had countless nights before. For this night, and for this night alone, you had slipped back into his arms, his strong and comforting embrace, the familiar caress of his skin, and his voice lulling you to sleep.

And the worst of it all was that you had enjoyed it. Sincerely, not as an expiatory, but rather a delicacy.

You couldn't promise that this was a one-time thing. You couldn't promise you would turn your head and never look back. If you could've, you would've up and left in the night for him to wake up alone. It was a worthless pact. You already knew you would break it.

You already knew a part of you, so detestable and therefore humane, would always run back to him in a world of billions.

You exhaled heavily. The flow of air from the street was a welcome reminder that a fresh and beautiful world existed outside of this bedroom where you had abandoned everything.

You didn't hate him. Not really. But you ached whenever someone uttered his name in your presence.

He had been your first love. The hollow in your chest when you thought of him was simply the part of your heart you had given him, all those years ago.

You turned around. His chest rose and dipped peacefully in your bed. As always, he remained unbothered, unatteignable, and maybe it was for the best. You shook your head.

Then your eyes fell on the door instead. Nothing kept you in this city anymore. You could walk away with only your lingering smell and the trace of your nails in his back to keep him company. But running away would be weak, unhonorable, and most importantly an incomplete goodbye that would precipitate you back in his arms the next time you'd see him.

The skyline called out to you once again. The air was getting chillier by the minute, but you remained by the window, quiet. Up above the horizon, the blinking light of an airplane crossed, indolent as a swan, the navy blanket of the sky, and your chest filled with a bittersweet wistfulness.

You would wait for the sunrise.

You were certain, after all, that dawn would break.

[sir-adamus]

So Clover's Amity Arena thing has his loyalty to his kingdom referenced over loyalty to Ironwood specifically and he's shown some disquiet with some of Ironwood's more terrible impulses. Do you think he might side with RWBY and co? Also Marrow seemed super uncomfortable and his Semblance could easily aid RWBY, but then we don't get an Ace-Ops fight soooo yeah, your thoughts?

he might do, him not being in the room is a significant factor (he only knows what Ruby managed to relay, and thats gonna influence his decisions), and also in general we have to remember hes the leader

it became very clear that the other four Ace Ops werent picked for their capacity to think for themselves, removed from their original teams so their only true loyalty isnt even to each other but to Ironwoods regime, which Elm summarised with “you dont have to understand orders” - these are people that were chosen because they do as theyre told and dont question things (no doubt helped along by the propaganda machine that funnels prospective huntspeople into the military instead of the job they actually signed up for). theyre “the best of the best”, except by design they cant be, because the actual best of the best would be too smart to be swayed by the propaganda shit and wouldve left to do some actual good, see Robyn

but Clover, hes different from the others because as leader he has to be able to think for himself and make executive decisions without input from higher management so he can direct his subordinates (and we see how Ironwood treats him separately too, earlier in the volume after the mission in the mine, he convenes with the team leaders to give directives so they can relay orders, instead of with everyone while theyre already there and can receive those commands directly), and because of that, because of his loyalty to the Kingdom first and foremost, because of the friendship hes struck up with Qrow (contrast with the rest of the Ace Ops who demonstrably are not friends with anyone they work with) and because hes been shown visibly expressing concern over Ironwoods more extreme decisions, i would say its possible hes gonna be siding with the heroes on this one

as for Marrow, yeah hes not comfortable with this situation and throughout the volume we have been constantly reinforced that hes the newest member of the team and the others keep making fun of him (and despite his blustering its implied very early on that he actually did want to be friends with the heroes); hes not been fully forced into this rigid “follow orders and dont question anything” military horseshit yet (that hes the only Faunus member of the team is possibly also a contributing factor, hes fully aware of the societal imbalance towards him and that means he doesnt have the blind trust in authority that the other three do), and so i think theres a likelihood we will see him struggle with that through this next confrontation before he makes his decision (that he has pretty much the perfect semblance to buy time for RWB/Y to escape certainly helps)

[notapaladin]

confess with your lips

yep i’m Back On My Bullshit fam.

During their stay at Nezahual’s summer palace, Teomitl thinks about murder and the things he would do for Acatl. He also discovers he is loved. Spoilers for about the first half of Harbinger of the Storm. Also on AO3!

-

-

In retrospect, Teomitl can pinpoint the exact moment he decided to kill his brother.

It has nothing to do with Mihmatini. No, Mihmatini is surely glorious—a sunrise, he thinks, all rosy-fingered with the promise of brilliance and scorching heat—but he wants the moonlight, shadows, a cool dry breeze on his face. He wants the blood, the light, the man who taught him to wield it. Tizoc’s dismissal of her angers him, surely, and fires his heart such that he cannot think he’ll ever stand beside his brother again, but.

But.

But it is that sentence, whispered in his ear by a sympathetic warrior—Acatl-tzin will be executed for treason on the morrow—that makes him forget even that bare minimum of support. Forget standing under him, supporting him with no complaints. Forget even standing by him, a grudging ally in the service of the Emperor. From this day his face is set in opposition; Teomitl knows as surely as he knows his own name, as surely as he feels the Jade Skirt’s power pulse with the beat of his rage, he will one day cut Tizoc down for this, for daring to want Acatl-tzin slain.

(Should Acatl—should he succeed—no—that day will come much sooner.)

So he breaks out. It is...harder than he expects. The fleeing, too, is harder. By the time they make it to Nezahual’s palace—and oh, how that grates, to be so dependent on the man!—he feels like he’s been thrown alive down the temple steps. But he lives, and more importantly…

...Most importantly, so does Acatl. He is just as tired, just as drained, but alive.

And when he wakes, Acatl is there. Some small part of him melts at that, at the rightness of Acatl’s face being the first to greet him. The rest...the rest of him is angry. Southern Hummingbird blast Tizoc in all his limbs, none of this should be happening. They are supposed to be greeting the dawn in Tenochtitlan, safe and sound, and the stars are not supposed to shine by day. Tizoc—Tizoc, who was going to have Acatl-tzin killed—Tizoc is supposed to be his brother. (To be the Master of the House of Darts, to be the Revered Speaker, to be the one bringing glory to the Empire—but to be his brother, first.)

Acatl doesn’t understand, but he tries. It doesn’t help.

They’re both too tired to argue. Maybe they will fight later, maybe not. He hopes not, but—well. He’s never been good with words, not really. Besides, Acatl looks like he can barely stay on his feet.

When Acatl finally sits down—something with about as much grace as a lung-shot deer finally collapsing—he moves to lean on his shoulder like he did the night before, when he was wrung out like a bloody rag from the strain of keeping the ahuizotls moving while their constant, sickening chatter assailed his mind. Now he’s awake enough to enjoy it—warm skin against his, soft hair brushing his cheek, the steady thump of Acatl’s heartbeat. They may be in a serpent’s lair, but they are together.

Anger drains slowly as they sit there. He keeps his eyes closed; each lid feels like it weighs half a ton, and he isn’t lifting them for anything less than the end of the world. Acatl is still next to him—drowsing, or thinking—but when he shifts closer, Acatl moves as well.

It’s a natural gesture. An innocent gesture. Comfort, nothing more. Still—still, feeling the arm that had been trapped between them slowly pull free and slide around his waist, holding him that little bit closer, makes his heart thunder. Acatl’s hand rests on his hip; is it wishful thinking that has it brushing a bit too low for propriety's sake? Gods, he hopes not. (He knows he’s hoping in vain. Acatl is a High Priest. There are exceptions to every vow, but surely the exceptions don’t include him.) He wants to sigh. He wants to roll over, lift himself onto Acatl’s lap, and kiss him breathless. He wants—so much.

He breathes in and out, slowly. Let his mind be blank, let his heart be calm. He can’t have any of what he wants, not even Tizoc’s death—not now, with the star demons so close. And who knows? Maybe Tizoc won’t be an embarrassment to the Empire after all. Maybe they’ll hold together long enough for the Fifth World to steady on its foundations, for the stars to retreat to the night sky, so there won’t be any confusion in his brother’s heart as to why he’s being gutted like a fish and left to scream his life out on the palace floors.

(Tizoc might yet make a decent leader but he will always be the man who tried to kill Acatl, and Teomitl doesn’t intend to let that go.)

When soft lips brush his temple, he gasps. Aside from that, he’s not sure he’s breathing. He’s not sure, in this moment, he remembers how. The arm Acatl has around him goes very still.

Oh no. Oh no, he’s pulling away. “Ah…”

He lifts his head, takes a moment to look—to really commit this sight to memory, Acatl flushed and hazy-eyed and so, so beautiful—and closes his eyes again, letting his head drop back on Acatl’s shoulder with his lips parted. It’s all he can do to tilt his face up, a better angle to offer a kiss. (If Acatl wants. Gods—all of them, he’s not picky—gods, please let him want.)

Acatl still doesn’t move. Then there’s a barely audible sigh and breath wafts across his face, gentle and warm. He can feel the heat of his lips just barely brushing his own.

He’s never been a patient man. He closes the distance.

Acatl’s lips turn out to be soft, a little dry, and hesitant even when he deepens the kiss, as though he’s not sure he’s really allowed to do this. It’s sweet and chaste but sends heat through him anyway, heartbeat frantic in his ribcage; he feels disjointed, barely aware of where his limbs are. When he manages somehow to pick up a hand and slide it into the fall of Acatl’s glorious hair, the moan that reverberates through them both makes him feel like he’s been struck by lightning. The gods must love me, he thinks, and then I’m going to skin Tizoc alive. The thought makes him growl; under him Acatl trembles at it.

They part for barely a breath, and he hears his own name as he’s never heard it before—hushed and awestruck, syllables like precious jade in Acatl’s mouth. “Teomitl…” Long fingers trace his jaw tenderly, and he’s struck dumb.

So he kisses him again. It’s much less sweet this time; Acatl’s hand cradles the back of his head and there’s a soft, surprised sound when Teomitl coaxes that deliciously hot mouth open. He wants to hear it forever. But then the arm around his waist shifts, hauls him in, and while his body twists and folds and arches to facilitate it his mind still takes several seconds to register that he’s been pulled onto Acatl’s lap. Oh, he thinks incoherently, this is better. Like this, he can more easily run his free hand down the flat plane of Acatl’s chest, feel his hammering heartbeat and the vibrations of the noise that escapes him when Teomitl catches his lower lip between his teeth, just hard enough to sting a little. (He wants more. He wants to leave marks. But they are still in Nezahual’s power, and he can’t dare to give him anything to use against them.)

They’re both panting when they part for air. He opens his eyes again, suddenly needing to see Acatl’s face. The man’s always been cautious, never cared for change. If this change is too much, if he can’t bear it, wants him to be only his student...Teomitl’s not sure what he’ll do.

Acatl’s dark eyes are heated, his kiss-swollen lips red. The hand still on his neck doesn’t move as he breathes, “What about my sister?”

It’s not a no. It’s not a get off me, you disgusting boy, and keep your hands to yourself. Still, he averts his gaze and feels his face catch fire as he mutters, “She knows.” It had been the single most embarrassing conversation of his life, helped not at all by the fact that she’d thought it was hilarious—but she’d approved, and he probably would have married her based on that alone.

“She knows?” Acatl swallows visibly, meeting his eyes again. “She knows that you…”

He nods. Or tries to, at any rate, because as soon as he realizes he won’t be breaking Mihmatini’s heart Acatl is kissing him again. Acatl is kissing him. Hungrily, nails raking down his spine and that will leave marks but that’s what he’s got a cloak for and besides he can’t bring himself to care when there are more important things to worry about—things like the way Acatl arches when he pulls his hair, hips surging under him in a way that tears a breathless, too-loud moan from his throat. He could do this forever.

...Or until someone finds them. The thought runs through him like ice, and he breaks away from Acatl’s tempting mouth to nuzzle at his hair instead. “If I’d been too late,” he whispers, “I don’t know who I would have killed first.” Probably Quenami. He would have saved Tizoc for last.

Acatl breathes out slowly. “I’m glad you came.” His voice is a little rough, shaky, and it fills Teomitl with awe.

I did that. More words are on the tip of his tongue—something soft, something tender, something about how Acatl-tzin is worth burning the world for—but then a bird calls, and he remembers where they are. Namely, huddled up against a pillar in Nezahual’s summer palace, out in the open, where anyone could come in and see them. He shudders at the thought. The gods only know what that bastard would do with a secret like this.

He’s not the only one to have realized their position. Acatl’s hands are gentle now where they run over his shoulders, but his face is tinged red with embarrassment. “...We should...stop. For now.”

For now implies the likelihood of continuing later, and it’s that possibility that gets Teomitl to pull away, slide off Acatl’s lap, and spend a few minutes trying to make himself look like he hasn’t just been kissed senseless. Really, the fact that Acatl-tzin seems to desire him changes nothing. The Fifth World still teeters on the edge of destruction, the Mexica Empire is still bleeding out on star-demons’ claws, and they are still dancing to Nezahual’s tune in search of answers. Next to that, his heart should be stone.

He manages to hold onto that thought until Nezahual and his soldiers come to find them, and then the way his Acatl straightens and becomes Acatl-tzin, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli cracks his stone heart like an egg.

There is the Empire, the Fifth World, and you.

He’ll tell him later.

[creeping-crowley]

☠ Another One Bites The Dust ☠

It had been on his to-do list.

It had been right there amongst the mental note to re-pot a few of his plants and nip to Tesco. Hell, however, had decided that the priorities with which Crowley had been going through his mental to-do list were in need of some re-ordering.

A mental tug snared him, scoring a painful wound through Crowley’s thoughts. Dazed, the demon pinched the bridge of his nose. He was being called. Well. Called, rather implied there was a choice in the matter. Summoned was rather more accurate.

His very essence coiled into inky smoke, coursing and winding through the infinitely bound layers of reality to plummet lower and lower. There were more stylish manners to descend to hell, but the mental rope tightened, choking and smothering away any form of preference, dignity or comfort with which its target was drug out from his warren. Upon coursing downward through a haze of blistering ice and vapid heat, jet wings flung open from Crowley’s back, clawing a wide arcing path through the air in an effort to slow his fall. Gracelessly, he met the ground, feathered wings sprawling out either side of him as he made swift to appraise his surroundings and those in attendance. It was never good to be brought forth by unbreakable tie.

Damp, acrid dirt stung the demon’s palms. He pushed himself upright, noting all the eyes that watched. Nobody stepped forward. The sulfuric air that burned at his nose and lungs brought back the memories of the place- hell’s pit. The pit was not so much a place for conversation as it was for public demonstrations, executions and torture. It was a place steeped in sorrow, punishment and fear. Even those clustered around appeared apprehensive (and knowing the risk of collateral that hell had, they had good reason to be).

Serpentine eyes scanned for the one at the head of the gathering.

Moloch.

Master of shame, devourer of life and lover of sacrifice.

There was a reason Crowley had always done well to avoid this particular circle of hell. He had never quite seen eye to eye with Moloch- a being that favoured the suffering and carnal devouring of body and souls (particularly the innocent). He was a real brawn-over-brains sort. The likelihood of getting a trial or so much as the chance to weave his path out of the firing line with words was looking unlikely. Crowley swallowed.

“Ah, Moloch…”

The tang of ash and rot boiled into a thick, putrid haze. A soft crackling of flame was punctuated with the damp hiss of droplets cascading from the rock above, throwing up plumes of angry, stench-ridden steam.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Run. Running. Always looking to run.” A deep baritone rumbled, shaking the air about them.

Snakelike eyes flitted back to Moloch, halted from their restless efforts to map what tools surrounded him in an effort to categorise the threat.

“Thinks he can run…from Moloch!” Deep thrums of laughter echoed from the demon’s chest, coursing a low hiss of snickering from the beings that encircled the pit.

“I didn’t say—”

“Thinks he can LIE to Moloch.” The demon interrupted.

“…I just got here.” Crowley insisted, already acutely aware of the dread building in his chest at how little purchase he was being offered.

A wail of air howled through the stifling chasm, picking up smatterings of ash and cinder.

“And soon you’ll be leaving.” Mammon, Prince of trust and greed spoke up, electing to intervene before his companion got ahead of himself.

“Listen, guys, whatever it is there’s probably some sort explanation. The pit? Really? Surely it doesn’t call for this…” Crowley’s tone held up surprisingly well in an effort to hold his nerve- to make it all seem like some silly understanding. To make it seem as though he were the last demon deserving of such treatment (when in actuality he found himself mentally scrambling to work out which of his many transgressions had earned him a place in the pit).

“Oh, but I think you’ll find it does.” Mammon’s words were silken. Carefully the web was being woven to ensnare him.

“Holy water does not kill you.” Mammon’s gaze fixed Crowley. All of a sudden, Crowley noticed that none of the demons in attendance were looking at him as though he were one of their own. A babble of agreement slithered through the gathered crowd as heads bobbed with concerned agreement. He was a stranger now. An outcast- struck out with the rest of the unwanted to boil and melt in the pit.

“You prefer the company…of ANGELS!” The accusation rose into a shout, stirring the crowd into a chorus of angered and horrified howls and shouts. Roaring beside Mammon was Moloch, pounding a fist against the wall.

The volume marked his cards, turning Crowley in on himself as his shoulders lost the nonchalant air he had fought to uphold. Warily, the demon’s feet inched back.

“The angels know of you…and you were there each step of the way- thwarting Armageddon. Thwarting our chance to ESCAPE THIS PLACE. To WIN!”

“And when it was all said and done, the Archangel Michael did not destroy you…” Mammon’s voice softened with an insidious air of contemplation.

“They wouldn’t kill one of their own. Someone fallen…some damned spirit to be heaven’s eyes and ears in dark places. You were too useful to them. But that doesn’t make you very useful to us…”

A low hissing pronunciation of a name that Crowley had not worn for centuries addressed him.

“Your work on Earth has hereby come to a close. Hell has no requirement of your services any longer. Please step into the centre of the pit to surrender your vessel.”

“Sorry…what?” A haze of confusion and panic slowed Crowley’s thoughts as he battled to grasp the closing space around him. An urge to shout out at them tightened the demon’s throat- an urge to insist there was a terrible misunderstanding. They had it all wrong. But all the evidence backed up the accusations pinned against him. He’d done very little to maintain his ties to hell or uphold any ally that would save him or so much as vouch for his deeds. Crowley paled.

Moloch set about advancing, lowering into the pit with an impatient gnashing of pointed fangs. At the movement, Crowley arched skittishly away, seeking to buy himself a little more time.

“No no no, you’ve got it all wrong!” He insisted, flashing a borderline manic smile that hoped to insist how thoroughly laughable the mix-up was. As Moloch drew closer in his hungry advance, coal-black wings struck out in an effort to better scramble away. It was to be the first of many mistakes. A large clawed hand snatched out from Moloch, far swifter than the brutish form of him would have made anyone think possible. Moloch’s crushing grip found the crook of Crowley’s wing and snatched it, pulling firm to yank the smaller demon into his trajectory. Caught entirely off-guard by the sudden force that threw him off balance, Crowley tripped, meeting the ground clumsily at Moloch’s feet to a round of hearty cheers. A thread of humiliation and shame began to crawl and writhe within his chest at the noise. It was every bit a confirmation that nobody was going to help him. They wanted to see him torn to pieces. They wanted him dead. Gone.

A low groan ached at the pit of Crowley’s throat before a sharp rip of claws struck the first effort to break the demon’s Earthly form.

“No…” A soft, mournful moan escaped Crowley (too quiet, thankfully for the jeering crowd to hear). A slick dampness of blood brought about ragged breaths as Crowley began to crumble beneath the torment. Frenzied at the reality of his predicament, he pushed forward, attempting to writhe and batter away his attacker with both wings. A cascade of feathers swirled about the burning pit.

Boulder-like fists snatched at bone beneath feather, seeing to it that the appendages were shattered and crumpled into a useless cloak of blood and darkness. A visceral shriek that did not sound as though it belonged to Crowley at all broke through the growing applause. Shuddering under the shock of such an injury, Crowley crumpled, one wing falling weakly to his side in a searing haze of pain. Moloch saved no time to observe his work. The larger demon brought down a foot onto Crowley’s leg, grinning widely at the sensation of splintering bone. The choked screams grew louder. The crowd’s enthusiasm grew with them. Animalistic panic drove Crowley into pushing against the force that sought to slowly break his limbs one by one. There was nothing he could use to escape. No clever plan. No way out. He couldn’t think. He hadn’t been given the time to think.

“LISTEN!” A bloodcurdling howl pled against the sensation of his arm being broken. Thirsty breaths ripped through the demon’s lungs as he sensed what time he had left for leverage swiftly draining away. A wave of laughter erupted from those watching him. The assault did not so much as pause at the word.  Nobody wanted to know what he had to say. He couldn’t stand. He could hardly draw breath. Suddenly he felt very small.

Only once the onslaught of violence brought out a more compliantly weakened state from Crowley, did Moloch slow his efforts. With a snort, the demon straightened himself, casting a broad smirk at the onlookers, inviting them to see his work.

“Traitors are not shunned by one.” Moloch spoke the words in a way that one who relished in them could only manage. As though heeded by a command, those whom had been part of the audience slid forward into the pit.

“THEY ARE SHUNNED BY ALL!” A roar shook the chasm as they descended upon the crumpled form of their prior comrade. Hands set upon whatever they could find, punching, ripping out feathers and biting. The ritual was almost complete.

(( @exanxmo ))

[rocknvaughn]

You should go to the psychiatrist if you are obsessed with an actor who doesn't know that you exist and really doesn't care. You are an adult who thinks that tv series or film is a reality, spends too much time on thinking about younger man who lives on different continent and will never talk to you on his free will, because fans of your kind are dangerous. My name is Kate and yours? You will not tell, because frankly you are as secretive as most of the people on internet.

Well, Kate, I would say that it is nice to meet you, but that would be impossible, since we’ve never met. (Not to mention a lie, because you’re kind of a b*tch.) 

Which is why the verbal abuse you’ve been spouting at me is utter bullshit. 

The fact of the matter is that you don’t know me. You only know the few things that you’ve gleaned about me from here and from Twitter, and even that information is faulty. 

But wait...let’s put it all out here, so people can see just how lovely a person you really are: 

So, let’s take all these accusations one at a time, shall we?

1. Are you insane? The answer to that would be, why no, no I’m not; thanks for asking.

2. Did you ever think why United Agents are ignoring your tweets to them? Actually, no, I haven’t wondered this at all. I’ve only directly tweeted to them a couple of times over the years, and at least half of those interactions were simply to inform them about people who were impersonating Colin online. I don’t bombard them with tweets; they have better things to do with their time, and frankly, so do I.

3.  You are a psychofan/you should go to a psychiatrist... Well, that’s a hell of a statement to say to someone you’ve never met. And I assume you have some sort of degree that would qualify you to determine who does and who does not need psychiatric help? No? Didn’t think so... *eyeroll*

4. You are disrespectful/a liar. Disrespectful to whom? To Colin, who--by your own description--doesn’t know me and doesn’t care? To other people in the fandom? To people who are randomly abusive to me online? I’m afraid you’d need to be much more specific for that accusation to hold any weight.

5. You are acting like you know Colin, but you don’t and you never will. I have never, ever suggested that I know Colin, save for the thirty seconds where he signed my programme at stage door in 2013. I told him I thought the play was fantastic and he said, “Cheers, thanks a million!” and moved on. Did my amazing presence make an indelible impression on the Irishman in question? *snorts* Not hardly!

That being said, I am assuming this part of the tirade has to do with my remarks both here and on Twitter about Colin’s likelihood to attend Merlin-related Comic Cons or do stage door visits at the theatre when he appears at the National Theatre this summer. 

While I obviously don’t know the man personally, there is some empirical evidence that I use to support my thoughts on the matter. I’ve explained those reasons already, so I don’t see any purpose to rehashing that here. But, for example, if you want to see for yourself how uncomfortable Colin tends to be at stage door, I suggest you search out some of the videos taken from when he was doing Mojo. Personally, those videos make me cringe. 

6. Actors act, they are not the characters they play. Wow...thank you for pointing that out, because clearly, even at my advanced age, I had no idea what the word “actor” meant. /sarcasm

7. You are over forty years old, you are not a child. And your point is...? I’m not allowed to admire a person’s God-given talent or appreciate a handsome man’s looks because I am old and decrepit? You do realize that Colin is 32 years old, right? That means he’s not a child, either. In fact, he might just be closer to my age than he is to yours!

8. You are obsessed with an actor who doesn't know that you exist and really doesn't care. Wait...isn’t that the literal definition of being in a fandom? *eyeroll*

I relatively obsessively follow Colin’s career, yes that’s true. He does technically know I exist, as he’s actually met me, although I would never expect that he’d remember. I would hazard a guess that he cares about me insomuch as he appreciates his fans’ support, but nothing more. I don’t think I am “special” to him in any way, shape, or form, as you seem to be implying. I am firmly set in reality when it comes to that fact. 

9. You are an adult who thinks that tv series or film is a reality. Another incredible accusation, seeing as we’ve never met.  I’d like to know where you got this frankly mad idea, (actually, no I wouldn’t because I don’t care) as it is blatantly untrue. I am well aware of what is reality and what is not, although you are starting to make me wonder about your grip on it.

Also, you do know that some of the characters Colin has played were real life people, right? There’s this thing called research. I might suggest you do some before you go around randomly accusing people of insanity.

 10. You spend too much time on thinking about younger man who lives on different continent and will never talk to you on his free will. Again with the ageism. What exactly is your problem with my age in comparison to Colin’s? You do realise that Colin attracts fans of all ages, genders, etc. because that is what happens when someone is a gifted artist.

Also, I was unaware that there was a formula somewhere that determined how much time devoted to a fandom was too much time. Please, enlighten me as to its whereabouts so that I may avail myself of its mystical powers! (

I have no idea whether Colin would ever speak to me of his own free will, seeing, as you so rightfully pointed out, we live on different continents. Nor do I have any particular interest in trying to make that happen as he has much better things to do than to talk to me. But my point here is: neither do you know what he would do, so STFU, if you please. 

11. Fans of your kind are dangerous. Fans of what kind, exactly? What is it about me that are you terming dangerous: My interest in the man's projects and being willing to find and broadcast information about his career? My enjoyment of reading or writing the occasional fan fiction? My propensity for collecting memorabilia? My interest in his wardrobe? My steel trap of a mind that holds a multitude inconsequential Colin-related details? My willingness to travel to see his live performances whenever possible? My ability to determine and appreciate his physical attractiveness?

I think those things make me a curiousity at best, but not in the least bit dangerous. And if you actually knew me, this would be obvious.

In contrast, I don’t imagine that I have any sort of place in the man’s life. I don’t expect that I am special to him in any way. I don’t send him love letters or believe that “we are meant to be” or any of that hogwash. I haven’t tried to cut off a lock of his hair or follow him home. I don’t send him tonnes of presents, hoping he’ll notice me. And I don’t think that he owes me anything (besides his body of work) because I am his fan. 

He is a grown man that has his own private life completely apart and separate from mine, and I have no illusions about that.  

12. My name is Kate and yours? You will not tell, because frankly you are as secretive as most of the people on internet. First of all, there are reasons why people are secretive on the Internet...one of them being ignorant and rude people like you. 

Secondly, if your name is actually Kate, then mine might as well be Rasputin...because it’s just that meaningless. You could have literally picked that name out of a hat, since you are just as anonymous as “Kate” as you were after your first anonymous bashing. 

Obviously, you missed the point I was making in my last post, so let me be perfectly clear: it was that if you want to make rude, obnoxious, bullying comments about a person you don’t know, then come out with your screen name attached and OWN your statements. Let people see what kind of an arsehole you really are...but you won’t do that, will you?

Clearly, you have some sort of ax to grind with me. I’ve pissed you off in some way and you’ve decided to come at me like a coward by spamming my inbox with anonymous bashing. Apparently you expected me to be so ashamed that I would curl up, hide and just take the abuse. Well, good luck with that, because I have balls of solid steel and you can kiss my arse. 

Your five minutes are up, and I don’t feed the trolls. Rockn out. 

[fantroll-purgatory]

@kyuremus

FIRST: Alternia (slight au- she’s not only a sgrub player, but the age for troll banishment has risen.)

Name: Astium Umoora! As she’s a fairly new troll of mine, I actually remember her name reasoning! Astium comes from astigmatism, as her eyes are a main theme. Her smaller 4 suffer from a severe case of this. 

Umoora is pretty basic- Umora means fatigue in bulgarian. She’s pretty angry-tired thanks to a large mess of bullshit she deals with frequently.

I think this all works pretty well!

Age:7 sweeps.

Strife Specibus: Umbrellakind. Truth be told, she’s kind of scared of incredibly sharp objects. However, she needs some sweet, sweet long-distance, as an able-bodied Tavros might stand a chance in a fistfight. Umbrella kinda sounds like Umoora, but that’s something I only noticed right now. The second I’m typing this. The tip of it is rather sharp (because fear aside, she needs stabbing ability), but keeping it open usually protects her from accidentally stabbing an eye or three out. 

Oof… I’m almost tempted to recommend bbgunkind just to make a “you’ll shoot your eye out kid” joke. But given her fearful nature she might not be particularly fond of the idea of using that. 

Maybe a jaws of life/claw grabber instead? A not especially destructive jaws of life. It’s something that isn’t particularly sharp, has some range on it, and that she could use to restrict an enemy in order to give herself a much-needed advantage. It’s also a nice nod to her scorpion relation.

Fetch Modus: 

This is a weird one so bear with me, but Lotus Seed Modus. Basically a little grid that looks a bit like a Lotus Seed Head (Don’t look it up if you have trypophobia, because it’s basically the very common plant pattern that activates that response). She has to fill up the entire pod before she’s allowed to retrieve any items, basically. Pretty simple, but it ties into her interest!

Blood color: Teal

Okay… I do have to say that I might want to change her to Cobalt. If only because eye mutations are sooo common among that caste. I don’t see why it Couldn’t happen with a teal, but. Nothing in her personality Particularly sells me on teal, since she doesn’t have a particularly strong moral position. She at least has a little touchstone with the Cobalt bitterness towards people who are better positioned than her. Also the scorpion association. 

Symbol and meaning: Limini- Derse+Doom

You seem to be riding a lot on her doom power for her theme, so I feel bad about this, but… her personality honestly fits Rage just a little better for me? I usually wait until getting to the title section to address this, but I do want to talk about it here just to get it out of the way ASAP. 

Her anger, fear, paranoia, aggression towards others, dissatisfaction with the current reality… I do agree with her being a dersite, though. 

So depending on blood type, I might change her symbol to either… 

Trolltag: destinedTrypophiliac. Destined is a hint at three things: Her eventual playing of Sgrub, her doom aspect, and some of her specific lil doom powers that’ll be below! She truthfully enjoys trypo-things, due to the nature of her face, she’s both intrigued and comforted by the patterns of small holes.

I think this could still work out even with my change because of her fatalistic nature. She has this perceived terminality that goes along well with the aspect. I also like that it kind of implies she was destined to be super into small hole patterns.  

Quirk: I’m that anon from before- her quirk is a pain in the ass, and she knows this. That’s actually the reason for a good chunk of it, however, she chose things that both kinda looked like holes+eyes. U=☋, N= ☊ and a=∴. She’s got hella vision, so reading this shitshow is a breeze. She talks in all lowercase unless HEATED, and uses punctuation. She also substitutes the word ‘eye’ into anything that rhymes, even if the end result is kind of silly. (reyeght, meyene, etc.) “yo☋ ∴ll f☋cki☊g s☋ck. ”

Haha I love it. It’s definitely a pain in the ass, but I’ve seen way worse. Honestly if you wanted to make it worse, you could replace o’s with ö‘s. Just litter that fuckin quirk with dots.

Special Abilities (if any): I’m sure I mentioned something about eyes. She doesn’t have vision Xfold, but rather, 20/20 eyesight to the highest power. While each small eye on its own is pretty awful, when every single one is open and working, she can make out crisp details as far as she can see.

I do kind of like this, because it reminds me of the nature of various insect eyes. Their smaller eyes tend to be less detailed and focus on things like light/dark, heat, or movement, but when used in combination with more complex eyes they help create a thorough image. Scorpions in particular have really light sensitive eyes. 

I think that’s something you should maybe play with with her. Scorpions can travel by starlight at night, so maybe she’s Really good at tracing light. But also make her really, really hate harsh light. She can still be great with Detail, though. 

She’s got underdeveloped doom abilities. As Terezi was able to use her mind abilities pretty well w/o god-tiering, I’m applying this here. It’s pretty basic, but she’s pretty good on picking up vibes. That’s about it. She has a dislike for a lot of trolls, but she’s only truly scared of some. She doesn’t understand how she makes this difference. 

I think you could still work this with my change- If you wanted to keep it for doom I might adjust it to her being able to sense impending threats in general? Not being able to note the danger surrounding particular trolls, just particular Moments where she or someone else is About To Experience Danger. 

If you go with my Rage change, though, you could have her be able to sense the threat inherent to each individual. Though her perceived threat might be slightly skewed by how much she was Already scared of them.

Lusus: Scorpionmom! Small, angry, the obligatory eye thing- but you can squish em if you’re fast. Astium is vulnerable behind all her yelling.

Personality: She seems like the kind of troll with anger issues. Moreso than most. She’s violently aggressive towards those above her in hemospectrum, but only when guaranteed protection behind a screen. All of this stems from a crippling fear she lives with, however- she is a mutant. It’s not the worst mutation in the world, her blood is teal, and she’s more than functional. Her four smaller eyes developed AFTER her lusus adopted her. They kind of.. burst through the surface of her face, and scorpionmom noticed those bumps. Otherwise, she probably would’ve been culled. (It also changed the pattern of her horn. This was initially just me forgetting which way the red-orange-yellow went, but I rolled with it.) She can’t compensate her mutation with physical strength or cool calculations, and her fear is at fault. There’d be no reason to spare her at the time of drafting. She’s aware that the wrong highblood could end her life in a second, so she tries to compensate this by coming across as impressively scary enough to ward them off. This is also just a side-effect of fear. She’s kind of a coward face-to-face, and she’s disgusted with herself for this. As a mid/highblood, she expects herself to have the natural anger and strength of somebody her caste, but is as weak as the rust spectrum, minus the cool psychic powers. 

Now here’s my least favorite part of having to step in- I think you have some misconceptions about Alternian culture. Since it’s an AU, you could definitely adjust things to suit your needs across the universe… But since you haven’t specified a particular change in this regard, I’m going to discuss this as we know it in canon:

Eye mutations are pretty normal on Alternia, it would seem. Her having extra eyes isn’t enough to have her immediately culled. It might even be common enough to not be particularly notable. In fact, most ‘mutations’ or even disabilities might not even be instantly cullable offenses- the only things we really know for sure result in culling is blood mutations and a failure to provide genetic material for the filial pails. 

Alternia definitely has a “the strongest survive” mentality, but it Also has an “adapt and live” mentality. Tavros’ paraplegia didn’t put him on the chopping block and he implied he still had hope of becoming a member of the cavalreapers. Terezi was completely blind and she was still gunning for the job of legislacerator without having to worry about being culled for her disability. 

Now, I DO… still want to work this for you. So I think you can definitely argue that if she’s particularly frail on top of her eye mutations she might be culled? 

I have two slightly more interesting options for you, though: 

1. She could survive drafting, and would get shipped off planet, but because of her various issues she probably wouldn’t get a high ranking position and would probably just be tossed out as cannon fodder. She’d be a low-ground grunt and her likelihood of survival wouldn’t be particularly high. So she’s still terrified of this fate- she doesn’t want to be some first wave scouting grunt that gets killed in the first fight. This still justifies her fear and anxiety around the whole thing. 

2. She BELIEVES that she’ll be culled at drafting time despite it being untrue. She really, really, genuinely is convinced of this being the case, and is terrified of it. People try to reassure her that this won’t happen and provide examples, but she is just REALLY, STUBBORNLY sure that it’s absolutely the case and that all of their examples are just Government Lies meant to placate the masses. 

When it comes to quadrants, she has the maturity of a grub. Astium hasn’t a CLUE how to healthily establish one- dealing with her feelings is confusing and absolutely terrifying. She’ll also go ham if she gets her “veyebes” from a friend’s quadrantmate, which can really hurt Astium’s relationship with the original troll. However, this isn’t too much of a focus. She’d rather be single for as long as possible. 

I love this. The idea of her trying to warn her pals that a quadrantmate has Threatening Auras is intriguing and the dynamic it could create w/ relationships is nice.

She can also be kind of an idiot about small things, with the stuff said above being prime examples. Covering her eye mutation is.. not her strong suit, despite her fear of being found out? Her eye-quirk is too natural, despite her multiple attempts to get out of the habit. Words feel wrong if not spelled with eye puns.

Astium pushes herself away from most, and this has wound up having her be quite needy and lonely, so she can certainly come across as overbearing and somewhat annoying to anybody who strikes her interest, platonic or romantic.

She loves the word fuck.

She’s a great character! I think if you want to keep her a teal, though, you need to give her a kind of moral touchstone… I think a fascinating one for her might be a sort of “might makes wrong” worldview as a contrast to Alternia’s usual “might makes right” way of doing things. Basically have her fundamentally distrust people who are strong and assume they’re in the wrong/always blame them.

Interests: 

COOKING SHOWS (it’s a small aspiration to become a chef.)

PLAYFUL SPARRING

TRYPO-GALLERIES

HOPEFULLY, A NONVIOLENT CAREER.

VIDEO GAMES ARE COOL SOMETIMES.

The idea of a troll having a nonviolent career aspiration is so fun. Good luck, baby girl, you live on Alternia… Maybe you could give her a theoretical interest in gardening just because of her trypointerest? Or you could make her like Mushrooms. Mushrooms are pretty easy to plant, so she could even grow them in her hive! 

You could also have her practice some escape artistry nonsense. Preparing to run away from the culling drones. Building a panic room. All kinds of fun stuff. 

She could also be interested in getting in Arguments Online. Yelly Online Personality Who Is Mad. An Internet Skeptic For Trolls.

[These are the ones I have the most trouble with?]

Title: Witch of Doom

Witch of Rage could be a fun title for her… The active changer of rage, allowing her to actively manipulate and change the negative emotions that others feel, altering the levels of pessimism, able to generate torment and worry while passively understanding optimism and figuring out how to flex her own negative feelings to the mold of reality… 

But I also think Knight of Rage might be a good possibility to consider? Starting out surrounded by and overwhelmed by all this anger and fear and paranoia. And then having to learn how to exploit and utilize those feelings effectively instead of allowing them to consume her and everything around her.

Land:Plush and Night. Plush is both her direct inverse and secret wish, and night is simply so she struggles to see- her one strength.

Trolls are nocturnal, so her having difficulty seeing in the dark doesn’t make much sense for her species! Plush and Day might make more sense, both biologically and with her having a scorpion mom and with the eye light sensitivity thing I mentioned. 

Dream Planet:Derse

Sorry if this is too wordy/comes across poorly, this is my first time ever submitting a troll for review!! 

Don’t worry, it was the prefect amount of wordy. Sorry my review got wordy in turn, haha! 

Now let’s have some design fun!:

So we have here a teal and a cobalt redesign. 

Horns: For the teal I shortened them a little just because with teals the horns never seem like the main attraction. They’re always relatively understated. I kept them the same on the cobalt, though. 

Hair: I kept it the same for the cobalt, too, but I wanted to make it messier on the teal. My concept when designing her was basically “really exhausted grad student who is a disaster mess and rarely leaves their room,” since teal designs seem to occupy a niche grad student genre. 

Eyes: They seemed just a little too small for the style. I removed the eyebrows to do away with crowding and then made the main set and the lower eyes larger. I also added eyelash definition. And, of course, the undereye bag shadows! 

Mouth: I wanted to give her some bigger, scarier fangs. Mostly so she’d fit the definition of someone looking like they have a temper more. It also makes her look a little like spidermom’s face which is fun. A nice arachnid reference. I gave her some black lipstick on the teal version and some cobalt on the cobalt. 

Shirt: I made her tanktop a little flowerier and less put together. I also adjusted the outline to be more visible. New symbol, of course. On the cobalt I just added a jacket over top of the tanktop. 

Legs: I edited one of fan-troll’s sweatpants sprites to again fit that exhausted image you wanted for her. I also turned her shoes into slippers, though I kept the blood accent on each.

Thank you for sharing! She’s pretty great!

-CD

[xurkitips]

On Conveying Personality Through Chatroom-style Dialogue

A friend of mine shared screenshots of a roleplay he was having via a Discord server, wherein the style was chatroom/texting based. Each character would have a different style of typing completely unique to their person. Though unfamiliar with all of them, I could see what their personalities were like

Like real human beings, a character very much so has a “voice”. I mean that both in the literal sense, through their manner of speaking and what they say, but also through their self expression, interests, and actions. This carries over into the digital realm in ways we may not even notice. Text messages may not be verbal, no, but there are ways to show inflection.

There are many, many ways to show meaning through text. Here are some that I’ve picked up and utilized with my own characters:

Sentence structure

all lowercase sentences VS Grammatically correct

Lowercase gives off the feeling of someone familiar with others or willing to become familiar. It lacks the tension of formal writing, complete with its capitalization and proper periods ending sentences, and feels very casual and approachable. It may also be a sign of someone who doesn’t care much about perfection, a lazy person, or an easy going individual. Seems like a lot of internet regulars prefer this kind of typing style.

“im dying

‘deafening horrorcore rap’ ok i listen to literal noise and idk what this even is”

Using a properly capitalized and punctuated style is very formal, like one would see in a book, an official email, etc. It’s more serious and stern than lowercase is and may imply an older, more mature person typing...or maybe just someone trapped on their phone at the mercy of autocorrect. 

"I am always happy to see you, even if you are not feeling your best.“

“It's nice here.

Quiet.”

There’s a certain respectful steadiness to it as well. It can be calming to read at times.

Punctuation VS Lack of punctuation

End-stopped lines come with both a pause and a bit of a pointed and direct feeling. It strengthens both lowercase and grammatically correct styles, but in different ways. In conjunction with “proper” writing, it’s less noticeable, merely giving the reader a moment’s pause. In conjunction with lowercase, especially if the one typing isn’t keen on using periods, it can come off as stern, serious, passive-aggressive, or angry.

“whatever.

it's less excruciating than it would be without it.”

Removal of punctuation is a different story. Typically just shown with lowercase, it leaves it with that casual feeling intact, or like one’s sentences are more like quick thoughts or questions. Removing them from grammatically correct sentences does ease off some of the tension, implying someone with a more neutral-positive tone while still being more mature. 

“I’m not terribly good with conversation”

And then there’s the run-on sentences from those who type small novels per response. Usually complete with multiple and’s. It’s a sign of nervousness, enthusiasm, or oftentimes a younger character...

“actually i don't know much about it i just happened to see something online and it's apparently only manufactured overseas exclusively for this one particular shop and they made the original design and initial product i guess”

Oof.

Proper spelling (or lack thereof)

The better the spelling, the more the likelihood of the person being older, calmer, or neutral. There’s also a sense of being well educated or careful about one’s typing. Perhaps a confident air may exude from what they say, too.

“Can you come help me for a moment?”

Those who make a lot of mistakes will simply confuse words for other words, forget apostrophes, or type too fast to notice things missing or in the wrong location. Some just don’t really care enough or are too tired to deal with it. Too much focus and people know what they mean anyway. Probably.

“i laug hso hard hes come runin

he thougt i aws dyin”

It can also happen in very emotional situations, in bouts of laughter, crying, rage, or when one is drowsy, medicated, or sick. It tends to stand out when one’s style is suddenly very, very different and tips others off to something being wrong.

Younger characters, especially kids, also make spelling mistakes all the time depending on their age, whether due to sounding out words or just in a hurry to reply.

Short sentence fragments, single words, and lengthy paragraphs

Sometimes people with rapid-fire thoughts, who are excited, busy, stressed, or angry, will take to quick and short responses (sometimes of many fragments in a row). These show a similar feeling as do lines of poetry. Stacking small fragments on top of one another adds emphasis. The reader has to read them one by one rather than as a straight sentence. On its own, the word or fragment stands out and becomes more important.

"well

yeah thats

what i was tryina do

but i mean”

I’ve seen it used used for storytelling from one person to another in larger chunks of things, quick responses, for poetic value, and in irritation or passive-aggressiveness.

In full sentence conversations sent in short bursts, it’s also allowing the reader pause to read each comment without it feeling like a novella. Though it can also feel like someone is obnoxious, rambling on and on as the notifications keep coming, or has a lot to talk about and keeps thinking of more.

Then there are those who type rather large responses all at once instead of hitting the enter key with every sentence:

"Whoever did it was quite thorough; either the power in that area of the lab was cut while we were distracted or they tampered with the security cameras, because that footage is missing. But, we have some theories now. It had to have been someone with direct access to the laboratory. I hesitate to place blame on any of my coworkers...they're all my trusted companions and friends! And yet...”

It’s concise and a solid, complete story in one spot. Could be someone who loves to talk, could be someone who didn’t want a response before they were done talking. It’s also commonly seen by middle-aged texters who want to say everything they can all at once.

Exclamation points and Question marks

Simple one here. Question mark for a question or confusion, exclamation point for emphasis or an exclamation. But when a person adds multiple to a sentence it can convey more of the person’s feelings; 

“are you okay??”

Here is someone who is very concerned. Multiple question marks can imply things such as worry, stress, disbelief, and shock. There’s a sense of hurry and tension. Perhaps the person on the other end is frightened, easily afraid, or tends to have an overwhelming reaction to things.

“oh!!! it’s nice to see you!!!”

"! 

!!! 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Meanwhile, multiple exclamation points convey much more friendlier, happier tones. Often such things as surprise, excitement, happiness, friendliness. Users typing !! as a punctuation (like I tend to do) may do it as an assurance or to show how thrilled they are to talk. Occasionally !!!! is tacked onto an angry statement to be more of a shout, but I see it less and less.

Chatspeak and Internet habits

Shortenings of words have been a regular thing for ages. It’s easy, convenient, and gets the point across quickly. But the internet has taken it to a new extreme, where sentences can be almost entirely compromised of them.

“wtf r u talkin abt?? gdi man idk wuts even happening rn”

A character wanting to be quick to respond, always on the ball, always involved, may be more likely to utilize and understand chatspeak. They’re the social butterfly of the group. It’s also a sign of a long-time internet lurker who’s aware of what the lingo is, and how to use it. A complete lack thereof points toward either an older user or someone who’s unused to social media.

The more memes, the harder someone is trying to fit in. Or maybe they’re easily amused or just absorbed things from their friends without thinking about it. The comedian of the group is going to know the best ways to use them.

Smilies and Emojis

:D D: :DDD // :3 3: >:3 :3c // :o :O O:<

These kinds of smilies have always struck me as the most friendly. Whether used in devious ways or with genuinely heartwarming intentions, the playful, lightheartedness of the user really shines through these. 

"not a bad way to spend a lazy day :D”

“it's also my birthday :3″

It’s got just the right vibe to punctuate a sentence that’ll leave the reader feeling that the person likely means no harm or wants to be friendly, positive, or encouraging. I’ve met a lot of people that use these and turn out to be very kind or considerate people.

:), ;), ((((: and related

A long time positive, friendly smiley. 

"You said you've known them a long time? I think they would understand. :)”

And yet these days I tend to associate it with passive aggressive statements, plotting, slyness, devious behavior, or anger. Older users may be inclined to use :) as a means to show their emotional state, but newer users seem more inclined to do the opposite. The more parentheses there are, the more upset the person, it seems.

“man don’t u love it when the power’s out in the middle of the night it’s just (((: really great thanks (((((:”

Then the ;) smiley comes off more specifically flirty and a bit playful. Doesn’t seem to change much there.

“if i find a good chance 2 hook u up ill do my best ;)”

XD

The bane of my teenage existence. It’s a more old school sign of laughter, rarely seen in today’s world due to falling out of favor and becoming associated with, “LOL Rawr XD Tacos I’m So Randoom,” culture. But time to time you do see it. Mostly with sarcasm but sometimes with genuine intentions.

“xDddddDDD

It was a good joke. XD”

A character using it genuinely comes off more playful, and to me, personally, as an older person who’s genuinely unaware of the associations with the smiley itself trying to show how they laughed without using LOL. 

Letter/Character smilies

Y’know, things like .w. and ._. or owo, where the letters or symbols make a face. These are fairly popular, it seems. I don’t like using them myself, but know a few who do use them.

"I'm sorry that they can be mean qmq”

It’s a different feel from the others. There’s something soft to it, almost a gentleness. When these or Japanese characters are used, there’s more whimsy. It’s cute and almost a bit feminine. It may convey an open person or give the impression that said person is easier to talk to.

Though honestly I can’t see uwu and owo as anything but heavily sarcastic. I’ll be honest with you.

Emojis

The first rule of Xurkitips club is that we don’t talk about Emoji Movie. Just putting that out there riiight now.

Used sparingly by most for fun and for emphasis. Characters may use them to be lighthearted, aesthetically, joke, or to make a conversation more flavorful. The use of emojis may determine a character’s personality; I find that characters who use hand emojis like 👌 are rather laid back, those who use 🙃 do it passive aggressively, and we all know what kind of person uses 🍆.

Then there’s what in common terms known as, “The DudeBro”:

[MFKNSTARBOI]: the thing i never undstood about hair is why people buy shampoo like regular soap not good enough for you LMAO 😂😂😂

[gostones]: .

[BIGDICKTOYOTA69]: what the fuck man

[ahogekun]: do... you not use shampoo

[MFKNSTARBOI]: aaaah you guys got sucked into big shampoo as well 😔

[MFKNSTARBOI]: When it comes to horses 🐎  the stars in the sky ✨ or just man to man no bullshit advice 👬 IM youre guy 😤😂

I think this one speaks for itself.

[bigmanfrog]

i like your take and i hope you dont mind me replying, just wanted to respond to some points because i think what you said is interesting.

you're right when you said he isnt manipulative, i think i was combining his ability to make people (specifically max) afraid of him and his ability to 'charm' people but yeah hes not manipulative, that was the wrong word to use.

i agree with you on your second point as well, because i dont think billy has murderous intent, the same as i dont think jonathan did in s1. however, i do think its interesting to think about where either situation wouldve ended without intervention. obviously steves death couldnt have been done like that, so it would never be written in but i think its interesting that in both situations steve was down but neither jonathan nor billy showed any sign of stopping. in general i also think people brush over this a lot more than they maybe should, i guess its because steve 'provoked' jonathan (though you could argue he provoked billy too) or because billy actually knocked steve out before anyone intervened. but i guess we'll never know because thats not how the show went, and im aware i didnt make it clear in my post but i was more trying to highlight the fact that billys temper caused him to be violent to a dangerous extent.

the lucas situation kind of blurs the line i think, as again, i dont think billy actually wants to murder lucas, but the fact that he says he does and very clearly wants to hurt him leads me to believe that lucas would probably end up seriously injured and potentially dead if billy got his way. again we'll never know because thats not how it went, but given how the fight with steve (whos much bigger and stronger than lucas) went, i think that what billy intended to do wouldve had a high likelihood of ending in (accidental) manslaughter. thats not to say that billy wouldnt regret it, or that billy is murderous or unfazed by killing people, just that he is dangerously violent and also, in this situation, very clearly racist.

while he isnt physically abusive to max, he is extremely controlling to the point where i think it does cross the line into abuse. before hawkins i can see them being just regular siblings not getting along, as you can almost see some of this in the way they interact, but during season 2 you can see on multiple occasions that max is actually scared of billy and that he tries to take control over her which, to me at least, is more than just siblings being siblings. i think it would fall more under psychological abuse, but a few examples are things like threatening to run over the boys (which, for the record, i dont think he wouldve done, but the fact that she thought he would says a lot), being implied to break her skateboard and talking a few times about her 'disobeying' him in reference to lucas. i do absolutely agree that max's actions caused billy to be physically punished by neil, and that probably fed into his dislike towards her, but i dont think you can blame that on max. neils behaviour is inexcusable and cannot be blamed on anyone but him. and while billy might blame max, i dont think hes correct to do so, in a similar way that i dont think its correct to excuse billys behaviour because of neil (not that im saying youre doing that, just coming back to my point). while i am aware he picked up those behaviours from his father, it doesnt make it any less bad for him act like that, it just provides context and a way of understanding that if billy had lived, he could be redeemed, because we see that he wasnt always like this.

i also saw somewhere on your profile that while billy isnt a good person, he is a complex and well written character and i agree with that too, which is mainly why i replied, because i find his character, motivations and situations surrounding him very interesting to discuss and think about. overall i see billys story in two ways; in one, you have a violent and dangerous guy who picked up the abuse tactics used on him to try and gain control elsewhere, and in the other you have a sort of tragic character, who died before he had the chance to get out of an abusive household and change for the better. i think the problem comes when people choose one side and ignore the other, because the whole point of his character (imo at least) is the balance between both sides. because he did suck as a person, but he was a kid and while i dont think he should be viewed as redeemed, and we dont know whether he even would change in the future, the fact that he doesnt even have that chance is a genuine tragedy.

billy hargrove’s sacrifice wasn’t a redemption.

max mayfield is still allowed to grieve.

if anything his death reminds me almost of shadow weaver from she-ra (though it’s obviously not deliberate or to that extent)

billy is a violent, abusive and racist person. yes, he had it hard and yes they were probably learned behaviours, but that gives a reason for those behaviours, not an excuse.

he is manipulative and dangerous and max is terrified of him, he’s physically violent on multiple occasions, targets lucas because he’s black and tries to kill lucas and steve. he is not a good person. that doesn’t just get brushed away because billy had an abusive childhood.

and while billys death does save elevens (and probably the rest of the kids) life, it means that he is immortalised as a shitty, abusive person. he dies as the person he was before he got taken over by the mind flayer, at the end of season two, and has no opportunity to grow and work past that (which wasn’t something he showed any signs of even wanting to do anyways)

however! max’s grief is justified and honestly understandable. she watched him die. this person who, even though they hated each other, has been a constant in her life for years. for the first time since they met, he wasn’t tormenting her (after the end of s2), and they weren’t getting along exactly but she’s not scared of him for once. then she has to watch this incredibly traumatic scene that’s not only someone getting brutally murdered by a monster, but having it be someone she knows and lives with? that’s gonna affect anyone long term, never mind a 14 year old. (i also feel like we all brush over the fact that vecna in billy form tells us that max was suicidal)

not only does she watch him die but she has to deal with the fallout, has to deal with their parents arguing, her moving house, her mum drinking, all on top of being unable to talk to most people about what actually happened. she pushes people away, because she’s max and she’s a kid and she’s traumatised, and refuses to even talk to the people who were there because she feels guilty, like she could’ve prevented his death even though rationally she knows she couldn’t. she also knows that his death meant he couldn’t redeem himself, we hear it in her letter in dear billy - she’s not only mourning him, but the person he could’ve been, because now hes gone and so he doesn’t even have the chance to become a good brother and a good person in general. he might not have done anyways, but if he was alive at least there was that chance.

and let’s not forget that he was a kid. it’s easy to forget because dacre montgomery is very much not a teenager but billy was the same age as nancy and jonathan, only 4 years older than the kids and a year younger than steve. he was a piece of shit but he was 18, he still had time to grow, and he might’ve done, but he died before that so unfortunately he didn’t get the chance, and remains a racist abuser forever.

[davewakeman]

Ways To Tackle The Ongoing Challenge Of So Many Empty Seats...(Part 1)

  I recently finished reading a great book on the birth and growth of the Premier League called The Club.

One of the most telling parts of the book was when the Premier League’s CEO, Richard Scudamore, talked about the need to make sure the stadiums were still full on the weekend because even though many PL teams could make a profit on their revenue sharing alone, “empty seats make for a bad stage for TV.”

I’m paraphrasing here because I don’t have the book in front of me, but I couldn’t agree with Richard more.

In fact, my philosophy in entertainment has always been one that revolves around getting people in the door and knowing that I can create an experience that they will want to spend money on.

That said, we’ve been seeing an increase in the number of events that just have masses of empty seats and it looks bad on Twitter, on TV, and it looks bad if you go to a game.

Putting on my marketing hat and my lens of having been tasked with driving people through the doors of many forms of entertainment, here are ideas to start chipping away at the attendance issues facing many venues. (This will likely be an ongoing series.)

The live event experience has a marketing problem: 

I say that in the way that means anytime you see something you want to change or do something about, you have a marketing problem.

Here’s an example:

In my neighborhood, drivers speed through, blow stop signs, and are dangerous. I’ve tried working with my councilmember, but she is basically worthless and my neighbors have been working on this issue before my family moved in.

We have a marketing problem.

Another one:

Remember the ice-bucket challenge?

That was an idea thrown together by the ALS Foundation to drive awareness of ALS.

They used the viral campaign to solve a marketing problem that people weren’t really certain about what ALS was and how they could help.

In the world of tickets, we have a marketing problem.

And, to solve that problem, we have to think about how to tell the story of the value and experience of attending a live event.

You have to begin by recognizing that you aren’t your market.

This was something that Sean Kelly mentioned to me on my podcast earlier this week as being one of the biggest challenges that he faces when working with performing arts organizations on using dynamic pricing as a way to generate more revenue and smooth out demand.

This is something I wrote about recently in reference to selling premium seats.

3 questions you should start by asking your organization when you are thinking about driving more attendance:

What do our fans find valuable?

Are we making sure that our potential fans know about this value?

Why are people picking other experiences over ours?

What is certain, you have to start talking about the emotional and the community of the live experience because people are showing that they are buying experiences, why aren’t they buying more of ours?

We have to become more customer oriented in every way:

I went to a baseball game the other night.

Which was the second game I’ve been to in the first three weeks of the new season.

Both games I’ve been to where informative in the way that we have to be more customer oriented everything we do.

Case 1:

Nats v. Mets: second game of the season.

I had two 8-year-old boys with me, geeked to be at a baseball game the first week of the season.

The lady working the gate engaged with them when they asked how to get their first game certificates. And, when she saw them walking into the area to get certificates, she walked over and said, “I saw you guys heading over, I’m glad you found it.”

Great, right!

Case two:

I was at a different ballpark and wanted to get tickets to take my family to a game so I went to the box office and walked up.

Second time at the ballpark and I didn’t know much about any of the experiential stuff and what I really wanted because going to the team’s website was an exercise in torture.

When I got to the window, the ticket seller was almost as torturous as the website, rattling off the price range, but never really engaging me beyond that.

Missed opportunity because I had to tweeze out what I wanted or bought.

When my wife asked me how it went, I described my experience as “pleasant, but frustrating.”

Which is completely correct…the ticket seller was extremely professional and pleasant, but not at all helpful.

Missed opportunity because in all likelihood, I’m buying something much more premium when I’m visiting a ballpark with my family and not as part of an industry event.

This just leads back to the idea of customer focus:

In the first case, my son’s friend has been talking about his experience at the ballpark for a month.

Before, he never cared about baseball at all, even though his dad played minor league baseball.

In the second case, I had a pleasant time at the ballpark and my family had fun, but I can’t tell you all too much about anything in particular about the experience minus the ballboys…they were awesome with the kids.

The key here is that our service can make or break someone’s experience and it doesn’t take much effort to fall into the camp of winning over a customer for life.

Look at the Nationals’ game or look at all of the examples that my friend, Martin Gammeltoft has shared on his two appearances on my podcast and in his seminars and webinars all over the world on creating magical moments.

Reward people when they doing what you need them to do:

I’m sort of sick of the word: gamification.

Why?

Because to me it feels manipulative.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a valid use.

Why?

Because people like being rewarded and winning and all the fun stuff that gamification implies.

Remember when we were all checking in on Foursquare?

I do.

I wanted to be the Mayor of my local Tasti-D-Lite. I’d go to that place every day.

I also remember when I had Supersonics season tickets while I was working at the Experience Music Project and could create my own schedule.

The coolest thing to me was the way that you were rewarded for attending games.

If you were able to check in and be at all 41 games, you got some really cool prizes…one of the prizes I still own, a sweatshirt, that is still my favorite sweatshirt and its almost 20 years old!

I know that there are membership programs in the States these days and I have to be honest, they all fail in comparison to the ones that are offered up by the teams and organizations in the UK or Australia.

As an example, my son is a One Hotspur Member and he just got a birthday card from the Spurs, airmailed from London, which likely means that the profit margin on him and his membership isn’t great, but talk about rewarding a kid for being a Spurs’ fan.

He remembers that birthday card more than anything else.

That’s rewarding your fans for doing what you want them to do.

Take this example and extrapolate it to all the ways that you can market coming out to a live event.

Can you retweet a customer when they say something nice about an experience at your building?

I bet you can and it does two or more things:

It validates the person’s experience and their posting.

It spreads that message to a bigger audience without you having to be heavy-handed in your marketing.

I’m sure I can go on.

How about jumping back to Martin Gammeltoft and Activity Stream again.

On our first podcast, I talked with Martin about AI’s ability to create magic moments for fans. We talked about his mom and her love of opera. We then showed how easy it was to wow her by using the available data to recognize her habits, patterns, and interests. Then you take that and turn it into magic by leaving her a note and a program on her seat saying something to the effect of “we know you can go to any opera in the world, we are glad you picked our opera to visit.”

That’s magical.

Recognition. Attention. Thoughtfulness.

These things don’t cost a lot of money or time in many cases, but they can change the dynamic between you and your audience incredibly quickly.

I’m sure that I could come up with a hundred different examples. In fact, I have come up with 101 ways for you to market, sell, and monetize your events and put it into a PDF.

Those are my first three ideas and I’m going to post some more over the next few days.

What do you think?

How can we drive more attendance?

Check out my new workshop: On Sale Academy. Our first event is May 8th in NYC and we are going to be putting on a 1-day event to help sell more tickets. 

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Ways To Tackle The Ongoing Challenge Of So Many Empty Seats…(Part 1) was originally published on Wakeman Consulting Group

[cryptoquicknews-blog]

New Post has been published here https://is.gd/7Yb1WC

Bakkt: What Should We Expect From an Exchange Tailor-Made for Wall Street Investors?

This post was originally published here

Last week, the CEO of the Intercontinental Exchange (ICE) said that the firm’s digital asset platform, Bakkt, is expected to launch later in 2019. It is time to look deeper into the project, and see what it can bring to the crypto industry.

What is Bakkt exactly?

Bakkt (pronounced “backed,” referring to “asset-backed securities”) is a digital assets platform created by ICE, the Atlanta-based operator of 23 major international exchanges, including the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE), which is by far the world’s largest exchange, trading nearly 1.5 billion shares a day.

It was first announced on Aug. 3, 2018, when ICE revealed its plans to create a platform “that enables consumers and institutions to buy, sell, store and spend digital assets on a seamless global network” via a press release. Essentially, the company intends to form a federally regulated market for Bitcoin (BTC) with a focus on institutional investment, as Kelly Loeffler, ICE’s head of digital assets, who is also CEO of Bakkt, explained:

“Bakkt is designed to serve as a scalable on-ramp for institutional, merchant, and consumer participation in digital assets by promoting greater efficiency, security, and utility. […] We are collaborating to build an open platform that helps unlock the transformative potential of digital assets across global markets and commerce.”

The list of Bakkt’s investment partners famously includes Microsoft, Boston Consulting Group (BCG), and Starbucks, along with an array of Wall Street players such as Fortress Investment Group (FIG), Eagle Seven, Susquehanna International Group (SIG), Galaxy Digital, Horizons Ventures and Pantera Capital.

The concept of Bakkt was being developed for five years, as its both co-founders, Loeffler and her husband Jeff Sprecher, who is also the founder, chairman and CEO of ICE, told Fortune magazine. “The factory” that powers the platform was being prepared “in the strictest secrecy” for 14 months prior to the August announcement, they added.

It should not be surprising that Bakkt is entering the market during the bear’s reign, given that Loeffler believes that BTC’s price should not be its only metric:

“Notably, 2018 was the most active year for crypto in its brief ten-year history. This was evidenced by rising investment in distributed ledger technology and digital assets, as well as by blockchain network metrics such as daily bitcoin transaction value and active addresses. Yet, these milestones tend to be overshadowed by the more narrow focus on bitcoin’s price, which has been seen by some, as a proxy for the potential of the technology.”

Eyal Shani, who is a blockchain researcher at a consulting group Aykesubir, agrees with that statement:

“The value of Bitcoin or any other currency is far from being the most important measure to the health of the ecosystem.”

According to Shani, the arrival of a fully centralized marketplace would barely make any contribution to the long-term health of the market, although the project should indeed be appealing to Wall Street investors, especially the ones who are already familiar with cryptocurrencies:

“Institutional investors who are strongly considering crypto would probably feel more comfortable with investing via Bakkt or other major banks. However, the entrance of ICE to this market will not change the volatility of the coin markets. At the end of the day, investing in digital currencies is investing in the likelihood the nodes and use will still be there in the long term, and no one knows how to answer that nowadays.”

Prashanth Swaminathan, founder and CEO of XDAT, a recently launched Malta-based crypto exchange, believes that Bakkt’s arrival will bring more confidence into the crypto space due to its mainstream appeal. However, he also doubts that it will turn out to be a game changer in the long run:

“Institutional investors will still be wary of the space until they see regulations coming in. Therefore, I don’t expect a massive influx of institutional investment just yet. Institutional investors also need to see returns, and the best metric to gauge such returns is mass adoption (or demand-supply), as wider adoption implies less concentration of Bitcoin in fewer wallets hence lower volatility, and more likelihood of tangible utility for crypto with users using them for transactions.”

“The real game changer in the industry will be mass retail adoption rather than institutional investors’ adoption.”

Here are the main features that Bakkt has announced:

Physical Bitcoin futures

Bakkt plans to debut physical BTC futures contracts on its platform. In short, futures represent an agreement to buy or sell an asset on a specific future date at a specific price — and hence represent a risk management tool that might be particularly important in volatile markets such as crypto. It is not an entirely new concept for virtual currencies, however — BTC futures have been traded on two major United States regulated exchanges, the Chicago Mercantile Exchange (CME) and the Chicago Board Options Exchange (CBOE), since December 2017.

However, both CME and CBOE’s offers are settled in cash, while the new ICE-backed platform aims to launch physical one-day BTC futures contracts. Essentially, that means that when the contracts expire on Bakkt, customers will receive BTC tokens as opposed to cash. As Loeffler told the Wall Street Journal:

“It’s great to have cash-settled, but there’s a need for physical delivery.”

Swaminathan argues that such offering would be “ideal” for dealing with BTC’s infamous volatility:

“This is ideal for price stability in a nascent asset class such as Bitcoin. Both physical and cash delivery can co-exist as we have in other commodities such as oil and it shows improving maturity in the market.”

Nevertheless, Swaminathan told Cointelegraph it is important to note that, technically, Bakkt’s clients will not own their BTC and that the platform gets the ability to withhold a significant proportion of the circulating supply in its custody:

“The short term impact of this could be a price surge due to lower supply in wider market, but in the long term it could be a negative as you will want bitcoin to be more widely adopted and show its utility in payments and transactions.”

Shani finds the physical delivery of the futures to be particularly useful for the development of BTC-based economies:

“In that case businesses and individuals living both in the Bitcoin and non-Bitcoin economies could actually hedge their risk and get actual Bitcoin they need for their daily expenses. Without this ability, the futures would most likely be another tools in speculators financial games. At the same time, while I’m not aware of the exact numbers, it seems that even with traditional financial instruments, we usually see very little use of the right to exercise it.”

One-day futures contracts imply that trades are performed in a single day. Thus, according to Bakkt’s plan, BTC futures would be sold throughout the trading day. Once the market closes, the ICE clearing house — which is an intermediary between the buyer and the seller — arranges to transfer the cash from the buyer’s to the seller’s bank account, while the BTC tokens are moved to the Bakkt digital warehouse, where they can be picked up by the buyer. If the assets or money are not delivered, the clearing house covers the costs.

The whole process of the futures trading is overseen by the U.S. Commodities and Futures Trading Commission (CFTC). More specifically, the agency controls trading, clearing and safe storage of assets. The CFTC also approves and monitors the exchange’s rules in regard to those areas.

Safe storage

On top of strict Anti-Money Laundering (AML) and Know Your Customer (KYC) policies that are essential for the CFTC’s approval, Bakkt allegedly bolsters a robust storage system. As Loeffler told Fortune, it is one of the main criteria to attract large financial institutions:

“A qualified warehouse is the difference between institutional investors’ getting in or staying out.”

To prevent security breaches — which remain one of the most feared problems for cryptocurrency exchanges — Bakkt plans to store the private keys offline in its reportedly heavily guarded “warehouse,” which essentially resembles cold wallets. According to Fortune, the platform will utilize double-key security, where the clients access their funds using the private key while the warehouse releases them using a public key — just like with safety deposit boxes at brick-and-mortar banks, which require both keys to be unlocked.

Microsoft’s Azure and off-blockchain transactions

As for the technical part of the operation, Bakkt is reportedly based on Microsoft’s Azure cloud computing service, which works through Microsoft-controlled data centers — and is hence centralized.

To deal with BTC’s notorious scalability issue, Bakkt will reportedly use a technology akin to the Lightning Network and build a system that largely operates outside of blockchain.

“Our system would operate on a layer above the blockchain, and we’d keep our own omnibus ledger apart from the blockchain,” Loeffler explained to Fortune.

In other words, transactions would be send within one ecosystem and won’t heavily rely on blockchain, which can normally perform only seven transactions per second.

Retail payments (potential plan for the future)

Besides establishing a platform for institutional investors who are still hesitant to enter the crypto market, Bakkt’s founders — Loeffler and Sprecher — also hope to make BTC payments more common, as they told Fortune. That could push BTC adoption within the retail payments industry as well, where banks and credit card issuers take their cut for each transaction.

That idea could be picked by both Microsoft and Starbucks, two major backers of Bakkt. While the IT giant represents a large base of retailers, handling their operations through the aforementioned Azure technology, Starbucks seems to have plans to accept BTC for its lattes in the future, as Maria Smith, vice president of partnerships and payments for Starbucks, stated in the original press release:

“As the flagship retailer, Starbucks will play a pivotal role in developing practical, trusted, and regulated applications for consumers to convert their digital assets into U.S. dollars for use at Starbucks.”

The project has been delayed several times, as regulators are taking their time

Bakkt’s launch has been postponed several times now, which can hardly surprise the crypto community, who are used to various differals regularly announced by major industry participants, such as the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) and Ethereum (ETH) developers.

First, the digital assets platform was expected to open as early as November 2018. Then, the project’s launch was rescheduled to Jan. 24, 2019. Currently, Bakkt is estimated to go live in “early 2019.” The main reason for the delay is the CFTC’s approval, which is still pending.

According to a Wall Street Journal article published on Dec. 20, the CFTC “is currently reviewing ICE’s business plan.” After that, the watchdog’s commissioners are expected to vote on whether to approve the project “early in 2019.” Then, the public will reportedly be asked to weigh in with comments during the next 30 days.

As per Bakkt’s Medium entry published on Dec. 31, their team has made “great progress” in terms of negotiations with the agency, and currently awaits the regulatory green light. More specifically, Loeffler wrote:

“To that end, our team has been working closely with the Commodity Futures Trading Commission [CFTC] for the better part of 2018. At an industry level, regulatory approval for physically delivered and warehoused bitcoin will establish and amplify the voice of U.S. authorities as the digital asset market evolves globally. We have filed our applications and the timing for approval is now based on the regulatory review process.”

Swaminathan is not surprised with the slow progress. He told Cointegraph:

“It was always going to take a while to launch a new and nascent product which splits opinion. The most recent stumbling block has been Bakkt’s request for exemption from CFTC to custody bitcoin on behalf of its clients, as typically CFTC requires custody through trusted third-party intermediaries such as banks. The recent US Government shutdown has not helped either.”

However, Bakkt continues to attract more investment and to expand, as to not waste time. Most recently, the ICE’s platform announced that it was going to acquire “certain assets” of Rosenthal Collins Group (RCG), a Chicago-based independent futures brokerage. The transactions are expected to be closed this month and will allow Bakkt to contribute to its regulatory operations by “bringing more choice and control to buyers and sellers.”

Prior to that, Bakkt had reported on the results of its first round of funding. According to the company, it raised $182.5 million from 12 partners and investors, including BCG, CMT Digital, Eagle Seven, Galaxy Digital, Goldfinch Partners, Alan Howard, Horizons Ventures, ICE, Microsoft’s venture capital arm, M12, Pantera Capital, PayU, the fintech arm of Naspers and Protocol Ventures.

Further, during an earnings call on Feb. 7, Scott Hill, ICE’s chief financial officer, declared that they were going to spend $20 million to $25 million for Bakkt’s estimated expenses for the 2019 fiscal year:

“And finally, our investment in Bakkt will generate $20 million to $25 million of expense based upon the run rate in the first quarter. We will update you on progress at Bakkt and the level of investment as we move through the year.”

When asked about the expected returns or revenue growth from the investments, Sprecher, who was also present during the call, labelled the crypto platform as a “moonshot bet” for ICE:

“So it’s a bit of a moonshot bet and it’s been organized in a manner that is very different than the way ICE typically does businesses. […] They’re well along in building out an infrastructure that I think you’ll see launch later this year.”

Sprecher added that Bakkt exists independently from ICE, as it has its own offices, management team and infrastructure. He also noted that the platform will be launched later in 2019.

#crypto #cryptocurrency #btc #xrp #litecoin #altcoin #money #currency #finance #news #alts #hodl #coindesk #cointelegraph #dollar #bitcoin View the website

New Post has been published here https://is.gd/7Yb1WC

[onwardintolight]

Han Solo, ENFJ

For the second in my series of posts on commonly mistyped Star Wars characters because I just can’t help myself (see my first about Leia as an INFP instead of an ENTJ or ESTJ here), I’m moving on to our favorite scoundrel. Once again, I think people tend to base their typing of him on how he appears when he’s under stress (and also, in Han’s case, on who he pretends to be), rather than on how he actually reveals himself to be over the course of the movies.

This post was inspired by @charming-tothelast’s excellent post on Han’s character here, as well as this AMAZING conversation by @bestmixtapeintherecorder and @imrix.

Most people seem to type Han as either an ESTP or an ISTP. I admit that, when I first read the descriptions of both of those, they seemed to fit really well, particularly ESTP. Adventurous, thrives in the moment? Check. A knack for mechanics? Check. Charming? Check. Not particularly fond of rules? Check. Commitment issues? Well, yes, for an ESTP, but contrary to what many assume, I believe that Han, while certainly an adventurer, actually craves commitment as well.

I’m going to argue that, while Han may outwardly at times appear to be an ESTP, he’s actually a true ENFJ who is often in the Fe-Se loop, or otherwise in the grip of his Ti.

I’m going to be drawing evidence from not only the movies, but also what I see as widely accepted fanon (some of which may come from the original EU). While I will be drawing evidence from Disney canon, which on the whole I believe supports my argument (at times very clearly), I will not, however, be drawing from the kind of post-TFA fanon that contends Han was a terrible husband and father, as I think that’s a baseless assumption rooted in a mistaken, pop-culture view of Han.

First let’s take a look at each of the ENFJ cognitive functions and how Han exhibits them, and then I’ll do some further expounding.

Dominant Function: Extraverted Feeling (Fe) Han may constantly try to hide it, but he cares about people, a lot. In fact, throughout the movies and the books, we see him consistently attaching himself to people and doing everything he can to take care of them, at great personal cost. He talks a lot to the contrary, of course, and tries to make himself out to be a loner and a mercenary, but his actions show a person who, at his core, is drawn to people and motivated by his heart for others.

We see this in the way he constantly looks out for Luke and Leia throughout the original trilogy, anticipating their needs and dropping everything to take care of them (something that’s referenced over and over again throughout multiple books and comics). His giving up of his Imperial career when he was younger to rescue Chewie and his subsequent bond with the Wookiee is also evidence of this, as is the way he takes Rey and Finn under his wing in TFA. We also see it in Bloodline in his mentor relationship with Greer. These are just a few examples; there are countless others throughout canon. Han may say he’s only out for himself, but the scores of people he takes under his wing like a mother hen speak to the contrary. Despite his blustering talk, he is happiest and most himself not when he is “solo” or seeking out sensory thrills (though the latter is definitely a part of who he is), but when he is in relationships where he can be a good friend or mentor, attending to the needs of the people he loves.

Fe-doms are empathetic and often have a good sense of what others are feeling. They are often more comfortable with and have a better understanding of others’ feelings than their own. While it’s hard to peer past Han’s words into his mind to see just how empathetic he is, a scene that I believe illustrates this perfectly is the famous “I love you” “I know” scene in Empire. In that moment, Han is entirely concerned about Leia. He senses her distress and wants to reassure her that he’s known what up until now she’s been unable to say. There may be several reasons why he doesn’t say “I love you” back: He may have already told her in the past, and consequently he thinks it’s more crucial for her to hear “I know” at this point. Or perhaps he’s gently trying to prepare her for the likelihood that this might be the end for him, and by withholding his “I love you” somehow make it easier for her to go on without him. There’s also the possibility that he may be somewhat confused about what he himself feels (I personally don’t think this is as likely, considering his longtime pursuit of her, but that’s an argument for another time). Either way, he shows an empathy and an emotional awareness in this scene that are in accordance with high Fe.

Han also exhibits Fe (together with his auxiliary function, Ni) in that he is excellent not only at reading people and picking up on the vibes of a room, but also at turning things to his favor through his interpersonal skills. He is charismatic, charming, and persuasive, and is often able to talk his way out of a bad situation. While he won’t hesitate to pull his blaster if necessary, he prefers harmony and will use his people skills to try and maintain it if he can.

People with high Fe tend to pay especial attention not only to other people, but to their physical surroundings. They often like to exert a degree of control and order over their personal spaces, preferring them to be just so. Han may exhibit this with his care and attention to the Millennium Falcon, and his protectiveness over it. He doesn’t take kindly to just anyone messing with his “baby.”

Finally, Han may say otherwise, but he cares deeply about others’ approval. This is partly why Leia’s barbs hit such a vein with him. Additionally, her comments such as the one about him being “quite a mercenary” in ANH really sting, not only because it’s a sign of her disapproval, but because it’s a reminder that he’s suppressing his best, most authentic, caring self.

Auxiliary Function: Introverted Intuition (Ni) Han frequently has hunches and acts on them, and those hunches often prove to be correct. He doesn’t tend to pay too much attention to objective logic, preferring to ignore the odds and follow his extremely well-honed intuition. He often gets a “bad feeling” about a situation and is proven right. Conversely, if he has a good feeling about it, he’ll jump into situations that other people might consider incredibly fool-hardy, such as flying into an asteroid field and landing inside an asteroid to evade Imperial ships. He is able to fly by the seat of his pants because his intuition is so good at giving him foresight and predicting outcomes. This, in concert with his other three functions, also makes him really good at sabacc.

People with auxiliary Ni often have their head in the future, aspiring to things and making plans. They also tend towards commitment. Because Han is often in a Fe-Se loop, we don’t see this as his preference at times (more on the loop later). However, I think we do see that in spite of himself, Han ends up committing to things. At first, he’s committed to the smuggler’s life, taking care of himself and his own (Chewie), and he struggles when the Rebellion pulls him away from that. His commitment to pay back Jabba and follow his previous dreams then wars with his desire to stay with the Rebellion. He ends up sticking around and eventually committing to the Rebellion, perhaps because it so deeply lines up with those core motivations of his Fe that he has trouble bringing himself to admit. Finally, he commits himself to Leia, marrying her and staying faithful (despite the rough spots and absences implied by TFA/new canon).

Tertiary Function: Extraverted Sensing (Se) While Han’s Ni ultimately leads him to commit, it’s his Se that often tries to tug him away. Han thrives on adventure, exploring and traveling the galaxy with Chewie, and he enjoys a good thrill. While this is definitely a part of who he is, it is even more overt the less emotionally healthy he is (see my thoughts on the Fe-Se loop below).

He is very in tune with his senses. He enjoys hands-on, sensory pursuits such as flying, racing, tinkering with his ship, and even (according to a lot of fanon) cooking. He generally prefers a hands-on approach to theorizing, and may forego planning and practical concerns in favor of just diving in. We see this many times, including in ANH when he chases stormtroopers down a corridor of the Death Star (note that his purpose for doing this is to divert them from Luke and Leia — in this case his Se is serving his Fe), and the “Hey, it’s me!” scene in ROTJ, when he impulsively attempts to take down several scout troopers on Endor. He’s a doer who lives in the moment, often dropping everything to go help someone or do something he thinks is right, such as on Hoth when he rushes out to look for a missing Luke, or in Aftermath: Empire’s End when he makes plans at a moment’s notice with Sinjir and Temmin to sneak off and go rescue Norra and Jas.

Inferior Function: Introverted Thinking (Ti) Han isn’t particularly concerned with impractical theories. As I’ve already said, he prefers using his intuition (Ni) to straight-up logic. That doesn’t mean he never uses critical analysis, though, particularly when there’s a concrete, practical application (such as all the theoretical and technical knowledge it takes to fly his ship well).

The inferior function often rears its ugly head during times of stress, taking over for one’s other functions and making someone behave in ways they otherwise wouldn’t.

According to this post by @mbti-notes, particular stressors for an ENFJ would include “feeling misunderstood by others, feeling unappreciated or taken for granted or not taken seriously, being treated impersonally or dismissively, feeling an absence of trust, feeling pressure to conform to rules or standards that they disagree with, experiencing situations that do not provide closure, having relationships with unresolved issues/conflicts, feeling stifled and having no opportunity to apply skills/talents/abilities, having too many demanding deadlines or extra responsibilities… experiencing excessively negative disagreements that are perceived as personal attacks, being unable to persuade others or get their point across when necessary… dealing with uncooperative or aloof people…” etc.

In response to triggers such as these and others, an ENFJ with inferior Ti like Han would likely become cold and detached. They would tend to insist doggedly on their own views, refusing to open their minds to others’ perspectives. They might act out of spite and bitterly lash out at people. They might leap to conclusions, see themselves as a victim and become very critical of others when those people don’t meet their expectations for a relationship. And they might be tempted to just break things off or walk away if things go bad.

We definitely see this happen with Han. At the beginning of ESB, we find Han arguing with Leia, trying desperately to get her to admit to her feelings. He is hurt by her coldness and aloofness, frustrated by the failure of his expectations for their relationship, and probably generally feels unappreciated. He also may be feeling stifled, stuck on the base at Hoth with a Rebellion he’s still wrestling with being committed to. He snaps and decides he’s had enough. He determines to leave, but first he and Leia have a confrontation where both their inferior functions cause them to come out swinging, lashing out at one another with sarcasm and biting remarks. I’d guess that most of the times Han gets angry and snaps at Leia, especially in ESB, this is the cause.

Later, on Endor in ROTJ, Han confronts Leia after seeing her talking on the bridge with Luke. He immediately gets suspicious, afraid that Leia is in love with Luke instead. He’s afraid of being shut out, uncertain of the status of their relationship, and he takes her refusal to talk about it personally. He lashes out in anger. Leia, as an Fi user, needs time to process her emotions internally about her conversation with Luke before she can talk about it. Han has trouble comprehending this, and is tempted to walk away. However, when he gives himself a moment to calm down, he is able to sense how distressed she is, stop feeling victimized, and let his Fe take over as he comforts Leia.

The Fe-Se Loop You might be wondering, what about all the times Han shows disregard for people’s feelings, acts like a cynical, sarcastic jerk, and prefers flying around the galaxy to doing anything for anyone’s idealistic cause?

Well, again, truth is, we don’t see him actually doing this all that often, despite what he might say, especially as his character growth progresses over the course of the story. We do see this somewhat in ANH, and I think it can be explained by the fact that he’s in a Fe-Se loop.

Han has had a rough life. In order to survive, he’s learned to look out only for himself (and Chewie, once he enters the picture). As he says in the Han Solo comic, “Special people… they end up sticking their necks out and doing things that make them dead.” He’s had to be cynical, because being otherwise is dangerous. He’s learned how to play the game, and he does it well. Ironically, his Fe is part of what makes him so good at it — he can easily conform to act like others, and can fit in perfectly with the crowd of smugglers he hangs around. (I have a theory that Lando, unlike Han, is a true ESTP, and Han unconsciously imitates him in a lot of ways.)

Because of all this, he’s pushed down parts of himself, suppressing his dreams of being a hero, of committing to something bigger than himself. His compassion often leaks out, but he manages to keep a rein on the parts of him that are deemed “unsafe” most of the time.

Consequently, he finds himself in the “loop”. An ENFJ in the Fe-Se loop becomes heavily influenced by their Se, chasing sensory thrills and excitement even more than usual. They are impulsive, rash and competitive. Inside they may feel confused and insecure, but they push that down in favor of looking outward, and can live somewhat superficially according to whatever public persona they take on. They are very concrete, and may lack nuance and understanding when it comes to other people’s perspectives.  They may excuse harmful behavior because they don’t want to think too deeply about it. A lot of the features of an inferior Ti grip may be present; they may be oversensitive and feel victimized, and lash out at the slightest provocation. In short, they might look just like Han at the beginning of ANH.

I think Han is so used to being in the loop that it takes some effort to get out of it. And even once he’s out, it can be tempting to go back in, especially during times of stress — it has, after all, been his safety net for so long.

This is why we see him struggling at times to commit. I think this may also explain some of his struggle in the Aftermath series with settling down after the war. He’s just not used to it, and all the changes, while good, are stressful. It will take time for him to adjust. And even then, he’s going to need an outlet for his Se (which he later finds in racing and his shipping company).

The loop is why he’s often typed as an ESTP or ISTP. When he’s in the loop, he looks more like one of these types (only with a more negative and unhealthy spin). Even when he’s not really in the loop, it’s part of the persona he tries to project. This is how much of pop culture tends to see him. But as soon as you look deeper, beyond the facade, a very different Han Solo comes to light.

I want to wrap up by taking a look at the (absolutely wonderful) Han Solo comic, because it illustrates everything I’ve been trying to say here. (Obviously, the following has some major spoilers.) During the whole comic, Han has a running monologue about who he is and what he wants out of life. “The way I look at life has always been simple,” he says. “You can run, or you can die. Dying ain’t an option. Which means I’ve gotten real good at fighting and running. Seems like that’s all I ever do.” Han has clearly learned to be a certain way in order to survive. Running and fighting don’t leave a lot of room for compassion and idealism. And yet: throughout the comic, we consistently see him doing selfless things, looking out for other people, and doing the right thing because he knows it’s the right thing, even though it costs him.

Later he says, “All I ever wanted was freedom. I ain’t noble. Definitely not a hero. I got one priority, and only one. Me.” That may be what he’s telling himself, but the panels those words are on tell a completely different story as he puts himself on the line, telling someone with a grudge against Chewbacca to shoot him instead.

We also see him standing up for other people who had previously mocked him and put him in danger, mediating conflicts, using his empathy and intuition to discover the identity of a killer, putting his mission and the lives of a few Rebel spies above his chance of glory, and ultimately, sacrificing winning a race because he realizes what’s at stake for another pilot and decides it’s the right thing to do. At times, he literally can’t help but be selfless. If this comic shows us anything, it is that Han Solo is not the person he says he is.

While just a few pages earlier he’d previously referred to the Falcon as “home,” when the race is over, and the announcers are debating about whether the three winners (Han included) should compete further to earn the glory and prizewinnings or be content to split it, Han simply smiles, and says, “We did it, Chewie. Let’s go home”— and by “home” he means back to the Rebellion. I think in the Rebellion, he sees not only the home with others he’s secretly longed for, but also the place where he really can be a hero, where he can help people, be with his friends, follow his heart and do more than just survive.

The way he ends his monologue is revealing: “You create walls. You manufacture rules. You live a small life, while lying to yourself that you’re as open and free as the stars. You tell yourself the reason is survival. Good reason, right? But sometimes survival is about telling yourself lies… until you can’t lie anymore. And then you have to make a choice about who you really are and what’s worth living for. Lies are easier, that’s for sure.”

Han Solo is beginning to find out that he can’t lie about who really he is anymore — not to others, and not to himself. Han may be a “Solo,” but he is selfless at his core. Han may be an adventurer, but more than that, he is also a compassionate idealist who would do anything for the people he loves. For this and all the other reasons I’ve argued, I conclude that Han is best typed as an ENFJ.